Evan Connell - Mr. Bridge

But one day there was a letter for him at the office. He hesitated before slitting the familiar lilac-tinted envelope; he was holding it in both hands like a gift when Julia marched in carrying her stenographic pad. He said he would be ready in a moment and as she returned to the outer office he opened the letter, sniffed the perfume, and then began to read. She had found a job with a women’s magazine, so that was good news, yet he sensed there was more to the letter than this announcement. On the fourth page she got around to it; she wanted money for an avant-garde magazine called Houyhnhnm, which was to be published by some new friends of hers. The first issue already was laid out, and as soon as there was enough money it would be printed. A corporation was being formed. “Friends of Literature and Art” were cordially invited to buy shares of stock in this company at five dollars per share. Ruth was positive he would like to buy at least one hundred shares. As soon as the magazine was a success — as soon as it had a national reputation, plenty of advertising, and a big subscription list — the Board of Directors would decide how much of a dividend to pay the shareholders. This was a marvelous opportunity to make money, the magazine was going to be a tremendous success because so many talented people were working on it, and she hoped he would send the five hundred dollars as soon as possible. The certificates had not yet been printed because the printer insisted on his money in advance; but she was sure there was not going to be any problem because Houyhnhnm already had more than a dozen one-year subscriptions and one two-year subscription, and her friend Steve Cook, who was the advertising manager, had an appointment to see the vice-president of one of the big publishing houses about the possibility of a full-page ad.

With the letter she enclosed a mimeographed sheet announcing the imminent publication of this magazine, described as a “long-awaited Quarterly of New Writing, Ideas & Art,” listing the contents of the first issue, a partial table of contents for the second issue, and giving biographies of the editors. Glancing through this information he noted that the editor-in-chief and at least two other members of the staff, judging from their names, were Jews. When anything having to do with art or music was announced there were Jews involved. Why this was, he did not know, but he faintly resented it. In any case, he had made up his mind about Houyhnhnm the instant he realized what it was. He dropped the mimeographed sheet in the wastebasket.

Then he read Ruth’s letter again, not for what she was telling him about her job or the avant-garde magazine but because it came from her. He thought he would keep the letter in his desk instead of taking it home. Months might pass before she wrote to him again at the office.

The magazine, of course, would fail. The so-called corporation would never pay one cent to anybody. Shares of Houyhnhnm would always be as worthless as they were at this moment. Yet he wanted to send her the money. But that was buying her love, which he could not do. When he answered the letter he wrote that they could discuss the magazine’s prospects while he was in New York; he was coming East on business in about two weeks, would be in New York for approximately three days, and looked forward to seeing her.

He arrived in New York after midnight, so he did not telephone her; he took a taxi from the station to his hotel and after leaving a call for seven thirty he brushed his teeth, wound his watch, and went to bed. The next morning soon after getting up he dialed her number, but a boy with a lisping voice answered. Mr. Bridge apologized because he thought he had gotten the wrong number. Then the boy inquired if he was Ruth’s father. He said he was.

“Well, I’ll shake that lazy thing,” said this voice.

Mr. Bridge, unable to believe what he was hearing, gripped the telephone and waited. He heard mumbling and what sounded like the boy giggling. Then he heard Ruth cursing.

“What is going on there?” he demanded.

Nobody answered.

Finally Ruth said hello. She sounded more asleep than awake.

“This is your father,” said Mr. Bridge with his fist clenched on his knee.

After a long pause she asked, “Daddy?”

“Yes!”

“Is that you?”

“Yes!”

“My God. Are you here?”

“Yes!”

“In Manhattan?”

“I am in Manhattan and I want to know what is going on in the place. Do you hear me?”

There was another pause. Then she said she had not expected him until Friday and asked when he had arrived.

“Last night. Evidently you’ve forgotten the information in my letter. What’s going on there?”

“Here? Oh, that’s Bobby.”

“I do not know what this is all about, but we are not going to discuss it on the telephone. How soon will I see you?”

“Oh God,” she said, yawning. “Let me think a minute. Daddy, I’m half asleep. I was up most of the night.” She spoke to Bobby. Mr. Bridge heard her say “Sweetheart, make some coffee.” Then she was back on the line.

“What kind of a place are you in?” he asked, trying to control himself.

“I’m sorry. Bobby was chattering. What did you say?”

“Is someone in that apartment with you?”

“Bobby is here, Daddy. You just talked to him. Don’t you remember?”

“I warn you, Ruth,” he said, “I shall want a complete and satisfactory explanation of this situation. I do not understand what is going on, but I do not like it one bit. Is that clear? I gather you have some sort of extension to your telephone, or this person has access to your apartment. I want an explanation, and it had better be a good one. Now, at what time shall we meet?”

After another conversation with Bobby she suggested they meet in the Algonquin lobby at six.

Mr. Bridge was in the lobby at five thirty. He expected her to bring Bobby; but a few minutes after six she entered by herself, smiled as though nothing was wrong, and kissed him on the cheek. She asked how everybody was at home. He said they were fine. Douglas was growing rapidly, taller every day. Carolyn was playing golf all the time. And their mother, too, was fine — except for occasional headaches — and very busy with some sort of charity organization in the North End. Everybody was fine. Harriet. Julia. Everybody. And he waited for an explanation of the man in her apartment, but apparently she was not going to mention it. Nor did she show the least sign of embarrassment or guilt.

He began: “Ruth, I consider myself reasonably broadminded. However, you have not told me what this person was doing in your living quarters when I telephoned this morning. I have allowed you to come to New York alone at a very early age. I have begun to think it may have been a serious mistake.”

Ruth slowly tamped out her cigarette while she listened. Then she said, “Bobby affects people that way.”

“Come to the point. I want an explanation and I want it this instant. Not later. Not at your convenience. Now.”

“But you heard him. Couldn’t you tell?”

“I heard something I did not like. Now you are going to tell me what that fellow was doing in your apartment at a quarter to eight in the morning. And be quick about it. My patience is running out.”

“I let him sleep with me last night.”

“I have had just about enough,” Mr. Bridge said. “Just about enough.”

“So have I.”

“You are not yet twenty-one. Until you are twenty-one you will listen to me.”

“For Christ’s sake. Why do you think I left Kansas City?”

Mr. Bridge was stunned. She had never spoken like this.

“Stop living in the past,” she said. “Don’t you know what year this is? This isn’t the first of the century any longer. Do you expect me to live the way Mother lived?”