“Jay’s voice has certainly changed,” she smiled.
“He’s a man now, Mother,” Carolyn explained a bit impatiently.
Mrs. Bridge smiled again. She sat on the bed and watched as Carolyn pulled off the baggy sweater and skirt and seated herself at the dressing table with a box of bobby pins.
“Funny it’s so quiet/’ said Carolyn.
Mrs. Bridge looked out the window. “Why, it’s snowing again. Isn’t that nicel I just love snowy winter nights.”
Large wet flakes were floating down and clasping the outside of the window, and the street light shone on the evergreen tree in the back yard.
“There goes a rabbit!” she cried, but by the time Carolyn reached the window only the tracks were visible.
“Is Daddy asleep?” Carolyn asked.
“Yes, poor man. He didn’t get away from the office until after seven and insists he has to get up at five-thirty tomorrow morning.”
“That’s silly.”
“I know, but you can’t tell him anything. I’ve tried, goodness knows, but it never does any good.”
“Why does he do it?”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Bridge irritably, for the thought of it never failed to irritate fier, “he insists we’ll all starve to death if he doesn’t.”
“That’ll be the day!”
Both of them were silent for a while, watching the snow descend.
“I do hope Ruth gets home soon/’
“She can drop dead for all I care/’
“You know I don’t like you to use that expression/’
Carolyn split a bobby pin on her teeth and jammed it into her curly blond hair. “Well, what’s the matter with her then? Who does she think she is, anyway?” She leaned to one side and opened the cupboard that belonged to Ruth. “Look at that! Black lace bras. Mademoiselle from Kansas City/’
Presently the grandfather clock in the hall chimed twice, and Mrs. Bridge, after brushing Carolyn’s cheek with her lips, went downstairs and into the kitchen, where she made herself some cocoa and moodily watched the snow building up on the sill. After a while she went upstairs again, changed into her nightgown, and got into bed beside her husband. There she lay with her hands folded on the blanket while she waited for the faint noise of the front door opening and closing.
She believed she was awake but all at once, without having heard a sound, she realized someone was downstairs. She heard a gasp and then what sounded like a man groaning. The luminous hands of the bedside clock showed four-fifteen. Mrs. Bridge got out of bed, pulled on her robe, and hurried along the hall to the top of the stairs, where she took hold of the banister and leaned over, calling just loud enough to be heard by anyone in the living room, “Ruth?”
No one answered.
“Ruth, is that you?” she asked, more loudly, and there was authority in her tone. She listened and she thought some delicate noise had stopped. The dark house was silent.
“I’m coming down,” said Mrs. Bridge.
“It’s me,” said Ruth.
“Is there anyone with you?”
“He’s leaving.”
And then Ruth coughed in a prolonged, unnatural way, and Mrs. Bridge knew she was coughing to conceal another noise.
“Who’s there?” she demanded, unaware that she was trembling from anger and fright, but there was only the sound of the great front door opening and shutting and seconds later the crunch of auto tires on the crust of yesterday’s frozen snow as whoever it was released the brake and coasted away.
A cold draft swept up the spiral staircase. Mrs. Bridge, peering down into the gloom, saw her daughter ascending. She snapped on the hall light and they met at the top step. Ruth was taking the last of the pins out of her hair. She reeked of whisky and her dress was unbuttoned. Idly she pushed by her mother and wandered along the hall. Mrs. Bridge was too shocked to do anything until Ruth was at the door of her room; there they confronted each other again, for Ruth had felt herself pursued and turned swiftly with a sibilant ominous cry. Her green eyes were glittering and she lifted one hand to strike. Mrs. Bridge, untouched by her daughter’s hand, staggered backward.
67. Ruth Goes to New York
That was the year Ruth finally managed to graduate from high school. She was there five years and for a while they were afraid it would be six, though she had taken the easiest courses possible. Her electives were music, drawing, athletics, and whatever else sounded easy. She seldom studied, and even when she did study she did poorly. She had been a member of the swimming team and this was the only activity listed after her name in the yearbook: ”member of girls’ swimming team” that and the desperate phrase “interested in dramatics/’ She had once tried out for a play, but gave a rather hysterical reading and failed to get the part. When she finished high school Carolyn was only one semester behind her, although they had started two years apart.
A few days after the graduation she said she was going to New York to get a job. She did not like Kansas City; she never had. She had not made many friends. She had never seemed happy or even much at ease in Kansas City.
Mrs. Bridge tried to become indignant when Ruth announced she was going to New York, but after all it was useless to argue.
“What on earth would you do in New York?” she asked, because Ruth had been unable to learn shorthand, nor could she operate a typewriter as efficiently as Douglas, who tapped out his English themes with one finger.
“Don’t worry about me,” Ruth said. She had grown tall and beautiful, and somehow in the powerful arch of her nose and in her somber, barbaric eyes she looked biblical, swarthy and violent.
“I’m putting a thousand dollars in the bank for you,” said Mr. Bridge, “on one condition.” This condition was that if she could not support herself by the time the money ran out she would agree to return to Kansas City. She laughed and put her arms around him, and no one in the family had seen her do this since she was a child.
Mrs. Bridge was disturbed that she did not want to go to college, being of the opinion that although one might never actually need a college degree it was always nice to have; and yet, thinking the matter over, she realized Ruth would only be wasting four years obviously she was no student. But why New York? Why not some place closer to home?
Soon she was ready to leave. The entire family went to the station.
“You didn’t forget your ticket, did you?” asked Mrs. Bridge.
“Not quite/’ said Ruth drily.
“Be sure to look up the Wenzells when you get there. I’ve already written them you’re coming to New York, but of course they won’t know where to find you.” The Wenzells were people they had met one summer in Colorado and with whom they exchanged Christmas greetings.
“I will/’ said Ruth, who had no intention of getting in touch with them.
“Have a good trip,” her mother said as they were embracing at the gate- “Don’t forget to write. Let us know as soon as you arrive.”
“Here are your traveling expenses/’ her father said, handing her some folded bills. “For God’s sake, don’t lose it. And behave yourself. If you don’t, I’m coming after you.”
“I can look out for myself,” said Ruth.
He laughed, and his laughter rang out odd and bold, the laughter of a different man, a free and happy man, who was not so old after all. “That isn’t what I said,” he told her lightly, and Mrs. Bridge, glancing from one to the other, was struck by their easy companionship, as though they had gotten to know each other quite well when she was not around.