Up to then, she had known there would be outlays, but thought of them vaguely as "a couple of thousand to put the place in order, and a few thousand to furnish it." After the bank's report, however, she had to consider whether it wouldn't be better to give the place a complete overhaul, so that she would have a property that somebody might conceivably want to buy, instead of a monstrosity. That was when Monty was called into consultation. She didn't tell him about the financial problem, but she was delighted when he hit on the plan of restoring the house to what it had been before Beragon, Sr., put into effect his bizarre ideas for improvement. But while this satisfied the bank, and qualified her for a $25,000 loan, it cost upwards of $5,000, and cleaned out her personal cash. For the furnishings, she had to sell bonds. When she married Monty he had to 'have a car, or she thought he had. This meant $1,200 more. To get the money, and cover one or two other things that had 'come up by then, she dipped into the reserves of the corporation. She drew herself a check for $2,500 and marked it "bonus." But she didn't use a check 'from the big checkbook used by Miss Jaeckel, the lady she employed to keep the books. She used one of 'the blanks 'she always carried in her handbag, in case of emergency. She kept saying to herself that she must tell Miss Jaeckel about the check, but she didn't do it. Then, in December of 1939, to take 'care of Christmas expenses, she gave herself another bonus of $2,500, so that by the first of the year there was a difference of $5,000 between'what Miss Jaeckel's books showed and what the bank was actually carrying on deposit.
But these large outlays were only part of her difficulties. The bank, to her surprise, insisted on amortization of her loan as well as regular interest payments, so that to the $125 a month in carrying charges were added $250 in reduction charges, a great deal more than she had anticipated. Then Monty, when he sold her Kurt and Frieda at $150 a month, put her to somewhat heavier expenses in the kitchen than she had expected. Then the endless guests, all of whom seemed to have the thirst of a caravan of camels, ran up the bill for household entertainment to an appalling figure. The result was that 'she was compelled to increase her salary from the corporation. Until then, she had allowed herself $75 a week from each of the corporation's four component parts: the Pie Wagon, the pie factory, the Beverly restaurant, and the Laguna restaurant, or $300 a week in all. This was so grotesquely in excess of her 'living expenses that the money piled up on her account, and it was so much less than the corporation's earnings that a nice little corporate reserve piled up too. But when she hiked it to $400, the reserve ceased growing, and in fact Miss Jaeckel, with stern face, several times notified her that it would be necessary to transfer money from Reserve, which was carried on a special account, to Current Cash, which was carried on another account. These transfers of $500 each Mildred O.K.'d hurriedly, and with averted eyes, feeling miserable, and like a thief.
Reserve, being a sort of sacred cow outside the routine bookkeeping system, didn't often come into Miss Jaeckel's purview, so there was no immediate danger she would learn of Mildred's withdrawals. And yet in March of 1940, when Miss Jaeckel made up the income statements, and took them down to the notary and swore to them, and left them, with the tax checks, for Mildred's signature, Mildred was in a cold sweat. She couldn't now 'face Miss Jaeckel and tell her what she had done. So she took the statements to an accountant, and swore him to secrecy, and told him what she had done, and asked 'him to get up another set, which she herself would swear to, and which would conform with the balance at the bank. He seemed upset, and asked her a great many questions, and took a week making up his mind that nothing unlawful had been done, so far. But he kept emphasizing that "so far," and looking at Mildred in an accusing way, and he charged $100 for his services, an absurd sum for what amounted to a little recopying, 'with slight changes. She paid him, and had him forward the checks, and told Miss Jaecke'l she had mailed them herself. Miss Jaeckel looked at her queerly, and went 'back to her little office in the pie factory without comment.
Then, within a week or two, two things happened, of an elusive, tantalizing sort, and it was hard to say what was cause and what was effect, but the Laguna business took an alarming drop, and didn't recover. The Victor Hugo, one of the oldest and best of the Los Angeles restaurants, opened a place not far from Mr. Gessler's place, and at once did a thriving trade. And Mrs. Gessler, white-lipped and tense, informed Mildred one night that "that little bitch, that trollop from Los Feliz Boulevard, had moved down here."
