Mildred Pierce

  CHAPTER II

  FOR A DAY OR TWO after Bert left, Mildred lived in a sort of fool's paradise, meaning she got two orders for cakes and three orders for pies. They kept her bustlingly busy, and she kept thinking what she would say to Bert, when he dropped around to see the children: "Oh, we're getting along all right—no need for you to worry. I've got all the work I can do, and more. Just goes to show that when a person's willing to work there still seems to be work to be done." Also, she conned over a slightly different version, for Mr. Pierce and Mom: "Me? I'm doing fine. I've got more orders now than I can fill—but thank you for your kind offers, just the same." Mr. Pierce's fainthearted inquiries still rankled with her, and, it pleased her that she could give the pair of them a good waspish sting, and then sit back and watch their faces. She was a little given to rehearsing things in her mind, and having imaginary triumphs over people who had upset her in one way and another.

  But soon she began to get frightened. Several days went by, and there were no orders. Then there came a letter from her mother, mainly about the A. T. & T., which she bad bought outright and still held, and which had fallen to some absurd figure. She was quite explicit about blaming this all on Bert, and seemed to feel there was something he could do about it, and should do. And such part of the letter as wasn't about the A. T. & T. was about Mr. Engel's shipchandler-business. At the moment it seemed that the only cash customers were bootleggers, but they all used light boats, and Mr. Engel was stocked with heavy gear, for steamers. So Mildred was directed to drive down to Wilmington and see if any of the chandlers there would take this stuff off his hands, in exchange for the lighter articles used by speedboats. Mildred broke into a hysterical laugh as she read this, for the idea of going around, trying to get rid of a truckload of anchors, struck her as indescribably comic. And in the same mail was a brief communication from the gas company, headed "Third Notice," and informing her that unless her bill was paid in five days service would be discontinued.

  Of the three dollars she got from Mrs. Whitley, and the nine she got from the other orders, she still had a few dollars left. So she walked down to the gas company office and paid the bill, carefully saving the receipt. Then she counted her money and stopped by a market, where she bought a chicken, a quarter pound of hot dogs, some vegetables, and a quart of milk. The chicken, first baked, then creamed, then made into three neat croquettes, would provision her over the weekend. The hot dogs were a luxury. She disapproved of them, on principle, but the children loved them, and she always tried to have some around, for bites between meals. The milk was a sacred duty. No matter how gritty things got, Mildred always managed to have money for Veda's piano lessons, and for all the milk the children could drink.

  This was a Saturday morning, and when she got home she found Mr. Pierce there. He had come to invite the children over for the weekend, —"no use coming back here with them. I'll bring them direct to school Monday morning, and they can come home from there." By this Mildred knew there was dirty work afoot, probably a trip to the beach, where the Pierces had friends, and where Bert would appear, quite by coincidence. She resented it, and resented still more that Mr. Pierce had delayed his coming until she had spent the money for the chicken. But the prospect of having the children fed free for two whole days was so tempting that she acted quite agreeably about it, said of course they could go, and packed a little bag for them. But unexpectedly, as she ran back in the house after waving them good-bye, she began to cry, and went in the living room to resume a vigil that was rapidly becoming a habit. Everybody in the block seemed to be going somewhere, spinning importantly down the street, with blankets, paddles, and even boats lashed to the tops of their cars, and leaving blank silence behind. After watching six or seven such departures Mildred went to the bedroom and lay down, clenching and unclenching her fists.

  Around five o'clock the bell rang. She had an uneasy feeling it might be Bert, with some message about the children. But when she went to the door it was Wally Burgan, one of the three gentlemen who had made the original proposition to Bert which led to Pierce Homes, Inc. He was a stocky, sandy-haired man of about forty, and now worked for the receivers that had been appointed for the corporation. This was another source of irritation between Mildred and Bert, for she thought he should have had the job, and that if he had bestirred himself a little, he could have had it. But Wally had got it, and he was out there now, without a hat, greeting her with a casual wave of the cigarette that seemed to accompany everything he did. "Hello, Mildred. Is Bert around?"

