Mr. Bridge_ A Novel - Evan S. Connell [56]
Just then Mrs. Bridge entered the bedroom. He turned from the window, caught her by the shoulders and kissed her, forcing his tongue between her teeth. She pulled away. He caught her again and pushed her toward the bed while she murmured doubtfully.
60 Do You Remember . . . ?
“Do you remember,” she asked, “that evening on my parents’ front porch before we were married?”
The question demanded some kind of response. He had worked late at the office and was tired, and he disliked this sort of coercion. He tried to think of what to say. He did not know which evening she was referring to. They had spent quite a number of evenings seated on the swing on the front porch of her parents’ home. These times had been pleasant and it was there he had made up his mind to ask her to marry him, but the proposal had been made in the parlor so she must be referring to another evening. He could not imagine which one.
She smiled almost drowsily. “You talked about Robert Ingersoll. You admired him. You told me he was one of the greatest men on earth.”
“Oh good Lord,” Mr. Bridge remarked, and waved his hand to disparage whatever he had said that long ago.
“You were so young. I’ve never forgotten. And before you went home you read some verses from The Rubáiyát . You had a little leather-covered book of poems with a green ribbon for a place mark. I’ve often wondered what became of that little book. What did you do with it?”
“I have no idea,” he said. He hoped she would not go on reminiscing. He sat on the edge of the bed to take off his shoes.
“Ever since that night I’ve loved The Rubáiyát.”
“I’m afraid young men of a certain age are apt to get carried away.”
As though she had not heard him, she said, “Walter, I’m sure there’s a copy of The Rubáiyát in the bookcase in the breakfast room.”
“Oh, now. Now, wait just a moment,” he said, sitting erect with a strained expression and a shoe in one hand.
“I suppose it is silly.”
She wanted him to try to recreate a moment twenty years past. He thought about it. Of course he could go downstairs, get the book, and read a few verses to her. Nobody would ever know, and this would please her. But there was no way of guessing what this might lead to. He glanced at her, wondering if she was beginning to indulge herself in memories of the past. If so, it was unhealthy. Memories should be left undisturbed.
“Never mind,” she said. “I can see you don’t want to.”
“I’ll get the thing,” he said, “if it means a great deal to you.”
“No. No.” She was embarrassed.
“It’s up to you. Yes or no?”
“No, I don’t want you to. It was foolish. of me.”
“I’ll get the thing if that’s what you want.”
“No. Let’s forget it. I should never have mentioned it. I don’t know what came over me.”
He took off the other shoe and walked across the bedroom to the closet, where he placed them just inside the door as he did every night. He felt that he ought to say something. He rubbed his chin and coughed. “I wasn’t aware those verses had such an effect on you.”
Apparently she had regained control of her emotions. “It must have been a combination of things. It was such a lovely night—it was summertime. Do you remember the azaleas by the porch?”
“The azaleas by the porch. No, I can’t say I do.”
“I don’t know why I was so impressed. Perhaps because you were the first boy who ever paid much attention to me.”
He did not like to hear this. He remembered