Evan Connell - Mr. Bridge

Once in a while they stopped across the street for a drink before going to the garage to get the Chrysler, and because he knew she enjoyed these visits to the cocktail lounge he was careful that they did not become a habit; she ought not to regard these moments as one of her rights. Perhaps if she lived a more varied personal life there would be no harm in treating her to a drink more often, but night after night as punctually and obediently as a child who has been ordered to come straight home from school she took the bus to the apartment and was met by her crippled sister. He had never inquired how she felt about this. It was easy to imagine, just as it was easy to imagine the interior of their apartment — cluttered with potted plants and lace doilies, cheap glassware, enameled trinkets from the dime store — all the junk two unmarried sisters would collect to prevent themselves from admitting the truth. No doubt the place smelled of medicine. Tokens of poor health littering the rooms like a bird’s nest sprinkled with broken eggshells.

One evening when they had finished their drinks and he was anxious to get home for supper she touched him. He had been about to reach for his wallet when she caught his hand. He was very much surprised. He wondered what could be wrong. She fixed him with an imploring gaze. Her eyes were moist, she was breathing uncertainly. It occurred to him she might be sick; he asked if she felt all right, but evidently she did not hear the question. He disliked her hand resting on his. During the many years they had worked together she had not once touched him deliberately, and almost never by accident. He found the touch of her hand unpleasant. He looked at it and saw the usual slender, weak, unimpressive feminine hand with tapered fingers. It was no longer the hand of a young girl. It was creased from work, and although the skin had remained soft and the fingers were still delicate the shape of it had subtly changed. This was now the hand of a middle-aged woman. It was speckled with brown liver spots.

Julia, seeing him observe their hands together, gave a gentle squeeze. Mr. Bridge could not tolerate this. For twenty-five years only one woman had been so intimate. Gradually, without saying anything, as though unaware of her grasp, he pulled his hand away.

Julia suggested they have a second drink.

He consulted his watch although he knew to within five minutes what time it was. She had never before asked to have a second drink. However, because he had asked favors of her — sent her on minor errands which probably hurt her dignity, and called her to work on Sundays and holidays — because of all this, because she was Julia on whom he had depended for such a long while, he agreed.

That a mature and sensible woman could get drunk on two bland cocktails seemed impossible, yet she was not half through the second glass when the signs became apparent. He had never seen her like this and he said in a low voice, hoping nobody would overhear, “Julia, pull yourself together.”

Julia sobbed.

He looked down at her severely. “I am taking you home. Get your coat.”

She did as she was told. He put on his hat, his topcoat, his gloves, picked up his briefcase and the Wall Street Journal , and held the door open for her. They walked out of the lounge and started toward the garage, but they had not gone five steps before she did something else which shocked him; she took hold of his arm as though they were man and wife. He did not try to dislodge her, but he said to himself while they marched toward the garage that he would not treat her to any more drinks. He reminded himself that this was his own fault, he never should have indulged her. She had been working hard, she was fatigued, and this might be one of those days when women lose what slight self-control they ordinarily have. Now the only thing to do was to get her home without any further embarrassment. Hopefully she would be all right by tomorrow, she could apologize if she felt like it, although this was not important, and they could go on with their work.

While they were driving through Penn Valley Park she had a weeping fit. He ignored it, but he was displeased. He avoided looking at her. He thought of how she had aged. A broad gray streak ran through the middle of her hair and she had begun wearing horn-rimmed glasses. Her waist was thick. Something had gone wrong with the circulation in her legs, so she had bought a pair of black orthopedic shoes.

By the time they reached the apartment she had almost recovered. She was still sobbing now and then, but more from exhaustion than grief or whatever it was that started her off. He was disgusted by the shameless display of emotion, but he was also concerned. He wanted to help her, if possible; however, he did not want to say or do anything which would set her off again. Already he was late for supper and had not called home because he did not want to try to explain the situation. So, with the motor idling, he gripped the steering wheel and waited for her to get out of the car.

Julia finished wiping her eyes with a little handkerchief.

She tucked the handkerchief into her purse and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she invited him up to the apartment.

Mr. Bridge was astounded. “I believe not, Julia. Thank you,” he said. He expected her to get out, but she did not.

Then she asked if he realized what day it was.

The simplicity of the question exasperated him. He cleared his throat and kept both hands on the wheel.

Julia nodded. “I guess I should have known. I’m an idiot. I told myself you weren’t like that. Not really. Not at heart. You are, though. From your Homburg to your expensive gray gloves.” She puffed out her cheeks and made a small popping noise. “Dear Miss Lovejoy, respectfully yours, et cetera. Such a laugh. So much for indispensable Julie.”

“If you’re not feeling up to par maybe you ought to stay home tomorrow. I won’t need the Loomis brief until Friday.”

“Right,” she said. “Stay home. Get a good rest, old girl. Feel better Monday. Don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? Do you?”

“I must admit I don’t.”

“Okay, here goes. Listen, Mr. Walter Bridge who lives in a lovely home on Crescent Heights. Cling to your wheel, old sport, because here comes one true confession. I’ve given you the best years of my life — the very best years. You never used them. You never wanted them.”

He looked at his watch.

“Don’t remind me,” she said. She opened the door of the Chrysler. Still she did not get out. “You never forget a thing, so ask yourself this. How many years ago today did I walk into the office for the very first time? Good night, Mr. Bridge. I think I will stay home tomorrow, with your permission.”

He drove home greatly shocked. It had never occurred to him that she regarded her association with him as anything more than a job. He did not want to lose her; he hoped that after a day away from the office she would have recovered her sense of values so they would be able to continue as before. If not, the only solution would be to let her go.

It seemed to him that a good many people he knew were disintegrating as unmistakably as Julia. He himself was having difficulty with a stiff neck in the mornings, and the time had come for stronger reading glasses, and he was worried about the irregularity of his heart. However, it was a comfort to observe how rapidly his friends were aging. Virgil had gotten so fat that his lower lip protruded. Lutweiler was completely gray, though he played tennis and went swimming so often that he had retained a youthful air. Alex smelled like a tobacco warehouse and appeared to be turning yellow from the nicotine. Mrs. Bridge, he thought, did not look as old as most of her friends. She had not changed very much. She was thoroughly girdled now, her lips were faintly puckered, and her hair was set by the beauty parlor with an eye to practicality; but in contrast to her friends she was in good shape. Lois Montgomery was wrinkling around the neck like a stalk of cauliflower. Madge Arlen, evidently suffering from some kind of disorder, walked stiffly, rather like a turkey. Grace Barron was withering and shriveling like a plant in dry soil. Ultimately they were all going to go. They were going to vanish like the elm in the yard: grass now grew over the place where it stood for fifty years, and the people who would someday live in the house, whether they were Douglas’ children or an unknown family, would not even be aware that a stately tree was gone.