Mrs. Bridge (3 page)

The four of them began to walk along the corridor toward the rear of the building, where the dining room was. There was a series of rugs along the length of the corridor so that they would be walking in silence, then on the hardwood floor, then in silence, and so on. Whenever their heels struck the floor the noise echoed ahead of them and behind them as though they were being preceded and followed.

When the silence became unbearable Mrs. Bridge looked over her shoulder, smiling, and said, “Everyone says the chef here is the best in the city/*

“We feel he’s competent/* said Wilhelm Van Metre, who was walking directly behind her with his head slightly bowed.

On they went, two by two, down the long corridor. Small tables of various shapes had been set against the wall at intervals in a desperate attempt to conceal the length of the corridor. On one of the tables was a wreath, on another was an unlighted candle, on another was a silver bowl, another held a telephone book in a gray leather binding. There were half a dozen mirrors along the wall. Mrs. Bridge did not dare look into any of the mirrors, and as the four of them marched along she wondered if she was about to lose control of herself. Where are we going? she thought. Why are we here?

“What lovely tables/’ she said.

Van Metre cleared his throat. “Tables are appropriate here.”

“We really should get together more often/’ she said.

“Yes. Susan and I often say, ‘We really should stop by to visit Walter and India/ “

Finally they came to the frosted glass doors of the dining room.

“Ladies/’ Van Metre said, holding open the door.

There were two people in the dining room.

“Susan, I believe that’s young Blackburn over there with his father/’

“He must be home from the university/’

“I believe I’ll go speak to them. Walter and India, I’m certain you will excuse me.” He walked slowly across the dining room, said something to them, and they looked around at Mr. and Mrs. Bridge.

In a few minutes he returned, rubbing his hands. “Now, let’s have a look. Which table shall we sit at? Anyone feeling particular?”

“I don’t think it makes a bit of difference,” said Mrs. Bridge. All the tables had been set. There was a candle burning on each table as though a great crowd of people was expected.

“As you probably know, the club was designed by Cran-dalL”

Mrs. Bridge had never heard of this architect, but she thought his tone implied she should have. “Let me think,” she said, touching her cheek, “is he the City Hall man? I really should know, of course. His name is so familiar/’

Van Metre turned to stare at her. He smiled bleakly. “I’m afraid Crandall is not the City Hall man, India. No, I’m afraid not/* After a pause he said, “In what connection have you heard of him?”

“He was mixed up in that USHA mess,” said Mr. Bridge unexpectedly.

“You’re correct about that, Walter,” Van Metre said, “although that was hardly what I had in mind. Crandall also designed the famous Penfield house/’ He studied the empty tables, deliberated, and selected one, saying with a courtly gesture, “And now, ladies, if you will.”

They seated themselves around an oval table in front of some French doors that opened onto the terrace. They could see a flood-lighted, empty swimming pool, a number of canvas-backed chairs, the flagpole, and a winding gravel path lined with white-washed rocks. In the distance above the dark wall formed by the trees, the sky was suffused with a chill pink color from the downtown lights of the city.

“What a lovely view,” Mrs. Bridge exclaimed.

“I’m afraid you’re being kind,” Van Metre said, unfolding his napkin. “There isn’t much to look at.” He began to frown in the direction of the kitchen.

“I do think the pool looks awfully nice with the lights on it that way.”

“Those rocks are absurd,” said Susan Van Metre.

“Well, most places they would be a little too-too, but don’t you think they look nice out here in the country? They seem to give such a homey touch.”

“The club isn’t precisely in the country, India,” Van Metre said, and cleared his throat. Then he turned around in his chair and again frowned at the kitchen. “I am commencing to wonder if we have a waiter this evening,”

“We’re certainly in no hurry,” said Mrs. Bridge.

Van Metre snapped his fingers, at which the father and son looked across the room.

“Don’t we have any service?’
Van Metre called with a note of joviality.

The father spoke to his son, who got up and walked to the swinging doors, pushed halfway through, and apparently spoke to someone in the kitchen. Presently a Filipino waiter came out with a napkin folded over one arm.

“What do you recommend this evening?‘ Van Metre asked him.

