Mrs. Bridge Read Online Free Page B

a good idea, Andrew. Let’s have a drink/ We decided to have a martini.
    I’ve forgotten just why. We didn’t know if the bartender in that little hotel even knew what a martini was, but we decided we would try him out/’
    Mrs. Bridge, thinking the story was about a terrible martini, said, “That certainly was taking a chance/’
    “Well sir/’ Van Metre said, leaning back in his chair and all at once slapping the table, “that martini was the finest I ever tasted/’
    “What a surprise that must have been!”
    The waiter was coming across the floor trundling a cart with the roast beef under a large silver bell. After he had served them and refilled their water glasses he returned to the kitchen. They began to eat.
    “This beef isn’t quite done,” Van Metre observed*
    Mrs. Bridge said it was just the way she liked it.

13
Guest Towels
    Boys, as everyone knew, were more trouble than girls, but to Mrs. Bridge it began to seem that Douglas was more trouble than both the girls together. Ruth, silent Ruth, was no trouble at all; Mrs. Bridge sometimes grew uneasy over this very fact, because it was slightly unnatural. Carolyn made up for Ruth, what with temper tantrums and fits of selfishness, but she was nothing compared to Douglas, who, strangely enough, never actually appeared to be attempting to make trouble; it was just that somehow he was trouble. Invariably there was something about him that needed to be corrected or attended to, though he himself was totally oblivious to this fact, or, if he was aware of it, was unconcerned. Whenever she encountered him he was either hungry, or dirty, or late, or needed a haircut, or had outgrown something, or had a nosebleed, or had just cut himself, or had lost something, or was just generally ragged and grimy looking. Mrs. Bridge could not understand it. She could take him down to the Plaza for a new pair of corduroy knickers and a week later he had worn a hole through the knee. He was invariably surprised and a little pained by her dismay; he felt fine what else mattered?
    He was hostile to guest towels. She knew this, but, because guest towels were no concern of his, there had never been any direct conflict over them. She had a supply of Margab, which were the best, at least in the opinion of everyone she knew, and whenever guests were coming to the house she would put the ordinary towels in the laundry and place several of these little pastel towels in each of the bathrooms. They were quite small, not much larger than a handkerchief, and no one ever touched them. After the visitors had gone home she would carefully lift them from the rack and replace them in the box till next time. Nobody touched them because they looked too nice; guests always did as she herself did in their homes she would dry her hands on a piece of Kleenex.
    One afternoon after a luncheon she went around the house collecting the guest towels as usual, and was very much surprised to find that one of the towels in Douglas’s bathroom had been used. It was, in fact, filthy. There was no question about who had used this towel. She found Douglas sitting in a tree in the vacant lot. He was not doing anything as far as she could tell; he was just up in the tree. Mrs. Bridge approached the tree and asked him about the towel. She held it up. He gazed down at it with a thoughtful expression. Yes, he had dried his hands on it.
    “These towels are for guests,” said Mrs. Bridge, and felt herself unaccountably on the verge of tears.
     
    “Well, why don’t they use them then?” asked Douglas. He began to gaze over the rooftops.
    “Come down here where I can talk to you. I don’t like shouting at the top of my lungs/’
    “I can hear you okay,” said Douglas, climbing a little higher.
    Mrs. Bridge found herself getting furious with him, and was annoyed with herself because it was all really so trivial. Besides, she had begun to feel rather foolish standing under a tree waving a towel and addressing someone