She passed many cars stalled as hers was stalled, some deserted, some full of people. One car, caught between vast lakes of water, was standing near a curb, its top lights on, filled with people in evening clothes, helpless to do anything but sit. She slogged on, up the long bill to Glendale, down block after block of rubble, torrents, seas of water. Her galoshes filled repeatedly, and periodically she stopped, holding first one foot high behind her, then the other, to let the water run out. But she couldn't let the sand and pebbles out, and they cut her feet cruelly. She was in a hysteria of weakness, cold, and pain when she finally reached Pierce Drive, and half ran, half limped, the rest of the way to the house.
Veda and Letty, like two frightened kittens, hadn't slept very well that night, and when lights began to snap on in the house, and a sobbing, mud-spattered, staggering apparition appeared at their door, they screamed in terror. When they realized it was Mildred, they dutifully followed her to her room, but it was seconds before they got readjusted to the point of helping her out of her clothes and getting her into bed. But suddenly Letty recovered from her fright, and was soon running around frantically, getting Mildred what she needed, especially whiskey, coffee, and a hot-water bottle. Veda sat on the bed, chafing Mildred's hands, spooning the scalding coffee into her mouth, pushing the covers close around her. Presently she shook her head. "But Mother, I simply can't understand it. Why didn't you stay with him? After all, it wouldn't have been much of a novelty."
"Never mind. Tomorrow you get your piano."
At Veda's squeal of delight, at the warm arms around her neck, the sticky kisses that started at her eyes and ended away below her throat, Mildred relaxed, found a moment of happiness. As the gray day broke, she fell into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER XII
FOR SOME TIME after that, Mildred was too busy to pay much attention to Veda. Relieved of Monty, she began to have money, above installments on the piano and everything else. In spite of hard times, her business grew better; the bar shook down into a profitable sideline;' most important of all, she paid off the last of the $4,000 she had owed for the property, and last of her equipment notes. Now the place was hers, and she took a step she had been considering for some time. The pies put a dreadful strain on her kitchen, so she built an annex, out back of the parking space, to house them as a separate unit. There was some little trouble about it, on account of the zoning regulations. But when she submitted acceptable exterior plans, which made it look like a rather large private garage, and agreed to display no advertising except the neon sign she was already using, the difficulty was smoothed out. When it was finished, she added pastries to her list, clever items suitable for restaurant perambulators, and had little trouble selling them. Hans presently needed an assistant, and then another. She bought a new truck, a really smart one. About the same time she turned in the car, never quite recovered from the battering it took in the storm, and bought a new one, a sleek maroon Buick with white tires that Veda kissed when the dealer delivered it.
But when Ida, who was a regular visitor' now, saw the annex, she grew thoughtful, and then one night started a campaign to get Mildred to open a branch in Beverly, with herself as manager. "Mildred, I know what I'm talking about. That town is just crying for a place that will put out a real line of ready desserts. Think of the entertaining they do over there. Them movie people giving parties every night, and the dessert nothing but a headache to them women. And look how easy you can give them what they want—why you're making all that stuff right now. And look at the prices you'll get. And look at the sidelines you got. Look at the fountain trade. Look at the sandwich trade. And I can do it all with four girls, a fountain man, a short-order cook, and a dish-washer."
