Mr. Bridge_ A Novel - Evan S. Connell [127]
Julia suggested they have a second drink.
He consulted his watch although he knew to within five minutes what time it was. She had never before asked to have a second drink. However, because he had asked favors of her—sent her on minor errands which probably hurt her dignity, and called her to work on Sundays and holidays—because of all this, because she was Julia on whom he had depended for such a long while, he agreed.
That a mature and sensible woman could get drunk on two bland cocktails seemed impossible, yet she was not half through the second glass when the signs became apparent. He had never seen her like this and he said in a low voice, hoping nobody would overhear, “Julia, pull yourself together.”
Julia sobbed.
He looked down at her severely. “I am taking you home. Get your coat.”
She did as she was told. He put on his hat, his topcoat, his gloves, picked up his briefcase and the Wall Street Journal, and held the door open for her. They walked out of the lounge and started toward the garage, but they had not gone five steps before she did something else which shocked him; she took hold of his arm as though they were man and wife. He did not try to dislodge her, but he said to himself while they marched toward the garage that he would not treat her to any more drinks. He reminded himself that this was his own fault, he never should have indulged her. She had been working hard, she was fatigued, and this might be one of those days when women lose what slight self-control they ordinarily have. Now the only thing to do was to get her home without any further embarrassment. Hopefully she would be all right by tomorrow, she could apologize if she felt like it, although this was not important, and they could go on with their work.
While they were driving through Penn Valley Park she had a weeping fit. He ignored it, but he was displeased. He avoided looking at her. He thought of how she had aged. A broad gray streak ran through the middle of her hair and she had begun wearing horn-rimmed glasses. Her waist was thick. Something had gone wrong with the circulation in her legs, so she had bought a pair of black orthopedic shoes.
By the time they reached the apartment she had almost recovered. She was still sobbing now and then, but more from exhaustion than grief or whatever it was that started her off. He was disgusted by the shameless display of emotion, but he was also concerned. He wanted to help her, if possible; however, he did not want to say or do anything which would set her off again. Already he was late for supper and had not called home because he did not want to try to explain the situation. So, with the motor idling, he gripped the steering wheel and waited for her to get out of the car.
Julia finished wiping her eyes with a little handkerchief.
She tucked the handkerchief into her purse and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she invited him up to the apartment.
Mr. Bridge was astounded. “I believe not, Julia. Thank you,” he said. He expected her to get out, but she did not.
Then she asked if he realized what day it was.
The simplicity of the question exasperated him. He cleared his throat and kept both hands on the wheel.
Julia nodded. “I guess I should have known. I’m an idiot. I told myself you weren’t like that. Not really. Not at heart. You are, though. From your Homburg to your expensive gray gloves.” She puffed out her cheeks and made a small popping noise. “Dear Miss Lovejoy, respectfully yours, et cetera. Such a laugh. So much for indispensable Julie.”
“If you’re not feeling up to par maybe you ought to stay home tomorrow. I won’t need the Loomis brief until Friday.”
“Right,” she said. “Stay home. Get a good rest, old girl. Feel better Monday. Don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? Do you?”
“I must admit I don’t.”
“Okay, here goes. Listen, Mr. Walter Bridge who lives in a lovely home on Crescent Heights. Cling to your wheel, old sport, because here comes one true confession. I’ve given you the best years of