Mildred Pierce

  "Oh, just picked it up."

  "Not from Bert."

  "I didn't say where."

  "Bert's hooch was God-awful. He was one of these home-laboratory guys, and the more stuff he put in it to kill the taste, the worse it tasted. But this—say, Bert must be crazy if he walked out on you."

  He looked at her admiringly and she refilled his glass. "Thanks, Mildred. I couldn't say no if I tried. Hey, what about yours?"

  Mildred, not much of a drinker under any circumstances, had decided that tonight might be an excellent time to exercise a certain womanly restraint. She laughed, shook her head. "Oh—one's all I take."

  "Don't you like it?"

  "I like it all right, but I'm really not used to it."

  "You've got to get educated."

  "I can see that right now. But we can attend to that part a little bit at a time. Tonight, the rest of it's yours."

  He laughed excitedly, strolled over to the window, stood looking out at the rain. "You know, I'm thinking about something. . . . Maybe you were right about not going out. That looks wetter than a Chinaman's wash. Did you really mean it, what you said about knocking something together that we could eat?" -

  "Of course I meant it."

  "Putting you to one hell of a lot of trouble, though."

  "Don't be silly, it's no trouble at all. And I bet you get a better meal here than you would outside. That's another thing you might have noticed, all the time you've been coming here. I don't know how much of a bartender I am, but I'm an awfully good cook."

  "Quit kidding me. That was the hired girl."

  "That was me. Want to watch?"

  "I sure do."

  She really was a marvelous cook, and he watched delightedly while she popped the chicken into the oven, scraped four potatoes, shelled a little dish of peas. They went back to the den until it should be time to put the vegetables on to boil, and he had another cocktail. By now she was wearing a little blue apron, and he oafishly admitted that he "sure would like to give those apron strings a pull."

  "You better not."

  "Why?"

  "I might tie it on you, and put you to work."

  "O.K. by me."

  "Would you like to eat here? By the fire?"

  "I'd love it."

  She got a bridge table out of the closet and set it up in front of the fireplace. Then she got out silver, glassware, and napkins, and arranged them for two. He followed her around like a puppy, his cocktail glass in his hand. "Hey, this looks like a real dinner."

  "I told you. Maybe you weren't listening."

  "From now on, I'm nothing but ears."

  The dinner was a little more of a success than she bargained for. For soup, she served some chicken jelly she had had left over from the middle of the week, and it struck him as very hightoned. When she had taken away the cups, she came in with the wine, which by a curious coincidence had been in the icebox since Mrs. Gessler left, and poured it, leaving the bottle on the table. Then she came in with the chicken, the potatoes, and peas, all deftly arranged on one platter. He was enthusiastic about everything, but when she came in with the pie, he grew positively lyrical. He told how his mother made such pies, back in Carlisle, Pa. He told about the Indian School, and Mt. Pleasant, the quarterback.

  But the food, much as it delighted him, seemed almost incidental. He insisted that she sit beside him, on the sofa, and wear the apron. When she came in with the coffee, she found he had turned out the lights, so they drank it by firelight alone. When they finished it he put his arm around her. Presently, deciding she ought to be sociable, she dropped her head on his shoulder, but when he touched her hair with his finger she got up. "I've got to take these things out."

  "I'll put the table away for you."

  "Then all right, and when you get done with that, if you want the bath, it's right beyond you, and that's the door over there. As for the cook, as soon as she gets the dishes out of sight, she's going to put on a warmer dress."

  What with the rain, and the general clammy feel of the night, the little print dress was becoming more and more uncomfortable, despite its pleasing appearance. She went to the bedroom, slipped out of it, and hung it up in the closet. But when she reached for her dark blue woolen dress, she heard something and turned around. He was standing in the door, a foolish grin on his face. "Thought you might need a little help."

  "I don't need help, and I didn't ask you in here."

  She spoke sharply, for her resentment at this invasion of her privacy was quick and real. But as she spoke, her elbow touched the closet door, and it swung open, revealing her. He caught his breath and whispered "Jesus." Then he seemed bewildered, and stood looking at her and yet not looking at her.

