Evan Connell - Mrs. Bridge

Ingrid turned a massive yellow head to look stonily down on Mrs. Bridge. As they were easing into the driveway she spoke. “So you want I should sit in the back.”

“Oh, gracious! I didn’t mean that/ Mrs. Bridge answered, smiling up at her* “You’re perfectly welcome to sit right here if you like/*

Ingrid said no more about the matter and next week with the same majestic melancholy rode in the rear.

The elegant Lincoln her husband had given her for her birthday was altogether too long, and she drove it as prudently as she might have driven a locomotive. People were always sounding their horns at her, or turning their heads to stare when she coasted by. Because the Lincoln had been set to idle too slowly, the engine frequently died when she pulled up at an intersection, but as her husband never used the Lincoln and she herself assumed it was just one of those things about automobiles, the idling speed was never adjusted. Often she would delay a line of cars while she pressed the starter button either too long or not long enough. Knowing she was not expert she was always quite apologetic when something unfortunate happened, and did her best to keep out of everyone’s way. She shifted into second gear at the beginning of every hill and let herself down the far side much more slowly than necessary.

Usually she parked in a downtown garage where Mr. Bridge rented a stall for her. She had only to honk at the doors, which would soon trundle open, after which she coasted inside, where an attendant would greet her by name, help her out, and then park the formidable machine. But in the country-club district she parked on the street, and if there were diagonal stripes she did very well, but if parking was parallel she had trouble judging her distance from the curb and would have to get out and walk around to look, then get back in and try again. The Lincoln’s cushions were so soft and Mrs. Bridge so short that she was obliged to sit erect in order to see whatever was going on ahead o her. She drove with arms thrust forward and gloved hands firmly on the wheel, her feet just able to depress the pedals. She never had serious accidents, but was often seen here and there being talked to by patrolmen. These patrolmen never did anything, partly because they saw immediately that it would not do to arrest her, and partly because they could tell she was trying to do everything the way it should be done.

When parking on the street it embarrassed her to have people watch, yet there always seemed to be someone at the bus stop or lounging in a doorway with nothing to do but stare while she struggled with the wheel and started jerkily backward. Sometimes, however, there would be a nice man who, seeing her difficulty, would come around and tip his hat and ask if he might help.

“Would you, please?” she would ask in relief, and after he opened the door she would get out and wait on the curb with an attentive expression while he parked the car. It was then a problem to know whether he expected a tip or not. She knew that people who stood around on street corners did not have much money; still she did not want to offend any-one. Sometimes she would hesitantly ask, sometimes not, and whether the man would accept a quarter or not she would smile brightly up at him, saying, “Thank you so much/’ and having locked the Lincoln’s doons she would be off to the shops.

She gasped when she saw the evening paper. On the front page was a picture of Tarquin Leacock taken a few minutes after he had been captured. The Leacocks had moved away from Kansas City about two years ago and no one had heard anything from them since that time. Every once in a while someone would ask what had become of them, for they had been such a remarkable family that it seemed they must be making news wherever they were. Now indeed they were.

“I saw it,*’ Mr. Bridge said when he got home that night. He had been working late again; it was nearly midnight when his Chrysler turned in the driveway, but she had waited up,

“I simply can’t believe it,” she said.

“I can,” said Mr. Bridge as he took off his overcoat. “You remember I warned you about that kid/*

“Oh, yes, I know/’ she said faintly, “but this!”

He hung his coat in the closet, placed his Homburg atop the briefcase and returned to the living room, where he glanced with no particular interest at the picture of Tarquin, who had developed into a surly, hulking youth.

“Well/’ said Mr. Bridge quietly, and tapped the newspaper with his index finger, “I am sorry about this, but on the other hand those people had no one to blame but themselves. This doesn’t surprise me in the least. They should have taught that youngster there are other people in the world besides himself/* He shook his head and took off his glasses, as he did whenever he was exhausted. “It gets worse every day. These psychologists have bluffed parents into thinking nothing Is more Important than a child’s right to assert himself. Lord knows where It will end. But 111 tell you this: Douglas is going to learn he’s not the supreme authority. His personality can go to pot, so far as that’s concerned, but my son Is not going to run around pulling stunts like this!”

With which Mr. Bridge again tapped the paper, significantly, and headed for the kitchen. Mrs. Bridge followed him and began to warm the supper that Harriet had prepared and covered with oil paper and left on the drainboard, for it was Thursday night and she had stepped out with Gouperin.

“Really, it just makes me III to think about it/* Mrs. Bridge said, and she lighted the oven and placed his supper in to warm.

‘Society gets the crime It deserves,” Mr. Bridge remarked with indifference. “I’ll never forget that kid calling his parents by their first names.”

“No, I don’t approve of that either,” she said.

Tarquin, having had a bellyful of psychology, or, perhaps, only feeling unusually progressive, had entered the bedroom of his parents while they were asleep and had shot them dead.

Tarquin Leacock preyed on her mind and she therefore took to observing her son more closely, wondering if he, too, might unexpectedly go berserk. He was now in high school, and so far as she could tell he was less of an Apache than most of his companions, for which she was grateful, but he did be-come unpredictable, given to fits of introspection during which he dressed quite formally and stalked about with hands behind his back, followed by a grandiose kind of good-fellowship, and it was in this latter mood that the battle of the hat took place.

She was of the opinion that at certain ages one wore certain articles of clothing each of the girls had received a girdle on her fourteenth birthday and she now suggested to Douglas that he was old enough to begin wearing a hat.

“I don’t need a hat/’ he said.

“It’s time you started wearing one,” she replied.

“They don’t feel good on my head,” said Douglas.

“Your father would look awfully silly without a hat/ she argued.

“Who knows?” he countered, flinging up his hands.

So it went for a period of several weeks until finally they drove downtown and picked out a hat, a very nice conservative hat. She never expected to see it on his head, but strangely enough he began to wear it everywhere. He wore it to school and while playing ball after school, and he wore it around the house and in his room at night while doing homework. Very shortly she was sick of seeing the hat, but now he would not think of going anywhere without it. Furthermore there developed, somewhere between the high school and the drugstore where he played the pinball games, the habit of wearing it on the back of his head; not only this but on the crown he pinned a glazed yellow button saying: LET’S GET ACQUAINTED!