A House Near the Bridge

I

...So when Herschel passed on, I was really left alone, and I said to myself, I said, ‘You’ve just got to do something. You can’t spend the  rest of your life cooped up here in this old house cooking for one person and dusting.’ So I decided to travel and see something of the world. There’s still a lot of life left in these old bones. Well, when George...he’s my firstborn...when he heard about it... 

Her firstborn, I thought. Did anybody say ‘firstborn’ nowadays? Obviously the woman sitting beside me did. She had not stopped talking since she got on the plane. Her purple tinted hair and loose jowls danced about as she shook her head to emphasize her words. When dinner was served, I was amazed to see how efficiently she could eat, talk and shake her head at the same time. Poor Herschel, I thought. He must have been happy to ‘pass on’ to silence." 

Excuse me, I said, not altogether kindly, I must go to the restroom. I got up and left her with a word in her mouth, or to be more accurate with the words still spilling out, for I could hear her muttering as I tottered down the aisle. There was a restroom just a few rows up from where I sat, but I decided to go to the one in the back and take a short walk. I say I tottered, because the plane was a bit unsteady, and I must admit the new shoes I was wearing were just a shade too high. I’ve always been partial to high heeled shoes, maybe because I’m so short (‘Petite’ is the word I like to use.) but also because they do give the derrière a certain movement which flats just can’t do. (On occasion, I have noticed heads turn when I’m wearing high heels.)

I reached the restroom, went inside and shot the tiny bolt to. Immediately the light flashed on, and I stood looking at myself for a second in the mirror. I then somewhat dramatically covered my face with my hands, only to open my fingers slightly to see my green eyes staring back at me. Well, I said to myself, here you are speedily winging your way to danger, romance and high adventure. (I sometimes indulge in a literary turn of expression.) I’ve never been able to understand how one can feel so grimy by just sitting in a plane, but I certainly felt so. I splashed some water on my face (I’ve never worn much makeup. [Sally, my best friend, always said she hated me for my complexion.]) and felt somewhat better.

I do hope you will forgive me for all the parentheses I use, and especially for the brackets inside parentheses, but after all I do have a strong English minor, and brackets inside parentheses have always been rather appealing. It’s something like using a quote inside a quote (which I am also partial to): Cecily turned to Gavin, My own mother, she sobbed, said ‘No.’

Anyway, I splashed some water on my face, dried it and brushed my hair. (Sally always said she hated me for my hair too, insisting I used a rinse to give it that slight reddish tone, although she knows perfectly well I don’t. [Who has time for all that fuss?]) I also took my contact lenses out since it was late and I wanted to sleep.

Feeling somewhat better, I again tottered back to my seat, noting along the way that most people were now sleeping, a few reading magazines or nursing a drink. None (much to my chagrin) were talking. I reached my seat, sat down, and the woman started up again. "Oh, I’m so sleepy, I said, interrupting her. (There was no other way to get in a word.) I plumped up my pillow somewhat exaggeratedly, and closed my eyes. This, however, did not stop her, so I took the earphones from the little pocket attached to the seat just in front of me and plugged them into my ears. As I did so, I heard her say, Oh, my dear, you should not go to sleep with music playing. I just read an article which stated beyond a shadow of a doubt that it is actually harmful..." I turned up the volume, and tried to sleep, but of course I couldn’t. The music really was too loud. I switched channels to the light classical station, and wouldn’t you know, they were playing the very same selection I had heard just a few days ago when Sally and I were having dinner in The Chinese Doll. It was faintly oriental in tone, but at that moment I had no interest in looking up the name of it in the airline magazine. It did bring the night back in the most vivid way, however.

We had decided to celebrate our graduation from Evansville State College by going out to a Chinese restaurant (definitely not ‘How Lim’s’ - Quick Chinese Food to Go - Our Specialty) but rather The Chinese Doll, just across the street from the Washington Square Shopping Center, and just about the ritziest restaurant in Evansville. They also served cocktails, and Sally and I found this a definite advantage, both of us having turned 21 a few months before. Sally made a breathtaking left turn into The Chinese Doll’s parking lot, and shot into the first free space she found, stopping her Pinto (a graduation present) with a lurch.

Great car, she said. It really handles good.