  "Not right now he isn't."

  "You don't know where he went?"

  "No, I don't."

  Wally stood thinking a minute, -then turned to go. "All right, I'll see him Monday. Something came up, little trouble over a title, I thought maybe he could help us out. Ask him if he can drop over, will you?"

  Mildred let him get clear down the walk before she stopped him. She hated to wash the dirty linen in front of any more people than she could help, but if straightening out a title would mean a day's work for Bert, or a few dollars in some legal capacity, she had to see that he got the chance. "Ah—come in, Wally."

  Wally looked a little surprised, then came back and stepped into the living room. Mildred closed the door. "If it's important, Wally, you'd better look Bert up your self. He—he's not living here any more."

  "What?"

  "He went away."

  "Where?"

  "I don't know exactly. He didn't tell me. But I'm sure old Mr. Pierce would know, and if they've gone away, why—I think Maggie Biederhof might know, at least how to reach him."

  Wally looked at Mildred for a time, then said: "Well— when did all this happen?"

  "Oh—a few days ago."

  "You mean you've busted up?"

  "Something like that."

  "For good?"

  "As far as I know."

  "Well, if you don't know I don't know who does know."

  "Yes, it's for good."

  "You living here all alone?"

  "No, I have the children. They're away with their grandparents for the weekend, but they're staying with me, not with Bert."

  "Well say, this is a hell of a note."

  Wally lit another cigarette and resumed looking at her. His eyes dropped to her legs. They were bare, as she was saving stockings, and she pulled her skirt over them selfconsciously. He looked several other places, to make it appear that his glance had been accidental, then said: "Well, what do you do with yourself?"

  "Oh, I manage to keep busy."

  "You don't look busy."

  "Saturday. Taking a day off."

  "I wouldn't ask much to take it off with you. Say, I never did mind being around you."

  "You certainly kept it to yourself."

  "Me, I'm conscientious."

  They both laughed, and Mildred felt a little tingle, as well as some perplexity that this man, who had never taken the slightest interest in her before, should begin making advances the moment he found out she had no husband any more. He talked along, his voice sounding a little unnatural, about the swell time they could have, she replying - flirtatiously, aware that there was something shady about the whole thing, yet a bit giddy at her unaccustomed liberty. Presently he sighed, said he was tied up for tonight, "But look."

  "Yes?"

  "What you doing tomorrow night?"

  "Why, nothing that I know of."

  "Well then—?"

  She dropped her eyes, pleated her dress demurely over her knee, glanced at him. "I don't know why not."

  He got up and she got up. "Then it's a date. That's what we'll do. We'll step out."

  "If I haven't forgotten how."

  "Oh, you'll know how. When? Half past six, maybe?"

  "That suits me fine."

  "Make it seven."

  "Seven o'clock I'll be ready."

  Around noon next day, while Mildred was breakfasting off the hot dogs, Mrs. Gessler came over to invi
te her to a party that night. Mildred, pouring her a cup of coffee, said she'd -love to come, but as she had a date, she wasn't sure she could make it. "A date? Gee, you're working fast."

  "You've got to do something."

  "Do I know him?"

  "Wally Burgan."

  "Wally—well, bring him!"

  "I'll see what his plans are."

  "I didn't know he was interested in you."

  "Neither did I. . . . Lucy, I don't think he was. I don't think he'd ever looked at me. But the second he heard Bert was gone, well it was almost funny the effect it had on him. You could see him get excited. Will you kindly tell me why?"

  "I ought to have told you about that. The morals they give you credit for, you'd be surprised. To him, you were a red-hot mamma the second he found out about you."

  "About what?"

  "Grass widow! From now on, you're fast."

  "Are you serious?"

  "I am. And they are."

