Mildred Pierce

  "If you have to do it, you can do it."

  "But it's beautiful!"

  Only after a long final look did Mrs. Gessler get to what she came for. She had a small plate in her hand, with another plate clamped over it, and now lifted the top one. "I thought maybe you could use it. I fricasseed it for supper, but Ike's had a call to Long Beach, and I'm going with him, and I was afraid it might spoil."

  Mildred got a plate, slid the chicken on it, and put it in the icebox. Then she washed Mrs. Gessler's plates, dried them and handed them back. "I can use practically anything, Lucy. Thanks."

  "Well, I've got to run along."

  "Have a nice time."

  "Tell Bert I said hello."

  ". . . I will."

  Mrs. Gessler stopped. "What's the matter?"

  "Nothing."

  "Come on, baby. Something's wrong. What is it?"

  "Bert's gone."

  "You mean—for good?"

  "Just now. He left."

  "Walked out on you, just like that?"

  "He got a little help, maybe. It had to come."

  "Well what do you know about that? And that floppylooking frump he left you for. How can he even look at her?"

  "She's what he wants."

  "But she doesn't even wash!"

  "Oh, what's the use of talking? If she likes him, all right then, she's got him. Bert's all right. And it wasn't his fault. It was just—everything. And I did pester him. I nagged him, he said, and he ought to know. But I can't take things lying down, I don't care if we've got a Depression or not. If she can, then they ought to get along fine, because that's exactly the way he's built. But I've got my own ideas, and I can't change them even for him."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "What am I doing now?"

  A grim silence fell on both women. Then Mrs. Gessler shook her head. "Well, you've joined the biggest army on earth. You're the great American institution that never gets mentioned on Fourth of July—a grass widow with two small children to support. The dirty bastards."

  "Oh Bert's all right."

  "He's all right, but he's a dirty bastard and they're all dirty bastards."

  "We're not so perfect."

  "We wouldn't pull what they pull."

  The front door slammed and Mildred held up a warning finger. Mrs. Gessler nodded and asked if there was anything she could do, today. Mildred wanted desperately to say she could give her a lift with the cake, but there had been one or two impatient taps on an automobile horn from across the yard, and she didn't have the nerve. "Not right now."

  "I'll be seeing you."

  "Thanks again for the chicken."

  The child who now entered the kitchen didn't scamper in, as little Ray had a short time before. She stepped in primly, sniffed contemptuously at the scent left by Mrs. Gessler, and put her schoolbooks on the table before she kissed her mother. Though she was only eleven she was something to look at twice. In the jaunty way she wore her clothes, as well as the handsome look around the upper part of her face, she resembled her father more than her mother: it was commonly said that "Veda's a Pierce." But around her mouth the resemblance vanished, for Bert's mouth had a slanting weakness that hers didn't have. Her hair, which was a coppery red, and her eyes, which were light blue like her mother's, were all the more vivid by contrast with the scramble of freckles and sunburn which formed her complexion. But the most arresting thing about her was her walk. Possibly because of her high, arching chest, possibly because of the slim hips and legs below it, she moved with an erect, arrogant haughtiness that seemed comic in one so young.

  She took the cake her mother gave her, a chocolate muffin with a white V iced upon it, counted the remaining ones, and calmly gave an account of her piano practice. Through all the horrors of the last year and a half, Mildred had managed fifty cents a week for the lessons, since she had a deep, almost religious conviction that Veda was "talented," and although she didn't exactly know at what, piano seemed indicated, as a sound, useful preliminary to almost anything. Veda was a satisfactory pupil, for she practiced faithfully and showed lively interest. Her piano, picked out when Mildred picked out her coat, never actually arrived, so she practiced at her Grandfather Pierce's, where there was an ancient upright, and on this account always arrived home from school somewhat later than Ray.

  She told of her progress with the Chopin Grand Valse Brillante, repeating the title of the piece a number of times, somewhat to Mildred's amusement, for she employed the full French pronunciation, and obviously enjoyed the elegant effect. She spoke in the clear, affected voice that one associates with stage children, and indeed everything she said had the effect of having been learned by heart, and recited in the manner prescribed by some stiff book of etiquette. The waltz disposed of, she walked over to have a look at the cake. "Who's it for, Mother?"

