Читать книгу Mrs. Bridge - Evan S. Connell - Страница 25

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. Bridge replied defensively, “They just have a son.” She knew this was a silly remark and added hurriedly, “I suppose you’re right, but—”

“If you doubt me, ask her and see what she says.”

“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.