Mrs. Bridge. Evan S. Connell
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.”
16 • A MATTER OF TASTE
At Christmas time The Tattler customarily published photographs of 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 crèche. 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 Claus 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.”
17 • GOOD-BY ALICE
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; nobody 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.”
18 • NEVER SPEAK TO STRANGE MEN
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,” 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 commented 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,” she responded. “Do say hello to Gladys for me. We really should get together some evening.”
19 • GRACE BARRON
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 inadequate 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.