Mildred, not wanting to assume risk when she had a certainty, was in no hurry about it. But she drove over to Beverly and made inquiries, and began to suspect that Ida was right. Then, snooping around one afternoon, she ran into a vacant property that she knew would be right for location. When she found out she could get a lease for an absurdly small rental, she made up her mind. There followed another hectic month of furniture, fixtures, and alterations. She wanted the place done in maple, but Ida obstinately held out for light green walls and soft, upholstered booths where people would find it comfortable to sit. Mildred gave way, but on the day of the opening she almost fainted. Without consulting her, Ida had ordered a lot of preserves, cakes, health breads, and other things she knew nothing about. Ida however said she herself knew all about them, at any rate all that was necessary to know. By the end of the week, Mildred was not only convinced, but completely flabbergasted. Ida's report was ectastic: "Mildred, we're in. In the first place I got a lunch trade that's almost like the Brown Derby. People that don't want planked whitefish and special hamburgers. They want those little sandwiches I got, and the fruit salads, and you just ought to hear the comment. And I don't hardly get them cleared out before I got a college trade, wonderful refined kids on their way home from Westwood that want a chocolate soda or a malt before they start playing tennis. And when they go my tea trade starts, and on top of that I got a little dinner trade, people that want to eat light before they catch a preview or something. And then on top of that I got a late trade, people that just want a cup of chocolate and a place to talk. From twelve noon until twelve midnight I got business. And the take-out trade from those people, it's enough to take your breath away." The receipts bore her out. Ida was to get $30 a week, plus 2 per cent of the gross. She had hoped, in time, to make $50 a week. That very first Saturday night Mildred wrote her a check for $53.71.
But it wasn't all smooth sailing. Mrs. Gessler, when she heard what Mildred was up to, flew into a rage, and wanted to know why Ida had been singled out to manage the Beverly branch, instead of herself. Mildred tried to explain that it was all Ida's idea, that some people are suited to one thing, some to another, but got nowhere. Mrs. Gessler continued bitter, and Mildred grew worried. She had come to depend on her tall, thin, profane bartender as she depended on nobody else, not only for shrewd business advice but also for some sort of emotional support that her nature demanded. Losing her would be a calamity, and she began to consider what could be done.
At that time there was considerable talk about the rise of Laguna Beach, a resort along the coast, a few miles off Long Beach. Mildred began to wonder if it would be a good place for still another branch, with Mrs. Gessler in charge. She drove down a number of times and looked it over. Except for one place, she found no restaurants that impressed her, and unquestionably the resort was coming up, not only for summer tippers, but for year-round residents as well. Again it was the lease that decided her. She found a large house, with considerable land around it, on a bluff, overlooking the ocean. With an expert eye, she noted what would have to be done to it, noted that the grounds would be expensive to keep up. But when the terms were quoted to her, they were so low that she knew she could make a good profit if she got any business at all. They were so low that for a brief time she was suspicious, but the agent said the explanation was simple enough. It had been a private home, but it couldn't be rented for that, as it was entirely too big for most of the people who came down from the city just to get a coat of tan. Furthermore, the beach in front of it was studded with rocks and was therefore unsuitable to swimming. For all ordinary purposes it was simply a turkey, and if she could use it, it was hers at the rate quoted. Mildred inspected the view, the house, the grounds, and felt a little tingle inside. Abruptly, she paid $25 cash for a ten-day option, and that night held Mrs. Gessier after closing time for a little talk. But she barely got started when Mrs. Gessler broke in: "Oh shut up, will you for God's sake shut up?"
"But—aren't you interested?"
"Does a duck like water? Listen, it's halfway between L. A. and San Diego, isn't it? Right on the main line, and Ike still has his trucks. It's the first honest-to-God's chance he's had to get started again, in a legal way, since—well, you know. And it gets him out of this lousy place. Do you w
ant me bawling right on your shoulder?"
"What's the matter with this place?"
"It's not the place, it's him. O.K., I'm working, see and he has to find something to do with himself, at night. So he finds it. He says it's pool, and he does come home with chalk all over him. I'll say that for him. But he's a liar. It's a frazzle-haired blonde that works in one of those antique furniture factories on Los Feliz. Nothing serious maybe, but he sees her, It's what I've been so jittery about, if you've got to know. And now, if I can just get him out of here, and in business again so he can hold his head up—well, maybe that'll be that. Go on, tell me some more."
So once again Mildred was in a flurry of alterations, purchases of inventory, and arguments about policy. She wanted a duplicate of the Glendale place, which would specialize in chicken, waffles, and pies, and operate a small bar as a sideline. Mrs. Gessler, however, had other ideas. "Do they come all the way to the ocean just to get chicken? Not if I know them. They want a shore dinner—fish, lobster, and crab—and that's what we're giving them. And that's where we make the dough. Don't forget: fish is cheap. But we've got to have a little variety, so we give them steak, right from our own built-in charcoal broiler."
