Mrs. Bridge. Evan S. Connell
“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 tennis 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.
“Hello!” he called, and at that moment they realized he was not a boy at all. It was Grace Barron.
And Mrs. Bridge recalled with equal clarity an evening when she and Grace attended an outdoor symphony. Music was one of the things Mrs. Bridge had always wanted to know more about, and so she was pleased, if startled, when Grace, whom she scarcely knew, simply telephoned one evening and asked if she would like to go to the concert in the park. They sat on folding chairs and listened, and it was like nothing else Mrs. Bridge had ever experienced. When the symphony ended, while the musicians were packing away their instruments and the conductor was autographing programs, Grace suggested they come to the next concert.
“I’d love to!” Mrs. Bridge exclaimed. “When is it?” And upon learning the date she said regretfully, “Oh, dear, the Noel Johnsons are having a few people over for cocktails—”
“That’s all right,” Grace interrupted. “I know how it is.”
And there was an afternoon when they happened to run into each other downtown. Mrs. Bridge was looking over some new ovenware she had heard advertised on the radio. She decided not to buy, and in the course of wandering around the store she suddenly came upon Grace Barron staring fixedly at a gift item—an arrangement of tiny silver bells that revolved around an elaborate candlestick.
“Oh, isn’t this tricky!” Mrs. Bridge said, having a look at the price tag. “But I think they’re asking too much.”
“I feel like those bells,” said Grace. “Why are they turning around, India? Why? Because the candle has been lighted. What I want to say is—oh, I don’t know. It’s just that the orbit is so small.” She resumed staring at the contrivance, which went slowly around and around and gave out a faint, exquisite tinkling.
20 • WHAT’S UP, SEÑORA BRIDGE?
Spanish was a subject she had long meant to study, and quite often she remarked to her friends that she wished she had studied it in school. The children had heard her say this, so for her birthday that year they gave her an album of phonograph records consisting of a lethargic dialogue between Señor Carreño of Madrid and an American visitor named Señora Brown. Along with the records came an attractive booklet of instructions and suggestions. Mrs. Bridge was delighted with the gift and made a joke about how she intended to begin her lessons the first thing “mañana.”
As it turned out, however, she was busy the following day, and the day after because of a PTA meeting at the school, and the day after. Somehow or other more than a month passed before she found time to begin, but there came a morning when she resolved to get at it, and so, after helping Harriet with the breakfast dishes, she found her reading glasses and sat down in the living room with the instruction booklet. The course did not sound at all difficult, and the more pages she read the more engrossing it became. The instructions were clear enough: she was simply to listen to each line of dialogue and then, in the pause that followed, to repeat the part of Señora Brown.
She put the first record on the phonograph, turning it low enough so that the mailman or any delivery boys would not overhear and think she had gone out of her mind. Seated on the sofa directly opposite the machine she waited, holding onto the booklet in case there should be an emergency.
“Buenas días, Señora Brown,” the record began, appropriately enough. “Cómo está usted?”
“Buenas días, Señor Carreño,” Señora Brown answered. “Muy bien, gracias. Y usted?”
The record waited for Mrs. Bridge who, however, was afraid it would begin before she had a chance to speak, and in consequence only leaned forward with her lips parted. She got up, walked across to the phonograph, and lifted the needle back to the beginning.
“Buenas días, Señora Brown. Cómo está usted?”
“Buenas días, Señor Carreño,” replied Señora Brown all over again. “Muy bien, gracias. Y usted?”
“Buenas días, Señor Carreño,” said Mrs. Bridge with increasing confidence. “Muy bien, gracias. Y usted?”
“Muy bien,” said Señor Carreño.
Just then Harriet appeared to say that Mrs. Arlen was on the telephone. Mrs. Bridge put the booklet on the sofa and went into the breakfast room, where the telephone was.
“Hello, Madge. I’ve been meaning to phone you about the Auxiliary luncheon next Friday. They’ve changed the time from twelve-thirty to one. Honestly, I wish they’d make up their minds.”
“Charlotte told me yesterday. You knew Grace Barron was ill with flu, didn’t you?”
“Oh, not really! She has the worst luck.”
“If it isn’t one thing, it’s another. She’s been down since day before yesterday. I’m running by with some lemonade and thought you might like to come along. I can only stay a split second. I’m due at the hairdresser at eleven.”
“Well, I’m in slacks. Are you going right away?”
“The instant the laundress gets here. That girl! She should have been here hours ago. Honestly, I’m at the end of my rope.”
“Don’t tell me you’re having that same trouble! I sometimes think they do it deliberately just to put people out. We’re trying a new one and she does do nice work, but she’s so independent.”
“Oh,” said Madge Arlen, as if her head were turned away from the phone, “here she comes. Lord, what next?”
“Well, I’ll dash right upstairs and change,” said Mrs. Bridge. “I suppose the garden can wait till tomorrow.” And after telling Harriet that she would be at Mrs. Barron’s if anyone called, she started toward the stairs.
“Qué tal, Señora Brown?” inquired the record.
Mrs. Bridge hurried into the living room, snapped off the phonograph, and went upstairs.
21 • THE LEACOCKS
New people in the neighborhood never failed to provide a topic for discussion. As time went by and they became more familiar they became, naturally, less newsworthy; the Leacocks, however, seemed more remarkable with every passing day. The family consisted of Dr. Gail