Evan Connell - Mr. Bridge

It was all over by the time Mr. Bridge came home, and he would never have learned about it except for the scratches on Carolyn’s cheek. She had made the mistake of calling her sister a slut — for what reason he did not ask — and the fight started immediately. Ruth had no marks on her face, and beyond this she wore the complacent air of the victor. Mr. Bridge was surprised. It had never occurred to him that in spite of their frequent arguments they would actually get into a fight; but they had, and he was further surprised by the result. Ruth was two years older and a little taller, but Carolyn was much sturdier, much more solid. Then, too, it was always Carolyn who had temper tantrums and broke things; Ruth folded herself up like a bat in a cave when she was angry. But on this occasion she had flown out of the cave and Carolyn ran away shrieking. At all events, it was over. Carolyn would carry the scars for several days as reminders of her bad judgment, otherwise the affair had a curiously remote quality, perhaps because he had not been a witness to it nor heard Carolyn’s screams. No serious injury had been sustained by either party, and since any sort of punishment would only revive the scene he let it pass without much comment. Thinking about it, he was secretly a little pleased. He could not bring himself to lay a hand on Carolyn when she became objectionable, but he suspected Ruth might have taught her a lesson. Whether or not it would have any permanent effect was something else.

Saturday morning he saw Ruth in the back yard getting ready for a sun bath. She had spread a beach towel on the grass near the rose trellis. She was as brown as a Mexican from loitering around the pool at the country club, but evidently she did not think she was brown enough. She untied the straps of her bathing suit, opened a bottle of suntan oil, and began smearing oil on her arms and legs while he watched from the bedroom window. He noticed for the first time that she had become a woman; her body had lengthened and softened. He watched attentively while she poured oil into the palm of her hand and stroked the oil on her skin. Her flesh gleamed in the morning sunlight like varnished cherrywood. Presently she finished oiling herself and lay down on the towel with her arms outstretched as if she had been dancing and fallen exhausted in that position.

Just then Mrs. Bridge entered the bedroom. He turned from the window, caught her by the shoulders and kissed her, forcing his tongue between her teeth. She pulled away. He caught her again and pushed her toward the bed while she murmured doubtfully.

“Do you remember,” she asked, “that evening on my parents’ front porch before we were married?”

The question demanded some kind of response. He had worked late at the office and was tired, and he disliked this sort of coercion. He tried to think of what to say. He did not know which evening she was referring to. They had spent quite a number of evenings seated on the swing on the front porch of her parents’ home. These times had been pleasant and it was there he had made up his mind to ask her to marry him, but the proposal had been made in the parlor so she must be referring to another evening. He could not imagine which one.

She smiled almost drowsily. “You talked about Robert Ingersoll. You admired him. You told me he was one of the greatest men on earth.”

“Oh good Lord,” Mr. Bridge remarked, and waved his hand to disparage whatever he had said that long ago.

“You were so young. I’ve never forgotten. And before you went home you read some verses from The Rubáiyát . You had a little leather-covered book of poems with a green ribbon for a place mark. I’ve often wondered what became of that little book. What did you do with it?”

“I have no idea,” he said. He hoped she would not go on reminiscing. He sat on the edge of the bed to take off his shoes.

“Ever since that night I’ve loved The Rubáiyát.”

“I’m afraid young men of a certain age are apt to get carried away.”

As though she had not heard him, she said, “Walter, I’m sure there’s a copy of The Rubáiyát in the bookcase in the breakfast room.”

“Oh, now. Now, wait just a moment,” he said, sitting erect with a strained expression and a shoe in one hand.

“I suppose it is silly.”

She wanted him to try to recreate a moment twenty years past. He thought about it. Of course he could go downstairs, get the book, and read a few verses to her. Nobody would ever know, and this would please her. But there was no way of guessing what this might lead to. He glanced at her, wondering if she was beginning to indulge herself in memories of the past. If so, it was unhealthy. Memories should be left undisturbed.

“Never mind,” she said. “I can see you don’t want to.”

“I’ll get the thing,” he said, “if it means a great deal to you.”

“No. No.” She was embarrassed.

“It’s up to you. Yes or no?”

“No, I don’t want you to. It was foolish. of me.”

“I’ll get the thing if that’s what you want.”

“No. Let’s forget it. I should never have mentioned it. I don’t know what came over me.”

He took off the other shoe and walked across the bedroom to the closet, where he placed them just inside the door as he did every night. He felt that he ought to say something. He rubbed his chin and coughed. “I wasn’t aware those verses had such an effect on you.”

Apparently she had regained control of her emotions. “It must have been a combination of things. It was such a lovely night — it was summertime. Do you remember the azaleas by the porch?”

“The azaleas by the porch. No, I can’t say I do.”

“I don’t know why I was so impressed. Perhaps because you were the first boy who ever paid much attention to me.”

He did not like to hear this. He remembered how concerned he had been that she might be seeing somebody else. Now she made it sound as though nobody else wanted her. “India, stop this nonsense. I could recall offhand the names of several young men who found you extremely attractive.”

For a little while she was quiet. She appeared to be thinking. Then she said, “Walter, tell me the truth. Did you find me attractive?”

He frowned. “What on earth has gotten into you? All at once for no good reason you behave as if — I don’t know what. You were an attractive girl and you are today an attractive woman.”

“Am I?”

“You are indeed.”

She looked at him playfully. “Would it hurt so much to tell me once in a while?”

“I’m afraid I’m not good at that sort of business.”

“You used to be.”

This was both flattering and embarrassing. He pretended to hunt for something. The night seemed unusually still; he glanced at the window and saw trickles of water darting along the glass.

“Tell me, Walter, because I need to know. Do you love me?”

“Love you? Of course,” he answered. Just then he heard the boom of thunder overhead, the house almost trembled, and the rain increased.

“Before we met, were you in love with somebody?”

“No.”

“Have you been in love since?”

“What?” he asked, incredulous. She rushed over to him and slipped her arms around his waist.

“I’m being silly,” she whispered.

“I should say you are.”

“Do you mind?”

“India, just what in the name of sense. .?”

As soon as he said this she released him. She walked to her dressing table where she sat down and began to take the pins out of her hair. The pins dropped into a heart-shaped porcelain tray which she had kept on her dressing table since they were married. He did not know where she had gotten the tray, he assumed it had belonged to her mother or her grandmother. He had never paid any attention to it. Now he stared at it and at the black hairpins summarizing twenty years of marriage.