Читать книгу Mrs. Bridge - Evan S. Connell - Страница 27

21 • THE LEACOCKS

New people in the neighborhood never failed to provide a topic for discussion. As time went by and they became more familiar they became, naturally, less newsworthy; the Leacocks, however, seemed more remarkable with every passing day. The family consisted of Dr. Gail Leacock, who was not a physician but an academic doctor—an associate professor of psychology—his wife Lucienne, who was reputedly quite wealthy, and Tarquin. Tarquin was about the same age as Douglas but here all similarity ended. For one thing, Tarquin was said to have an IQ of 185. Mrs. Bridge had not the vaguest notion what Douglas’s IQ might be, and she was not particularly anxious to have him tested; not that she thought he was dull, but it would be just like him deliberately to answer the questions wrong. The discrepancy between their intellects, whatever it might be, was only the focal point of the difference between them; Douglas and Tarquin were, to say the least, oil and water.

Dr. Leacock, like the majority of husbands, was seldom seen in the daytime, but Mrs. Leacock and Tarquin liked to visit about the neighborhood, and within a few weeks of their arrival it had become evident that for some reason they had chosen Mrs. Bridge as a special friend. Mrs. Bridge, somewhat disconcerted by Lucienne Leacock’s progressive ideas and a little frightened by Tarquin’s self-possession, nevertheless felt vaguely flattered at being the object of so much attention.

One afternoon, while the three of them were drinking iced tea on the back porch, Douglas came sauntering home from a baseball game. He was barefoot—his sneakers were tied together by the laces and were dangling around his neck so that the toes bumped against his chest—and he had an apple in his mouth, and as he approached it became obvious that he was trying to eat the apple without using his hands. He was twisting his head around and making agonized faces. He did not see the visitors until he had opened the screen door. Then he stopped dead, looked first at Tarquin, then at Mrs. Leacock, then at his mother, and then back at Tarquin. Unmistakably—Mrs. Bridge saw this—Tarquin’s upper lip curled backward in a sneer. Slowly Douglas took the apple out of his mouth and said in a low voice, in which there was no ignoring the hostility, “How’d you like a punch in the snoot?”

Mrs. Bridge had trained her children to be courteous no matter what occurred, for she valued courtesy as highly as she valued cleanliness, honesty, thrift, consideration, and other such qualities. Douglas, though rebellious, had never failed her when, so to speak, the chips were down. She knew he disliked being polite to visitors, but he was, nonetheless; in fact, though he grumbled more than his sisters, Mrs. Bridge had noticed with some surprise that he was actually less apt to be rude to guests than were the girls. He did try hard to be decent, and she knew it was difficult for him. He had been doing so well recently that she was flabbergasted by his remark to Tarquin, and by the absolute antagonism apparent in his stance—he was now standing just inside the screen with his fists balled and his head thrust truculently forward. Mrs. Bridge was so amazed that for several seconds she was unable to speak. Upon recovering her wits she began to get to her feet but was restrained by Mrs. Leacock who had been smiling rather earnestly at Douglas from the moment he first wandered into view.

“What else would you do, Doug?” said Mrs. Leacock. “We’d like to hear.”

Douglas then gave her a long, baleful stare. Mrs. Bridge had not been so shocked in years. Without a word, as though there were no one on the porch, Douglas put the apple in his mouth and slowly backed out the door and around the corner of the house.

“Young man,” Mrs. Bridge began, furiously shaking a finger at him when she found him sitting in the rafters of the garage a few minutes after the departure of the guests, “I don’t know what got into you and I honestly don’t care, but you’re most certainly going to hear from your father when he gets home.”

Douglas stepped across to another rafter and peered into the corner where some wasps had built a nest.

“What in the world made you behave like that?” demanded Mrs. Bridge, who was as nonplused as she was humiliated.

Douglas mumbled; it was not clear what he said.

“Well, I don’t care whether you like him or not,” she continued, assuming he had made some reference to Tarquin. “When we have guests you’ll treat them courteously. How would you like it if we visited them and Tarquin behaved as you did?”

“I’m not going to visit them,” he answered, still looking at the wasp nest.

“Well,” said Mrs. Bridge after a pause, “we’re not going to have any more of that, and that’s final. Now I mean business. I’ve never been so ashamed in my life.”

Douglas was sorry he had embarrassed his mother, but he could not say so. With his arms outstretched for balance he began to walk the length of the rafter.

“You’re going to fall and break your neck,” said Mrs. Bridge.

Douglas did not reply. He teetered a little and his mother gasped. He had only meant to frighten her but he had gotten a little farther off balance than he intended and had scared himself, so he sat down and began to swing his legs.

“The next time they’re here you’re going to behave yourself, is that clear?” She spoke as severely as possible, but by this time she knew that somehow he had defeated her.

A small, affirmative noise came from him and she decided that was the most she could hope for, at least for the time being. She returned to the house, puzzled by the violence of his reaction. Tarquin of course had been extremely rude to sneer, and, in truth, Mrs. Bridge herself did not like Tarquin. Even so she was baffled by Douglas’s extraordinary hostility, and she was quite apprehensive about the future.

The Leacocks continued to appear, unannounced, every few weeks—Tarquin always with a book—and Douglas was unquestionably able to divine their approach, because he vanished a few minutes before they arrived and nobody could find him until shortly after they had gone. Mrs. Bridge, while disapproving of some of the things Tarquin did and said, was nevertheless impressed by his brilliance.

Progressive education was Lucienne Leacock’s favorite topic of conversation; politics was second. Mrs. Bridge did not know a great deal about either. Mrs. Leacock was a Socialist who voted the straight Democratic ticket because, as she phrased it, “We poor bloody Socialists never have a chance.” Mrs. Bridge had never before known a Socialist, and only a very few Democrats, moderate Democrats at that, and she felt slightly guilty as she sat on the porch or in the living room listening to Mrs. Leacock lambast the conservatives.

As for the public educational system, well, she could not speak of it without profanity, and at every word Mrs. Bridge inwardly flinched. Superior children, the same as Socialists, did not have a chance. The system was geared to bourgeois mediocrity. Tarquin, as anyone could guess, attended a private school and he was as voluble a critic of public education as his mother, despite the fact he had never been inside a public school. He seemed unusually scornful of the school Douglas attended. Mrs. Leacock listened with an intent, forceful expression to whatever he said, afterward suggesting how he might have expressed himself more vigorously.

Progressive education had certainly developed Tarquin’s sense of being an individual, but some of the results were so startling that Mrs. Bridge was reduced to a bewildered silence. One April afternoon while they were enjoying the rose garden Mrs. Leacock suddenly threw back her head and gave a loud neighing laugh and then, fixing Mrs. Bridge with a forcible look, she said, “Priceless! I must tell you. About two years ago when we lived in—New Haven?” She looked at Tarquin to see if her memory was correct.

“New Haven,” said Tarquin, grinning.

“This young monster threw a temper tantrum, and what a tantrum! He set fire to the garage.”

“I used benzine,” said Tarquin indifferently as he began to pull the petals from a particularly fine rose. “I should have used kerosene.”

Mrs. Bridge often thought about that afternoon. She did not think the Leacocks had been joking; on the other hand it seemed impossible that Tarquin could be so irresponsible. She was puzzled and irked and could not finally decide how she felt toward the Leacocks: at times she was positive she disliked them, then a moment later she would feel ashamed of herself. If only Tarquin would not curse! Mrs. Bridge had no use for profanity; she had always considered it not only vulgar but unnecessary, and was distressed by the fact that Lucienne Leacock encouraged the boy to swear. Furthermore, Tarquin smoked cigarettes and was allowed to stay up as late at night as he wanted to; yet he was not an adult, he was a boy, a large, shambling fleshy boy with a flushed, freckled complexion and moist red lips the color of liver. His eyes were alert and glassy, yellowish-brown and luminous like the eyes of a dog, and very 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 shuddering.

“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 of 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 I say you can,” Mr. Bridge replied quietly. He shook up the newspaper and continued reading.