Mildred Pierce

  "Girls! Girls!"

  "I caught her! She's been doing it right along, stealing tips off my tables! She stole tea cents off eighteen, before that lady sat down, and now she stole fifteen out of a forty-cent tip right here—and I seen her do it!"

  In a moment the place was like a beehive, with other girls shouting their accusations, the hostess trying to restore order, and the manager flying out of the kitchen. He was a rotund little Greek, with flashing black eyes, and he summarily fired both girls and apologized profusely to the customers. When the two of them suddenly paraded out, in their street clothes, a few minutes later, Mildred was so lost in her reflections that she didn't even give her girl a nod. It was not until the hostess appeared in an apron, and began serving orders, that she woke up to the fact that she was face to face with one of the major decisions of her life. They needed help, that was plain, and needed it now. She stared at the water glass, twisted her mouth into a final, irrevocable decision. She would not do this kind of work, if she starved first. She put a dime on the table. She got up. She went to the cashier's desk, and paid her check. Then, as though walking to the electric chair, she turned around, headed for the kitchen.

  CHAPTER IV

  THE NEXT TWO HOURS, to Mildred, were a waking nightmare. She didn't get the job quite as easily as she had supposed she would. The proprietor, whose name was apparently Makadoulis, but whom everybody addressed as Mr. Chris, was willing enough, especially as the hostess kept shrilling in his ear: "You've got to put somebody on! It's a mess out there! It's a mess!" But when the girls saw Mildred, and divined what she was there for, they gathered around, and passionately vetoed her application, unless- Anna was taken back. Anna, she gathered, was the girl who had waited on her, and the aggressor in the fight, but as all of them apparently had been victims of the thefts, they seemed to regard her as their representative in a sense, and didn't propose to have her made a goat. They argued their case in quite noisy fashion, letting the counters pile up with orders while they screamed, and making appropriate gestures. One of these gestures wiped a plate into space, with a club sandwich on it. Mildred caught it as it fell. The sandwich was wholly wrecked, but she put it together again, with deft fingers, and restored it to its place on the counter. The Chef, a gigantic man addressed as Archie, watched her exhibition of juggling with impassive stolidity, but when the reconstructed sandwich was back on the counter he gave her a curt nod. Then he began banging on the steam table with the palm of his hand. This restored quiet as nothing else had been able to do. Mr. Chris turned to the girls. "Hokay, hokay."

  The question of Anna being thus settled, the hostess hustled Mildred back to the lockers, where she unlocked a door and held out a menu. "Take off your dress and while I'm finding a uniform to fit, study this menu, so you can be some use. What size do you wear?"

  "Ten."

  "You worked in a restaurant before?"

  "No."

  "Study it, specially prices."

  Mildred took off her dress, hung it in the locker, and stared at the menu. There were fifty-five- and sixty-five-cent lunches on it, as well as appetizers, steaks, chops, desserts, and fountain drinks, most of these bearing fancy names that were unintelligible to her. In spite of her best concentration most of it was a jumble. In a minute or two the hostess was back with her uniform, a pale blue affair, with white collar, cuffs, and pockets. She slipped into it. "And here's your apron. You furnish your uniform; it comes off your first check, three ninety-five; you get it at cost, and you keep it laundered. And if you don't suit us, we charge you twenty-five cents' rent on the uniform; that comes out of your check too, but you don't have the whole uniform to pay for unless we really take you on. The pay is twenty-five cents an hour, and you keep your own tips."

  "And what's your name, Miss?"

  "Ida. What's yours?"

  "Mildred."

  They started for the dining room, but going through the kitchen Ida kept talking into her ear. "I'm giving you a light station, see? Three, four, five, and six, all them little booths against the wall. That's so you don't get no fours. Singles and twos are easier. All them that's just come in, you take them, and them that's already started on their lunches, I'll take care of them myself. That's so you don't get mixed up on them other girls' books."

