Mr. Bridge_ A Novel - Evan S. Connell [96]
“Where is Douglas?” he asked.
“He went tootling off somewhere. His friends came by and he couldn’t resist. He did promise to be home by nine thirty.”
“And where is our daughter?”
“Still at the club. She phoned a little while ago. She should be here any minute.”
“This family is flying off in all directions,” he said, and sat down at the kitchen table with a drink in his hand. “Well, I tried to read that magazine.”
She was peering into the oven at the roast. “You did what?”
He repeated what he had said, gave a summary of the story, and went on: “What I don’t understand is why in the name of all that’s holy these young people can’t write about anything except the gutter.”
Mrs. Bridge was opening a can of succotash.
“This young fellow goes on and on about torn window shades, drunks, prostitutes, and I don’t know what-all. A little bit of that goes a long way, but he just wouldn’t let up. He insists on rubbing your nose in it. I thought the darn story was never going to end.”
“Well, I suppose,” she murmured, and slid a pan of rolls into the oven.
“Kids today say ‘That’s life!’ but I tell you there’s more to life than the sort of existence people lead in Greenwich Village. I don’t mind saying I’ve seen enough of life to know a bit about it. Years ago when I was a young man I lived in a slum district and I didn’t like it and certainly never was foolish enough to consider it romantic, and I never want to go back to it. But these young people nowadays sound as though they’re attracted to the trash cans and every other sort of filth they can find. I don’t understand what they’re up to. Frankly, I was tempted to hand the thing over to Alex Sauer to see what he could make of it.”
“Oh!” she said, and stopped work. “Guess what. Madge called this afternoon. Dr. Sauer and Genevieve are getting married. I was simply floored.”
“More power to them,” he said, lifting his drink. “For a wedding present I just might send them a year’s subscription. I suspect it would be right up their alley.”
“Now, that’s not very nice,” she said.
A few minutes later Carolyn came home, and he asked what she had been doing all day. As usual she had been playing golf. Most of her summer was being spent on the Mission course. It was a waste of time, he thought, but at least she was not mixed up with a Greenwich Village crowd.
101 Billy Jack Andrews, Pro
Billy Jack was the golf professional at Mission Country Club. He had been there as long as anybody could remember, he was at least sixty-five years old, and only children called him Mr. Andrews. The day was not far off when Billy Jack would retire. That was what people said. But they had been saying it since he was fifty, and now, seeing him on the course, it appeared he would still be the pro when he was eighty. He had taught Carolyn how to hold the clubs when she was eleven, but after her first few lessons he quit being a genial instructor and became a relentless coach. A year later he insisted she begin playing in the annual tournament. He told Mrs. Bridge that Carolyn could become a champion, which naturally was reported to Mr. Bridge. Both of them were bemused and waited to see what would happen.
Unfortunately, Billy Jack told Carolyn the same thing, no doubt to encourage her and give her the confidence to play against older girls. Carolyn’s game improved much faster as a result of this compliment, but after a while she began talking as though it was his fault she had not yet won the championship. He took these remarks with good humor and continued to coach her, but his grandfatherly affection was cooling.
Then one day after she had played the course against the Mission women’s champion, losing by two strokes, they were walking up the path toward the clubhouse, followed by their caddies, when they met Billy Jack on his way out with another student. He stopped to inquire about the game and he congratulated Carolyn for having played so well. She replied that if he had not instructed her to use a six-iron across the water hazard on the fourteenth hole