Evan Connell - Mr. Bridge

On the way home Mr. Bridge said, “Well, I warned you about Alex. Take him as he is, or not at all.”

“Oh, I found him awfully entertaining,” she said. “His face reminds me of someone, though I can’t think who.”

“Lenin, that’s who.”

Mrs. Bridge was startled.

“That’s who it is,” he said. “Everybody notices it, and they never can think who he looks like. But that’s who. In my opinion he cultivates the resemblance deliberately, Lord knows why.”

Mrs. Bridge said, “I’m sure he wouldn’t do that.”

“I’m sure he would.”

A few minutes later she said, “I just wonder if he’ll be happy with someone that age.”

“I doubt very much indeed if he’s planning to marry that girl.”

“Oh, really? Well, I suppose he can’t be blamed for not wanting to rush into a second marriage. They say his wife was impossible.”

“I never met the woman. I don’t see how she can be any more impossible than he is.”

“They must have been quite a pair. The Star certainly made hay out of the divorce proceedings.”

He did not answer. The divorce had been uglier than most. He did not want to discuss it.

“Madge was telling me she heard he cared more for his art collection than for his wife. I suppose it must be quite extensive.”

“Alex travels a great deal. I expect he’s picked up things from various countries.”

“Apparently the Lutweilers have been quite close. Helen was telling me the Sauers’ house was simply crammed with art objects of every description.”

He suspected that for some reason she wanted to become better acquainted with the psychiatrist. Sauer was a pudgy, balding little man with a noticeable cast in one eye and moist lips the color of fresh liver. He should not be interesting to women, yet his former wife was beautiful and now there was this pretty young girl, Genevieve. He recalled, too, hearing the wives of other men discuss Alex Sauer with obvious fascination. It did not make sense.

“Madge tells me he’s considered one of the most brilliant analysts in the country.”

Mr. Bridge did not say anything.

“He is clothes-conscious,” she remarked a trifle critically, but at the same time there was approval in her voice.

He thought about the psychiatrist’s clothes. The gaudy vests with glass buttons were almost insulting. The European suits and the shoes with crepe soles. The Tyrolean hat he frequently wore as though he was vacationing in downtown Kansas City. The Spanish beret. It seemed to Mr. Bridge that all of this was an affectation. He shook his head resentfully. The flamboyant apparel exemplified the mistrust he felt for psychiatrists and for their profession, which was not far removed from the absurdities of fortune telling, astrology, ecclesiastic ritual, and lucky dice.

Easter weekend Dr. Sauer and Genevieve flew to New Orleans to amuse themselves, and they did not return to Kansas City until the following Thursday. He telephoned his office Monday morning to cancel the appointments for that day, he telephoned again that night to cancel the Tuesday appointments. He telephoned again to cancel everything on Wednesday.

Mr. Bridge, hearing about this, was exasperated. No professional man was entitled to behave in such a fashion. Nobody with any self-respect could jeopardize his reputation by flying to New Orleans with a woman who was not his wife. If he did, he should be discreet, and he certainly should return in time for his Monday appointments.

Secondly, it was rumored that he had gotten into a card game and had won twelve hundred dollars. Mr. Bridge did not altogether believe this rumor. Very possibly Sauer had gotten into a card game, in fact it was probable. Being as clever as he was, he might well have won some money, but not twelve hundred dollars. Conceivably, he had won fifty dollars or so, and the story had grown as such stories do. Given a little more time, the figure would be twelve thousand.

Mr. Bridge discovered that he was more outraged by the gambling than by the fact that Dr. Sauer had taken the girl along. It was wrong to have taken this girl to New Orleans, it was irresponsible, he should not have done it; but twelve hundred dollars, if true, was as much as some men earned in a year.

Dr. Sauer, like a good gambler, would not say yes nor would he say no when asked about this famous excursion. He laughed and he laughed. Mr. Bridge, listening, glanced across the table at Virgil Barron with a look of inquiry, on the chance that Sauer might have made a large deposit in the bank: very greatly to his astonishment he met the banker’s eye. So it was true. Then Mr. Bridge joined the conversation for the first time.

“Well, Alex, regardless of whether you did or did not win, if you enjoyed yourself, that’s what matters.”

“Jesus Christ, Walter,” the psychiatrist snapped, “you can be so God damned stuffy.”

“My guess is that none of us is quite what he might choose to be. Call it a defect, if you will. It’s simply that I happen to subscribe to certain fundamental truths.”

“Gamblers always lose? Would that be a fundamental truth?”

“In my opinion, sooner or later they do.”

Dr. Sauer reached for the wine bottle and said that in his opinion, the later the better.

“Since I amuse you,” said Mr. Bridge, “go ahead. Gamble at cards or on horses or anything else. Behave as you please. Far be it from me to lay down the law for other men. As far as gambling is concerned, I feel under no compulsion to shut down the card games and racetracks and the rest of it. Free enterprise, even for such a borderline industry, is one of the cornerstones of this country, and it appears to me that a degree of license is advisable. A man ought to be allowed to do as he wills, so long as he does not infringe upon the rights and liberties of others. However, if you gamble, be prepared to accept the consequences. And I do happen to believe you will lose, should you decide to tempt fate again. Assuming you did win a certain amount on your trip to New Orleans, I say more power to you. But you have entered a fool’s paradise. The law of averages exacts its toll. Whoever gambles is a fool — a fool! Make no mistake about it.”

His voice had been rising while he spoke. At nearby tables people were beginning to turn around. He noticed this and stopped. He removed his glasses, polished them on his napkin, and continued eating lunch.

Out of a sense of propriety women were seldom discussed at the round table; nor was religion discussed, because nobody was interested; nor politics, because this led to arguments. But one day the psychiatrist told a joke about a girl from Chihuahua. Everybody laughed except Mr. Bridge. Simon Lutweiler asked if he had heard the joke, but Dr. Sauer interrupted:

“Walter would cut his throat before he’d laugh at a dirty joke.”

“I confess I have never been able to find anything amusing about smut,” said Mr. Bridge.

“Have you tried?” asked Dr. Sauer, and once again everybody laughed except Mr. Bridge.

Possibly inspired by the success of their New Orleans trip, Genevieve and Dr. Sauer moved into an apartment building on a hill overlooking the Plaza and soon afterward announced that they were holding open house. When asked if she would care to attend this event Mrs. Bridge replied that she would not miss it for the world.

“Lord only knows what it’s going to be like,” he told her. “I expect half of Kansas City will be there.”

And so it seemed when they arrived. They could hear the noise before they got out of the elevator.

“It sounds like pandemonium,” she remarked, adjusting her silver-fox stole.