Mr. Bridge_ A Novel - Evan S. Connell [61]
“How would you know?” Douglas demanded. “What do you know?”
“Let’s have a different tone of voice,” Mr. Bridge said. “I didn’t like that.”
“I’m sorry,” Douglas said. “But you don’t know the first thing about planes, so how do you know what it’s like?”
“I’ve been up.”
“I don’t mean in a big transport. I mean like those planes they had in The Dawn Patrol, where they did Immelmann turns and loops and stuff. Being in a transport doesn’t count anything. That’s about the same as being in some old boxcar.”
“That is not what I’m talking about,” Mr. Bridge said. “I went up in a French observation plane.”
Douglas looked to see if his father was telling the truth or joking; when he saw that it was true he was silent with astonishment.
“Oh, yes indeed, I did,” Mr. Bridge asserted. “A young French flying officer took me up. We flew over Paris. As a matter of fact I came very close to losing my life.”
Douglas wiped his nose on the back of his hand to conceal the awe and the amazement he felt.
Mr. Bridge went on: “I can still see the insignia on the fuselage and I can remember the noise of that motor as clearly as though it was yesterday. Shall I tell you about it?”
Douglas nodded.
“Well, it was during the war. I happened to be stationed near an airdrome and I wanted to go for a ride. I had never been off the ground. In those days not many people had. So one morning I bought some cigarettes and hired a taxi to the field and explained what I wanted to one of the French officers who spoke English. He introduced me to this young lieutenant about my own age, who agreed to take me up in exchange for the cigarettes. This young Frenchman didn’t speak a word of English, however, and that fact very nearly cost me my life. I was not aware there was such a thing as a safety belt. Or if I did know I must have assumed it wasn’t necessary. At any rate, I simply climbed into one cockpit, he climbed into the other, some fellow cranked up the motor, and then we took off. Well, we had no more than gotten off the ground than this French pilot began all sorts of gyrations, apparently trying to give me a good ride. By this time I had realized something was wrong but there was nothing I could do about it. I had no way of telling him I was not buckled in. I had. no choice but to hang on to some metal bars in the cockpit and trust to luck. Well, as I say, this Frenchman evidently thought I was enjoying myself, because every time I shouted at him to stop he would do some other trick. He turned that little airplane completely upside down at one point—right over on its back! I don’t mind admitting I was scared half out of my wits. I can recall to this day the sight of the Seine River above my head. It was quite an experience, believe you me! I thought my arms were going to be pulled out of their sockets. I’m not going to forget those few moments as long as I live.” Mr. Bridge paused, remembering the flight.
Douglas watched him with grave respect.
64 Ground Glass
Pat, the Tiptons’ Irish setter, ate a ball of raw hamburger mixed with ground glass. Three other dogs in the neighborhood had been killed this way during the past several months, so there was little doubt that whoever was doing it either lived or worked nearby. The police came around and made a show of talking to people and driving back and forth in the patrol car just as they had done on the previous occasions, but then they went away and everybody knew that was the end of the investigation. The setter had been a somewhat raffish individual with an amiable bark that alarmed nobody. It followed the postman every morning and was a well-known dog. There was no reason to kill it.
From time to time the children had pleaded for a dog, but Mr. Bridge was reluctant. If a car did not get the animal, distemper would, or something like this. He thought again of the baby chicks that died, and the pet rabbit, and a turtle Douglas had found somewhere and brought home, which crawled around and around the box he put it in and finally died, perhaps from