It handles well, I said.

Yeah, that’s what I said, she said.

We got out of the car and went to the entrance. Sally was nearly a foot taller than I was, and had the thin willowy body of a model. Her face could also have been a model’s (its length nicely emphasized by high cheek bones) had it not been for a long, wider than normal mouth. I might add she never hesitated to use it. ‘God gave me a mouth’ she liked to say, ‘and I intend to take advantage of it.’ She was dressed in a dark-pink blouse and matching pleated skirt. As she walked the pleats opened to show orange strips below - not the happiest combination in the world, but Sally considered herself an artist (She had an art minor.) and enjoyed unusual color combinations. I myself wore spiked heels and my new black dress delicately offset by a fine string of pearls. The restaurant was new and beautifully decorated. The walls had been covered with a deep red paper which had a fine gold line running through it. Pure white Chinese lanterns hung from the black enameled beams which ran across the peaked ceiling. The effect was, of course, oriental as well as luxurious and spacious.

There was a Maitre d’ (just to show how ritzy the place was) who took us to a table, which I noted was just beside the kitchen door. But even so, there was an unlit candle in a little glass jar on the table. Sally fished her lighter out of her purse and lit it the minute we were more or less settled. She also fished out a cigarette (a baby blue one, bought specially for the occasion) lit it in the flame of the candle and began to puff on it. The smoke, of course, drifted right into my face. I coughed and waved the smoke away. Sally said, Oh sorry, and shifted the cigarette to the other hand. At that moment, a waiter went through the swinging kitchen door, changing the air currents, and the smoke came back again into my face. Sally didn’t seem to notice. One of the great mysteries of life is how a smoker’s smoke never blows back into his/her own face.

We opened our menus and studied them with an air of great nonchalance.

I think I’ll have the sweet and sour fish, I said. It was the last time in my life I ever said that.

You need soup first, said Sally sounding somewhat like a sergeant.

Oh, yes, I said. I’ll have the...the Win Poo soup, I said with finality. (Heaven knew what that would be.)

And before soup, she continued, a cocktail. I agreed heartily, as though I always ordered my meals backwards.

The waiter approached to take our order. Sally was all smiles. I’ll have a martini, she said.

And I’ll have a Pink Lady, I said. I really didn’t know what it was, but the name did have a certain ring to it.

I gonna need some I.D., said the waiter with a marked Chinese accent. (What was a real Chinese person doing in Evansville?)

I.D? I said, Don’t we look 21?

No, said the waiter, with what I took for an inscrutable smile.

We produced our driver’s licenses, then Sally still all smiles said, Could you tell me just what Tow Foo is please? She was batting her eyelashes frantically at the waiter.

For goodness’ sake, Sally, I said. "You know perfectly well what it is. We had it the last time we went to How Lim’s.

She shot me a look, and then turned on her charm again for the waiter. Of course I do, she said looking at him. But there’s something about Chinese waiters that’s so charming. I couldn’t just order and be done with it.

I from Viet Nam, said the waiter still with his inscrutable smile. I no Chinese.

Fortunately, Sally stopped being charming. The waiter took our orders and left. Haven’t you ever heard that oriental men are supposed to be the best lovers in the world? she said. They do all sorts of exotic things. Sally liked to try to shock me.

It’s really no concern of mine, I said icily.

That’s your whole problem, she said. Let’s face it, Angie O’Conner, any girl that’s 21 and still a virgin has nothing to be proud of.

Old fashion virtue is not dead, I retorted, but at the same time I remembered that balmy night when Randy Watts (His name pretty well describes his condition.) and I drove out to the river and parked. Randy was definitely the catch of Evansville College, and I was floored when he asked me for a date. Fortunately, he had no car that night and we went in my father’s. So I was behind the wheel, and when things really started to get out of control I just stopped him cold, started up the engine and drove him back to his house. Thanks for a swell time, I said, somewhat incongruously. It was, however, the last time Randy ever asked me out. The whole thing was rather naughty of me, because Tom and I were engaged, but I just couldn’t pass up the occasion. As far as I knew, Tom never found out.

How’s Tom, Sally said. She had a knack of asking the right question at the wrong time.

