Mrs. Bridge (4 page)

Carolyn, who often imitated her mother, also stopped eat-ing and assumed a severe expression. Ruth quietly went on with dinner.

“Oh,” said Douglas, “the guys. You know. Tim and Louie and those guys.”

“But whyr*

lt l don’t know.” He was not greatly Interested in the conversation. He began to help himself to everything on the table, building a mound of food just high enough to exceed the limits of good manners but not quite high enough to draw fire from his mother. He was quite conscious, however, that she was observing the size of the helpings.

“Well, for heaven’s sake, they must have had a reason. Hadn’t you done something to provoke them?”

“Nope. We were just wrestling in the vacant lot sort of gang piling, you know and I was on the bottom and then just all of a sudden they decided to depants me, that’s all.” He was ladling gravy onto his plate; he had built a semi-circular dam out of mashed potatoes and was making the lake with gravy.

“Now that’s enough, do you hear?”

With a pained expression he put down the gravy and began looking around for something else.

“I simply can’t understand why they would do a thing like that,” she went on, half to herself.

“They just felt like depantsing somebody, I guess,” Douglas went on obligingly, “and I was on the bottom, that’s all. We depantsed Eliot Hoff a couple of weeks ago and he yelled bloody murder and cried all over the place.”

“All right, all right, that’ll do,” said Mrs. Bridge. “I think we’ve covered the situation.”

“How did you get them back?” asked Carolyn.

“Oh, I just climbed the telephone pole and there’s a big cable that leads over to Shafer’s garage, so after I got there I just took a run and jumped across to Goldfarb’s garage.” He was becoming voluble now. “Those garages look pretty close together from this side of the fence, but when you get up there, why, they’re not, because I didn’t think I was going to make it. I was just up there like the man on the flying trapeze without any pants and “

“That will do!” Mrs. Bridge interrupted, looking him firmly in the eye.

“Well, gee whiz”

“The subject is closed/*

“Okay, okay/* he muttered, and reached suddenly for the gravy.

On the fifteenth of each month there appeared in the south side of Kansas City a magazine called The Tattler. It was very thin sixteen pages of coated ivory stock but the format was large: it was about half the size of a newspaper. The typography, for reasons known only to the publisher, was in the style of 1910. The Tattler was Kansas City’s magazine of so-ciety; it consisted of photographs of significant brides, of visiting celebrities feted at the homes of wealthy Kansas Citians, and pictures of subscribers, together with long lists of names of those who had either given or attended social affairs during the month. These lists of names were so long that it was found advisable to break them up into paragraphs and from time to time to insert a description of something anything that was reasonably pertinent. A typical entry:

Seen wolfing the delicious hors d’oeuvres at the charming Lane Terrace residence of the Boh Brewers (she, n

There followed a list of about thirty names, a description of the rumpus room, and more names.

The Tattler mentioned Mrs. and Mrs. Bridge whenever they were present at a major social function, and occasionally took their picture. The most memorable photograph of Mrs. Bridge was taken during a family vacation in Colorado. She had always been rather fond of horses, and before her marriage she used to go riding. In recent years, however, she had not had much to do with horses, partly because she was growing stout and was apprehensive that from certain angles she might not cut so sleek a figure in jodhpurs as she used to. In fact, at the time this picture was taken, she had not been on a horse for about ten years. The horse, unfortunately, had just sneezed and its head was down between his knees; Mrs. Bridge, her attention divided between the beast and the photographer, was leaning over its neck with a doubtful smile. The caption read, “Mrs, Walter G. Bridge, holidaying with spouse and young at Rocky Point Lodge, Estes Park, Colorado, likes nothing better than a canter on the bridle paths.”

At Christmas time The Tattler customarily published photographs o the lights in the Plaza shopping center and of various homes in the country club district that were more than usually decorative. There was a great deal of interest in Christmas decorations; Mrs. Bridge very much enjoyed them, but at the same time they presented her with a problem: if you did not put up any decorations you were being conspicuous, and if you put up too many you were being conspicuous. At the very least there should be a large holly wreath on the front door; at the most there might be half a dozen decorations visible, including the Christmas tree. In her annual attempt to strike the proper note she came to rely more and more on Carolyn, who possessed, she thought, better judgment than either Ruth or Douglas, although she was careful to keep this opinion to herself.

Every year, then, the Bridges’ home was festive without being ostentatious. A strand of green lights was woven through the branches of a small spruce tree near the front porch, and there was a wreath in each of the first-floor windows and a large wreath with a red ribbon and a cluster of bells attached to the knocker of the front door. Inside, in a corner of the living room away from the heat of the fireplace, stood the tree, its topmost branches clipped or bent so as not to stain the ceiling, and a bed sheet draped around the bottom in order to conceal the odd-looking metal device that held the tree upright. Presents were arranged on the sheet and a few small presents tied to the limbs. There was tinsel on the tree, and there were peppermint-candy canes and popcorn balls and electric candles, and some new ornaments each year to replace the broken ones. On the mantel was a group of angels with painted mouths wide open and hymn books in their hands, and beside them a plastic creche. Whatever pine boughs had been clipped from the top of the tree were laid along the mantel, with occasional tufts of cotton to simulate snow.

During the course of the holidays Mrs. Bridge would drive the children around to see how other houses were decorated, and on one of these trips they came to a stucco bungalow with a life-size cutout of Santa Glaus on the roof, six reindeer in the front yard, candles in every window, and by the front door an enormous cardboard birthday cake with one candle. On the cake was this message: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEAR JESUS.

“My word, how extreme,” said Mrs. Bridge thoughtfully. “Some Italians must live there.”

