Mr. Bridge_ A Novel - Evan S. Connell [47]
“Lord, what next,” Mr. Bridge said, shaking his head.
His wife lifted her hands. “My stars, I couldn’t agree more! Isn’t that the limit?”
“I won’t be the first bit surprised,” he said, “if those people set a flagpole in their yard.”
Douglas, who had not been listening closely, heard this and glanced at his father with sudden interest, because a flagpole would be a good thing to climb; but then, reading his father’s expression, he understood the remark. “I think they’re okay,” he said. “Mr. Snapper’s a good guy.”
“Oh?” Mr. Bridge asked. “What makes you say that?”
“Vandermeer’s glider sailed over the fence the other day and Mr. Snapper didn’t get sore. He sailed it back.”
“Well,” Mr. Bridge said, smiling a little, “time will tell. I don’t care for the man’s taste. Otherwise, I have nothing against him.”
And as he thought about this statement he decided it was true; the new neighbors were gaudy, but after all that was not a serious offense. He could not feel cordial toward them, and he did not care to know them better, but perhaps their entrance into the neighborhood would not make any difference.
53 The Regatta on Ward Parkway
The major event of the month of May, as far as Douglas was concerned, was not the arrival of the Snapper family but the sailboat race on Ward Parkway pond. Scheduled for Sunday, May 31st, it was open to all boats built in the manual training classes of the public grade schools. Ribbons would be awarded to the first twelve boats to sail across the pond. Douglas had been working on his boat since February, but still it was not finished. Several times he had asked his mother if she could drive him to the pond on Sunday the 31st, and each time she promised she would.
“Providing you ever get that boat finished,” Mr. Bridge said to tease him. Then Douglas insisted he would finish the boat. When asked what color he intended to paint it he said white, as though anyone should know. Boats sail better when they are painted white. His father did not believe this, and asked who had told him such a thing. Douglas did not know, but it was true. Everybody knew white boats went faster. He was asked how many boys in his class were building boats. There were eight or nine, he thought. He was not sure.
“Vandermeer’s making one,” he added, “but I don’t know if he’ll get finished on account of he keeps doping off.”
“Not ‘on account of.’ We say ‘because.’ ”
“Okay, okay! So anyhow, Mr. Teale got sore at him the other day and threw an eraser at him, except it hit another kid.”
Mrs. Bridge glanced anxiously at her husband. Every once in a while she heard of teachers throwing things, or slapping a child, or otherwise behaving strangely, and at every such report she became alarmed.
“Mr. Teale’s really got a terrible temper,” Douglas went on. It was clear that he wished to make the manual training class sound as adventurous as possible. “Whenever you dope off he throws things. All of a sudden—pow! He hit Tipton with a piece of chalk last week.”
“That could put somebody’s eye out,” Mrs. Bridge said. “Has he thrown anything at you?”
“Well, sure. He throws stuff at every kid in class. Usually it’s just a wad of paper, unless he gets good and sore. I stay out of his way if he looks sore.”
“That’s using your head,” said Mr. Bridge.
“Are you coming to the race, Dad?”
“Am I invited?”
Douglas made a face and Mr. Bridge laughed.
“All right, you finish that boat and I’ll go watch the race.”
Douglas answered disdainfully that he could finish the boat in two or three days, but he wanted to do a good job. “Some guys do it any old way,” he said. “Sutton Boggs finished his up yesterday, but if he enters it in the race it’ll probably sink.”
Mr. Bridge began to realize the importance of the sailboat. Thinking back, recalling the number of times Douglas had mentioned the boat, he wondered if it had assumed some significance that the boy was not aware of. Never before had he worked so laboriously at anything. Never before had he shown the least pride in anything he did; yet now there was pride shining in