Mr. Bridge_ A Novel - Evan S. Connell [27]
Harriet said, “He can get his drink through the hose.”
The trash man, who was standing just outside the screen door, heard this and started edging away, not certain whether the cook or the little boy had more authority. Douglas saw that he was about to leave and told him to wait. He stopped and stood with his hands on his hips, ready to walk either way.
Harriet said, “Oh, all right then, here let me find you a glass.” She wiped the flour from her hands, opened a cupboard, and brought down a jelly glass.
“Get him a real one,” Douglas said.
“This here will do,” she said. “Give me that ice.” She took the tray and held it under the hot water until several cubes dropped into the sink.
“I can do it,” Douglas said.
Harriet ignored him. She put some ice in the glass, filled it with cold water, and handed it to him. Douglas knew she was being rude and he was concerned.
“Come on in, Dom,” he said.
The trash man stayed where he was. “Bring it out here, kid,” he said.
“Come on in,” Douglas repeated. “This is my house.”
The trash man deftly opened the screen door and slipped inside. Douglas gave him the water and he began to drink, pausing after a few swallows to wipe his lips on his sleeve.
Just then Mr. Bridge entered the kitchen. In a fraction of a second he interpreted the scene: the unknown man —a laborer—with a glass of water, Douglas, and Harriet. During that first instant the one thing he did not understand was why the man was inside the house. But he sensed no danger. The man was a working man of some sort, not a tramp. Everything was all right. Still, it was curious that he had gotten inside the house.
“Good morning,” Mr. Bridge said without hesitation and with no change of expression. He had come into the kitchen to see if there was any French mustard, which he liked. His wife had mentioned that they were nearly out of French mustard, and he had come into the kitchen to find out for himself how much was left. He took down the tin of powdered French mustard from the spice shelf, pried off the lid with a knife, and peered inside. Then he replaced the lid, put the mustard back on the shelf, and walked out of the kitchen.
Nobody moved or spoke while he was there.
31 The Gardener’s Child
He had known for a day or so that his wife was concerned about something, and he waited. When she was ready to tell him, she would. One night she did. As they were undressing she said, “Walter, I hate to bother you, but I’m afraid I need your advice. It’s about Alice Jones.”
“Alice Jones?” he asked. “Who is Alice Jones?”
“You know. The colored child who used to be around here on weekends. The gardener’s child. Jones. That gardener who works next door. She and Carolyn were quite friendly. They’ve begun drifting apart now, but she was here last week and apparently invited Carolyn to a party. The thing is, I’m not sure I’ve done the right thing. I told Corky it wouldn’t be a good idea. I honestly didn’t know what to do. It’s been on my mind ever since. Alice is such a sweet child.”
He was inspecting his shoes to see if they needed new soles. He continued turning them over while he said, “What sort of a party?”
“I haven’t the foggiest notion. The two of them were on the porch talking, and Corky came into the sewing room to ask if she could go. I suppose I could drive her down and pick her up after the party is over. What do you think?”
“It sounds to me as though you’ve already settled the matter.”
“I feel so guilty. I wouldn’t hurt Alice’s feelings for the world.”
“Where do those people live?”
“Thirteenth and Prospect, I believe. I understand it’s a mixed area, though I’ve never been there. Do you suppose it would be safe?”
“Safe?”
“Would it be safe for Carolyn to go down there for an hour or so?”
“Yes, of course it would be