Evan Connell - Mr. Bridge

“That is not what I’m talking about,” Mr. Bridge said. “I went up in a French observation plane.”

Douglas looked to see if his father was telling the truth or joking; when he saw that it was true he was silent with astonishment.

“Oh, yes indeed, I did,” Mr. Bridge asserted. “A young French flying officer took me up. We flew over Paris. As a matter of fact I came very close to losing my life.”

Douglas wiped his nose on the back of his hand to conceal the awe and the amazement he felt.

Mr. Bridge went on: “I can still see the insignia on the fuselage and I can remember the noise of that motor as clearly as though it was yesterday. Shall I tell you about it?”

Douglas nodded.

“Well, it was during the war. I happened to be stationed near an airdrome and I wanted to go for a ride. I had never been off the ground. In those days not many people had. So one morning I bought some cigarettes and hired a taxi to the field and explained what I wanted to one of the French officers who spoke English. He introduced me to this young lieutenant about my own age, who agreed to take me up in exchange for the cigarettes. This young Frenchman didn’t speak a word of English, however, and that fact very nearly cost me my life. I was not aware there was such a thing as a safety belt. Or if I did know I must have assumed it wasn’t necessary. At any rate, I simply climbed into one cockpit, he climbed into the other, some fellow cranked up the motor, and then we took off. Well, we had no more than gotten off the ground than this French pilot began all sorts of gyrations, apparently trying to give me a good ride. By this time I had realized something was wrong but there was nothing I could do about it. I had no way of telling him I was not buckled in. I had. no choice but to hang on to some metal bars in the cockpit and trust to luck. Well, as I say, this Frenchman evidently thought I was enjoying myself, because every time I shouted at him to stop he would do some other trick. He turned that little airplane completely upside down at one point — right over on its back! I don’t mind admitting I was scared half out of my wits. I can recall to this day the sight of the Seine River above my head. It was quite an experience, believe you me! I thought my arms were going to be pulled out of their sockets. I’m not going to forget those few moments as long as I live.” Mr. Bridge paused, remembering the flight.

Douglas watched him with grave respect.

Pat, the Tiptons’ Irish setter, ate a ball of raw hamburger mixed with ground glass. Three other dogs in the neighborhood had been killed this way during the past several months, so there was little doubt that whoever was doing it either lived or worked nearby. The police came around and made a show of talking to people and driving back and forth in the patrol car just as they had done on the previous occasions, but then they went away and everybody knew that was the end of the investigation. The setter had been a somewhat raffish individual with an amiable bark that alarmed nobody. It followed the postman every morning and was a well-known dog. There was no reason to kill it.

From time to time the children had pleaded for a dog, but Mr. Bridge was reluctant. If a car did not get the animal, distemper would, or something like this. He thought again of the baby chicks that died, and the pet rabbit, and a turtle Douglas had found somewhere and brought home, which crawled around and around the box he put it in and finally died, perhaps from boredom. There had been other little creatures the children insisted on keeping: baby birds that had fallen from the nest, toads, grasshoppers, guppies, and so forth. But one after another they escaped or died. Pets were difficult to keep in a city. So he had resisted whenever they begged for a dog. If a turtle died, or a toad, one could feel a slight regret and that was all. But a dog — if a dog lived with the family for a long time and then was killed, the shock of its death was deep. He remembered the grief he felt as a child when his dog went mad one summer and had to be shot. He did not think the enjoyment of owning the dog compensated for the grief he felt over its death, which he could remember thirty years afterward. He did not want the children to go through the same experience.

And now the Irish setter had been killed. He had petted it and tossed sticks for it to chase, and he was sorry about what had happened but he was not surprised. He shook his head noncommittally when his wife talked about it. She was dismayed and could not imagine why anyone would do such a thing.

He did not try to answer, except to repeat what he had said before: keeping pets in the city was almost impossible. As to who killed the Tiptons’ dog, he had no more idea than the police, so he did not give an opinion, although he suspected it might be one of the Negroes who worked in the neighborhood.

“Oh! I forgot to tell you,” Mrs. Bridge remarked. “Harriet received some awfully exciting news today.” And as Harriet was at that moment serving the mashed potatoes, some acknowledgment was necessary.

“Is that so?” he inquired. “Well, well, let’s hear about this.”

“Actually,” said Harriet, “it’s nothing.”

“Why, it most certainly is something,” Mrs. Bridge retorted.

“All right, if you must know,” Harriet said while offering the potatoes to Carolyn, “it’s my nephew, Junior Dewes.”

“No more,” Carolyn said.

Harriet gracefully lifted the dish and moved around the table to Ruth.

“No thanks, I’m on a diet,” Ruth said.

She offered the potatoes to Douglas, who began to load his plate for the second time.

“Well, as I was saying to Mrs. Bridge earlier this evening, I received this long-distance telephone call placed by my sister Dorothy Dewes at Cleveland, Ohio. She took sick a while back and has felt poorly ever since; however, she seems to be improving somewhat. At least, that is what I am informed.”

Mr. Bridge was buttering a biscuit. He said, “That’s fine, Harriet. I’m glad to hear it.”

“Yes, it is good news, of course. However, the news with regard to my nephew is he has become the receivient of a four-year university or college scholarship, whichever he chooses. So you can understand why my sister Mrs. Dewes, as well as her husband, was thrilled to death.”

“I should imagine!” Mrs. Bridge said enthusiastically, as though hearing about it for the first time. “And you told me he was applying for admission where?”

“Harvard is the college he wishes to attend. However it is very difficult to be accepted there, so he don’t know if they will take him. Though naturally he is extremely hopeful.”

“Harvard?” Mr. Bridge asked. “Harvard is where the boy wants to go to school?”

“Yes. Junior feels it is a school of extremely high quality with good teachers and all that.”

“Oh, I should say!” Mrs. Bridge agreed. “And he intends to study what?”

“The liberal arts. He wishes to get his degree of Bachelor of Liberal Arts.”

“I hope for his sake everything works out,” said Mr. Bridge.

“We expect it will, because his grades is the highest that’s been recorded in his school at Cleveland since the year 1921.”

“Your nephew must be exceptionally bright, if what you say is true.”

“Oh, yes. Junior was always very intelligent and extremely scholastic. He has been given these various tests they give to prodigal children and he scores very high. He taught hisself to read a little bit when he was six years old.”

Having offered the potatoes to everybody, she then asked if there would be anything else. For the moment nobody wanted anything, so she returned to the kitchen.