  Mildred, feeling no faster than she had ever felt, pondered this riddle for some little time, while Mrs. Gessler sipped her coffee and seemed to be pondering something else. Presently she asked: "Is Wally married?"

  "Why—not that I know of. No, of course he's not. He was always gagging about how lucky the married ones were on income-tax day. Why?"

  "I wouldn't bring him over, if I were you."

  "Well, as you like."

  "Oh, it's not that—he's welcome, so far as that goes. But—you know. These are business friends of Ike's, with their lady friends, all-right guys, trying to make a living same as anybody else, but a little rough, and a little noisy. Maybe they spend too much time on the sea, playing around in their speedboats. And the girls are the squealing type. None of them are what you ought to be identified with, specially when you've got a single young man on your hands, that's already a little suspicious of your morals, and—"

  "Do you think I'm taking Wally seriously?"

  "You ought to be, if you're not. Well if not, why not? He's a fine, upstanding, decent young man, that looks a little like a pot-bellied rat, but he's single and he's working, and that's enough."

  "I don't think he'd be shocked at your party."

  "I haven't finished yet. It's not a question of whether you're making proper use of your time. What are his plans, so far as you know them?"

  "Well, he's coming here and—"

  "When?"

  "Seven."

  "That's mistake No. 1. Baby, I wouldn't let that cluck buy your dinner. I'd sit him right down and give him one of those Mildred Pierce specials—"

  "What? Me work when he's willing to—"

  "As an investment, baby, an investment in time, effort, and raw materials. Now shut up and let me talk. Whatever outlay it involves is on me, because I've become inspired and when inspired I never count little things like costs. It's going to be a perfectly terrible night." She waved a hand at the weather, which had turned gray, cold, and overcast, as it usually does at the peak of a California spring. "It Won't be no fit night out for man nor beast. And what's more, you've already got dinner half fixed, and you're not going to have things spoil just because he's got some foolish notion he wants to take you out."

  "Just the same, that was the idea."

  "Not so fast, baby—let us pause and examine that idea. Why would he want to take you out? Why do they ever want to take us out? As a compliment to us, say they. To show us a good time, to prove the high regard they have for us. They're a pack of goddam liars. In addition to being dirty bastards, and very dumb clucks, they are also goddam liars. There's practically nothing can be said in favor of them, except they're the only ones we've got. They take us out for one reason, and one reason only: so they can get a drink. Secondarily, so we can get a drink, and succumb to their fell designs after we get home, but mainly so they can have a drink. And, baby, right there is where I come in."

  She ducked out the screen door, ran across the yards, and presently was back with a basket, in which were quite a few bottles. She set them out on the kitchen table, then resumed her talk. "This stuff, the gin and the Scotch, is right off the boat, and better than he's tasted in years. All the gin needs is a little orange juice, and it'll make a swell cocktail; be sure you cut it down plenty with ice. Now this other, the wine, is straight California, but he doesn't know it, and it's O.K. booze, so lean on it. That's the trick, baby. Handle the wine right and the high-priced stuff will last and last and last. Fill him up on it—much as he wants, and more. It's thirty cents a quart, half a cent for the pretty French label, and the more he drinks of that, the less he'll want of Scotch. Here's three reds and three whites, just because I love you, and want you to get straightened out. With fish, chicken and turkey, give him white, and with red meat, give him red. What are you having tonight?"

  "Who says I'm having anything?"

  "Now listen, have we got to go all over that? Baby, baby, you go out with him, and he buys you a dinner, and you get a little tight, and you come home, and something happens, and then what?"

  "Don't worry. Nothing'll happen."

  "Oh something'll happen. If not tonight, then some other night. Because if it don't happen, he'll lose interest, and quit coming around, and you wouldn't like that. And when it happens, it's Sin. It's Sin, because you're a grass widow, and fast. And he's all paid up, because he bought your dinner, and that makes it square."