"Is Ike seeing her?"
"How do I know who Ike sees? He's out on call half the time, and who knows where he goes, or when he comes back."
"Can't you find out?"
"I've found out, or tried to. No, he's not seeing her, that I know of. Ike's all right, if he gets half a bre'ak. But she's here. She's working in that pottery place, up the road about three miles, in a smock and—"
After that, it didn't seem to Mildred that Mrs. Gessler quite had her mind on her work. Trade slacked off, and Mildred couldn't think of 'any way to get it back. She cut prices, and that didn"t help. She would have closed the place down, but she was bound by a lease, unless she could get rid of it, and the other three places wouldn't yield enough to pay rent under the lease, and maintain her establishment in Pasadena too. It was almost weekly now that Miss Jaeckel came to her for more cash, and the transfers from Reserve, instead of being $500 each, dwindled to $250, to $150, to $100, to $50, and still the spiral was going downwards. Mildred lived a queer, unnatural life. By day she was nervous, worried, hunted, afraid to look Miss Jaeckel in the eye, sure all her employees were whispering about her, suspecting her, accusing her. By night, when she came home to Monty, to Veda, to the inevitable guests, she abandoned herself to quiet, mystical, intense enjoyment. In these hours, she sealed herself off from the crises of the day, permitted herself no anxious thoughts, stared at Veda, drew deep, tremulous breaths.
But there came a day when Reserve, on the books, was' $5,003.61 and at the bank was $3.61. She had to tell a long story to Miss Jaeckei, to cover her inability to make another transfer. Two days after that she couldn't pay her meat bill. Bills of all kinds, in the restaurant business, are paid on Monday, and failure to pay is a body blow to credit. Mr. Eckstein, of Snyder Bros. & Co., listened to Mildred with expressionless eyes, and agreed to deliver meat until she "straightened this little matter out." But all during the following week, Archie was raging at the inferior quality of the top sirloins, and Mrs. Gessler had to be restrained from calling Mr. Eckstein personally. By Monday, Snyder Bros. were paid, but Mildred was asking time on other bills, particularly her liquor bill, most of which she owed Bodega, Inc. And then one day Wally Burgan 'strolled into the Pie Wagon, and it developed that he had been retained by several of her creditors. He suggested a little conference. As mOst of the trouble seemed to be at Laguna, how would she like to meet them down there the following night? They could have dinner, and then talk things over. The following night was the night Veda was to sing at the Bowl. Mildred shrilly said it was impossible, she had to be at the Bowl; nothing could interfere. Then, said Wally, how about one night next week? How about Monday?
The delay made matters worse, for Monday saw more unpaid bills, and in addition to Mr. Eckstein, Mr. Rossi of the Bodega, and representatives of three wholesale grocers, Mildred had to face Mr. Gurney and several small-fry market men who had previously been flattered if she so much as said good morning. Wally, however, kept everything on a courteous plane. He enjoined silence about the matter in hand while dinner was being served, lest waitresses hear things. He insisted that Mildred give him the check for the creditors' banquet, as he somewhat facetiously called it. He encouraged her to talk, to lay her cards on the table, so something could be arranged. He kept reminding her that nobody wanted to make trouble. It was to 'the interest of all that she get on her feet again, that she become the Al customer she had been in the past.
Yet, at the end of two or three hours of questions, of answers, of figures, of explanations, the truth at last was ou
t, and not even Mildred's stammering evasions could change it: All four units of the corporation, even the Laguna restaurant, would be showing a profit if it were not for the merciless milking that Mildred was giving them in order to keep up the establishment in Pasadena. Once this was in the open there was a long, grave pause, and then Wally said: "Mildred, you mind if we ask a few questions 'about your home finances? Kind of get that a little straightened out?"
