Mrs. Bridge (12 page)

“I’m afraid I’m not,” she said.

“Well, since you are not an engineer that Is excusable/’ he

said, chuckling. “But I can tell you that In a tight spot there is nothing to help a man out like the duplex decltrix.”

Mrs. Bridge replied that It sounded dreadfully complicated, and later, as they were leaving, said she hoped they would stop by again before long.

The Van Metres had a disconcerting habit of believing what people said. Mrs. Bridge, having expressed the hope they would stop by again, forgot about them. Yet two weeks had not passed before they came for another nice little visit. She pretended to be glad to see them. They drank several pots of tea and seemed not to be aware of the long periods of silence. Mrs. Bridge desperately tried to prevent silences, and ordinarily she succeeded, but with the Van Metres it was an awful job. She was grateful when either of them began to speak because it gave her a moment to rest and to think of another topic. Susan very seldom had a word to offer; Wilhelm would be lost in thought for half an hour, after which he might take the next half hour to tell an anecdote. On this occasion he took very nearly that long to relate a tale about two sixteenth-century gentlemen: Sir William Roper and the lord chancellor of England whose name was Sir Thomas More. It seems that Sir William came calling on Sir Thomas with a proposal to marry one of his daughters.

Sir Thomas, being agreeable to this Idea, led Sir William to the bedside of his daughters and whipped off the covers. The two girls were lying on their backs with their smocks up as high as their armpits. They at once rolled over on their bellies. Sir William said, “I have seen both sides.” He then patted one of the girls on the buttocks, and said, “Thou art mine.”

“Well,” observed Mrs. Bridge the moment the story ended, “I’m certainly thankful times have changed.”

A few days after this visit with the Van Metres another old acquaintance turned up. Mrs. Bridge was in the breakfast room wondering what to do how to occupy herself till noon when Harriet entered to say there was a man at the back door.

“What does he want?*”

“That’s what I asked him, and he wouldn’t say.”

“Didn’t he give his name?”

“No name,” said Harriet, “and he looks suspicious/*

Everyone looked suspicious to Harriet. Mrs. Bridge, after a moment of thought, got up and walked through the kitchen to the back door. It was snowing outside, and on the back step was a stoop-shouldered little man with a woeful expression who was shivering uncontrollably and stamping his feet. On seeing her he attempted a smile and his mouth formed the word “Hello.” Mrs. Bridge could not think where she had seen him; then she remembered the art Instructor In whose evening class she had done some painting. Opening the door, but leaving the glass storm door locked, she said, “Why, it’s Mr. Gadbury!” For some reason he did look suspicious, and more lost and defeated than In his studio. He was attempting to speak; his words were Inaudible through the storm door. Mrs. Bridge, conscious of Harriet’s premonition, despite the familiarity of it, was therefore reluctant to let him In.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” she inquired.

A flurry of snow swept over him. He tried once more to smile. He was not a stranger, but on the other hand he was not exactly a friend who had come calling. He did not appear to have been drinking, In spite of his red nose, nor did he look violent; so she disregarded Harriet who was standing with her arms crossed, emphatically shaking her head and unlocked the door.

**Won’t you step in y Mr. Gadbury? It must be cold out there.”

Gadbury stepped In. His teeth were clattering and he walked with difficulty. He looked as though he had been out in the snow for hours. He followed her into the living room with his hat in his hands, glancing behind to see if he was leaving tracks on the carpet, and he was. She invited him to sit down. He did so, and finding no place to put his wet hat he hung It on his knee. He shivered constantly. He had turned a mottled yellow and grayish-blue color like a piece of sausage that had been in the refrigerator for several weeks, with the exception of his moist red nose. He twitched and jerked and did not seem to be breathing. He made no attempt to speak. His chin was tucked into his collar, his knees knocked together, and his feet occasionally sprang off the floor of their own accord.

Mrs. Bridge, having observed him, said, “I’m going to have Harriet fix you some hot tea/’ She got up and walked across the room to the bell pull. The bell pull was a strip of material about eight feet long, resembling a sample of Persian rug, which was suspended from a lever near the ceiling. It hung down against the wall alongside the highboy. It was actually simpler to step into the kitchen and speak directly to Harriet, but whenever there were guests Mrs. Bridge used the bell pull. She took hold of it about tw T o feet from the bottom and gave a slow, gentle tug; she could never quite get over the feeling that someday w r hen the room was full of people she would pull it and it would fall down around her neck like a Catholic chasuble. Presently Harriet appeared, looking overly insouciant, as though she suspected an intrigue.

