Mr. Bridge_ A Novel - Evan S. Connell [52]
Douglas walked part of the way toward him and said, “I guess the rest of us are going to stay out here and take turns a while. Anyway, thanks a lot.”
“We’re having an early supper,” Mr. Bridge said. “Don’t stay too long.” He leaned the bat against a tree, waved good-by to the players, and started toward the house. On the way he experimented with his spine, bending slightly forward and turning cautiously from side to side.
“Home so soon?” Mrs. Bridge asked as he came in the door.
He eased himself into a chair and took off his glasses. “Yes. It’s been too many years. I tried to tell Douglas, but he kept insisting.”
She smiled. “I’ll bet it did you loads of good.”
“No, it did not do me loads of good,” he answered sharply. “I embarrassed him in front of his friends. I knew this would happen. I tried to tell him, but he refused to believe me.”
“Well, I doubt if it matters a great deal.”
“Oh, yes it does,” he said. “Yes, indeed it does. Make no mistake about that.”
“Really? I can’t see why.”
“You were never a boy. That’s why.”
55 Golden Gloves
Douglas spent most of his summer playing baseball, but he also took up boxing, and although he had mentioned this at home nobody thought much about it until he walked into the kitchen with a bruised eye and asked Harriet for a piece of beefsteak. Instead of giving him the steak Harriet reported the matter to Mrs. Bridge, who, after peering at the eye and tentatively touching the skin with her little finger, led him into the study where Mr. Bridge was at work. He, too, inspected the eye. Then he leaned back in his chair.
“Well, well, well,” he said, “you have what we used to call a ‘shiner.’ ”
“It’s awfully swollen,” Mrs. Bridge said. “Don’t you think we ought to call Dr. Stapp?”
“How does your eye feel?” Mr. Bridge asked.
Douglas said, “It’s not bad. I just want a piece of beefsteak.”
“And how did you happen to acquire this decoration?”
Douglas had explained to Harriet and then to his mother that he had been boxing in Tiptons’ garage with Huggins, the Tipton chauffeur. He thought it was unnecessary to explain again, but he did so because he knew that otherwise he would not get the steak. He had been boxing with Huggins and Huggins caught him with a left jab. That was all there was to it.
Mr. Bridge did not like the idea of his son boxing with somebody’s chauffeur. Douglas replied that he was not the only one. Bob Tipton and Rodney Vandermeer had also boxed with Huggins because they were having a round-robin tournament. Then he added that Huggins had given Rodney Vandermeer a bloody nose.
The smile disappeared from Mr. Bridge’s face. “Go on,” he said.
Douglas shrugged. There was nothing more to tell.
“Whose idea was this tournament?”
“Mine. We were just going to have it with three of us, but after Huggins finished washing the car he was sitting around watching, so we invited him to join. He didn’t want to at first, but finally we talked him into it.”
“This was your idea?”
He grinned. “Yeh. It sure was some bright idea. Huggins really has got a left. But Tipton got pasted harder than either one of us—he almost got knocked colder than a cucumber. He was weaving around all over the garage like he was punch drunk.”
“Where is this man now?”
“Who?”
Mr. Bridge gestured with annoyance. “The chauffeur.”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t live at Tiptons’, so maybe he’s gone home. Or maybe he’s still there. How the heck am I supposed to know? Anyway, what’s the diff?”
“What’s the telephone number at that place?”
Douglas hesitated. He knew he had said something wrong. He could see that his father was angry but he could not guess exactly why. He thought it had something to do with the chauffeur. Plaintively he said, “It wasn’t Huggins’ fault, for cripes sake.”
“You have