![]() ![]() ![]() But in the country club district she parked on the street, and if there were diagonal stripes she did very well, but if parking was parallel she had trouble judging her distance from the curb and would have to get out and walk around to look, then get back in and try again. She had only to honk at the enormous doors, which would then trundle open, and coast on inside where an attendant would greet her by name, help her out, and then park the formidable machine. Usually she parked in a downtown garage where Mr. She changed into second gear at the beginning of any hill and let herself down the far side much more slowly than necessary. ![]() Knowing she was not expert she was always quite apologetic when something unfortunate happened, and did her best to keep out of everyone’s way. Often she would delay a line of cars while she pressed the starter button either too long or not long enough. The Lincoln was set to idle too slowly and in consequence the engine sometimes died when she pulled up at an intersection, but as her husband never used the Lincoln and she herself assumed it was just one of those things about automobiles, the idling speed was never adjusted. People were always blowing their horns at her or turning their heads to stare when they went by. Bridge gave her on her forty-seventh birthday was a size too long and she drove it as cautiously as she might have driven a locomotive. ![]() Bridge, began as a short story in the Fall 1955 issue of The Paris Review. Our great contributor Evan Connell died this week. ![]()
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