"That's nobody's business but mine."
"None of it's anybody's business, so far as that goes. If we just went by what was our business, we'd have gone to court already, asking for receivers, and strictly kept our questions to ourselves. We did'n't do that. We 'wanted to give you a break. But looks like we're entitled to 'little consideration too, don't it? Looks like we could go into what we think is importani. Maybe you don't think so. Maybe that's where the trouble is. It's you that's behind the eight ball, not us."
"... What do you want to know?"
"How much does Ved'a pay in?"
"I don't charge my own child board, I hope."
"She's the big expense though, isn't she?"
"I don't keep books on her."
"This is what I'm getting at: Veda, she's making plenty. She had some dough, that I got for her, and she was smart the way she invested it. She's dragging down $500 a week'' from Pleasant, and even after she pays all them agents, teachers, and chiselers, she must have quite a lot left over. Well, wouldn't you be justified in deducting an amount to pay for her keep? If you did, that would kind of ease the pressure all around."
Mildred opened her mouth to say she couldn't do any deducting, that she had nothing to do with Veda's income. Then, under Wally's bland manner she noted something familiar, something cold. As her heart skipped a beat, she knew she mustn't fall into any traps, mustn't divulge any of her arrangements with Veda. She must stall, say this was something she hadn't thought of before, insist there were legal angles she would have to look into before she would know how she felt. So mumbling, she kept watching and saw Mr. Rossi look at Mr. Eckstein. Then she knew wha't this was about. Wally was engineering a little deal. The creditors were to get their money, the corporation was to be placed on a sounder basis, 'and Veda was to foot the bill. It didn't occur to her that there was an element of justice in this arrangement: that the creditors had furnished her with goods, and were entitled to payment; that Veda earned large sums, and had run a lengthy bill. All she knew was that hyenas were leaping at her chick, and her craftiness, her ability to stall, deserted her. She became excited, said that no child of hers was going 'to be made the victim of any such gyp, if she had anything to do with it. Then, looking Wally in the eye, she went on: "And what's more, I don't believe you or anybody has any right, even any legal right, to take what 'belongs to me, or what belongs to my child, to pay the bills of this business. Maybe you've forgotten, Mr. Wally Burgan, that it was you that had me incorporate. It was you that had the papers drawn up, and explained 'the law to me. And your main talking point was that if I incorporated, then my personal property was safe from any and all creditors of the corporation. Maybe you've forgotten that, but I haven't."
"No, I haven't forgotten it."
Wally's chair rasped as he stood to face her, where she was already standing, a few feet back from the big round table. "I haven't forgotten it, and you're quite right, nobody here can take one dime of your money, or your personal property, or Veda's, to satisfy the claims they got, makes no difference how reasonable the claims may be. They can't touch a thing, it's all yours and a yard wide. All they can do is go to court, have you declared a bankrupt, and take over. The court will appoint receivers, and the receivers will run it. You'll be out."
"All right, then I'll be out."
"You'll be out, and Ida'll be in."
". . . Who?"
"You didn't know that, did you?"
"That's a lie. She wouldn't—"
"Oh yes she would. Ida, she cried, and said at first she wouldn't even listen to such a thing, she was such a good friend of yours. But she 'couldn't get to you, all last week, for a little talk. You were too busy with the concert. Maybe that hurt her a little. Anyway, now she'll listen to reason, and we figure she can run this business as good as anybody can run it. Not as good as you, maybe, when you've got your mind on it. But better than a stagestruck dame that would rather go to concerts than work, and rather spend the money on her child than pay her creditors."
At the revelation about Ida, tears had started to Mildred's eyes, and she turned her back while Wally went on, in a cold, 'fiat voice: "Mildred, you might as well get it through your head you got to do three things. You got to cut down on your overhead, so you can live on what you make. You got to raise some money, from Veda, from the Pierce Drive property, from somewhere, so you can square up these bills and start over. And you got to cut out this running around and get down to work. Now, as I said before, there's no hard feelings. We all wish you well. Just the same, we mean to get our money. Now you show us some action by a week from tonight, and you can forget it, what's been said. You don't and maybe we'll have to take a little action ourselves."