  Badly annoyed, she took the woolen dress off its hanger and slipped it over her head. Before she could close the snaps, however, she felt his arms around her, heard him mumbling penitently in her ear. "I'm sorry, Mildred. I'm sorry as hell. But it didn't break like I figured it would. I swear to God, I came in here for nothing but to pull those apron strings. It was just a gag, that's all. Hell, you know I wouldn't pull any cheap tricks like that on you, don't you?" And as though to prove his contempt for all cheap tricks, he reached over and turned out the light.

  Well, was she angry at him or not? In spite of the way in which she had followed all instructions, and the way he had justified all predictions, she still didn't know what she wanted to do about Wally. But as she twisted her head to keep her mouth from meeting his, it flitted through her mind that if she didn't have to open the Scotch, she might be able to get six dollars for it somewhere.

  Along about midnight, Wally lit a cigarette. Feeling warm, Mildred kicked the covers off and let the cold damp air prickle her quite lovely nakedness. She raised one leg, looked at it judiciously, decided once and for all it was not bowed, and that she was going to stop worrying about it. Then she wiggled her toes. It was a distinctly frivolous operation, but there was nothing frivolous about Wally as he set an ashtray near him, and pulled the covers over his more or less lovely nakedness. He was silently, almost ostentatiously glum as he lay there and smoked, so much so that Mildred said: "Penny."

  "I'm thinking about Bert."

  Without hearing any more about it, she knew what this meant: Wally had had his fun, and now he was getting ready to get out from under. She waited a moment or two, as she often did when angered, but in spite of her effort to sound casual, her voice had a vibrant sound to it. "And what about Bert?"

  "Oh—you know."

  "If Bert left me, and he's out of my life, why do you have to do all this thinking about him, when nobody else is?"

  "We're good friends. Goddam good friends."

  "But not so goddam good that you wouldn't block him off from a job he was entitled to have, and then go around playing all the politics you knew how, to get it for yourself."

  "Mildred, cussing's no good, coming from you."

  "And double-crossing's no good, coming from anybody."

  "I don't like that."

  "I don't care whether you like it or not."

  "They needed a lawyer."

  "After you talked to them they did. Oh yes, at least a dozen people came to Bert, and warned him what you were doing and begged him to go down and put his claim in, and he wouldn't do it, because he didn't think it was proper. And then he fo-und out what was proper. And what a pal you were."

  "Mildred, I give you my word—"

  "And what's that worth?"

  She jumped out of bed and began marching around the dark room, bitterly reviewing the history of Pierce Homes, Inc., the incidents of the crash, and the procedure of the receivers. He -started a slow, solemn denial. "Why don't you tell the truth? You've had all you wanted of me, haven't you? A drink, a dinner, and other things I'd prefer not to mention. And now you want to duck, and you -start talking about Bert. Funny you didn't think about Bert when you came in here, wanting to pull those apron strings. You remember them, don't you?" -
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  "I didn't hear you saying no."

  "No, I was a sap."

  She drew breath to say be was just like the rest of them, and then add Mrs. -Gessler's phrase, "the ditty bastards," but somehow the words didn't come. There was some core of honesty within her that couldn't quite accept Mrs. Gessler's mterpretations of life, however, they might amuse her at the moment. She didn't really believe they were dirty bastards, and she had set a trap for Wally. If he was wriggling out of it the best way he could, there was no sense in blaming him for things that were rapidly becoming too much for her, but that he certainly had nothing to do with. She sat down beside him. "I'm sorry, Wally."

  "Hell, that's all right."

  "I've been a little upset lately."

  "Who wouldn't be?"

  Next morning, Mildred was glumly washing the dinner dishes when Mrs. Gessler dropped over, to give an account of the party. She rather pointedly didn't refer to Wally until she was leaving, and then, as though she had just thought of it, asked how he was. Mildred said he was all right, and listened while Mrs. Gessler added a few more details about the party, and then said abruptly: "Lucy."

  "Yes?"

