Wally pulled over a chair and sat down with Bert and Veda. Bert asked him sharply if he had attended to the transfer of beneficiary on the fire insurance. Wally said he figured he'd wait till the place burned down. Bert said O.K., he was just asking.
When Mildred looked up, Ida was standing in the door. She went over and kissed her, and listened while she volubly explained that her husband had wanted to come, but got a call on a job, and simply had to look into it. Mildred took her to the table that now had only one chair, the other having been borrowed by Wally. Ida looked around, taking things in. "Mildred, it's just grand. And the space you got. You can get two more fours in easy, just by shifting those twos a little bit. And you can use trays, big as you want. You got no idea how that'll help. It'll save you at least one girl. At least."
It was high time for Mildred to get back to the kitchen, but she lingered, patting Ida's hand, basking in her approval.
The well-oiled machine was in high now, humming smoothly, pulling its load. So far, Mildred had found a few seconds for each new arrival, and particularly for each new departure to. give a little reminder of the home-made pies she had for sale, and wouldn't they like to take home one? But now she was working a bit feverishly, frying chickens, turning waffles. When she heard a car door slam she didn't have a chance to look out and count customers. Then she heard another door slam. Then Arline appeared. "Two fours just come in, Mrs. Pierce. I got room for one but what do I do with the other? I can shove two twos together, but not till I get Miss Ida moved out—"
"No no! Let her alone."
"But what'll I do?"
"Seat four, ask the others to wait."
In spite of herself, her voice was shrill. She went out, asked the second party of four if they minded waiting. She said she was a little rushed now, but it would only be for a few minutes. One of the men nodded, but she hurried away, ashamed that she hadn t foreseen this, and provided extra chairs. When she got to the kitchen, Arline was jabbering at Pancho, then turned furiously to Mildred: "He's washing plates, and the soup bowls are all out, and if he don't let me have them I can't serve my starters! Soup bowls, stupid, soup bowls!"
Arline screamed this at Pancho, but as Mildred shushed her down, Letty came in, heavy footed and clumsy at unaccustomed work, and dumped more soup bowls on the pile, which went down with a crash, three breaking. Mildred made a futile dive to save them, and heard another car door slam. And suddenly she knew that her machine was stalled, that her kitchen was swamped, that she had completely lost track of her orders, that not even a starter was moving. For one dreadful moment she saw her opening turning into a fiasco, everything she had hoped for slipping away from her in one nightmare of an evening. Then beside her was Ida, whipping off her hat, tucking it with her handbag beside the tin box that held the cash, slipping into an apron. "O.K. Mildred, it's them dishes that's causing it all. Now she ain't no good out there, none whatever, so let her wipe while he washes, and that'll help."
As Mildred nodded at Letty and handed her a towel, Ida's quick eye spotted dessert dishes, and she set them out on a tray. Then, to Arline: "Call your soup."
"I want a right and left for two, three and one, chicken and tomato for four, and they. been waiting for—"
Ida didn't wait to hear how long they had been waiting. She dipped soup into the dessert dishes, dealt out spoons with one hand and crackers with the other, and hurried 'out with the tray, leaving butter, salad, and water to Arline. In a minute she was back. "O.K., Mildred, I got your family to take a walk outside. They was all through eating anyway. Then I put two at my table, and that took care of four. Then soon as I get the check for that first party of four, that'll take care of four more, and—"
The twanging voice, the voice that Mildred had hated, twanged on, and Mildred responded to it with a tingle that started in her heart and spread out through the rest of her. Her nerve came back, her hands recovered their skill, as things began moving again. She was pouring a waffle when Mrs. Gessler 'appeared at the door, and came tiptoeing over to her. "Anything I can do, baby?"
"I don't think so, Lucy. Thanks just the—"
"Oh yes there is."
Ida seized Mrs. Gessler by the arm as she usually seized the members of her command. "You can take off that hat and get out there and sell pies. Don't bother them while they're eating but stay near the showcase and when they get through see what you can do."
"I'll be doing my best."
"Containers in the drawer under the case, they're out flat and you'll have to fold them, then tie them up and put the carrying handles on. If you have any trouble, just call for me or ask Mildred."