The waiter said the roast beef was especially nice.

“How does that sound? India? Walter? Susan? Roast beef, everyone?”

“Grand,” said Mrs. Bridge.

“Four roast beeves/’ said Van Metre, and chuckled. “It sounds as though I’m ordering four beeves. Entire animals.” He took a sip of water, removed his glasses, and while examining them against the light he said, “Possibly I have told you of my experience in Illinois last summer on the way home from my annual fishing trip.”

“Why, no, I don’t believe you have,” Mrs. Bridge said attentively. “What happened?”

“I went fishing with Andrew Stoner,” he said, and lifted his bushy white eyebrows in what appeared to be an inquiring manner.

Mrs. Bridge thought quickly. “Stoner Dry Goods?”

“No, no,” he chuckled. “I should say not! Stoner Dry Goods, my Lord, no!” He continued to chuckle while he put on his glasses, and Mrs. Bridge noticed with a slight feeling of dis-comfort that the hair of his eyebrows actually touched his glasses.

“I’ve met that fellow/’ he was saying. “No, India, not Stoner Dry Goods, not by a damn sight, no sir. Andrew Stoner, not John Stoner. My man is in the winter-wheat business. In fact, I expect you’ve met him.”

“A rather short man with quite an attractive wife?”

“You’re probably thinking of Dr. Max Hamm. He wears gold-rimmed glasses and speaks with a German accent.”

“Oh well, I don’t believe I know the Stoners.”

“I’m sure you must have met him somewhere.”

“Oh, I’m sure of it. I’m terrible about names.”

“However, you may not have met him/’ Van Metre thoughtfully rubbed his chin and took another sip of water. “I believe, now that I think of it, Andrew’s wife died before you moved into the neighborhood. Andrew went away for several years.” He turned the water pitcher around; apparently he was inspecting the design etched into it. “At any rate, we were returning from our annual fishing expedition when we had occasion to put up for the night at a small hotel in Illinois. It was in the town of Gilman, as I recall. Not too far from Peoria.” His expression was Inquiring again.

“I don’t believe IVe ever been there. It must be nice.”

Van Metre put the napkin to his mouth and coughed. Then he continued. “Well, India, I shouldn’t care to live there. However, Andrew and I did stop there overnight, although at this moment I am unable to recall our reasoning. It was a mistake, you may be sure of that.”

“Sounds dreadful.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say it was quite that bad.”

“I didn’t mean that exactly, it’s just that those little farming towns can be awfully depressing.”

“I wouldn’t call Gilman a farming town.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that it was.”

“It’s quite a little city. Good bit of industry there. In fact, Gilman may have quite a future.”

“Is that so? I suppose it is altogether different than I imagine.”

Wilhelm Van Metre stared at the tablecloth for a while, as though something had annoyed him.

“We stopped there overnight. We got a room in the hotel, not a bad room, though small, and as we were walking downstairs for supper Andrew said, ‘Wilhelm, how about a drink?’ Well, India and Walter, I said, ‘That sounds like a good idea, Andrew. Let’s have a drink/ We decided to have a martini.

I’ve forgotten just why. We didn’t know if the bartender in that little hotel even knew what a martini was, but we decided we would try him out/’

Mrs. Bridge, thinking the story was about a terrible martini, said, “That certainly was taking a chance/’

“Well sir/’ Van Metre said, leaning back in his chair and all at once slapping the table, “that martini was the finest I ever tasted/’

“What a surprise that must have been!”

The waiter was coming across the floor trundling a cart with the roast beef under a large silver bell. After he had served them and refilled their water glasses he returned to the kitchen. They began to eat.

“This beef isn’t quite done,” Van Metre observed*

Mrs. Bridge said it was just the way she liked it.

