Mrs. Bridge (22 page)

One warm windy morning in June she could hardly open her eyes; she lay in the stuffy bedroom and listened to the wind in the trees, to the scratching of the evergreen branches against the house, and wondered if she was about to die. She did not feel ill, but she had no confidence in her life. Why should her heart keep beating? What was there to live for? Then she grew cheerful because she recalled her husband had told her to get the Lincoln waxed and polished. In fact he had told her that three weeks ago but she had not yet gotten around to it. Now, in any event, there was something to do; she would do the work herself. She would drive to the Plaza to an auto-supply store and buy a can of wax and some polish and a chamois, or whatever the salesman recommended, and she would spend the day working on the Lincoln. It had been years since she had done any work, with the exception of puttering in the garden, and it would be refreshing. But then, still in bed, she became doubtful and more reasonable. She had never attempted to polish an automobile, she knew nothing about it, nothing whatso-ever, and if she should ruin the finish of the Lincoln what on earth could she say to her husband? He would be amazed and furious because it was so nonsensical; he would manage to control his temper but he would be infuriated all the same, and want to know why she had done it. Could she explain how the leisure of her life that exquisite idleness he had created by giving her everything was driving her insane?

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?’

“Quite some time. We used to park at that dreadful place on Walnut/’

“The one with the popcorn machine? Lord, isn’t that the limit?”

“No, not that place. The one with the Italians. You know how my husband is about Italians. Well, that just seemed to be headquarters for them. They flocked in there by the dozen to eat their lunch and listen to some opera broadcast from New York. It was just impossible. So finally Walter said, Tm going to change garages/ So we did/’

The charity center had not yet been opened for the day. Mrs. Bridge and Mrs. Arlen walked between the counters piled high with sour, unwashed clothing, past the reform-school boys who were emptying sacks of clothing on the floor, and continued into the back room, which was reserved for Auxiliary members. Lois Montgomery was there, and Mabel Ong and Rebecca Duncan, along with several other ladies. They were having coffee and eclairs as they always did before starting work. Mrs. Bridge and Mrs. Arlen joined them.

After a while the doors were unlocked and the first of the poor entered. Behind the counters waiting to assist them were Mrs. Bridge and her friends, all wearing gloves.

1OO Marching with Dr. Foster

For a few months Grace Barron worked at the charity center; then she quit, abruptly, without offering an explanation. Mrs. Bridge was hurt by this, for it seemed un-like Grace Barron to be inconsiderate. Then, too, Mrs. Bridge reflected, she had always been so concerned about the welfare of others; still she did have streaks of peculiarity, as, for instance, her attitude toward Dr. Foster, whom Mrs. Bridge considered not only one of the nicest men she had ever met, but also one of the most intelligent. Grace, in-explicably, was amused by Dr. Foster.

Mrs. Bridge regretted having told her about a rather unfortunate slip of the tongue which occurred at the start of the benediction on Palm Sunday. Dr. Foster had said, “With eyes bowed and heads closed …”

True, this was unfortunate, but, as she promptly added in defense of the minister, “It could happen to anyone.”

Grace probably didn’t hear; she was laughing hysterically. “I knew I should have gone last Sunday,” she said, wiping the tears from her eyes, “Oh, I’m so sorry I missed that!”

Then there had been that awful day when the elevator plunged into the bargain basement. It was a dark, rainy afternoon and Mrs. Bridge had gone downtown and was browsing through the basement of one of the department stores in search of something humorous to give as a booby prize at a forthcoming card party. She was examining some celluloid toys when all at once there was a noise like a shot and a shrill singing whine and a rumble, and before she could understand what it was all about the elevator crashed not ten steps from where she stood. Later it turned out that the elevator had not fallen as far as everyone thought; in fact it had only dropped about six or eight feet. Even so, it made a great noise and most of the passengers dropped their parcels and one or two fell down. Mrs. Bridge had not yet recovered from her surprise and was only looking rather blankly at the people in the elevator, who themselves were stunned into momentary silence and were looking blindly out of the cage, when someone began to scream for help. It was someone in the rear of the elevator, and presently this person fought his way through the other passengers and got to the front where he grabbed the cage and began shaking it.

“Why, Dr. Foster!” said Mrs. Bridge, and then there was so much confusion and so many people rushing around that she lost track of him.

He was not badly injured, as she had supposed he was; he had a sprained ankle. He went about on a cane for quite a while afterward longer, in fact, than she had ever seen anyone employ a cane for a sprained ankle and for several weeks more he hobbled and alluded dryly to his accident. Mrs. Bridge was a little disappointed in him without knowing just why. However there was certainly nothing funny about the accident, and she was quite put out with Grace for laughing when she heard of it.

Her entire attitude toward religion was flippant, and Mrs. Bridge did not think it was in very good taste. After one of the Auxiliary meetings she chanced to be nearby when Grace got on the subject of religion and said there was a rumor that after Christ was sentenced to death He turned to one of the soldiers and said, “When am I going to learn to keep my big mouth shut?”

Mrs. Bridge smiled courteously, as she never failed to do when someone told a joke, and though she did not believe God was planning to strike Grace dead, still she could not see there was anything to be gained by asking for trouble.

Frequently she attempted to interest her in religion, or at least in the habit of attending church, but the attempts were unsuccessful. It was a rare Sunday when she encountered Grace among the crowd on the church steps after services.

In the center of the church lawn stood a green wooden cupboard with a glass front. Each Thursday morning the janitor came out with a manila envelope full of white celluloid letters about two inches tall, and with these he composed the title of Dr. Foster’s forthcoming sermon. Mrs. Bridge was pleased to see the Barrons Cadillac parked in the lot one Sunday morning when the sermon was entitled: Should We Go to Church?