When Mildred protested that she knew nothing about steaks, or fish, or lobster, or crab, and would be helpless to do the marketing, Mrs. Gessler replied she could learn. It wasn't until she sent for Mr. Otis, the federal meat inspector who had been romantic about her in her waitress days, that her alarm eased a little. He came to the Glendale restaurant one night, and confirmed her suspicions that there were about a hundred different ways to lose money on steaks. But when he talked with Mrs. Gessler he was impressed. He told Mildred she was "smart," and probably knew where she was coming out. It depended mainly, he said, on the chef, and to Mildred's surprise he recommended Archie, of Mr. Chris's establishment. Archie, he assured her, had been wasted for years in a second class place, but "he's still the best steak man in town, bar none. Any bum can cook fish and make money on it, so don't worry about that. But on steaks, you've got to have somebody that knows his stuff. You can't go wrong on Archie."
So Mildred stole Archie off Mr. Chris, and under his dour supervision installed the built-in charcoal broiler. Presently, after signs had been put up along the road, and announcements inserted in the Los Angeles papers, the place opened. It was never the snug little gold mine that Ida's place was, for Mrs. Gessler was careless of expenses, and tended to slight the kitchen in favor of the bar. But her talent at making a sort of club out of whatever she touched drew big business. The ingenuity with which she worked out the arrangements drew Mildred's reluctant admiration. The big living room of the house was converted into a maplepanelled bar, with dim lights. The rooms behind it were joined together in a cluster of small dining rooms, each with a pleasant air of intimacy about it. One of them opened on a veranda that ran around the house, and out here were tables for out-door drinkers, bathing suiters, and the overflow trade. But the most surprising thing to Mildred was the flower garden. She had never suspected Mrs. Gessler of any such weakness, but within a few weeks the whole brow of the bluff was planted with bushes, and here, it appeared, was where Mrs. Gessler spent her mornings, spading, pruning, and puttering with a Japanese gardener. The expense, what with the water and the gardener, was high, but Mrs. Gessler shrugged it off. "We're running a high-class dump, Baby, and we've got to have something. For some reason I don't understand, a guy with an old-fashioned on the table likes to listen to the bumble-bees." But when the flowers began to bloom, Mildred paid without protest, because she liked them. At twilight, just before the dinner rush, she would stroll among them, smelling them and feeling proud and happy. On one of these strolls Mrs. Gessler joined her, and then led her a block or two down the main road that ran through the town. Then she stopped and pointed, and across the street Mildred saw the sign:
G E S S L E R
LONG & SHORT DISTANCE
H A U L I N G
DAY & NIGHT
S E R V I C E !
Mrs. Gessler looked at it intently. "He's on call all the time, too. All he needed was a chance. Next week he's getting a new truck, streamlined."
"Is everything all right upstairs?"
Mildred had reference to the terms of Mrs. Gessler's employment. She didn't get $30 a week and 2 per cent of the gross, as Ida did. She got $30 and 1 per cent, the rest of her pay being made up of free quarters in the upper part of the house, with light, heat, water, food, laundry, and everything furnished. Mrs. Gessler nodded. "Everything's fine. Ike loves those big rooms, and the sea, and the steaks, and—well, believe it or not he even likes the flowers. 'Service with a gardenia'—he's thinking of having it lettered on the new truck. We're living again, that's all."
Mildred never cooked anything herself now, or put on a uniform. At Glendale, Mrs. Kramer had been promoted to cook, with an assistant named Bella; Mrs. Gessler's place was taken by a man bartender, named Jake; on nights when Mildred was at Beverly or Laguna, Sigrid acted as hostess, and wore the white uniform. Mildred worked from sun-up, when her marketing started, until long after dark; she worked so hard she began to feel driven, and relieved herself of every detail she could possibly assign to others. She continued to gain weight. There was still something voluptuous about her figure, but it was distinctly plump. Her face was losing such little color as it had had, and she no longer seemed younger than her years. In fact, she was beginnmg to look matronly. The car itself, she discovered, took a great deal out of her, and she engaged a driver named Tommy, older brother to Carl, who drove the truck. After some reflection she took him to Bullock's and bought him a uniform, so he could help on the parking lots. When Veda first saw him in this regalia, she didn't kiss him, as she had kissed the car. She gave her mother a long, thoughtful look, full of something almost describable as respect.