Oh, fine, I said. The waiter brought our drinks, and I picked up my Pink Lady. It was all right for a sweet drink. I really prefer dry. Maybe I should have ordered the martini.

Sally played a little with the olive in her martini. (I think she was trying for a Barbra Streisand effect.) When are you going to be married? she asked.

Oh, we really don’t know yet, I said. Actually, we’ve been looking around for a house.

Really? she said. She sounded surprised, probably because I usually tell her my every thought. I don’t know why I hadn’t told her about our house hunting...I just hadn’t.

Where have you been looking?

I’m really starved, I said. I wonder what’s taking so long.

What do you mean ‘long’? We just got our drinks.

Well, it must seem long because I’m so hungry. I took another sip of my drink, and just the smallest drop fell on my dress.

Oh, now look at that! I said. I’d better go to the restroom and take care of it.

I got up and asked the waiter where the restroom was. Actually, it was just on the other side of the table. Our table was, so to speak, sandwiched between the swinging doors of the kitchen and the door to the restrooms. I went in and looked at myself in the mirror. I noticed a slight tingling in my throat, which always presaged a good cry. It was something like having an Alka-Seltzer caught in your throat when you tried to swallow. But I’ve always had admirable self-control. So I began to brush my hair, and soon the tingling was gone. I put my brush back in my bag, and started to leave. Then I remembered I hadn’t even looked at the spot on my dress. I went back to the basin and dabbed at it with my moistened handkerchief. When it looked as though I had at least tried to do something with it, I went back to the table. The food had been served in fluted porcelain dishes.

What took so long? said Sally. I was just about ready to go and look for you. Not only has the soup come, but the main course as well. It’s all getting cold.

You should have started, I said. The spot was hard to get out.

We ate the soup more or less in silence, saying only an occasional Mm good, or nice restaurant, and then we served ourselves from the various dishes on the table. I noticed Sally avoided the sweet and sour fish. Maybe she had tried it before.

We were talking about you and Tom, she said at last.

Oh were we? I said.

Yes. You said you were looking for a house. Sally was never one to be put off.

Oh, yes - a house. We’ve been looking for a house.

Where? she said, blunt as ever.

Oh, in Carmi, I said, trying to sound devilish.

Carmi! she said, and the word dripped with scorn.

Well, what’s wrong with Carmi? I said. Have you ever been there?

I’ve never been there, she said. There’s no place there to be. I just passed through once - in about ten seconds. I think they may have one store on the main street.

They happen to have two very commercial business streets, I said. They cross. I felt obliged to add something.

Isn’t that where Tom’s parents live? she said coming right to the point.

Oh, yes, I believe they do, I said. I was beginning to notice that tingling in my throat again.

And just where is this house you’ve been looking at - beside Mama and Papa’s house?

Oh goodness no, I said. ...It’s just in front. That’s when the tingling became a lump.

I see, she said. Where will Tom work?

I had to wait a minute before I answered. My eyes seemed a little wet. Possibly a mote had gotten in and stuck to one of my contact lenses.

He’ll work with his father. He’s going to be a supervisor for one of the oil fields.

And just what is a Spanish major like you going to do in Carmi - teach Spanish to the town council, or something equally exciting?

I couldn’t take any more. I don’t know what I’ll do, I blubbered. The lump in my throat had finally broken, and I was crying shamelessly. I pulled out my handkerchief, which was already wet from cleaning my dress. People stopped eating to look. I could feel their eyes on me, and the waiter hurried over.

Missy, he said, what’s matter? You swallow bone?

I shook my head no.

Sweet sour fish, too sweet? too sour?

The sweet and sour fish is perfect, said Sally. Except it’s getting a little soggy.

I bring fortune cookies, said the waiter. They help. And he scurried away.

Come on, said Sally. Why don’t you tell me all about it. Under her rough exterior, she was really a good kid at heart. I think that’s what has kept us good friends in spite of the fact we are so different.

I controlled myself as best I could. I just don’t know what to do, I sniveled. "I really don’t want to marry him. But it’s all so settled. My parents are happy; his parents are happy; he’s happy. Everybody’s happy except me.

