“Those rocks are absurd,” said Susan Van Metre.
“Well, most places they would be a little too-too, but don’t you think they look nice out here in the country? They seem to give such a homey touch.”
“The club isn’t precisely in the country, India,” Van Metre said, and cleared his throat. Then he turned around in his chair and again frowned at the kitchen. “I am commencing to wonder if we have a waiter this evening.”
“We’re certainly in no hurry,” said Mrs. Bridge.
Van Metre snapped his fingers, at which the father and son looked across the room.
“Don’t we have any service?” Van Metre called with a note of joviality.
The father spoke to his son, who got up and walked to the swinging doors, pushed halfway through, and apparently spoke to someone in the kitchen. Presently a Filipino waiter came out with a napkin folded over one arm.
“What do you recommend this evening?” Van Metre asked him.
The waiter said the roast beef was especially nice.
“How does that sound? India? Walter? Susan? Roast beef, everyone?”
“Grand,” said Mrs. Bridge.
“Four roast beeves,” said Van Metre, and chuckled. “It sounds as though I’m ordering four beeves. Entire animals.” He took a sip of water, removed his glasses, and while examining them against the light he said, “Possibly I have told you of my experience in Illinois last summer on the way home from my annual fishing trip.”
“Why, no, I don’t believe you have,” Mrs. Bridge said attentively. “What happened?”
“I went fishing with Andrew Stoner,” he said, and lifted his bushy white eyebrows in what appeared to be an inquiring manner.
Mrs. Bridge thought quickly. “Stoner Dry Goods?”
“No, no,” he chuckled. “I should say not! Stoner Dry Goods, my Lord, no!” He continued to chuckle while he put on his glasses, and Mrs. Bridge noticed with a slight feeling of discomfort that the hair of his eyebrows actually touched his glasses.
“I’ve met that fellow,” he was saying. “No, India, not Stoner Dry Goods, not by a damn sight, no sir. Andrew Stoner, not John Stoner. My man is in the winter-wheat business. In fact, I expect you’ve met him.”
“A rather short man with quite an attractive wife?”
“You’re probably thinking of Dr. Max Hamm. He wears goldrimmed glasses and speaks with a German accent.”
“Oh—well, I don’t believe I know the Stoners.”
“I’m sure you must have met him somewhere.”
“Oh, I’m sure of it. I’m terrible about names.”
“However, you may not have met him.” Van Metre thoughtfully rubbed his chin and took another sip of water. “I believe, now that I think of it, Andrew’s wife died before you moved into the neighborhood. Andrew went away for several years.” He turned the water pitcher around; apparently he was inspecting the design etched into it. “At any rate, we were returning from our annual fishing expedition when we had occasion to put up for the night at a small hotel in Illinois. It was in the town of Gilman, as I recall. Not too far from Peoria.” His expression was inquiring again.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever been there. It must be nice.”
Van Metre put the napkin to his mouth and coughed. Then he continued. “Well, India, I shouldn’t care to live there. However, Andrew and I did stop there overnight, although at this moment I am unable to recall our reasoning. It was a mistake, you may be sure of that.”
“Sounds dreadful.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say it was quite that bad.”
“I didn’t mean that exactly, it’s just that those little farming towns can be awfully depressing.”
“I wouldn’t call Gilman a farming town.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that it was.”
“It’s quite a little city. Good bit of industry there. In fact, Gilman may have quite a future.”
“Is that so? I suppose it is altogether different than I imagine.”
Wilhelm Van Metre stared at the tablecloth for a while, as though something had annoyed him.
“We stopped there overnight. We got a room in the hotel, not a bad room, though small, and as we were walking downstairs for supper Andrew said, ‘Wilhelm, how about a drink?’ Well, India and Walter, I said, ‘That sounds like a good idea, Andrew. Let’s have a drink.’ We decided to have a martini. I’ve forgotten just why. We didn’t know if the bartender in that little hotel even knew what a martini was, but we decided we would try him out.”
Mrs. Bridge, thinking the story was about a terrible martini, said, “That certainly was taking a chance.”
“Well sir,” Van Metre said, leaning back in his chair and all at once slapping the table, “that martini was the finest I ever tasted.”
“What a surprise that must have been!”
The waiter was coming across the floor trundling a cart with the roast beef under a large silver bell. After he had served them and refilled their water glasses he returned to the kitchen. They began to eat.
“This beef isn’t quite done,” Van Metre observed.
Mrs. Bridge said it was just the way she liked it.
13 • GUEST TOWELS
Boys, as everyone knew, were more trouble than girls, but to Mrs. Bridge it began to seem that Douglas was more trouble than both the girls together. Ruth, silent Ruth, was no trouble at all; Mrs. Bridge sometimes grew uneasy over this very fact, because it was slightly unnatural. Carolyn made up for Ruth, what with temper tantrums and fits of selfishness, but she was nothing compared to Douglas, who, strangely enough, never actually appeared to be attempting to make trouble; it was just that somehow he was trouble. Invariably there was something about him that needed to be corrected or attended to, though he himself was totally oblivious to this fact, or, if he was aware of it, was unconcerned. Whenever she encountered him he was either hungry, or dirty, or late, or needed a haircut, or had outgrown something, or had a nosebleed, or had just cut himself, or had lost something, or was just generally ragged and grimy looking. Mrs. Bridge could not understand it. She could take him down to the Plaza for a new pair of corduroy knickers and a week later he had worn a hole through the knee. He was invariably surprised and a little pained by her dismay; he felt fine—what else mattered?
He was hostile to guest towels. She knew this, but, because guest towels were no concern of his, there had never been any direct conflict over them. She had a supply of Margab, which were the best, at least in the opinion of everyone she knew, and whenever guests were coming to the house she would put the ordinary towels in the laundry and place several of these little pastel towels in each of the bathrooms. They were quite small, not much larger than a handkerchief, and no one ever touched them. After the visitors had gone home she would carefully lift them from the rack and replace them in the box till next time. Nobody touched them because they looked too nice; guests always did as she herself did in their homes—she would dry her hands on a piece of Kleenex.
One afternoon after a luncheon she went around the house collecting the guest towels as usual, and was very much surprised to find that one of the towels in Douglas’s bathroom had been used. It was, in fact, filthy. There was no question about who had used this towel. She found Douglas sitting in a tree in the vacant lot. He was not doing anything as far as she could tell; he was just up in the tree. Mrs. Bridge approached the tree and asked him about the