  "I'm on the town."

  "Well—you don't mean he actually left the money on the bureau, do you?"

  "All but."

  Mrs. Gessler sat on the corner of the table, looking at Mildred. There didn't seem to be much to say. It had all seemed so -pat, so simple, and amusing yesterday, but neither of them had allowed for prophecies that merely half came true, or for dirty bastards that were goddam liars, but not quite such clucks as they should have been. A wave of helpless rage set over Mildred. She picked up the empty wine bottle, heaved it into the pantry, laughed wildly as it smashed into a hundred pieces.

  CHAPTER III

  FROM THEN ON, Mildred knew she had to get a job. There came another little flurry of orders for cakes and pies, and she filled them, but all the time she was thinking, in a sick, frightened kind of way, or trying to think, of something she could do, some work she could get, so she could have an income, and not be put out of the house on the 1st of July, when the interest would be due on the mortgages Bert had put on the house. She studied the help-wanted advertisements, but there were hardly any. Each day there would be notices for cooks, maids, and chauffeurs, but she skipped quickly by them. The big advertisements, headed "Opportunity," "Salesmen Wanted," and "Men, Women, Attention,"— these she passed over entirely. They savored too much of Bert's methods in getting rid of Pierce Homes. But occasionally something looked promising. One advertisement called for: "Woman, young, pleasing appearance and manners, for special work." She answered, and was excited a day or two later when she got a note, signed by a man, asking her to call at an address in the Los Feliz section of Hollywood. She put on the print dress, made her face up nicely, and went over there.

  The man received her in sweat shirt and flannels, and said he was a writer. As to what he wrote, he was quite vague, though- he said his researches were extensive, and called him to many different parts of the -world, where, of course, she would be expected to travel with him. He was equally vague about her duties: it appeared she would help him "collect material," "file documents," and "verify citations"; also take charge of his house, get some order into it, and check his bills, on which he feared -he was being cheated. When he sat down near her, and announced he -felt sure she was the person he was looking for, she became suspicious. She hadn't said a word that indicated any qualifications for the job, if indeed -a job existed, and she came to the conclusion that what he wanted wasn't a research assistant, but a sweetie. She left, feeling sullen over her wasted afternoon and wasted bus fare. It was her first experience with the sexological advertiser, though she was to find out he was fairly common. Usually he was some phony calling himself a writer, an agent, or a talent scout, who had found out that for a dollar and a half's worth of newspaper space he could have a day-long procession of.. girls at his door, all desperate for work, all willing to do almost anything to get it.

  She answered more ads, got repeated requests to call, and did call, until her shoes began to show the strain, and she had to take them constantly to the shoemaker's, for heelstraightening and polishing. She began to feel a bitter resentment against Bert, for taking the car when she needed it so badly. Nothing came of the ad-answering. She would be too late, or not qualified, or disqualified, on account of the children, or unsuitable in one way and another. She made the rounds of the department stores, and became dismally familiar with the crowd of silent people in the hallway outside the personnel offices, and the tense, desperate jockeying for position when the doors opened at ten o'clock. At only one store was she permitted to fill out a card. This was at Corasi Bros., a big place in downtown Los Angeles that specialized in household furnishings. She was first through the door here, and quickly sat down at one of the little glasstopped tables reserved for interviews. But the head of the department, addressed by everybody as Mrs. Boole, kept passing her by, and she grew furious at this injustice. Mrs. Boole was rather good-looking, and seemed to know most of the applicants by name. Mildred was so resentful that they should be dealt with ahead of her that she suddenly gathered up her gloves and started to flounce out, without being interviewed at all. But Mrs. Boole held up a finger, smiled, and came over. "Don't go. I'm sorry to keep you waiting, but most of these people are old friends, and it seems a pity not to let them know at once, so they can call at the other stores, and perhaps have a little luck. That's why I always talk to new applicants last, when I really have a little time." -