“I believe we would like some tea,” said Mrs. Bridge.

She then returned to her chair and waited for Mr. Gadbury to speak, but he made no effort to do so. He continued to twitch and shiver. She heartily wished he would think of some way to stop his teeth from chattering.

Finding that she was observing him, Gadbury drew a handkerchief from the pocket of his coat and weakly blew his nose, and said, “I’m pretty cold.”

“I’m sure you must be,” replied Mrs. Bridge. “The paper says it got down to zero at six o’clock this morning/*

Harriet reappeared wheeling the cart. She rolled it to a stop in front of Mrs. Bridge, who then poured out the tea, Harriet delivered a cup to Gadbury, who drank It at once and who then looked very hopefully and earnestly at the cart where the silver tea pot stood.

“Would you care for another cup, Mr. Gadbury?”

He said that would be nice, so he had another, and before long he had another.

“How’s the painting coming along?” he asked.

“I haven’t had a spare moment in weeks, Mr. Gadbury/*

“I sure remember that malachite sherry bottle/* he said. There was a pause. “You really let yourself go on that one.”

Mrs. Bridge smiled courteously. She waited for him to state his business. Gadbury stared around the room. He began to squint at an etching of a cathedral that occupied the space above the sofa. No one in the family had looked at it for years.

“I don’t know about that/* Gadbury said, studying It intently. “Maybe, but then again maybe not. There’s a quality, all right.” He discovered the water which had been dripping on the carpet from his hat and his coat, and nervously placed his foot on a soggy spot. At length he became aware that she was waiting for him to explain the visit, so he worked out of his pocket a crumpled little magazine which was titled The Dob er man, and he held this up for her to see.

“Oh?” said Mrs. Bridge.

“I don’t guess you or Mr. Bridge’d be much interested in subscribing to this, would you?”

She had suspected he was selling something, and she knew that whatever it might be she would have no use for it.

“I really hadn’t planned on subscribing to any more magazines, Mr. Gadbury/*

He nodded in complete understanding. “You wouldn’t want it unless you had a Doberman/* Then an idea came to him and he sat erect and asked, “You don’t have one, do you?”

“No, we don’t/’

“Nobody does/* he said despondently. “They eat an awful lot, I think.”

“Oh? Don’t you have one?”

“No. But when I was a boy I used to have a dog/* He looked to see if this fact would arouse her interest. Finding it did not, after wiping his nose on his sleeve, he considered his magazine and launched Into a sales talk. “This Issue tells about one who wouldn’t eat anything except sirloin steak and worked for the police department in Toledo/’ He mulled over this information and added pertinently, “Its name was Lieutenant.” Suddenly he opened the magazine to the center spread, which had snapshots of nine Dobermans, and he held this up for her to see.

“My, they’re ferocious looking, aren’t they?”

Gadbury then had another look at the photographs. “I guess so. I hadn’t thought about It.”

Mrs. Bridge tipped her head slightly to Indicate she was considering the pictures further. Gadbury became enthusiastic.

“This magazine comes out every month,” he said. He was overtaken by a chill; he shivered, sniffled, stamped his feet, and looked around wildly. “It tells how you train these dogs/* he said, speaking with great rapidity, “and, ah, eeehe-he-ahha-sha!” sneezed Mr. Gadbury. “I’ve got a cold/’ he said feebly, and then the life went out of him and he sat with his head bowed, silent, while a few more drops of water sank into the carpet. “It isn’t that the school doesn’t pay a living wage,” he went on without lifting his head. “It’s just that my daughter got in trouble and now she’s in the hospital. I didn’t know hospital bills were so high/* He rolled the magazine Into a tube and began striking it against his palm.

“Do you sell many subscriptions?”

Gadbury made no attempt to answer.

“How long have you been at it?” she asked.

“About two months,” he said quietly.

Mrs. Bridge took a deep breath and clasped her hands. “Tell me, Mr. Gadbury, tell me the truth. Have you sold any at all?”