  "Bob Whitley."

  "Oh, the paper boy."

  Young Whitley's sideline, which was soliciting subscriptions after school hours, Veda regarded as a gross social error, and Mildred smiled. "He'll be a paper boy without a birthday cake if I don't find some way to get it over there. Eat your cake now, and then run over to Grandfather's and see if he minds taking me up to Mrs. Whitley's in his car."

  "Can't we use our car?"

  "Your father's out with it, and—he may be late. Run along now. Take Ray with you, and Grandfather'll ride you both back."

  Veda stalked unhurriedly out, and Mildred heard her call Ray in from the street. But in a minute or two she was back. She closed the door carefully and spoke with even more than her usual precision. "Mother, where's Father?"

  "He—had to go somewhere."

  "Why did he take his clothes?"

  When Mildred promised Bert to "take care of it," she had pictured a vague scene, which would end up with "Mother'll tell you more about it some day." But she had forgoiten Veda's passion for her father's clothes, the proud inspection of his tuxedo, his riding breeches, his shiny boots and shoes, which was a daily ritual that not even a trip to her grandf ather's was going to interfere with. And she had also forgotten that it was impossible to fool Veda. She began examining some imaginary imperfection on the cake. "He's gone away."

  "Where?"

  "I don't know."

  "Is he coming back—"

  "No."

  She felt wretched, wished Veda would come over to her, so she could take her in her arms and tell her about it in some way that didn't seem so shame-faced. But Veda's eyes were cold, and she didn't move. Mildred doted on her, for her looks, her promise of talent, and her snobbery, which hinted at things superior to her own commonplace nature. But Veda doted on her father, for his grand manner and fine ways, and if he disdained gainful work, she was proud of him for it. In the endless bickerings that had marked the last few months, she had invariably been on his side, and often withered her mother with lofty remarks. Now she said: "I see, Mother. I just wanted to know."

  Presently Ray came in, a chubby, tow-haired little thing, four years younger than Veda, and the picture of Mildred. She began dancing around, pretending she was going to poke her finger into the cake, but Mildred stopped her, and told her what she had just told Veda. She began to cry, and Mildred gathered her into her arms, and talked to her as she had wanted to talk in the first place. She said Father thought the world of them both, that he hadn't said good-bye because he didn't want to make them feel badly, that it wasn't his fault, but the fault of a lot of things she couldn't tell about now, but would explain later on some time. All this she said to Ray, but she was really talking to Veda, who was still standing there, gravely listening. After a few minutes Veda evidently felt some obligation to be friendly, for she interrupted to say: "If you mean Mrs. Biederhof, Mother, I quite agree. I think she's distinctly middle-class."

  Mildred was able to laugh at this, and she seized the chance to gather Veda to her, and kiss her. Then she sent both children off to their grandfather's. She was glad that she herself hadn't said
a word about Mrs. Biederhof, and resolved that the name should never pass her lips in their presence.

  Mr. Pierce arrived with the car and an invitation to supper, and after a moment's reflection, Mildred accepted. The Pierces had to be told, and if she told them now, after having supper with them, it would show there were no hard feelings, and that she wanted to continue relations as before. But after the cake had been delivered, and she had sat around with them a few minutes, she detected something in the air. Whether Bert had already stopped by, or the children had made some slip, she didn't know, but things weren't as usual. Accordingly, as soon as supper was over and the children had gone out to play, she got grimly at it. Mr. Pierce and Mom, both originally from Connecticut, lived in a smaller, though just as folksy Pierce Home, on a pension he received as a former railroad man. But they were comfortable enough, and usually took their twilight ease in a small patio back of the house. It was here that Mildred broke the news.