"What's the price, Mildred?"
"Eighty-five cents. Everything's eighty-five cents."
Mrs. Gessler laid her hat beside Ida's and went out. Soon Mildred saw her come back, lay a dollar bill in the tin box, take change, and go out. In a short time she saw many bills in the box, as Ida repeatedly came in, made change, and sent Arline out with it, so she would get her tip. When she had a lull, she slipped off her apron and went out. Nobody was standing now, but every seat was filled, and she, felt as she had felt yesterday, at the funeral, when she walked through the living room and saw all those half-remembered faces. These were people she hadn t seen in years, people reached by Wally's clever system of mailing. She spoke to , them, asked if everything was all right, received their congratulations, and from a few, words of sympathy about Ray.
It was well after eight when she heard another car door slam. Bert, Wally, and Veda had adjourned their meeting, on Ida's invitation, to the running board of Wally's car, and for some time she had heard them talking out there, while she worked. But now, as a foot crunched on the gravel, the conversation stopped, and then Veda burst in the back door. "Mother! Guess who just came in!"
"Who was it, darling?"
"Monty Beragon!"
Mildred's heart skipped a beat, and she looked at Veda sharply. But Veda's shining eyes didn't suggest knowledge of scandal, so cautiously she asked: "And who is Monty Beragon?"
"Oh, Mother, don't you know?"
"I guess not."
"He plays polo for Midwick, and he lives in Pasadena, and he's rich, and good-looking, and all the girls just wait for his picture to come out in the paper. He's—keen!"
It was the first she had known that Monty was anybody in particular, but she was too busy to be excited much. Veda began dancing up and down, and Bert came in, followed by Wally, who looked as though he had just beheld God. "Sa-a-a-a-ay! If that guy's here, Mildred, you're in! Why there's not a restaurant in L. A. that wouldn't pay him to eat there. Isn't that so, Bert?"
"He's very well-known."
"Known? Hell, he's a shot."
Arline came in, from the dining room. "One waf."
Veda went to the out door, peeped, and disappeared into the dining room. Wally began speculating as to how Monty knew about the opening. He wasn't on any list, and it seemed unlikely he had seen the Glendale papers. Bert, with some irritation, said that Mildred's reputation as a cook had spread far and wide, and that seemed sufficient reason, at least to him,, without doing any fancy sleuthing about it. Wally said by God he had a notion to find out, when all of a sudden he was standing there with open mouth, and Mildred felt herself being turned slowly around. , Monty was there, looking down at her gravely, intently. "Why didn't you tell me about the little girl?"
"I don't know. I—couldn't call anybody."
"I didn't hear about it until her sister told me, just now."
"She seems to be quite an admirer of yours."
"She's the most delightful little thing I've met in a long time, but never mind about her. I'd like you to know that if I'd had any idea about it, you'd have heard from me."
As though to corroborate this declaration, a box of flowers appeared suddenly under Mildred's nose, together with a slip the messenger was offering her to sign. She opened the box, found herself staring at two gigantic orchids. But Monty took t
he card and tore it up. "I doubt if you're in the humor for gags."
She put the flowers in the icebox, and introduced Bert and Wally. She was relieved when Ida came over, demanding that the kitchen be cleared. Monty gave her a little pat and went to the dining room. Bert and Wally went outside, eyeing her a little queerly.
By nine o'clock there were only two customers left, and as they were eating the last of the chickens, Mildred went to the switchboard and cut off the sign. Then she counted her cash. She had hoped for thirty people, and had ordered five extra chickens to be safe. Now, having been high pressured into taking four more than that, she had barely had enough. Truly, as Wally had promised, there had been a mob, and she found she had taken in $46, or $10 more than her wildest hopes. She folded all the bills together, so she could feel their fat thickness. Then, having little to do until Arline, Pancho, and Letty finished up, she slipped off her apron, pinned on her orchids, and went into the dining room.