Boys, as everyone knew, were more trouble than girls, but to Mrs. Bridge it began to seem that Douglas was more trouble than both the girls together. Ruth, silent Ruth, was no trouble at all; Mrs. Bridge sometimes grew uneasy over this very fact, because it was slightly unnatural. Carolyn made up for Ruth, what with temper tantrums and fits of selfishness, but she was nothing compared to Douglas, who, strangely enough, never actually appeared to be attempting to make trouble; it was just that somehow he was trouble. Invariably there was something about him that needed to be corrected or attended to, though he himself was totally oblivious to this fact, or, if he was aware of it, was unconcerned. Whenever she encountered him he was either hungry, or dirty, or late, or needed a haircut, or had outgrown something, or had a nosebleed, or had just cut himself, or had lost something, or was just generally ragged and grimy looking. Mrs. Bridge could not understand it. She could take him down to the Plaza for a new pair of corduroy knickers and a week later he had worn a hole through the knee. He was invariably surprised and a little pained by her dismay; he felt fine what else mattered?

He was hostile to guest towels. She knew this, but, because guest towels were no concern of his, there had never been any direct conflict over them. She had a supply of Margab, which were the best, at least in the opinion of everyone she knew, and whenever guests were coming to the house she would put the ordinary towels in the laundry and place several of these little pastel towels in each of the bathrooms. They were quite small, not much larger than a handkerchief, and no one ever touched them. After the visitors had gone home she would carefully lift them from the rack and replace them in the box till next time. Nobody touched them because they looked too nice; guests always did as she herself did in their homes she would dry her hands on a piece of Kleenex.

One afternoon after a luncheon she went around the house collecting the guest towels as usual, and was very much surprised to find that one of the towels in Douglas’s bathroom had been used. It was, in fact, filthy. There was no question about who had used this towel. She found Douglas sitting in a tree in the vacant lot. He was not doing anything as far as she could tell; he was just up in the tree. Mrs. Bridge approached the tree and asked him about the towel. She held it up. He gazed down at it with a thoughtful expression. Yes, he had dried his hands on it.

“These towels are for guests,” said Mrs. Bridge, and felt herself unaccountably on the verge of tears.

“Well, why don’t they use them then?” asked Douglas. He began to gaze over the rooftops.

“Come down here where I can talk to you. I don’t like shouting at the top of my lungs/’

“I can hear you okay,” said Douglas, climbing a little higher.

Mrs. Bridge found herself getting furious with him, and was annoyed with herself because it was all really so trivial. Besides, she had begun to feel rather foolish standing under a tree waving a towel and addressing someone who was probably invisible to any of the neighbors who might be watching. All she could see of him were his tennis shoes and one leg. Then, too, she knew he was right, partly right in any event; even so, when you had guests you put guest towels in the bathroom. That was what everyone did, it was what she did, and it was most definitely what she intended to continue doing.

“They always just use their handkerchief or something/* said Douglas moodily from high above.

“Never mind/’ said Mrs. Bridge. “From now on you leave those towels alone/*

There was no answer from the tree.

“Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” said Douglas.

Not long after the battle of the guest towels he came in late for dinner, and when asked for a suitable explanation he announced with no apparent concern, yet with a faint note of apology discernible in his tone as though he had let himself be tricked, “I got depantsed.”

“You what?” Mrs, Bridge exclaimed, clutching her napkin. She and the girls were halfway through dinner, having decided not to wait on him any longer. Mr. Bridge was not yet home from the office.

Douglas stepped over the seat of his chair as if it were a hurdle and sat down astraddle. This was a habit that exasperated his mother; he knew it and she knew he knew it.

“Why must you do that?” she asked. She was relieved he had come home, but she could not help scolding now that she knew he was safe.

“Do what?”

“You know perfectly well what.”

Every time they argued about the way he got into his chair he proceeded to explain that he did it in order to save wear and tear on the carpet. It was his theory that if he pulled out the chair every time, it would soon wear a groove in the carpet, and he was only trying to save things from wearing out because she was always telling him not to be so hard on the furniture. This was the way the argument went; it was quite familiar to everyone.

“Now,” said Mrs. Bridge, settling the napkin in her lap and beginning to butter a hot biscuit, “let’s start all over again.” As soon as she said this she regretted it.

“They depantsed me,” Douglas repeated cheerfully.

“What are you talking about?”

“They took my pants and threw them up on top of Goldfarb’s garage.”

“Who did?” she said, putting down the biscuit