  A silence fell on them, a glum silence that lasted a long time. Mom was in the swing. She began touching the ground with her foot and it began rocking, and as it rocked it squeaked. Then she began to talk, in a bitter, jerky way, looking neither at Mildred nor at Mr. Pierce. "It's that Biederhof woman. It's her fault, from beginning to end. It's been her fault, ever since Bert started going with her. That woman's a huzzy. I've known it ever since I first laid eyes on her. The idea, carrying on like that with a married man. And her own husband not dead a year yet. And the filthy way she keeps house. And going around like she does with her breasts wobbling every which way, so any man's got to look at her, whether he wants to or not. What did she have to pick on my boy for? Wasn't there enough men, without she had to.. ."

  Mildred closed her eyes and listened, and Mr. Pierce sucked his pipe, and put in melancholy remarks of his own. It was all about Mrs. Biederhof, and in a way this was a relief. But then a sense of vague apprehension stirred within her. This evening, she knew, was important, for what was said now would be written indelibly on the record. For the children's sake, if no other, it was vital that she give no word of false testimony, or omit words essential to a fair report, or in any way leave a suspicion of untruthfulness. Also, she felt a growing annoyance at the facile way in which everything was being blamed on a woman who really had very little to do with it. She let Mom run down, and after a long silence, said: "It's not Mrs. Biederhof."

  "Who is it, then?"

  "It's a whole lot of things, and if they hadn't happened, Bert wouldn't any more have looked at her than he would have looked at an Eskimo woman. It's—what happened to Bert's business. And the awful time we had getting along. And the way Bert got fed up. And—"

  "You mean to tell me this is Bert's fault?"

  Mildred waited a minute, for fear the rasp in Mom's voice would find an answering rasp in her own. Then she said: "I don't say it was anybody's fault, unless it was the Depression's fault, and certainly Bert couldn't help that." She stopped, then doggedly plowed on with what she dreaded, and yet felt had to be said: "But I might as well tell you, Bert wasn't the only one that got fed up. I got fed up too. He didn't start this thing today. I did."

  "You mean—you put Bert out?"

  The rasp in Mom's voice was so pronounced now, her refusal to admit basic realities so infuriating, that Mildred didn't trust herself to speak at all. It was only after Mr. Pierce had interposed, and a cooling five minutes had passed, that she said: "It had to come."

  "It certainly did have to come if you went and put that poor boy out. I never heard of such a thing in my life. Where's he at now?"

  "I don't know."

  "And it's not even your house."

  "It'll be the bank's house pretty soon if I don't find a way to raise the interest money."

  When Mom replied to that, Mr. Pierce quickly shushed her down, and Mildred smiled sourly to herself that the barest mention of interest money meant a rapid change of subject. Mr. Pierce returned to Mrs. Biederhof, and Mildred thought it diplomatic to chime in: "I'm not defending her for a minute. And I'm not blaming Bert. All I'm trying to say is that what had to come had to come, and if it came today, and I was the one that brought it on, it was better than having it come later, when there would have been still more hard feelings about it."

  Mom said nothing, but the swing continued to squeak. Mr. Pierce said the Depression had certainly hit a lot of people hard. Mildred waited a minute or two, so her departure wouldn't seem quite so pointed, then said she had to be getting the children home. Mr. Pierce saw her to the door, but didn't offer a ride. Falteringly, he said: "You need anything right now, Mildred?"

  "Not yet a while, thanks."

  "I sure am sorry."

  "What had to come had to come."

  "Goodnight, Mildred."

  Shooing the children along, Mildred felt a hot resentment against the pair she had just left, not only for their complete failure to get the point, but also for their stingy ignoring of the plight she was in, and the possibility that their grandchildren, for all they knew, might not have anything to eat. As she turned into Pierce Drive the night chill settled down, and she felt cold, and swallowed quickly to get rid of a forlorn feeling in her throat.

  After putting the children to bed she went to the living room, pulled a chair to the window, and sat there in the dark looking out at the familiar scene, trying to shake off the melancholy that was creeping over her. Then she went to the bedroom and turned on the light. It was the first time she had slept here since Bert started his attentions to Mrs. Biederhof; for several months, now, she had been sleeping in the children's room, where she had moved one of the twin beds. She tiptoed in there, got her pajamas, came back, took off her dress. Then she sat down in front of the dressing table and started combing her hair. Then she stopped and began looking at herself, grimly, reflectively.

