Mr. Bridge_ A Novel - Evan S. Connell [35]
“Dad,” Douglas said, “when you were a kid did you ever do anything like this?”
“I imagine I did. I’ve forgotten, it’s been so long. I suppose I did. Yes, I expect I must have done a few things similar to this, although I’m quite certain nobody ever caught me.”
“I could’ve got away without any trouble.”
“I know,” Mr. Bridge said. He found his house key and opened the door and held it for his son to go in. “I have one bit of advice: do a first-rate job on that garbage tomorrow morning.”
“Nobody needs to tell me,” Douglas remarked as he entered the house. “Also, thanks for getting me out of jail.”
“You’re welcome,” said Mr. Bridge.
39 Daiquiri for Harriet
Sunday noon, about an hour before dinner, Harriet walked into the living room carrying the silver tray on which there was a small glass of sherry for Mrs. Bridge and a whisky sour for Mr. Bridge. After he had tasted the whisky he smacked his lips and wagged a finger at Harriet and told her she did not know what she was missing. She grinned but said nothing. She did not drink. She would not take so much as a glass of wine with her meals. When she was first interviewed she had said she did not drink. He had been skeptical, and for months after she came to work he expected to find some evidence that she had lied; but months went by and then years went by while there was no indication that she ever took a drink. This puzzled him. In her room she kept a Bible which she often read, she attended church every week, and she liked to sing hymns in the kitchen; yet her refusal did not seem to be based on religion. Evidently it was a personal thing: she preferred not to, just this and nothing else. He had taught her to mix a few simple cocktails so he no longer had to go into the kitchen to do it himself, and she did not mind mixing them, but she never tasted them. If he teased her about this she answered simply that she did not care to.
Now he remarked as he had many times before that a drink would do her good. Then Harriet said a daiquiri might be nice, and it was as though a spell had been cast on the room.
After a long silence Mr. Bridge set his whisky sour aside, stood up, and beckoned to her. “Come along,” he said. “I intend to make this one myself.” He led the way to the kitchen followed by Harriet, the children, and finally by Mrs. Bridge; and there they stood around and watched while he mixed Harriet’s daiquiri. When it was ready he placed it in the center of the tray, picked up the tray, clicked his heels, and presented it to her.
She accepted her first drink with immense poise. She sipped it while everybody waited.
“Well?” he asked. “What do you think?”
“This is really very good,” she said.
“Praise the Lord,” he said.
They marched back to the living room and resumed their places. Harriet took a seat at the end of the sofa, holding the daiquiri delicately with her slender fingers.
“So you like that, do you?” he asked.
“Well, yes,” she answered. “I must say I do.”
40 Harriet and Carolyn
Harriet’s status began to interest Carolyn, and the fact that her ancestors presumably were slaves brought to America from Africa made her all the more fascinating. One morning when the two of them were in the house alone Carolyn ordered her to sweep the back steps, where several maple leaves had fallen during the night. Harriet refused. Not only did she refuse, she answered that she was going to tell Carolyn’s mother.
Mrs. Bridge learned about the squabble as soon as she got home. Carolyn wanted Harriet fired. Harriet responded by threatening to quit. She had no intention of quitting, she was perfectly satisfied with her position and did not want to lose it, but she felt that under the circumstances her threat was justified. Then, too, she had been thinking about asking for a raise, and her bargaining position might be strengthened if her employers believed she was ready to quit. As to the possibility of being fired, she knew Mr. Bridge well enough to know he would not even consider such a thing.
Mrs. Bridge