Mildred Pierce (38 page)

While Mildred’s temples throbbed with helpless rage, the voice moved off somewhere, and another one began off to one side: ‘Well, I hope you all paid close attention to the critique of
operatic acting, by one who knows nothing about it – somebody ought to tell that fag that the whole test of operatic acting is how few motions they have to make, to put across what they’re trying to deliver. John Charles Thomas, can he make them wait till he’s ready to shoot it! And Flagstad, how to be an animated Statue of Liberty! And Scotti, I guess he was nauseating. He was the greatest of them all. Do you know how many gestures he made when he sang the Pagliacci Prologue? One, just one. When he came to the F – poor bastard, he could never quite make the A flat – he raised his hand, and turned it over, palm upward. That was all and he made you
cry
. . . This kid, if I ever saw one right out of that can, she’s it. So she locked her hands in front of her, did she? Listen, when she folded one sweet little paw into the other sweet little paw, and tilted that pan at a forty-five degree angle, and began to warble about the delicious agony of love – I saw Scotti’s little girl. My throat came up in my mouth. Take it from me, this one’s in the money, or will be soon. Well, hell, it’s what you pay for, isn’t it?’

Then Mildred wanted to run after the first man, and stick out her tongue at him, and laugh. Some things, to be sure, she tried not to think about, such as her relations with Monty. Since the night Veda came home, Mildred had been unable to have him near her, or anybody near her. She continued to sleep alone, and he, for a few days, to sleep in the tack-room. Then she assigned a bedroom to him, with bath, dressing-room, and phone extension. The only time the subject of their relations was ever discussed between them was when she suggested that he pick out his furniture himself; on that occasion, she had tried to be facetious, and said something about their being ‘middle aged’. To her great relief, he quickly agreed, and looked away, and started talking about something else. From then on, he was host to the numerous guests, master of the house, escort to Mildred when she went to hear Veda sing – but he was not her husband. She felt better about it when she noted that much of his former gaiety had resumed. In a way, she had played him a trick. If, as a result, he was enjoying himself, that was the way she wanted it.

And there were certain disturbing aspects of life with Veda, as for example the row with Mr Levinson, her agent. Mr Levinson
had signed Veda to a radio contract singing for ