She pushed his arms away, trying to repulse him. But she was taken by surprise, and her struggles had no steam in them. Try as she would, she couldn't resist the physical effect he had on her, and when she finally yielded, the next hour was more wanton, more shamefully exciting, than any she remembered. And yet, for the first time, she felt an undertone of disgust. She didn't forget that not once had the $20 bill been mentioned, not once had he offered to give it back. They parted amicably, he apologizing for the offending remark, she telling him to forget what she had said, as she was upset, and didn't mean it. But both of them meant it, and neither of them forgot.
CHAPTER XI
"Baby, what are you doing about Repeal?"
"You mean Repeal of Prohibition?"
"Yeah, just that."
"Why, I don't see how it affects me."
"It affects you plenty."
Mrs. Gessler, having coffee with Mildred just before closing time, began to talk very rapidly. Repeal, she said, was only a matter of weeks, and it was going to stand the whole restaurant business on its head. "People are just crazy for a drink, a decent drink, a drink with no smoke or ether or formaldehyde in it, a drink they can have out in the open, without having to give the password to some yegg with his face in a slot. And places that can read the handwriting on the wail are going to cash in, and those that can't are going to pass out. You think you've got a nice trade here, don't you? And you think it'll stick by you, because it likes you, and likes your chicken, and wants to help a plucky little woman get along? It will like hell. When they find out you're not going to serve them that drink, they're going to be sore and stay sore. They're going to tag you for a back number and go some place where they get what they want. You're going to be out of luck."
"You mean I should sell liquor?"
"It'll be legal, won't it?"
"I wouldn't even consider such a thing."
"Why not?"
"Do you think I'd run a saloon?"
Mrs. Gessler lit a cigarette, began snapping the ashes impatiently into Mildred's Mexican ashtrays. Then she took Mildred to task for prejudice, for stupidity, for not being up with the times. Mildred, annoyed at being told how to run her business, argued back, but for each point she made Mrs. Gessler made two points. She kept reminding Mildred that liquor, when it came back, wasn't going to be the same as it had been in the old days. It was going to be respectable, and it was going to put the restaurant business on its feet. "That's what has ailed eating houses ever since the war. That's why you're lucky to get a lousy 85 cents for your dinner, when if you could sell a drink with it, you could get a buck, and maybe a buck and a quarter. Baby, you're not talking sense, and I'm getting damned annoyed at you."
"But I don't know anything about liquor."
"I do."
Something about Mrs. Gessler's manner suggested that this was what she had been trying to lead up to all the time, for she lit another cigarette, eyed Mildred sharply, and went on: "Now listen: You know and I know and we all know that Ike's in the long- and short-haul trucking business. Just the same, Repeal's going to hit him hard. We'll have to do something, quick, while he reorganizes. That means I'll have to do something. So how's this? You put in the booze, and I'll take charge of it for you, for a straight ten per cent, of what I take in, plus tips, if, as, and when there are any, and if, as and when i'm not too proud to pick them up— which ain't likely, Baby. it ain't even possible."
"You? A bartender?"
"Why not? I'll be a damned good one."
This struck Mildred so funny that she laughed until she heard a girdle seam pop. In spite of work, worry, and everything she could do about it, she was getting the least little bit fat. But Mrs. Gessler didn't laugh. She was in dead earnest, and for the next few days nagged Mildred relentlessly. Mildred still regarded the whole idea as absurd, but on her trips downtown in connection with the pie business, she began to hear things. And then, as state after state fell in line for Repeal, she hardly heard anything else: every proprietor, from Mr. Chris to the owners of the big cafeterias, was in a dither to know what to do, and she began to get frightened. She had to talk to somebody, and on such matters she hadn't much confidence in Bert, and none at all in Monty. On a sudden inspiration she called up Wally. She saw him quite a lot, in connection with their real-estate relations, but their previous relation, by the curious twists of human memory, had by tacit consent been completely erased, so it had never existed. Wally came over one afternoon, listened while Mildred explained her quandary, then shook his head. "Well I don't know what you're backing and filling about. Course you'll sell liquor."
"You mean I'll have to, to hold my trade?"
"I mean there's dough in it."
