Читать книгу Mrs. Bridge - Evan S. Connell - Страница 29

23 • ROCK FIGHT

Mr. Bridge did hear about the next adventure.

On his way home from the public school one afternoon shortly before the start of summer vacation, Douglas came across Tarquin seated beneath a chestnut tree. There was a book in his lap and he seemed to be innocently reading. Douglas was carrying a weed he had pulled up, and was using it to whip the horse on which he was making an escape from some Indians.

“Whoa!” said Douglas softly, reining to a stop. Then, conscious that Tarquin knew about the fictitious horse and was snickering at him, he abandoned the game and dropped the weed.

“Hello,” Tarquin said without moving.

After a pause Douglas said, “H’llo.” After another pause, during which he gazed up into the branches of the chestnut tree and industriously scratched first one ankle and then the other, he added, “What’re you doing here?”

“Haven’t I a right to be here?”

Douglas was thinking this over when Tarquin suddenly threw a rock at him. He had kept the rock hidden under the book. Douglas saw it coming and ducked, but even so it scraped the side of his head.

“Okay,” he said. “You asked for it,” and ran forward with his fists doubled up.

When he got home later that afternoon, after stopping by the high school to watch the track team at practice, and having searched the bleachers for valuables, he was disconcerted to find not only that his father was at home but that he had heard about the fight with Tarquin. Mrs. Leacock had telephoned Mr. Bridge at the office.

“Well, he started it,” said Douglas defensively, and when told to continue with his version of the fight he said, “Well, he sort of jumped up and took out across the streetcar tracks toward Wornall Road, so I took after him—and boy, I just about didn’t make it—and he kept yelling over his shoulder how I better not touch him because he knew how to fight with jiu-jitsu and—”

“What do you mean you just about didn’t make it? Didn’t make what?”

“Boy, that streetcar just about got me. But anyway, he—”

“Tell this to me again,” said Mr. Bridge. He had been standing up; now he seated himself and listened to the story with extreme attention. “Do you mean,” he asked, “that Tarquin threw the rock at you and led you across the tracks in front of a streetcar?”

Douglas nodded enthusiastically. He had, in fact, come very close to being hit.

“I see,” Mr. Bridge said. For a long time he was lost in thought, but finally he glanced up and said, “I understand you caught him.”

“Oh, sure. He runs like a girl. That’s because he’s knockkneed.”

“So then what transpired?”

Douglas gazed at his father doubtfully.

“What happened next?”

“Oh. Well, let’s see. I sort of punched him in the nose once or twice, I think.”

“You think?”

“I guess I did.”

“Was that the end of the fight?”

“Pretty much. I suppose you could actually say it was because he started to bawl like a little kid, so—uh—that’s about all.”

“Go on.”

Douglas groaned and made an agonized face. He was embarrassed about this next item because he knew he had not behaved very well. Unfortunately it was impossible to distract his father in the way he could usually distract his mother, so he did not even try to change the subject. Reluctantly he said, “I can’t stand cry-babies.”

“Go on.”

Douglas heaved a deep sigh. “Okay, okay. I hauled off and socked him one in the breadbasket.”

“While he was lying down?”

“He was up. I mean he was up when I let him have it in the breadbasket. Then he fell down again and wouldn’t get up any more even when I dared him to. He only lay there and screamed about how he was going to stab me to death.” Scarcely had he finished saying this when he became aware of a change in his father’s attitude; inquiringly he looked at his father, and next at his mother, who had been lingering in the hall.

With modest pride he concluded, “I guess he won’t bother anybody any more, not after what I did to him.” He was astonished when his father reached forward and grabbed his arm. “I can fix his wagon any old day!” Douglas shouted. He was frightened at finding himself caught like this and he did not know what was going on.

“Listen, son,” his father said earnestly. “If that boy starts another fight I want you to do something. Are you listening to me?”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to walk away. Don’t take your eyes off him, just walk away, that’s all.”

Douglas attempted to twist out of the grip on his arm. He was deeply surprised by his father’s strength. His arm had begun to throb from the pain. He was confused and defiant, and all that occurred to him was that he was being asked to run away from a fight, and not only that but from a boy he knew he could lick.

“Do you hear me?”

“Well, why?”

“Never mind why.”

“Okay,” he responded grudgingly, but added, as soon as his arm was released, “only he better cut out throwing rocks at me.”

“Under no circumstances. I want this clearly understood.”

“All right,” he said. He was resentful and ashamed. More than anything else he was afraid of being thought a coward.

After he had gone upstairs his parents were silent for a few minutes. Mr. Bridge was thoughtful and Mrs. Bridge was waiting for what he would say.

“That Leacock boy is going to kill somebody one of these days,” he observed.

“I do think they let him run wild,” she agreed, “but I’m certain he wouldn’t do anything really wrong.”

“You just watch,” he said angrily.

“It was awfully strange about setting the garage on fire,” she admitted. “And gracious, I certainly don’t approve of fighting, but it does seem that Douglas can look out for himself.”

“Douglas is a boy and thinks like a boy. Tarquin Leacock has the mind of an adult.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Bridge as she put on her reading glasses and opened the latest copy of The Tattler, “if that’s the case, I shouldn’t think there’d be much to worry about.”