Ida was still waiting on the last customers, but Bert, Wally, Monty, Veda and Mrs. Gessler were sitting sociably at one of the tables for four. Bert and Monty were discussing polo ponies, a subject that Bert seemed impressively familiar with. Veda had curled herself into the crook of his arm and was drinking in the heavenly words about the only world' that could mean anything to her. Mildred pulled up a chair and sat down beside Mrs. Gessler, who at once began making queer noises. Staring into each face, she repeated "H'm? H'm?" in an insistent way, evoking only puzzled stares. It was Monty who got it. His face lit up and he bellowed "Yes!"
Then everybody bellowed yes, and Mrs. Gessler went out to her car. When she came back she had Scotch and White Rock. Mildred had Arline bring glasses, ice, and an opener; and Mrs. Gessler began her ancient rites. Bert took charge of Veda's drink, but Mildred forbade the usual switcheroo. She knew it would remind him of Ray, and she didn't want that. Veda received her drink, with its two drops of Scotch, without any tricks, and Bert suddenly got to his feet. Raising his glass to Mildred, he said: "To the best little woman that any guy was crazy enough to let get away from him."
"You ought to know, you cluck."
Mrs. Gessler was quite positive about it, and everybody laughed, and raised a glass to Mildred. She didn't know whether to raise her glass or not, but finally did. Then Ida, having disposed of the customers, was standing beside her, taking in the conviviality with a twisted grin that seemed strange and pathetic on her extremely plain face. Mildred jumped up, quickly made her a drink, and said: "Now I'm going to propose a toast." Raising her glass, she intoned: "To the best little woman that nobody was ever crazy enough to let get away from them." Wally said: "'Ray!" Everybody said "'Ray!" Ida was flustered, and first giggled, then looked as though she was going to cry, and paid no attention when Mildred introduced her around. Then she plopped down in a chair and began: "Well Mildred I wish you could have heard the comment. You got no idea how they went for that chicken. And how amazed they was at them waffles. Why, they said, they never got such waffles since they was little, and they had no idea anybody knew how to make them any more. It's a hit, Mildred. It's going to do just grand." Mildred sipped her drink, feeling trembly and self-conscious and unbearably happy.
She could have sat there forever, but she had Veda to think of, and Ida to think of too, for after such help, she had to give her a lift home. So she reminded Bert that Veda had to go to school, stuffed the precious cash into her handbag, and prepared to lock up. She shook hands with them all, looking away quickly when she came to Monty, and finally got them outside. On the lawn, the party gathered around Mrs. Gessler's car, and Mildred suspected the Scotch was being finished somewhat informally, but she didn't wait to make sure. Calling to Bert not to keep Veda up late, she loaded Ida into her car, and went roaring down the boulevard.
When she got home she was surprised to find the blue Cord outside. Inside, the house was dark, but she could see a flicker of light from the den,' and there she found Monty and Veda, in the dark except for the fire they had lit for themselves, and evidently getting on famously. To Mildred, Monty explained: "We had a date."
"Oh, you did."
"Yes, we made a date that I was to take her home, so I did. Of course we had to take Pop home first—"
"Or at least, to the B—"
But before Veda could finish her languid qualification, she and Monty burst into howls of laughter, and when she could get her breath she gasped: "Oh Mother! We saw the Biederhof! Through the window! And—they flopped!"
Mildred felt she ought to be shocked, but the next thing she knew she had joined in, and then the three of them laughed until their stomachs ached and tears ran down their faces, as though Mrs. Biederhof and her untrammelled bosom were the funniest things in the world. It was a long time before Mildred could bring herself to send Veda to bed. She wanted to keep her there, to warm herself in this sunny, carefree friendliness that had never been there before. When the time finally came, she took Veda in herself, and helped her undress, and put her in bed, and held her tight for a moment, still ecstatic at the miracle that had come to pass. Then Veda whispered: "Oh Mother, isn't he just wonderful!"
"He's terribly nice."
"How did you meet him?"
Mildred mumbled something about Monty's having come into the Hollywood restaurant once or twice, then asked: "And how did you meet him?"
"Oh Mother, I didn't! I mean, I didn't say anything to him. He spoke to me. He said I looked so much like you he knew who I was. Did you tell him about me?"