  They reached the dining room, and Ida pointed out the station. Three of the tables were occupied by people who had given their orders before the fight started, the fourth by a pair of women who had just come in. All were getting annoyed at the delay in service. But still Mildred wasn't permitted to start. Ida led her to the cashier, a fish-faced blonde who began savagely telling Ida of the complaints she had received, and of the five people who had already walked out. Ida cut her off, had her issue Mildred a new book. "You've got to account for every check, see? In here you mark your number, you're No. 9. Here you mark the number of the table, here the number of customers on the check. Down here, put down everything they order, and the first thing you got to learn: don't make no mistake on a check. It's all booked against you, and if you make a mistake, it's deducted, and you got to pay for it."

  With this ominous warning in her ears, Mildred at last approached the two women who were waiting to have their orders taken, handed them their menus, and inquired what they were going to have. They replied they weren't sure they were going to have anything, and wanted to know what kind of place this was anyway, to let people sit around without even asking them if they minded waiting. - Mildred, almost in hysteria by now with what she had been through- that day, felt a hot impulse to take them down a few notches, as she had taken Mrs. Forrester. However, she managed a smile, said there had been a little trouble, and that if they could just be patient a minute or two, she would see they were served at once. Then, taking a quick lunge at the only thing she remembered about the menu, she added: "The roast chicken is awfully good today."

  Slightly mollified, they chose chicken on the sixty-five-cent lunch, but one of them said loudly: "See there's no gravy on mine in any way, shape, or form. I hate brown gravy."

  "Yes, Miss. I'll remember."

  Mildred started for the kitchen, barely missing a girl who appeared at the out door. Swerving in time, she dived through the in door and called to Archie: "Two roast chicken. One without gravy."

  But the ubiquitous Ida was at her elbow, calling frantically to Archie: "Hold one gravy, hold it!" Then she yanked Mildred aside, and half screamed at her: "You got to call it right! You can't work nowhere without you're in good with the Chef, and you got to call it right for him. Get this: If there's any trimmings they don't want, you don't call it without 'em, you call it hold 'em!"

  "Yes, Miss."

  "You got to be in good with the Chef!"

  Dimly Mildred began to understand why that great paw, banging on -the steam table, had restored order when Mr. Chris had been mobbed like a Junebug in a flock of angry hens. She had observed that the waitresses dipped their own soup, so she now got bowls and filled them with the cream of tomato that her customers had ordered. But there was no surcease from Ida. "Pick up your starters! Pick up your starters!" At Mildred's blank look, Ida grabbed two plates of salad from the sandwich counter, whipped two pats of butter into two small plates, and motioned Mildred to get the four plates in there, quick. "Have they got water?"

  "Not yet."

  "For crying out loud."

  Ida made a dive for the lift spigot, drew two glasses of water, slid them expertly so they fetched up beside the four plates. Then she pitched two napkins up against the water glasses. "Get in there with them—if they haven't walked out on you."

  Mildred blinked helplessly at this formidable array. "Well—can I have a tray?"

  In despair, Ida picked up plates, glasses, and napkins, so they were spread across her fingers like playing cards, and balanced halfway up her arm. "Get the soup, and come on." She was gone before Mildred could recover from the speed of her legerdemain. The soup Mildred picked up gingerly, kicking the out door open as s
he saw the others doing. Taking care not to spill any of it, she eventually reached the table. Ida was smoothing the two women down, and from their glances Mildred knew it had been fully explained to them that she was a new girl, and that allowances had to be made for her. At once they began amusing themselves by calling her January and Slewfoot. Lest she show resentment, she started for the kitchen, but it seemed impossible to get away from Ida. "Pick up something! Don't never make a trip, in or out, without something in your hand. You'll trot all day and you'll never get done! Get them dirty dishes over there, on No. 3. Pick up something!"