  "He must have a wonderful character, my Wally."

  "He's got the same character they've all got, no better and no worse. But—if you bought his dinner, and cooked it for him the way only you can cook, and you just happened to look cute in that little apron, and something just happened to happen, then it's Nature. Old Mother Nature, baby, and we all know she's no bum. Because that grass widow, she went back to the kitchen, where all women belong, and that makes it all right. And Wally, he's not paid up, even a little bit. He even forgot to ask the price of the chips. He'll find out. And another thing, this way is quick, and the last I heard of you, you were up against it, and couldn't afford to waste much time. You play it right, and inside of a week your financial situation will be greatly eased, and inside of a month you'll have him begging for the chance to buy that divorce. The other way, making the grand tour of all the speako's he knows, it could go on for five years, and even then you couldn't be sure."

  "You think I want to be kept?"

  "Yes."

  For a while after that, Mildred didn't think of Wally, at any rate to know she was thinking of him. After Mrs. Gessler left, she went to her room and wrote a few letters, particularly one to her mother, explaining the new phase her life had entered, and going into some detail as to why, at the moment, she wouldn't be able to sell the anchors. Then she mended some of the children's clothes. But around four o'clock, when it started to rain, she put the sewing basket away, went to the kitchen, and checked her supplies from the three or four oranges in reserve for the children's breakfast to the vegetables she had bought yesterday in the market. The chicken she gave a good smelling, to make sure it was still fresh. The quart of milk she took out of the icebox with care, so as not to joggle it, and, using a tiny ladle intended for salt, removed the thick cream at the top and put it into a glass pitcher. Then she opened a can of huckleberries and made a pie. While that was baking she stuffed the chicken.

  Around six she laid a fire, feeling a little guilty that most of the wood consisted of the dead limbs Bert had sawed off the avocado trees the afternoon he left. She didn't 'build it in the living room. She built it in the "den," which was on the other side of the chimney from the living room and had a small fireplace of its own. It was really one of the three bedrooms, and had its own bathroom, but Bert had fixed it up with a sofa, comfortable chairs, and photographs of the banquets he had spoken at, and it was here that they did their entertaining. The fire ready to light, she went to the bedroom and dressed. She put on a print dress, the best she had. She examined a great many stockings, found two that showed n
o signs of runs, put them on. Her shoes, by careful sparing, were in fair shape, and she put on simple black ones. Then, after surveying herself in the mirror, admiring her legs, and remembering to bend the right knee, she threw a coat around her and went to the den. Around ten minutes to seven she put the coat away and turned on one button of heat. Then she pulled down the shades and turned on several lamps.

  Around ten after seven, Wally rang the bell, apologetic for being late, anxious to get started. For one long moment Mildred was tempted: by the chance to save her food, by the chance to eat without having to cook, most of all by the chance to go somewhere, to sit under soft lights, perhaps even to hear an orchestra, and dance. But her mouth seemed to step out in front of her, and take charge in a somewhat gabby way. "Well my goodness, I never even dreamed you'd want to go out on a night like this."

  "Isn't that what we said?"

  "But it's so awful out. Why can't I fix you something, and maybe we could go out some other night?"

  "Hey, hey, I'm taking you out."

  "All right, but at least let's wait a few minutes, in case this rain'll let up a little. I just hate to go out when it's coming down like this."

  She led him to the den, lit the fire, took his coat, and disappeared with it. When she came back she was shaking an orange blossom in a pitcher, and balancing a tray on which Were two glasses.

  "Well say! Say!"

  "Thought it might help pass the time."

  "You bet it will."

  He took his glass, waited for her to take hers, said "Mud in your eye," and sipped. Mildred was startled at how good it was. As for Wally, he was downright reverent at how good it was. "What do you know about that? Real gin! I haven't tasted it since—God knows when. All they give you in these speaks is smoke, and a guy's taking his life in his hands, all the time. Say, where did you tend bar?"