Evan Connell - Mr. Bridge

Unfortunately, preparations for war continue on all sides. I regret to inform you of this. It is apparent that “people never learn.” Many of us believed the World War would be a war to end wars, yet this does not appear to have been the case after all. It is disillusioning. Evidence of a forthcoming confrontation cannot be overlooked. No one knows where or when it will commence, but it will. Everyone is saying so. Mr. Dunn says that only in the Holy Land did the threat of another world-wide war appear to be remote. He is of the opinion that certain nomadic sheepherders in their Biblical costume are totally unaware of the existence of Adolph Hitler’s Nazi organization. This is extremely difficult to accept, but Mr. Dunn claims this is so. In any case, I am very glad we have taken our European trip this year instead of postponing it until next as I had considered doing. I do not know what this part of the world will be like next year. Benito Mussolini is a troublemaker. Let us hope America will not become involved.

Your mother has, if I am not mistaken, kept you up to date and will be writing to you again when she feels better. The clerk of our hotel has a cousin in Manhattan. (We have met this sort of thing frequently.)

Not much else of interest. Have visited many museums, fountains, and various other tourist attractions. Consequently, we are a trifle worn down and will be glad to get home. The schedule calls for us to sail from Genoa on the fifth. Both of us are looking forward to the ocean voyage in order to rest and recuperate, although your mother hopes the crossing will be quieter than the eastbound trip. The ocean was unusually rough. Many passengers suffered “mal de mer.”

In brief, we have all but fulfilled a long-standing dream and expect to arrive in New York in approximately two weeks. There we shall see Ruth before catching the train to Chicago, where we are obliged to transfer before continuing to Kansas City. I have never understood the necessity of transferring in Chicago. It is a great inconvenience to travelers. I do not for the life of me know why the railroad people insist on alienating customers.

I enclose a small check for each of you to spend however you choose.

Wishing you both happiness. Trust all is well at home.

Love,

Dad

P.S. I hope you have not neglected the lawn, which requires more water during the summer months. Also, as you know, the Frigidaire has been “on the blink.” Has the repair man attended to it? If he has failed to show up, you should telephone my office and inform Julia of the fact. She has his number and will handle the situation.

The day after he wrote this letter the Nazis invaded Poland. Two days later he and his wife were aboard a French ship en route to the United States.

One night near the middle of the Atlantic they were sitting in their deck chairs waiting for the moon to rise. The night was so dark that although they were side by side they could scarcely see each other. They had not spoken for a long time and Mr. Bridge had been meditating on the war, when all at once a remarkable idea entered his head: he became convinced that the ocean was not what he thought it was — the ocean was not a limitless dead lake which was the home of billions of fish, weeds, and protozoic organisms; it seemed to him instead that the ocean possessed a life of its own, and furthermore the ocean was conscious that he, Walter G. Bridge, and his wife were traveling upon it. This conviction was so extraordinary that he sat up and looked over the rail. Phosphorescent waves rushed past with a threatening, sibilant hiss. Horrible black forms were boiling out of the darkness and obscuring the stars. Uneasily he leaned back in the chair and groped for his wife’s hand. As soon as he found it her fingers tightened convulsively around his own. Then he realized that she was weeping. Very much amazed he bent toward her and wondered if he should ask what was wrong, but he decided to wait; possibly she was weeping for no specific reason, as women do. In a little while she withdrew her hand; he heard the snap of her purse opening, and guessed that she wanted a handkerchief. She blew her nose. He heard her draw a deep breath. Then she patted his arm.

“Everything has been just lovely,” she said.

She had been crying from happiness, which was something he had never done in his life and which was incomprehensible to him. Thoughtfully he contemplated the fearful blackness surrounding them, for there was no light anywhere beyond the rail of the ship, and he wondered if this was how it must be, if this was how they would end their lives, accompanying each other so closely, loving each other, touching one another with affection and sympathy, yet singularly alone.

She wept more often, he noticed, and seldom for a specific reason. He disapproved of this; it embarrassed him and made him feel helpless. He did not know what to do about these emotional fits, so he ignored them and hoped she would get over them. Fortunately, she did her weeping at home instead of breaking down in public.

One evening at dinner not long after their return from Europe the gravy boat tipped over again. Nobody knew how many times this had happened. The gravy boat had been a wedding present. It was a curiously shaped thing of heavy silver and came with a gracefully curled ladle and a tray etched with flowers. She loved it. Nearly every night it was on the table. He disliked it because it was impractical, and each time there was an accident he wanted to tell her to put it in the attic and buy one which would not tip over. Obviously the thing was impractical, she admitted this, which meant that if he suggested putting it away she probably would agree. She would agree, but she would be hurt. So, year after year while helping himself to the gravy he focused his attention on this odd silver vessel and never relaxed until it was out of his hands. Every member of the family except Douglas knocked it over at one time or another, and on each of these occasions Douglas shook his head very slowly with an expression of disgusted amazement. Mr. Bridge could not understand why Douglas, who frequently bumped into doors and tripped over cords and cut himself and dropped everything else, never spilled the gravy, but he never did.

This night it was Carolyn. She caught it before it went all the way, but the tablecloth was spattered and Harriet was summoned from the kitchen to mop up. Then Douglas remarked, as though he had been recommending this for a long while, that he still did not see why they did not have the boat soldered to the tray.

Everybody turned on him.

He paused with a fork full of beans almost in his mouth and glanced around the table uncertainly, surprised by the effect of his suggestion.

“Mother,” Carolyn said, “you know, he’s right.”

Douglas, sensing that nobody would correct his table manners at this moment, reached halfway across the table for a handful of biscuits.

Mrs. Bridge was considering the gravy boat, and she appeared ten years older.

“Suppose we leave it as it is,” Mr. Bridge said. “The thing was not meant to be soldered. All of us can be a little more careful.”

Douglas said, “It’d be a cinch to fix. It’d take about two minutes. I could fix it myself at school.”

“You could?” she asked.

“Sure. In metal shop we do soldering.”

“If it’s going to be done it will be done professionally,” Mr. Bridge said. “I know you could do the work, Douglas, but this was a wedding gift and your mother thinks a great deal of it.”

“Suit yourself.” He shrugged. “If Mother wants me to, I can. Otherwise, okay. It’s no skin off my tail.”