Mr. Bridge_ A Novel - Evan S. Connell [39]
Later that night Mrs. Bridge asked if he had found the change. He answered that he had not, and indicated by his tone that he did not want to talk about it again. However, he continued to think about the missing money. He wanted to believe that Harriet had stolen the coins. There was no proof that she had not. The incident troubled him because it never was resolved. It bothered him like a small sore which healed underneath a scab; and this, too, disappeared at last. But it left a little scar.
44 Season’s Greetings
Christmas that year was memorable because of a card from Senator Bailey. They had never before gotten a card from him.
“He’s up for re-election,” Mr. Bridge answered when his wife wondered why they had been included on the senator’s mailing list. The sight of the card and the thought of Horton Bailey irritated him. “The man is a ‘deadbeat,’ as I’ve told you before. I have no use for him whatsoever. I wouldn’t cast my vote for Horton Bailey if he was the only candidate on earth. The man is no good. He’s no good, I tell you. He never was any good. He never will be any good!”
“My word, you sound so final,” she said, and pinched his arm.
“I have no respect for a man who welshes on a debt. And that is final.”
He could imagine Bailey’s response if the debt was mentioned—the false heartiness; the harsh, loud laughter; a vigorous, professional slap on the back. Then another booming laugh out of the freckled Irish face as though both of them agreed it was beneath their dignity to talk of such a thing as an old debt. The debt would never be paid. It would never be honored; and every time he thought about this his thin features seemed to become even thinner, and he appeared to be contemplating a repulsive spectacle.
After his first glance at the Christmas card he avoided looking at it. He felt like throwing it in the fireplace, but sensed that his wife was flattered by it. Not everybody received a Christmas card from a senator. She had never said as much, yet he suspected this was how she felt, so he left it where she had placed it on the mantel beside the little painted wooden creche and the celluloid angels.
45 The Squirrel
Christmas Day a little before noon Mr. and Mrs. Bridge were standing in the front yard under the old elm tree. The elm was dying, although the previous summer a tree surgeon had lopped off several branches and done whatever else he could to save it. Both of them were fond of this tree. They did not know how old it was, but very probably it had stood rooted to this spot for at least half a century. They considered it sadly and talked about whether they should have it cut down, because it might break and crash against the house. The bark of the tree was dry and thick, cracked into corky brown ridges. The limbs protruded lifelessly. Silhouetted against the freezing blue sky, it was clear that death lived within the tree.
While they were standing next to it Douglas appeared around the corner of the house carrying a large gray squirrel. He was holding the squirrel by the tail so that it hung down like a rag. The paws extended stiffly from the limp, swaying body as though the animal was reaching for something. In his other hand Douglas carried the air rifle he had gotten just that morning.
Mr. Bridge observed the squirrel with surprise because he had assumed the air rifle was not powerful enough to kill anything much bigger than a caterpillar. He saw a red bead gather on the squirrel’s nose and drop like a ruby into the snow. Then he realized that his wife was watching; she was waiting to see what he would do about this.
The front door opened. Carolyn came out of the house. She looked at the squirrel with distaste because it was dead, and folded her arms as she had seen her mother