Mr. Bridge_ A Novel - Evan S. Connell [76]
Ruth spoke constantly and rather foolishly about her job—what a marvelous company it was, how lucky she was that Mr. Bliss had given her a job in spite of her inexperience, how brilliant he was, and of the opportunity it offered to begin a career as a commercial artist. But one afternoon when the temperature downtown rose to ninety-eight degrees and Julia had an attack of nerves and dizziness Mr. Bridge decided to quit work earlier than usual; when he got home he discovered Ruth lying on the porch swing, wearing shorts and a halter. She was reading a movie magazine. He could not understand why she was there instead of at work, so he asked what she thought she was doing. She squinted up at him as though this question did not make sense. He asked why she was not on the job. She scratched her breast and answered that she had quit several days ago.
“I thought you knew,” she added. “Didn’t Mother tell you?”
Nobody had told him. He sat down, laid his briefcase across his knees, loosened his collar, and took out a handkerchief to wipe his forehead. Ruth had placed the electric fan on the table beside the swing where she could get the benefit of it, otherwise there was no breeze at all. The sun was blazing. The grass in the yard smelled like hay. The birds and the locusts were silent. The entire neighborhood was silent. Nothing moved. He could almost hear the roaring of the sun. He had no sooner patted his forehead than it felt damp again. “Now, what is all this?” he demanded. “Start from the beginning. Do you or do you not have a job?”
Ruth dropped one bare foot to the floor and gave the swing a leisurely push. He observed that she had painted her toenails, and apparently she had been shaving her legs because there was a patch of adhesive tape on her shin. Her indolence was exasperating.
“You have quit, I take it. Did you quit merely because you happened to feel like quitting? Am I entitled to quit because there are times I would rather loiter on the swing and drink lemonade?”
“It’s so hot,” she murmured. “Let’s not squabble. Ask Mother if you want to know why I quit.”
“I am asking you, not your mother. And I want an answer, and I want an answer fast. Do you hear?” Everything about the day had been unsatisfactory, and her attitude was the culmination of it. She was lounging around the house two-thirds naked; she knew what he thought of this, yet there she lay—idly swinging herself, sipping lemonade, and reading a movie magazine.
“Do you hear?” he repeated. “I am talking to you. I have had just about enough for one day.” His heart was beginning to flutter. He frowned and slipped one hand inside his coat.
Ruth was almost wallowing in the swing while the breeze from the electric fan swept across her body. She continued sipping lemonade through a green straw. Her eyes were nearly shut. A drop of water wriggled down the side of the glass and plopped on her stomach.
“If you must know,” she murmured with a foolish smile, “Mr. Bliss was always—well, it’s just too gruesome to try to explain. I mean, you can get mad at me if you want to, but I actually don’t think you’d want me to keep on working there. I mean, really, I don’t think I should.”
Mr. Bridge considered this information for a few moments. Then he said, pointing to the lemonade pitcher, “Suppose you pour me a glass of that while I take a shower and change clothes.”
81 The Laborers
That summer another member of the family concluded it might be time to go to work. Douglas, either bored with life