It was around eleven when she drove up to the house, but she tapped Tommy on the shoulder and stopped him when she saw the first floor brightly lit, with five or six cars standing outside. She was on the verge of hysteria, and she couldn't face Monty, and eight or ten poio players, and their wives. She told Tommy to call Mr. Beragon aside, and tell him she had been detained on business, and wouldn't be in until quite late. Then she moved forward, took the wheel, and drove out again into Orange Grove Avenue. It was almost automatic with her to turn left at the traffic circle, continue over the bridge, and level off for Glendale and Bert. There was no light at Mom's, but she knew he was home, because the car was in the garage, and he was the only one who drove it now. At her soft tap he opened a window, 'and told her he would be right out. At the sight of her face, he s'tood for a moment in his familiar, battered red bathrobe, patted her hand, and said goddam it this was no place to talk. Mom would be hollering, wanting to know what was' going on, and Pop would be hollering, trying to tell her, and it just wouldn't work. He asked Mildred to wait until he got his clothes on, and for a few minutes she sat in the car, feeling a little comforted. When he came out, he asked if she'd like him to drive, and she gladly moved over while he pulled away from the curb in the easy, grand style that nobody else quite seemed to have. He said it sure was one swell car, specially the way it held the road. She hooked her arm through his.
"Veda has to kick in."
They had driven to San Fernando, to Van Nuys, to Beverly, to the ocean, and were now in a little all-night cock'tail bar in Santa Monica. Mildred, 'breaking into tears, had told the whole story, or at least the whole story beginning with Veda's return home. The singular connection that Monty had with it, and particularly the unusual circumstances of her marriage, she conveniently left out, or perhaps she had already forgotten them. But as to recent events she was flagitiously frank, and even told about the two $2,500 checks, as yet undiscovered by Miss Jaeckel. At Bert's whistle there was a half-hour interlude, while he went into all details of this transaction, and she spoke in frightened whispers, yet gained a queer spiritual relief, as though she were speaking through the lattice of a confessional. And there was a long, happy silence after Bert said that so far as he could see, there had been no actual violation of the law. Then solemnly he added: "Not saying it wasn't pretty damn foolish."
"I know it was foolish."
"Well then—"
"You don't have to nag me."
She lifted his hand and kissed it, and then they were back to the corporation and its general problem. It could only be solved, he had insisted, through Veda. Now, on his second highball, he was even more of that opinion. "She's the one that's costing you money, and she's the one that's making money. She's got to pay her share."
"I never wanted her to know."
"I never wanted her to know, either, but she f
ound out just the same, when I hit the deck. If she'd had a little dough when Pierce Homes began to wobble, and I'd taken it, and Pierce Homes was ours right now, she'd be better off, wouldn't she?"
Mildred pressed Bert's hand, and sipped her rye, then she held his hand tight, and listened to the radio for a minute or two, as it began moaning low. She hadn't realized until then that Bert had been through all this himself, that she wasn't the only one who had suffered. Bert, in a low voice that didn't interfere with the radio, leaned forward and said: "And who the hell put that girl where she is today? Who paid for all the music? And that piano. And that car? And those clothes? And—"
"You did your share."
"Mighty little."
"You did a lot." Intermingling of Pierce Homes, Inc., with Mildred Pierce, Inc., plus a little intermingling of rye and seltzer, had brought Bert nearer to her than he had ever been before, and she was determined that justice must be done him. "You did plenty. Oh we lived very well before the 'Depression, Bert, as well as any family ever lived in this country, or any other. And a long time. Veda was eleven years when we broke up, and she's only twenty now. I've carried on nine years, but it was eleven for you."
"Eleven years and eight months."