  The afternoon dragged on. Mildred felt stupid, heavy, slow, and clumsy. Try as she would to "pick up something," dirty dishes piled on her tables, and unserved orders in the kitchen, until she thought she would go insane from the confusion. Her trouble, she discovered, was that she hadn't the skill to carry more than two dishes at a time. Trays were prohibited here, Ida informed her, because the aisles were so narrow they would lead to crashes, and this meant that everything had to be carried by hand. But the trick of balancing half a dozen dishes at a time was beyond her. She tried it once, but her hand crumpled under the weight, and a hot fudge sundae almost went on the floor. The climax came around three o'clock. The place was empty by then and the fish-faced cashier came back to inform her she had lost a check. The subsequent figuring showed that the check was for fifty-five cents, which meant that her whole hourly wage was lost. She wanted to throw everything in the place at the cashier's head, but didn't. She said she was sorry, gathered up the last of her dirty dishes, and went back with them.

  In the kitchen, Mr. Chris and Ida were in a huddle, evidently talking about her. From their expressions as they started toward her, she sensed that the verdict was unfavorable, and she waited miserably for them to get it over with, so she could get away from Ida, and the Filipino dish washers, and the smell, and the noise, and drearily wonder what she was going to do next. But as they passed Archie, he looked up and made a gesture such as an umpire makes in calling a man safe at the plate. They looked surprised, but that seemed to settle it. Mr. Chirs said "hokay, hokay," and went into the dining room. Ida came over to Mildred. "Well, personally, Mikired, I don't think you're suited to the work at all, and Mr. Chris, he wasn't a bit impressed either but the Chef thinks you'll do, so against our better judgmen we're going to give you a trial."

  Mildred remembered the reconstructed club sandwich an the little nod she had received from Archie, realized that i was indeed important to be in good with the Chef. Bu by now her dislike of Ida was intense, and she made n effort to keep the acid out of her voice as she said: "Wel please thank Archie for me and tell him I hope I won' disappoint him." She spoke loud enough for Archie to hear and was rewarded with a loud, ursine cackle.

  Ida went on: "Your hours are from eleven in the morning ten thirty if you want breakfast, to three in the afternoon and if you want lunch then, you can have it. We don't d a big dinner business here, so we only keep three girls or at night, but they take turns. You're on call twice a weel from five to nine, same wages as in the daytime. Sundays we're closed. You'll need white shoes. Ask for nurses' regulation at any of the stores, two ninety-five. Well what's the matter, Mildred, don't you want the job?"

  "I'm a little tired, that's all."

  "I don't wonder, the way you trot."

  When she got home, the children had just arrived from school. She gave them milk and cookies and shooed then out to play. Then she changed her dress and put slippers or her aching feet. She was about to -lie down, when she heard a yoo-hoo, and Mrs. Gessler joined her, in a somewhat dark humor. Ike, it appeared, hadn't come home last night. He had phoned around nine, telling her of a hurry call that would prevent his arrival until next morning. It was all in his line of work, he had appeared at ten as he said he would, and yet

  The extent to which Mrs. Gessler trusted Ike, or anybody was evidently very slight.

  Mildred presently asked: "Lucy, can you lend me three dollars?"

  "More if you want it."

  "No, thanks. I've taken a job, and need some things."

  "Right away?"

  "In the morning."

  Mrs. Gessler went out, and Mildred went back to the kitchen to make her some tea. When she came back she sat down gratefully to the smoking cup, and flipped Mildred a bill. "I didn't have three, but here's five."

  "Thanks. I'll pay it back."

  "What kind of a job?"

  "Oh—just a job."

  "I'm sorry. . . . But if it's that kind of a job, I hope you picked a five-dollar house. You're too young for the twodollar trade, and personally I wouldn't like sailors."

  "I'm a waitress. In a hash-house."

  "It rhymes up the same way."

  "Just about."

  "That's funny, though. It was none of my business, but all the time you were answering those ads, and trying to get hired on as a saleswoman, or whatever it was—I kept wondering to myself why you didn't try something like this."

  "Why, Lucy?"

