Evan Connell - Mrs. Bridge

However, she reflected, as she got out of bed holding a hand to her brow to prevent herself from collapsing, she could at least drive to the Plaza and wander around while the Lincoln was being polished. She could look into Bancroft’s; perhaps they had some new imports. She could have a late luncheon in the tea shoppe. Surely something else would come to mind by then and soon the day would be over.

Once out of bed she felt more alive, and while getting dressed she thought of telephoning Grace Barron. Perhaps they could spend the day together. No one answered the Barrens’ phone. After a few minutes she tried again with no success and then dialed Madge Arlen. The line was busy. She knew from past experience that Madge stayed on the telephone for hours, but now the Plaza idea had begun to sound exciting with or without company and she began to hurry around getting ready to go, and was annoyed with herself for having wasted the entire morning. It was fifteen minutes to one when Mrs. Bridge came downstairs. Harriet was vacuuming the hall. Mrs. Bridge signaled her to stop the machine, and when the roaring died away she said, looking quickly into her purse to see she had not forgotten anything, ‘I’ve got to run to the Plaza to have the car taken care of. It needs waxing. If anybody calls, tell them I’ll be home about five/’

Harriet replied that Mr. Bridge had had the car waxed and polished the previous Saturday.

Mrs. Bridge stopped and looked at her in stupefaction. “He did? I wonder why he didn’t mention it.”

Harriet did not say anything.

“Are you sure?” asked Mrs. Bridge.

Harriet nodded.

“Oh. Well, then,” she said doubtfully, “I suppose it doesn’t need to be done again. Isn’t that strange? He must have forgotten to tell me.” She noticed Harriet looking at her without expression, but intently, and she became embarrassed. She dropped the car keys back in her purse and slowly took off her hat. She had driven the Lincoln several times since Saturday and it was odd she had not noticed the difference.

Harriet turned on the vacuum.

After changing into more comfortable clothes Mrs. Bridge wandered to the kitchen, fixed a sandwich for herself, and sat in the breakfast room for about an hour watching the sparrows in the garden. Finally she managed to get Madge Arlen on the telephone.

“Lord, I’m glad you called!” her friend exclaimed. “I’m out of my wits for something to do.”

“Come on over this minute,” said Mrs. Bridge.

“Are you in the same fix?”

“I should say I am!”

And now the day took shape and Mrs. Bridge was no longer embarrassed. She had found she was not alone, and if others felt as she felt there was no reason to be depressed. The hours no longer loomed ahead; it was just another warm June day. A few minutes later Madge Arlen was coming in the front door, wearing a loose lavender gaucho blouse, chartreuse slacks, and cork wedgies that made her nearly six feet tall. She was smoking one of the English cigarettes she liked but which were now so hard to obtain. Harriet made some coffee, for Madge Arlen drank coffee all day, and they sat on the porch and talked. The British were concluding the evacuation of Dunkirk, and for a while Mrs. Bridge and Madge Arlen discussed the war,

“So many of the boys are joining up/’ Mrs. Bridge remarked. “It certainly changes things. I notice the difference everywhere. Piggly Wiggly still delivers, thank heavens, but the service is so much slower than it used to be and I was so surprised the other morning to see they have a girl driving the truck/’

“Just wait till Congress passes a draft law. Lord, we’ll see the difference then!”

“Oh, I hope not! I’m sure the war will be over soon, and of course we’re doing everything humanly possible to stay out of it.”

And they talked about people they knew. Grace Barren’s son, David, had been taking violin lessons for a number of years and wanted to make a career of music. His father disapproved of this and, as everyone knew, the Barrons were not getting along well. Madge Arlen mentioned that the situation was worse.

“Being a professional musician does sound exciting/’ Mrs. Bridge observed. “But I just wonder how practical it would be. Oh, my word, it’s four o’clock already! I don’t know about you, Madge, but I’m simply famished.”

They went to the kitchen and Mrs. Bridge looked into the refrigerator.

“Strawberries and whipped cream?” she suggested. “These are frozen, of course. They don’t really taste the same as the fresh, but they certainly are a time-saver.”

The Tattler killed many an interminable hour. She read it, not avidly, but thoroughly, from Bancroft’s full-page ad in-side the front cover to Mr. Alexander’s striking floral ad on the back.

Of all the things in The Tattler she was most impressed with the philosophy. Between snapshots of country-club residents enjoying themselves at their favorite swimming pool, or on the golf links, and items of gossip regarding prominent Kansas Citians, the editors of The Tattler customarily sandwiched a thought or two preferably cheerful, affirmative at the very least. Emerson and Saint Francis were frequent con-tributors; Oliver Wendell Holmes was a great favorite. The observations of such eminent men were set in italics and were apt to be followed by, “I wonder if the scion of a certain well-known famille doesn’t realize his many conquests are causing talk among the younger set.”

Mrs. Bridge, being considerably interested in these maxims, had at one point thought of beginning a nice scrapbook with the idea of handing it on to the children. Though she had not found time for this she continued to try to memorize certain quotations, despite the fact that there never seemed to be an appropriate occasion to re-quote them. A line from Montaigne set her to thinking.

I have always observed a singular accord between super-celestial ideas and subterranean behavior.

In less crystalline style she had observed somewhat the same thing and was puzzled by it: she recalled the strange case of Dr. Foster, who had been positively identified at the burlesque, not once which could have been attributed to his gathering material for a sermon but several times. Furthermore he never mentioned it.

Over the wisdom of Montaigne she brooded, eventually reaching the conclusion that if super-celestial ideas were necessarily accompanied by subterranean behavior it might be better to forego them both.

She looked forward to Saturdays because on that day she was occupied with the distribution of used clothing at the Auxiliary charity center on Ninth Street. Usually she went with Madge Arlen. One week they would drive to work in the Arlens’ Chrysler, the next week in the Lincoln, and when it was Mrs. Bridge’s turn she drew up before the garage where her husband parked. There she honked the horn, or beckoned if someone happened to be in sight, and shortly an attendant whose name was Hal would come out of the garage buttoning on a white duster and he would ride in the rear seat to the charity center. There he would jump out and open the door for Mrs. Bridge, and after that he would drive the Lincoln back to the garage because she did not like it left on the street in such a neighborhood.

“Suppose you come by for us around six, or six-fifteen- ish, Hal/’ she would say.

He always answered that he would be glad to, touched the visor of his cap, and drove away.

“He seems so nice/’ said Mrs. Arlen as the two of them walked into the center.

“Oh, he is!” Mrs. Bridge agreed. “He’s one of the nicest garage men I’ve ever had.”

“How long have you been parking there?’