He looked at her with his familiar stare, that was at the same time so vague and so shrewd, and her heart gave a little thump. It was the first time, for some reason, that this aspect of the problem had occurred to her. He went on, a little annoyed at her stupidity: "What the hell? Every drink you sell will be about eighty per cent profit, even at what you have to pay for your liquor. And it'll pull in more people for the dinner trade. If Lucy Gessler wants to take it over, then O.K. If she don't know about booze, I don't know who does. Get going on it, and get going now. It's coming, fast. And be sure you put on your sign, Cocktails. That's what they're waiting for. Put a red star in front of it, so they know you know it's important."
"Will I need some kind of a license?"
"I'll fix that up for you."
So the next time Mrs. Gessler came in, she found Mildred in a different frame of mind. She nodded approval of what Wally had said about the sign, then became coldly businesslike about other obligatory preparations. "I'll need a bar, but there's no room for one until you make alterations, so I'll have to get along with a portable. It'll be a perambular thing that I'll wheel from table to table—the same as most other places are going to use, temporarily. It'll have to be specially made and it'll cost you about three hundred bucks. Then I'll need a couple of hundred dollars' worth of liquor. I ought to have more, but it'll be all I can get, in the beginning. Then I want a couple of leather seats, near the door, with a low table between. Between trips to the tables, I'll be running my own little soiree over here, and I'll sell plenty of drinks to people waiting to be seated for dinner. Then I'll want a special bus, assigned to me alone. Your kid Pancho has a pal that'll do, by the name of Josie. He won't be available for general work, because he'll have to wash glasses for me all the- time, and wash them the way I want them washed, and bring beer from the icebox when I call for it, and ice whatever wine we sell, and he'll have all he can do, just helping me. Then I'll need a full set of cocktail, highball, and wine glasses—not too many, but we'll have to have the right glasses for the right drinks. Then, let's see. You'll need pads of special bar checks, to run separate from the others. It's the only way we can keep it straight. That's about all I can think of now."
"How much, all in all?"
"About five hundred to start—for the bar, glasses, furniture and checks. The liquor will be over and above the five hundred, but you won't pay till the Monday after delivery, and by that time we ought to have' a few dollars coming in."
Mildred gulped, told Mrs. Gessler she would let her know next day. That night she lay awake, and her mind darted first to this scheme, then to that, whereby she could furnish five hundred dollars. She kept a little reserve of two or three hundred dollars, but she dared not dip into it, as sad experience had taught her that emergencies arose constantly that demanded instant cash. It was a long time before her mind darted at last to the only way she could get the money: by robbing the special account for Veda's piano. It now amounted to $567, and the moment she thought of it she tried not to think of it, and began once more her frantic questing for schemes. But soon she knew this was what she had to do; knew that Veda couldn't have her piano for Christmas. Then once more rage began to suffocate her— not at Mrs. Gessler, or Repeal, or any of the circumstances that mad
e this new outlay necessary, but at Monty, for the money 'he had cost her, those endless $ 10's and $20's which now, if she had them, would see her through. She worked herself into such a state that presently she had to get up, put on a kimono, and make herself a cup of tea, so she could quiet down.
Christmas morning Mildred woke up with one of her rare hangovers. It had indeed been a gay night at the little restaurant, for the bar, opening promptly on December 6, had outdone all that had been expected of it. Not only had it taken in large sums itself, but it had drawn a bigger dinner trade, and a better dinner trade. Mrs. Gessler, in gabardine slacks and the same brickred as the waitresses' uniforms, white mess jacket with brass buttons, and red ribbon around her hair, seemed to catch the diners' fancy, and certainly she was expert enough to please the most fastidious. Tips went up, and when the kitchen celebration finally got going, it was exceedingly festive. Hans, the baker, was supposed to be off at night, but he showed up anyway, and got the party started with a bang by feeling Sigred's leg. Sigred was a Swedish girl Mildred had hired mainly for her looks, and then found out was one of the best waitresses she had ever seen. Then, just to be impartial, Hans felt Arline's leg, and Emma's, and Audrey's. Emma and Audrey had been taken on the day after the opening, just to forestall the possibility of another jam-up. The ensuing squeals were enjoyed by Pancho and Josie, who sat apart, not quite of things, yet not quite out of them; and by Mrs. Kramer, an assistant cook Mildred was training. They were emphatically not enjoyed by Carl, a seventeen-year-old who drove the little secondhand delivery truck Mildred had bought, and painted cream, with "Mildred Pierce, Pies," lettered on it in bold red script. He concentrated on ice cream and cake, and 'eyed Hans's efforts with stony disapproval, to the great delight of Arline, who kept screaming that he was learning "the facks of life."
Mildred had sat down with them, and put out wine and whiskey, and taken two or three drinks herself. What with the liquor, and the thanks she received for the $10 she had given each of them, she began to feel so friendly that she weakened in her resolve to give Monty nothing whatever for Christmas. First she took his orchids out of the icebox and pinned them on, to a loud chorus of applause. Then she had another drink, 'went over to the cash box, and smooched four $10 bills. These she put in a little envelope and wrote on it, "Merry Christmas, Monty." Then, hearing from Mrs. Gessler that he had arrived, she went into the dining room, weaving slightly, and elaborately took him outside. Under the trees she slipped the envelope into his pocket and thanked him for the orchids, which she said were the most beautiful she had ever had. Then she invited him to smell Them. Laughing a little, obviously delighted at her condition, he reminded her that orchids had no smell. "Smeil'm anyway." So he smelled, and reported that the orchids still had no smell, but that she smelled fine. She nodded, satisfied, and kissed him. Then she took him inside, where Bert, Wally, Mrs. Gessler, and Veda were sitting at a table, having a little celebration of their own.
And yet the evening had had an unpleasant finish: Monty and Veda began whispering together, and went into gales of laughter at some joke of their own. Mildred heard the words "varlets' yulabaloo," and concluded, probably correctly, that they were laughing at the party in the kitchen. She launched into a long, boozy harangue on the rights of labor, and how anybody who worked for a living was as good as anybody else. Wally tried to shush her down and Mrs. Gessler tried to shush her down, but it was no use. She went on to the bitter end. Then, somewhat inconsistently, she lurched to her feet, went to the kitchen, and asked how people could enjoy themselves with all that yelling going on. This had the effect of ringing down the curtain, front and rear.
Now, as she got up and dressed, she had a sour recollection of the harangue, and a still sourer recollection of the four $1 0's that had followed their predecessors down a bottomless rathole. She had given Letty the day off, so she went to the kitchen, made herself coffee, and drank it black. Then, hearing Veda's water running, she knew she had to hurry. She went to her bedroom, got a pile of packages out of the closet, and took them to the living room. Quickly she arranged a neat display around the base of the tree that had already been set up and decorated. Then she took out her own offering and looked at it. It was a wrist watch. She had put off buying it until the last moment, hoping the profits from the bar would permit her to order the piano anyway. But the unforeseen 'had again intervened. During the first hectic days of Repeal, Mrs. Gessler had a devil's own time finding liquor, and for much of it had to pay cash. So the hope died, and at the last minute, Mildred had dashed downtown and bought this gaud for $75. She listened close and heard its tiny tick, but it didn't sound much like a grand piano. Glumly she wrapped it, wrote a little card, tucked it under the ribbon. Then she set it beside the package from Bert.
She had hardly stood up to survey the general effect when there came a tap on the door, and Veda, in her most syrupy Christmas voice, asked: "May I come in?" Mildred managed a soft smile, and opened the door. Suddenly Veda was smothering her with kisses, wishing a merry Christmas to "you darling, darling Mother!" Then, just as suddenly, the kisses stopped and so did the greetings. Veda was staring at the Pierce upright, and by the look on her face Mildred knew she had been told about the grand, by Bert, by Monty, by the cashier at the bank, by somebody—and had expected to see it there, as a fine surprise, this Christmas morning.
Mildred licked her lips, opened her mouth to make explanations, but at the cold look on Veda's face, she couldn't. Nervously she said something about there being a great many presents, and hadn't Veda better make a list, so she would be sure who sent what? Veda made no reply, but stooped down and began pulling ribbons. When she got to the wrist watch she examined it with casual interest, laid it aside without comment. At this Mildred went back to her bedroom, lay down on the bed, tried to stop trembling. The trembling went on. Presently the bell rang, and she heard Bert's voice. Going to the living room again, she was in time to hear Veda ecstatically thank him for the riding boots he had given her, and call him "you darling, darling father." A little scene ensued, with Bert saying the boots could be exchanged if they weren't the right fit, and Veda trying them on. They were perfect, said Veda, and she wasn't going to take them off all day. She was even going to sleep in them.
But Veda never once looked at Mildred, and the trembling kept on. In a few minutes Mildred asked Bert if he was ready, and he said any time she was. They went to the kitchen for the flowers they were going to put on Ray's grave, but Bert quickly closed the door. Jerking his thumb toward the living room he asked: "What's the matter with her? She sick?"
"It's about the piano. What with the bar and one thing and another I couldn't get it. This Christmas, I mean. But somebody kindly tipped her off."
"Not me."
"I didn't say so."
"What did you give her?"
"A wrist watch. It was a nice watch, a little one, the kind they're all wearing, and you'd think she'd at least—"
But the trembling had reached Mildred's mouth by now, and she couldn't finish. Bert put his arm around her, patted her. Then he asked: "Is she coming with us?"
"I don't know."
They went out the back door to get the car out of' the garage, and Mildred drove. As they were backing down the drive, Bert told her to hold it. Then, lightly, he tapped the horn. After a few seconds, he tapped it again. There was no response from the house. Mildred eased into the street and they drove to the cemetery. Mildred threaded her way slowly along the drive, so as not to disturb the hundreds of others who were out there too. When they came to the Pierce plot she stopped and they got out. Taking the flowers, they walked over to the little marker that had been placed there by the Pierces a short time before. It was a plain white stone, with the name, and under it the dates of the brief little life. Bert mumbled: "They wanted to put a quotation on it, 'Suffer the little children,' whatever it is, but I remembered you like things plain."
"I like it just like it is."
"And another thing they wante
d to put on it was: 'Erected by her loving grandparents Adrian and Sarah,' but I told them 'Hey, keep your shirt on. You'll get your names in this marble orchard soon enough without trying to beat the gun in any way.'"
This struck Mildred as funny, and she started to titter, but somewhere down the drive a child began to laugh. Then a great lump rose in her throat and Bert quickly walked away. As she stood there she could hear him behind her, walking back and forth. She stood a long time. Then she put the flowers on the grave, paused for one last look, turned, and took his arm. He laced his fingers through hers, squeezed hard.
When Mildred got home, she found Veda exactly where she had left her: in the chair near the Christmas tree, the boots still on, staring malevolently at the Pierce upright. Mildred sat down and opened a package Bert had brought with him when he came, a jar of preserved strawberries from Mrs. Biederhof. For a few moments, except for the crackle of paper, there was silence. Then, in her clearest, most affected drawl, Veda said: "Christ, but I hate this dump."
"Is there anything in particular that you object to?'
"Oh, no, Mother, not at all, not at all—and I do hope you don't begin changing things around, just to please me. No, there's nothing in particular. I just hate every lousy, stinking part of it, and if it were to burn down tomorrow I wouldn't shed a furtive tear from the Elixir of Love, by Gaetano Donizetti, seventeen ninety-eight-eighteen fortyeight."
"I see."
Veda picked up a package of the cigarettes Mildred kept on hand for Monty, lit one, and threw the match on the floor. Mildred's face tightened. "You'll put out that cigarette and pick up that match."
"I will like hell."
Mildred got up, took careful aim, and slapped Veda hard, on the cheek. The next thing she knew, she was dizzy from her head to her heels, and it seemed seconds before she realized, from the report that was ringing in her ears, that Veda had slapped her back. Blowing smoke into Mildred's face, Veda went on, in her cool, insolent tone: "Glendale, California, Land where the Orange Tree Blows, from Mignon, by Ambroise Thomas, eighteen eleven-eighteen ninety-six. Forty square miles of nothing whatever. A high-class, positively-restricted development for discriminating people that run filling stations, and furniture factories, and markets, and pie wagons. The garden spot of the world—rn the pig's eye. A wormhole, for grubs!"