And in spite of mounting expenses, the driver, the girl Mildred engaged to keep the books, the money kept rolling in. Mildred paid for the piano, paid off the mortgages Bert had plastered on the house; she renovated, repainted, kept buying new equipment for all her establishments, and still it piled up. In 1936, when Mr. Roosevelt came up for reelection, she was still smarting from the tax she had paid on her 1935 income, and for a few weeks wavered in her loyalty. But then business picked up, and when he said "we planned it that way," she decided she had to take the bitter with the sweet, and voted for him. She began to buy expensive clothes, especially expensive girdles, to make her look thin. She bought Veda a little car, a Packard 120, in dark green, "to go with her hair." On Wally's advice, she incorporated, choosing Ida and Mrs. Gessler as her two directors, in addition to herself. Her big danger, Wally said, was the old woman in Long Beach. "O.K., she's crossing against the lights, Tommy had his brakes on when he hit her, she's not hurt a bit, but when she finds out you've got three restaurants just watch what she does to you. And it wQrks the other way around too. Sooner or later you're going to have those five people that got ptomaine poisoning, from the fish, or say they did. And what those harpies do to you, once they get in court, will be just plain murder. You incorporate, your personal property is safe." The old woman in Long Beach, to say nothing of the five harpies on their pots, fretted Mildred terribly, as many things did. She bought fantastic liability insurance, on the car, on the pie factory, on the restaurants. It was horribly expensive, but worth it, to be safe.
Through all the work, however, the endless driving, the worry, the feeling there were not enough hours in the day for all she had to do, one luxury she permitted herself. No matter how the day broke, she was home at three o'clock in the afternoon, for what she called her "rest." It was a rest, to be sure, but that wasn't the main idea. Primarily it was a concert, with herself the sole auditor. When Veda turned sixteen, she persuaded Mildred to let her quit high school, so
she could devote her whole time to music. In the morning she did harmony, and what she called "paper work." In the afternoon she practiced For two hours she prac
ticed exercises, but at three she began to practice pieces, and it was then that Mildred arrived. Tiptoeing in the back way, she would slip into the hail, and for a moment stand looking into the living room, where Veda was seated at the satiny black grand. It was a picture that never failed to thrill her: the beautiful instrument that she had worked for and paid for, the no less beautiful child she had brought into the world; a picture moreover, that she could really call her own. Then, after a soft "I'm home, darling," she would tiptoe to her bedroom, lie down, and listen. She didn't know the names of many of the pieces, but she had her favorites, and Veda usually played one. There was one in particular, something by Chopin, that she liked best of all, "because it reminds me of that song about rainbows." Veda, somewhat ironically, said: "Well Mother, there's a reason"; but she played it, nevertheless. Mildred was delighted at the way the child was coming along; warm, shy intimacy continued, and Mildred laughed to think she had once supposed that Monty had something to do with it. This, she told herself, was what made everything worth while.
One afternoon the concert was interrupted by a phone call. Veda answered, and from the tone of her voice, Mildred knew something was wrong. She came in and sat on the bed, but to Mildred's "What is it darling?" returned no answer at once. Then, after a few moments of gloomy siLence, she said: "Hannen's had a hemorrhage."
"Oh my, isn't that awful!"
"He knew it was coming on. He had two or three little ones. This one caught him on the street, while he was walking home from the postoffice. The ambulance doctor made a mess of it—had him lifted by the shoulders or something— and it's a lot worse than it might have been. Mrs. Hannen's almost in hysterics about it."
"You have to go over there. At once."
"Not today. He's all packed in icebags, and they give him some kind of gas to inhale. It's just hell."