“No. But there was a lady the week before last who said she’d ask her husband/’

“All right/* said Mrs. Bridge. “You may put me down for a subscription.”

Gadbury raised his head and looked at her in grave astonishment*

While cleaning out the back-hall closet she came upon the phonograph records and the booklet on how to speak Spanish. The records were covered with dust and one o them was broken. On an Impulse she let the closet remain as it was; she carried the records Into the living room and placed the unbroken ones on the phonograph. Then she seated herself with the booklet to refresh her memory, and finding that she could recall the procedure with no difficulty she set the needle on the first record.

“Buenas dias, Senora Brown. C6mo estd usted?”

“Buenas dias, Senor Garreiio. Muy bien, gracias. Y usted?”

At the pause she was ready, “Buenas dias, Senor Carreno/* she said pleasantly. “Muy bien, gracias. Y usted?**

“Muy Men.”

The record squeaked and clicked, clicked again, and continued, Senor Carreno remarked that Senora Brown was in Madrid. Senora Brown evidently realized this.

“Estoy in Madrid/*

“Estoy in Madrid,” Mrs, Bridge repeated.

From upstairs Carolyn called, “Mother!”

n8 # Mrs. Bridge

“What is it, dear?” Mrs. Bridge called.

“La gusta Madrid?”

“Si, mucho/’

“Motherl”

With a sigh Mrs. Bridge got up and walked to the bottom of the stairs. “What is it, Corky? I’m busy right now.”

“I can’t find my saddle shoes/*

Mrs. Bridge returned to the living room, turned off the phonograph, and came back to stand with one hand on the newel post. “I couldn’t hear you, dear. What did you say?”

“What happened to my saddle shoes? I left them, out for Harriet to clean but they aren’t here.”

Mrs. Bridge began climbing the stairs, because there was bound to be an argument and she did not like shouting back and forth. “I gave them to the laundress. They were simply too filthy to be worn.”

Carolyn moaned and rocked on her heels, this being the current method of expressing agony. “What am I going to wear to the mixer?”

Mrs. Bridge had stopped to catch her breath on the landing. Now she continued around the turn and up the remaining steps.

“Well, dear, you certainly can’t wear saddle shoes to a dance/*

Carolyn spoke slowly and distinctly. “It isn’t a dance, Mother, it’s a mixer. It’s in the gymnasium after school.”

“I thought you danced at a mixer.”

“You do, but it’s different. Totally/’ Carolyn was rocking on her heels again. “I mean, it’s already practically the end of my free period and I’ve got to get back for Latin and obviously you don’t expect a person to wear these Indian skins even if it is a mixer. Fortunately/’ She held out one small moccasined foot and wiggled the toe.

“I should think you’d want to wear your new brown oxfords. They certainly cost enough/*

“Oh, ugh! I mean, you’re so behind.”

“I suppose so/” Mrs. Bridge responded drily. “But I’ll thank you not to be Impertinent/’

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mother, but after all this Is utterly tragic. I mean, let’s not be bland.”

“Well, let’s see, I suppose die only solution Is to drive to the Plaza and get you a new pair of saddle shoes.”

“There Isn’t time! I mean 1 have this pathetic Latin!”

“Oh, dear/* said Mrs. Bridge wearily, for It seemed such problems were always arising. “I’m supposed to pick up Madge Arlen at two o’clock, but I suppose If you must have them I can run down to the Plaza right now and deliver them to you at school. I honestly believe half my life has been spent arranging the family schedule.”

Carolyn, who did not want anyone to see her mother delivering a pair o shoes, said, “Just leave them in the principal’s office/*

Everyone made use of the back door whenever It was convenient, but Douglas seemed to prefer it she had noticed that when he came home from school, although approaching the house from the front, he was apt to go all the way around and come in through the back. From the window of her sewing room upstairs she had seen him do this. She was distressed by his habit because It was customary for members of the family and guests to enter and leave by the front, the back door being used principally by the laundress and the various delivery boys, and by Harriet.

One day at lunch, unable to stand it any longer, she abruptly asked, “Do you have back-door-itis?”

Douglas had just started eating chipped beef; he lowered his knife and fork and gazed at her in stupefaction.