  She was a shade under medium height, and her small size, mousy-blond hair, and watery blue eyes made her look considerabely younger than she actually was, which was twentyeight. About her face there was no distinction whatever. She was what is described as "nice-looking," rather than pretty; her own appraisal she sometimes gave in the phrase, "pass in a crowd." But this didn't quite do her justice. Into her eyes, if she were provoked, or made fun of, or puzzled, there came a squint that was anything but alluring, that betrayed a rather appalling literal-mindedness, or matter-of-factness, or whatever it might be called, but that hinted, nevertheless, at something more than complete vacuity inside. It was the squint, Bert confessed afterward, that first caught his fancy, and convinced him there was "something to her." They met just after her father died, when she was in her third year at high school. After the garage business had been sold and the insurance collected, her mother had toyed with the idea of buying a Pierce Home, using her small capital as a down payment, and taking in roomers to pay the rest. So Bert came around, and Mildred was excited by him, mainly on account of his dashing ways.

  But when the day of the grand tour of Pierce Homes arrived, Mrs. Ridgely was unable to go, and Bert took Mildred. They drove in his sports roadster, and the wind was in her hair, and she felt a-tingle and grown-up. As a grand climax they stopped at the Pierce Model Home, which was really the main office of Pierce Homes, Inc., but was built like a home, to stimulate the imaginations of customers. The secretaries had gone by then, but Mildred inspected everything from the great "living room" in front to the cozy "bedrooms" at the rear, lingering longer in these than was perhaps exactly advisable. Bert was very solemn on the way home, as befitted one who had just seduced a minor, but gallantly suggested a re-inspection next day. A month later they were married, she quitting school two days before the ceremony, and Veda arriving slightly sooner than the law allowed. Bert persuaded Mrs. Ridgely to give up the idea of a Pierce Home for boarding-house purposes, possibly fearing deficits, and she went to live with Mildred's sister, whose husband had a ship chandler's business in San Diego. The small capital, at Bert's suggestion, was invested in A. T. & T.

 
And Mildred's figure got her attention in any crowd and all crowds. She had a soft, childish neck that perked her head up at a pretty angle; her shoulders drooped, but gracefully; her brassiere ballooned a little, with an extremely seductive burden. Her hips were small, like Veda's, and suggested a girl, rather than a woman who had borne two children. Her legs were really beautiful, and she was quite vain of them. Only one thing about them bothered her, but it bothered her constantly, and it had bothered her ever since she could remember. In the mirror they were flawlessly slim and straight, but as she looked down on them direct, something about their contours made them seem bowed. So she had taught herself to bend one knee when she stood, and to take short steps when she moved, bending the rear knee quickly, so that the deformity, if it actually existed couldn't be noticed. This gave her a mincing, feminine walk, like the ponies in a Broadway chorus; she didn't know it, but her bottom switched in a wholly provocative way.

  Or possibly she did know it.

  The hair finished, she got up, put her hands on her hips, and surveyed herself in the mirror. For a moment the squint appeared in her eyes, as though she knew this was no ordinary night in her life, and that she must take stock, see what she had to offer against what lay ahead. Leaning close, she bared her teeth, which were large and white, and looked for cavities. She found none. She stood back again, cocked her head to one side, struck an attitude. Almost at once she amended it by bending one knee. Then she sighed, took off the rest of her clothes, slipped into her pajamas. As she turned off the light, from force of long habit she looked over to the Gesslers', to see if they were still up. Then she rëmembered they were away. Then she remembered what Mrs. Gessler had said: ". . . the great American institution that never gets mentioned on Fourth of July, a grass widow with two small children to support"—and snickered sourly as she got into bed. Then she caught her breath as Bert's smell enveloped her.

  In a moment the door opened, and little Ray trotted in, weeping. Mildred held up the covers, folded the little thing in, snuggled her against her stomach, whispered and crooned to her until the weeping stopped. Then, after staring at the ceiling for a time, she fell asleep.