Mr. Bridge_ A Novel - Evan S. Connell [32]
“How did he know about it?”
“I haven’t the foggiest notion. I really wish you wouldn’t keep it there—it gives me the willies.”
“Somebody must have told him it was there.”
“Don’t look at me,” she replied.
“You must have mentioned it without realizing it.”
“I certainly have not. As far as I’m concerned it simply does not exist.”
“What was he doing with it?”
“Sitting on the window bench pointing it at different things. Apparently he didn’t hear me walk in.”
“Was it cocked?”
“Heavens. I wouldn’t know.”
“Did he have the cartridges?”
“I didn’t ask. I certainly hope not.”
“Didn’t you look?”
“It never occurred to me. I just told him to put it right back where he found it and that I was going to tell you about it as soon as you came home.”
Mr. Bridge took off his hat and slowly placed it on the closet shelf.
“I hardly think your gun is necessary,” she went on in an obviously rehearsed tone of voice. “There don’t appear to be any burglars in this neighborhood, and with the night watchman making the rounds I’m sure you’ll never have any use for it.”
“Ask Harriet to fix me a highball,” he said, and went upstairs to the bedroom, where he opened the bottom drawer of the dresser and slipped his hand beneath the folded pajamas. He felt the two cardboard boxes. He took them out and opened them. The stubby little bullets had not been disturbed. They were tightly fitted together like tidbits of food, just as they had come from the factory. Evidently Douglas had not found them. He lifted one of the bullets out of the box with his fingernails, looked at it for a few seconds, and slid it back into place. He shut the boxes, put them under the pajamas, closed the dresser drawer, and went downstairs.
Mrs. Bridge was in the living room selecting some records to play on the phonograph. “You’ll speak to him, won’t you?” she asked.
He nodded. “Where’s my highball?”
“Coming.”
“I need no more days like this,” he said, and sank into his chair with the evening paper but did not begin reading until Harriet brought him the drink.
After dinner he led Douglas to the bedroom, lifted a corner of the mattress, and picked up the pistol.
Douglas said, “I was only looking.”
“How did you know it was here?”
“I sort of knew.”
“Did one of your sisters tell you?”
“How would they know?” he asked contemptuously.
“They sometimes help Harriet make the beds.”
Douglas did not say anything.
“Well?”
“I forget.”
“I am not satisfied with that answer. How long have you known about this gun?”
“A couple of years, I guess.”
Mr. Bridge lowered the gun in astonishment. “Did Harriet show it to you?”
Douglas clamped his mouth shut.
“So!” Mr. Bridge murmured. “So! And what else has she shown you?”
“Nothing.”
“What about the bullets?”
“Have you got some?”
“Now, I want you to understand me. This thing I am holding is not a toy. This is not to be played with. Ever. Is that clear? Do you understand me? This weapon is extremely dangerous. You are not to touch it. You have your own room. I do not want you poking around in here.”
“Okay,” Douglas said, and hitched up his belt.
“You are to promise me.”
“Holy smoke, okay. I promise. I was just looking at it for a couple of minutes. You act like I was going to rob a bank or something.”
“If you were to fire this gun and hit somebody I would be in a great deal of trouble.”
“Yeah, but how about me? If I knock some guy off they’ll take it out on me more than you.”
Mr. Bridge gestured impatiently. “You are not to touch this pistol without my permission. Is that clear?”
“I already promised.”
“All right. Now I am going to show you where the bullets are, so there will be no reason for you to be curious. And no reason for you to come rooting around in here again.” He walked to the dresser, opened the bottom drawer, and pointed. “Under these pajamas,” he said. He lifted them so that Douglas could see the two boxes. “Do you want to look at them?”
Douglas sucked in his breath and nodded. Mr. Bridge opened one of the boxes, pulled out a bullet, and handed it to him.
“They sure