  Mildred sat down again, ashamed of her petulant dash for the door. When Mrs. Boole finally came over, she began to talk, and instead of answering questions in -a tight-lipped defensive way, as she had at other places, opened up a little. She alluded briefly to the break-up of her marriage, stressed her -familiarity with all things having to do with kitchens, and said she was sure she could be useful in that department, as saleswoman, demonstrator, or both. Mrs. Boole measured her narrowly at that, then led her into an account of what she had been doing about getting a job. Mildred held nothing back, and after Mrs. Boole cackled gaily at the story of Harry Engel and his anchors, she felt warm tears swimming into her eyes, for she felt if she didn't have a job, at least she had a friend. It was then that Mrs. Boole had her fill out the card. "There's nothing open right now, but I'll remember what you said about the kitchenware, and if anything comes up, at least I'll know where to get hold of you."

  Mildred left in such a pleasant glow that she forgot to be disappointed, and she was halfway down the hall before she realized her name was being called. Mrs. Boole was standing in the hallway, the card still in her hand, and came toward her nervously. She took Mildred's hand, held it a moment or two while she looked down at the street, many stories below. Then: "Mrs. Pierce, there's something I've got to tell you."

  "Yes?"

  "There aren't any jobs."

  "Well, I knew things were slack, but—"

  "Listen to me, Mrs. Pierce. I wouldn't say this to many of them, but you seem different from most of the applicants that come in here. I don't want you to go home thinking there's any hope. There isn't. In this store, we've taken on just two peop-le in the last three months—one to take the place of a gentleman who was killed in an automobile accident, the other to take the place of a lady who had to retire on account of ill health. We see everybody that comes in, partly because we think we ought to, partly because we don't want to close up the department altogether. There just aren't any jobs, here or in the other stores either. I know I'm making you feel bad, but I don't want you to be—kidded."

  Mildred patted her arm, and laughed. "Well my goodness, it's not your fault. And I know exactly what you mean. You don't want me to be wearing out shoes, for nothing."

  "That's it. The shoes."

  "But if you do have something—"

  "Oh, if I have anything, don't worry. I'll be only too glad to let you know&mdash
;by paid telegram. And, if you're down this way again, will you drop in on me? We could have lunch."

  "I'll be only too glad to."

  Mrs. Boole kissed her, and Mildred left, feeling footsore, hungry, and strangely happy. When she got home there was a notice hanging on the door, asking her to call for a paid telegram.

  "Mrs. Pierce, it was like something in a movie. You had hardly stepped into the elevator, honestly. In fact I had you paged downstairs, hoping you hadn't left the store."

  They sat down, in Mrs. Boole's private office this time, Mrs. Boole behind her big desk, Mildred in the chair beside it. Mrs. Boole went on: "I was watching you step into the down car, I was admiring your figure if you have to know why I was watching you, when this call came from the restaurant."

  "You mean the store restaurant?"

  "Yes, the tea room on the roof. Of course, the store doesn't have anything to do with that. It's sublet, but the manager likes to take people from our lists, just the same. He feels it makes a better tie-up, and then of course we do quite a lot of sifting ourselves, before we p-lace a name on file, and it puts him in touch with a better class of girls."

  "And what is the job?"

  Mildred's mind was leaping wildly from cashier to hostess to dietician: she didn't quite know what a dietician was, but she felt she could fill the bill. Mrs. Boole answered at once: "Oh, nothing very exciting. One of his waitresses got married, and he wants somebody to take her place. Just a job— but those girls do very well for a four-hour day; they're only busy at lunch, of course—and it would give you plenty of time with your own children, and home—and at least it's a job."

  The idea of putting on a uniform, carrying a tray, and making her living from tips made Mildred positively ill. Her lips wanted to flutter, and she ran her tongue around inside them to keep them under control. "Why, thanks ever so much, Mrs. Boole. I realize, of course, that it's quite a nice opening—but I doubt if I'm really fitted for it."

  Mrs. Boole suddenly got red, and began to talk as though she didn't quite know what she was saying. "Well, I'm sorry, Mrs. Pierce, if I got you down here about something that-perhaps you don't feel you could accept. But I somehow got the idea that you wanted work—"