Alice Jones was now appearing every month or so, though her father came to work at the neighbors’ each Saturday as usual. On those occasions when she accompanied him she would spend the morning with Carolyn, but then, about noon, she would get on the streetcar and go home by herself. During the morning she and Carolyn would have a confidential talk, usually in Carolyn’s room, that is, in the room that Carolyn and Ruth shared. Ruth was seldom at home on Saturday; no-body in the family knew where she went. So Alice Jones and Carolyn would shut the door to the room and converse in low tones or in whispers about school and clothes and friends and boys and how they intended to raise their children.

“How many are you going to have?” asked Carolyn.

“Eleven/* Alice said firmly.

“Heavens!” said Carolyn. “That’s certainly telling.”

“What kind of talk is that?” Alice wanted to know. “How many are you going to have?”

“Two, I believe. That makes a nice family.”

One Saturday at lunch time, shortly after Alice had started to the streetcar line, Carolyn said that Alice had invited her to come to a party next Saturday afternoon.

“Well, that was nice of Alice, wasn’t it?” Mrs. Bridge replied, and with a tiny silver fork she ate a slice of banana from her fruit salad, and then a piece of lettuce.

“Where is the party to be?”

“At her house/’

“Where does Alice live?”

“Thirteenth and Prospect.”

Mrs. Bridge took up a little silver knife and began to cut a slice of peach which was rather too large to be eaten in one bite. She knew where Thirteenth and Prospect was, although she had never stopped there. It was a mixed neighborhood.

“Can I go?”

Mrs. Bridge smiled affectionately at Carolyn. “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

It was necessary to be careful among people you did not know. Mrs. Bridge did not wish to be rude, but, as her husband had more than once reminded her, and as anyone could see from the newspapers, there were all kinds of people in the world, and this, together with several other reasons, was why she did not want Carolyn running around in the north end of town.

Not long after Alice’s invitation had been rejected Mrs. Bridge was downtown shopping, paying very little attention to the people around her, when all at once she was conscious that a man was staring at her. She could not help glancing at him. She saw only that he was in his forties and that he was not badly dressed. She turned away and walked to another counter, but he followed her.

“How do you do?” he began, smiling and touching the brim of his hat.

Mrs. Bridge grew a little frightened and began looking around for assistance.

The man’s face became red and he laughed awkwardly. “I’m Henry Schmidt/ 1 he said. There was a pause. He added nervously, “Gladys Schmidt’s husband.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Mrs. Bridge exclaimed. “I didn’t recognize you.”

They talked for a few minutes. He mentioned having seen Ruth coming out of a movie the previous week and com-merited that she was growing into quite a beauty, for which Mrs. Bridge thanked him. Finally he tipped his hat and said good-by.

“It’s so nice to see you/ 1 she responded. “Do say hello to Gladys for me. We really should get together some evening.”

Grace Barron was a puzzle and she was disturbing. She belonged in the country-club district, for Virgil was a banker, and yet she seemed dissatisfied there. Mrs. Bridge could not altogether grasp whatever it was Grace Barron was seeking, or criticizing, or saying.

Grace Barron had once said to her, “India, I’ve never been anywhere or done anything or seen anything. I don’t know how other people live, or think, even how they believe. Are we right? Do we believe the right things?”

And on another occasion, when Mrs-Bridge had passed a nice compliment on her home, Grace replied, “Virgil spent fifty thousand dollars on this place.” It had not been a boast; it had been an expression of dissatisfaction.

At luncheons, Auxiliary meetings, and cocktail parties Mrs. Bridge always found herself talking about such matters as the by-laws of certain committees, antique silver, Royal Doulton, Wedgwood, the price of margarine as compared to butter, or what the hemline was expected to do, but since Grace Barron had entered the circle she found herself fumbling for answers because Grace talked of other things art, politics, astronomy, literature. After such a conversation Mrs. Bridge felt inade-quate and confused, if a little flattered and refreshed, and on the way home she would think of what she should have said, and could have said, instead of only smiling and replying, “It does seem too bad,” or, “Well, yes, I expect that’s true.”

Said Mr. Bridge, glancing over the edge of his evening newspaper while she was talking about Grace Barron, “Ask her if she wants one to marry her daughter.”

Mrs. Bridge replied defensively, “They just have a son.” She knew this was a silly remark and added hurriedly, “I suppose you’re right, but “

“If you doubt me, ask her and see what she says.”

“Goodness,” Mrs. Bridge said, picking up the latest Tattler, “suppose we drop the subject. I certainly didn’t mean to provoke you so.”

Yet she continued to think about many things Grace Barron had said and about Grace herself because she was different somehow. The first time she had ever seen Grace was one afternoon in October of the previous year, and she could remember it so clearly because it was the day of the first Italian air raid against Ethiopia. In Kansas City the sun was shining and the leaves of the trees were changing color. It was a beautiful day. The Barrons had just moved into the neighborhood and Madge Arlen, whose husband had attended high school with Virgil Barron, was going to stop by and get acquainted, and Mrs. Bridge went along. The Barrons had moved into an enormous Colonial home near Meyer Circle, and that afternoon as Mrs. Bridge and Madge Arlen drove up to the house they saw a gang of boys playing football in the street. Apparently Grace Barron was not at home because no one answered the bell; they were about to leave when one of the boys came running up from the street. He stopped and kicked the ball back to the other players, then jumped over a flower bed, and with a whoop and a wave came running straight across the lawn.

“That must be her son,” Madge Arlen observed.

“His name will be mud if she catches him leaping over her flowers/* said Mrs. Bridge.

They waited, a trifle critically, for him to approach. He was wearing a baggy sweatshirt, faded blue jeans, dirty white ten-nis shoes, and a baseball cap. He was a thin, graceful boy, about the same height as Douglas, and as he came nearer they could see that he had freckles and a snub nose. He was laughing and panting for breath.