  "Suppose you did get a job as a saleswoman? What would you get for it? No matter how they figure it up, when you're selling goods you get paid on commission, because it stands to reason if you weren't making commission they wouldn't pay you. But who's buying any goods? You'd have just stood around some store, all day long, waiting for the chance to make a living, and not making it. People eat, though, even now. You'll have something coming in. And then, I don't know. It may sound funny, but at selling, I'd say you just weren't the type. At this, though—"

  All that Mrs. Boole had said, all that Miss Turner had said, all that her bowels had told her, after that trip to Beverly Hills, came sweeping over Mildred, and suddenly she dived for the bathroom. The milk, the sandwich, the tea, all came up, while moaning sobs racked her. Then Mrs. Gessler was beside her, holding her head, wiping her mouth, giving her water, leading her gently to bed. Here she collapsed in a paroxysm of hysteria, sobbing, shaking, writhing. Mrs. Gessler took her clothes off, massaged her back, patted her, told her to let it come, not to try to hold back. She relaxed, and cried until tears gushed down her face, and let Mrs. Gessler wipe them away as they came. After a long time she was quiet, but it was a glum, hopeless quiet. Then: "I can't do it, Lucy! I—just——can't—-do——it."

  "Baby! Do what?"

  "Wear a uniform. And take their tips. And face those awful people. They called me names. And one of them grabbed my leg. Ooh—I can feel it yet. He put his hand clear up to—"

  "What do they pay you?"

  "Twenty-five cents an hour."

  "And tips extra?"

  "Yes."

  "Baby, you're nuts. Those tips will bring in a couple of dollars a day, and you'll be making—why, at least twenty dollars a week, more money than you've seen since Pierce Homes blew up. You've got to do it, for your own sake. Nobody pays any attention to that uniform stuff any more. I bet you look cute in one. And besides, people have to do what they can do—"

  "Lucy, stop! I'll go mad! I'll—"

  At Mrs. Gessler's look, Mildred pulled herself together, at least tried to make intelligible her violent outburst. "That's what they've been telling me, the employment people, everybody, that all I'm good for is putting on a uniform and waiting on other people, and—"

  "And maybe they're right, just at the present moment. Because maybe what they're trying to tell you is exactly what I'm trying to tell you. You're in a spot. It's all right to be proud, and I love you for it. But you're starving to death, baby. Don't you suppose my heart's been heavy for you? Don't you know I'd have sent roast beef in here, or ham, or whatever I had, every night, except that I knew you'd hate me for it? You've just got to take this job—"

  "I know it. I can't, and yet I've got to."

  "Then if you've got to, you've got to, so quit bawling."

  "Promise me one thing, Lucy."

  "Anything."

  "Don't tell anybody."

 
"I wouldn't even tell Ike."

  "I don't care about Ike, or any of these people, what they think. It's on account of the children, and I don't want anybody at all to know it, for fear somebody'll say something to them. They mustn't know it—and specially not Veda."

  "That Veda, if you ask me, has some funny ideas."

  "I respect her ideas."

  "I don't."

  "You don't understand her. She has something in her that I thought I had, and now I find I haven't. Pride, or whatever it is. Nothing on earth could make Veda do what I'm going to do."

  "That pride, I wouldn't give a snap of my finger for it. You're quite right about her. Veda wouldn't do it herself, but she's perfectly willing to let you do it and eat the cake."

  "I want her to have it. Cake—not just bread."

  During the six weeks Mildred had been looking for work, she had seen quite a little of Wally. He had dropped around one night, after the children had gone to bed, and was quite apologetic about what he had said, and penitently asserted' he had made a sap of himself. She said there were no hard feelings, and brought him into the den, though she didn't bother to light a fire or serve a drink. But when he sat down beside her and put his arm around her, she got up and made one of her little speeches. She said she would be glad to see him any time, she wanted him as a friend. However, it must be distinctly understood that what was past was past, not to be brought up again under any circumstances. If he wanted to see her on that basis, she would try to make him welcome, and she really wanted him to come. He said gee that was swell of her, and if she really meant it, it was okey-doke by him.