Mrs. Bridge. Evan S. Connell
noon, while rearranging the handkerchiefs in her husband’s bureau, Mrs. Bridge heard Carolyn singing at the top of her voice: “My mother, your mother, live across the way, eighteen-sixteen East Broadway! Every night they have a fight, and this is what they say—” Here Alice Jones took over the song: “Goddamn you, goddamn you, goddamn you, goddamn you—”
Mrs. Bridge rushed to the nearest window and looked down. One end of the clothesline was tied to the rose trellis. At the other end was Carolyn, churning the rope with both arms, and in the center was Alice leaping up and down.
Next week, when Alice came racing up the driveway and tried to open the screen door to the kitchen, she found it locked. Mrs. Bridge was in the kitchen and said, “Who is it, please?”
“It’s me,” replied Alice, rattling the door.
“Just a minute, Alice. I’ll see if Carolyn is at home.” She went into the living room and found her daughter looking at one of the movie magazines that Ruth had begun buying.
“Alice is here again. I’ll tell her you’re busy.”
But at the first word Carolyn had jumped up and started for the back door.
About ten o’clock both of them came into the kitchen for a bottle of soda pop and wanted to know what there would be for lunch.
“Corky is having creamed tuna on toast and spinach,” said Mrs. Bridge pleasantly.
Alice observed that she herself didn’t care for spinach because it was made of old tea bags.
“I believe you’re supposed to have lunch with your Daddy, aren’t you?”
Alice heard a note in her voice which Carolyn did not; she glanced up at Mrs. Bridge with another of those queer, bright looks and after a moment of thought she said, “Yes’m.”
12 • AGREEABLE CONVERSATION
The Van Metres were no more Egyptian than Douglas was, but in a sense they were quite foreign to Mrs. Bridge. She thought them very odd. The Van Metres, Wilhelm and Susan, were about fifteen years older than the Bridges; they were rather pompous—particularly Wilhelm—and they were given to reading literary magazines no one had ever heard of and attending such things as ballet or opera whenever a company stopped in Kansas City. Mrs. Bridge could not quite recall how she and her husband became acquainted with the Van Metres, or how they got into the habit of exchanging dinners once in a while. Nevertheless this situation had developed and Mrs. Bridge was sure it was as awkward for the Van Metres as it was for them—each couple felt obligated to return the other’s hospitality.
On those occasions when the Van Metres were hosts they drove over to the east side of the city to a country club that had gone out of fashion ten years before. Wilhelm Van Metre never drove faster than about fifteen miles an hour, and he sat erect and tense with both hands firmly on the wheel as though expecting a fearful crash at any instant. He came to a dead stop at almost every intersection, ceased talking, and examined the street in both directions. Then, unless his wife had something to say, he would proceed, the result of all this being that they seldom reached the club before nine o’clock. Once there he would drive the old automobile cautiously around the circular gravel drive and switch off the engine at the front entrance.
“Ladies,” he would say, suggestively, in his rumbling and pontifical monotone, whereupon Mrs. Bridge and Mrs. Van Metre got out and walked up the steps to the club. He did not start the engine again until he had seen them pass safely into the clubhouse; then, driving in low gear, he went on around the gravel circle to the parking lot.
“I see there are no other autos this evening, Walter,” he said. “I wonder where everyone can be.”
Mr. Bridge, already bored and thinking of an important case at the office, made no attempt to answer.
The women were waiting for them in the deserted lobby.
“It seems,” Van Metre chuckled, “we have the place to ourselves this evening.”
“I do get so sick of crowds sometimes,” Mrs. Bridge answered brightly.
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 Crandall.”
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 floodlighted, 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.