Mrs. Bridge by James Salter, Evan S. Connell Read Free Book Online Page B

knowing; it was all Mrs. Bridge could do to look him straight in the eye, and, what was worse, she knew he was aware of this and relished it. He clearly enjoyed catching and holding her attention until she could hardly keep from shudder-ing.
    “Why don’t you tell India what you said to your science adviser yesterday?” his mother suggested. She was wearing moccasins and white wool athletic socks and a baggy skirt and sweater, so that she looked like a high-school girl, except for her face, which was creased and shriveled like the face of a very old woman.
    “Lucienne, really!” said her son. “How can I possibly express myself in regard to a man so jejune?” And he drew on his cigarette with a look o boredom. Mrs. Bridge was fascinated and exasperated whenever he pulled out a cigarette; the whole
    thing was beyond her understanding*
    Although Douglas was absent whenever Mrs. Leacock and Tarquin were around, he was evidently somewhere within earshot, because one evening during an argument with his father about the size of his allowance he blurted, “Jeez, how am I supposed to express myself with nothing but a measly fifty cents a week?”
    “What’s that?” demanded Mr. Bridge, lowering the newspaper through which the discussion had been carried on.
    “Well, I gotta express my personality, don’t I?”
    “Express your personality?” asked Mr. Bridge, and gazed at his son curiously.
    “That’s what Tarquin does. He gets to express it whenever he feels like it.”
    Mr. Bridge and Douglas studied each other for a while, one of them bemused and the other defiant, and Mrs. Bridge waited uneasily to find out how it was going to end.
    “You’ll express yourself when 1 say you can,” Mr. Bridge replied quietly. He shook up the newspaper and continued reading.

22
Victim of Circumstances
    There was another expressionist in the neighborhood, a boy several years older than Tarquin Leacock, whom Douglas avoided with equal assiduity, though for a different reason. His name was Peters and he was a bully.
    One evening It was long after dark when Douglas finally came home. He was exhausted and covered with dirt, although this in itself was not remarkable.
    “Where have you been?” Mrs. Bridge cried, rushing toward him the moment he entered the house. “We’ve been looking high and low for you. I was just about to phone the police.”
    “It was that big Peters guy’s fault/’ Douglas said in a low voice. He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his sweatshirt and trudged upstairs to his room.
    “Well, thank heavens you’re safe, at least/’ she resumed when he came down. He looked a little more respectable. “Where on earth were you?”
    He replied that he had been on top of Pfeiffer’s garage.
    “Until twenty minutes to nine?” she asked with as much sarcasm as she could muster, and this was not much.
    “I figured it was probably later than that/’ he muttered very glumly. “It felt like it was about midnight/’
    She followed him to the breakfast room, where Harriet was setting his place.
    “What were you doing on Pfeiffer’s garage? I’m sure they didn’t want you up there.”
    He started to answer, then sneezed, started to wipe his nose with his hand and then, thinking better of it, took out his handkerchief.
    “I was hiding/* he said and sneezed again.
    “Hiding! From whom, may I ask?”
    “From that big Peters guy/’ he replied with some annoy-ance, as though she should have known. “What did you think I was going to do, stick my head up and get it blown off?”
    “I think you’d better explain yourself, young man, or your father’s going to hear about this/*
    “That’s okay with me,” he muttered.
    “All right, now. Begin at the beginning.”
    “Well,” he said, wearily buttering a slice of bread, “he just chased me up there, that’s all there is to it.”
    “Who chased you? What are you talking about?”
    He put down the bread and explained with elaborate emphasis. “That big fat