"Yes, of course."
"Then he asked for Ray, and when I told him about her, he turned perfectly pale, and jumped up, and—"
"Yes, I know."
"And Mother, those orchids!"
"You want them?"
"Mother! Mother!"
"All right, you can wear them to school."
From the sofa came a voice, a little thick, a little unsteady: "I've been looking at that damned costume all night, and with great difficulty restrained myself from biting it. Now, get it off."
"Oh, I'm not much in the humor for—"
"Get it off."
So the costume came off, and she submitted to what, on the whole, seemed a reasonably appropriate finale to the evening. Yet she was too excited really to have her mind on Monty. When she went to bed she was tired, happy, and weepy, and Bert, Wally, Mrs. Gessler, Ida, Monty, the sign, the restaurant, and the $46 were all swimming about in a moonlit pooi of tears. But the face that shimmered above it, more beautiful than all the rest, was Veda's.
CHAPTER X
ONE MORNING, some months after this, she was driving down from Arrowhead with Monty. He was part of her life now, though on the whole not quite so satisfactory a part as it had seemed, in that first week or two, that he might be. For one thing, she had discovered that a large part of his appeal for her was physical, and this she found disturbing. So far, her sex experiences had been limited, and of a routine, tepid sort, even in the early days with Bert. This hot, wanton excitement that Monty aroused in her seemed somehow shameful; also, she was afraid it might really take possession of her, and interfere with her work, which was becoming her life. For in spite of mishaps, blunders, and catastrophes that sometimes reduced her to bitter tears, the little restaurant continued to prosper. Whether she had any real business ability it would be hard to say, but her common sense, plus an industry that never seemed to flag, did well enough. She early saw that the wholesale pie business was the key to everything else, and doggedly kept at the job of building it up, until it was paying all expenses, even above the wages of Hans, the baker that she hired. The restaurant intake had been left as clear profit, or what would become profit as soon as her debts, somewhat appalling still, were paid. That Monty might throw her out of step with this precious career was a possibility that distinctly frightened her.
And for another thing, she felt increasingly the sense of inferiority that he had aroused in her, that first night at the lake. Somehow, by his easy flippancy, h
e made her accomplishments seem small, of no consequence. The restaurant, which to her was a sort of Holy Grail, attained by fabulous effort and sacrifice, to him was the Pie Wagon, a term quickly taken up by Veda, who blandly shortened it to The Wagon. And even though he sometimes brought his friends there, and introduced them, and asked her to sit down, she noticed they were- always men. She never met any of his women friends, and never met his family. Once, unexpectedly, he had pointed the car at Pasadena, and said he wanted her to see his home. She was nervous at the idea of meeting his mother, but when they got there it turned out that both mother and sister were away, with the servants off for the night. At once she hated the big stuffy mansion, hated the feeling she had been smuggled in the back door, almost hated him. There was no sex that night, and he professed to be puzzled, as well as hurt, by her conduct. She had a growing suspicion that to him she was a servant girl, an amusing servant girl, one with pretty legs and a flattering response in bed, but a servant girl just the same.
Yet she never declined his invitations, never put on' the brake that her instinct was demanding, never raised the hatchet that she knew one day would have to fall. For there was always this delicious thing that he had brought into her life, this intimacy with Veda that had come when he came, that would go, she was afraid, when he went. Monty seemed devoted to Veda. He took her everywhere, to polo, to horse shows, to his mother's, granting her all the social equality that he withheld from Mildred, so that the child lived in a horsy, streamlined heaven. Mildred lived in a heaven too, a heaven of more modest design, one slightly spoiled by wounded pride, but one that held the music of harps. She laved herself in Veda's sticky affection, and bought, without complaining, the somewhat expensive gear that heaven required: riding, swimming, golf, and tennis outfits; overnight kits, monogrammed. If Mildred knew nobody in Pasadena, she had the consolation that Veda knew everybody, and had her picture on the society pages so often that she became quite blase about it. And so long as this went on, Mildred knew she would put up with Monty, with his irritating point of view, his amused condescension, his omissions that cut her so badly—and not only put up with him, but cling to him.