Nothing is settled until you say ‘I do.’ Sally could be so practical when she wanted to (which was most of the time.) Tell him you don’t want to marry him. You’re too young anyway - and still a virgin. Don’t you want a little experience before you’re married? She was trying to make me smile and feel better. I did smile a bit. It’s hard to be down when you’re around Sally. Being down was just not practical in her book. Take a trip. Go away.

Where to?

Anywhere, she said. Go to Florida or California. No, go to Europe. There is absolutely nothing like European men. You know how successful my junior year in Madrid was. She pushed at her hair a bit. That’s it. Go to Madrid. It’s the perfect place for a Spanish major.

I don’t know, I said. It’s such a drastic step.

A more drastic step, and more devastating, she said, is marrying Tom and his mama and living the rest of your life in Carmi. I couldn’t help noticing the scorn she again imbued the word with.

I don’t know anyone in Spain, I said.

Perfect, she practically shouted. It couldn’t be better. Make a clean break and a clean start.

There was a moment’s silence while I tried to digest what she had said.

Well, she smiled. I’m glad that’s settled. Now why don’t you eat your soggy sweet and sour fish?"

I...I really don’t know if I could, I stuttered.

What, eat the fish?

No, go to Europe, I said.

Of course you can. If it’s too hard to say good-bye personally, just write a Dear John letter and leave. No man has really lived until his heart has been broken by a Dear John letter at least once. I write ‘em all the time.

I couldn’t possibly do a thing like that, I said, although I had to admit to myself that it was a tempting way out. If I were to go away, I would have to tell him. Suddenly I had visions of myself dressed in a high peineta covered by a lacy mantilla, a black one, which let through the reddish highlights of my hair. I could see myself hiding demurely behind a lace fan, protecting my somewhat exposed bosom (It was a bit larger in my vision than it is in real life.) as an usher showed my dashingly handsome escort and me to a box seat at the opening of a zarzuela, the Spanish light opera..

Just then, the waiter returned with some fortune cookies.

Oh, what fun, shrieked Sally. She took one, broke it open and read, ‘You are a high-minded, idealistic person in quest of truth.’ It suits me to a ‘T.’ What’s yours?

I reached for one, broke it open and read, Romance and danger await you in a distant place. I popped the cookie into my mouth and started to cry again.

Now what wrong? said the waiter. (He hadn’t left, yet.)

I don’t know, said Sally. I guess it’s just that fortune cookie no help - or do they? She gave me a penetrating look.

They help, I said as best I could to the waiter. He seemed satisfied and again hurried away. People had stopped looking at me, at least. I suppose a charming, young woman crying in a Chinese restaurant soon becomes old hat.

They help, I repeated. At least I’ve managed to admit something I’ve been loath to for so long.

Namely that you don’t love Tom, and don’t want to marry him.

He’s really a good guy, Sally, I said, but...

You don’t want to marry him, she finished for me sounding a bit impatient. Well look, she continued, since the meal has been a disaster, but at least we’ve found Truth, which I’m always in quest of, why don’t we finish the evening at a discotheque? Tomorrow we’ll go buy your ticket to Madrid. Sally could never be accused of procrastinating.

I was a bit limp by all the crying I had done, and all I could manage to eke out was a tiny ‘OK,’ even though I still wasn’t too sure about Madrid. Again, I had a vision of myself at a bullfight, again in a lacy mantilla, but this time with a carnation, a yellow one, in my hair, (Yellow offsets the red beautifully.) while being offered the sacrifice of the brave bull by the dashing torero. I could see him manfully, yet artfully, throw me his montera, the funny little hat they wear with two flattened knobs on each side. (That I learned from Blood and Sand - Spanish Lit 204 - a dreadful course. The books were fine, but the teacher, Sr. Olivera, couldn’t have been worse.)

We went then to a discotheque, The Seven Skies, but I’m afraid my heart wasn’t in it, and I really didn’t enjoy the evening. It was rather nice to dance with other men and not feel so guilty about it, and not have to worry about Tom finding out. But if I were to set out on this wild escapade Sally had proposed, I would still have to tell my parents about it, and oh yes, I would have to tell Tom, too. Neither prospect was particularly appealing.

Did you see who I just danced with? Sally asked panting.

Who, I said, the guy in the tight red pants? Lately Sally was positively obsessed with tight pants.

Oh no, she said