fifty octets that you’re right and I’m wrong.’,
`Huh? That’s what I said.’
`So prove it. I won’t pay until you prove it’
She looked puzzled and blinked out. We shall see.
Mr Bronson was at church on Sunday. After the services, at the huddle at the front
entrance where church members say nice things to the minister about his sermon (and
Dr Draper did preach a fine sermon if one simply suspended critical faculty and
treated it as art) – at the door I spoke to him.
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‘Good morning, Mr Bronson.’
`Good morning, Mrs Smith. Miss Nancy. Fine weather for March, is it not?’
I agreed that ii was, and introduced him to the others of my tribe who were present,
Carol, Brian junior, and George. Marie, Woodrow, Richard, and Ethel were at home
with their grandfather – I do not think Father ever entered a church after he left
Thebes other than to get some friend or relative married or buried. Marie and
Woodrow had been at Sunday School but, were, in my opinion, too young for church.
We chatted inanities for a few moments, then he bowed and turned away and so did I.
Neither of us showed in any fashion that the meeting had any significance to either
of us. His need for me burned with a fierce flame, as did mine for him and we both
knew it and neither acknowledged it
Day after day we conducted our love affair wordlessly, never touching, not even a
lover’s glance, right under my father’s eyes. Father told me later that he had had
his suspicions – `smelled a rat’ – at one point, but that both Mr Bronson and I had
behaved with such propriety that Father had had no excuse to clamp down on us.
`After all, my darling, I can’t condemn a man for wanting you as long as he behaves
himself – we both know what you are – and I can’t scold you for being what you are –
you can’t help it – as long as you behave like a lady. Truth is, I was proud of both
of you, for behaving with such civilised restraint. It’s not easy, I know.’
Through playing chess with my father and, shortly, with Woodrow as well, Mr Bronson
managed to see me, en passant, almost every day. He volunteered as assistant
Scoutmaster for the troop at our church… then drove Brian Junior and George home
after Scout meeting the next Friday night – which resulted in a date with Brian
junior for the following afternoon to teach him to drive. (Mr Bronson owned a luxury
model Ford automobile, a landaulet, always shining and beautiful.)
The following Saturday he took my five older children on a picnic; they were as
charmed by him as I was. Carol confided to me afterwards: `Mama, if I ever get
married, Mr Bronson is just the sort of man I want to marry.’
I did not tell her that I felt the same way.
The Saturday after that one Mr Bronson took Woodrow downtown to a Hippodrome Theatre
matinee to see the magician Thurston the Great (I would have been delighted to have
been invited along; stage magic fascinates me. But I didn’t dare even hint with
Father watching me.) When Mr Bronson returned the child, asleep in his arms, I was
able to invite him inside as Father was with me, lending his sanction to the
meeting. Never once during that strange romance did Mr Bronson enter our house
without Father being there and then publicly present.
Once when Mr Bronson fetched Brian junior back from a driving lesson, I invited him
in for tea. He enquired about Father. Learning that Father was not home, Mr Bronson
discovered that he was already late for an appointment. Men are more timid than
women… at least in my experience.
Brian arrived home on Sunday 1 April, and on the same day Father left on a short
visit to St Louis – to see my mother I assume, but Father never discussed his
reasons. I could have wished that Father had stayed at home, so that Brian and I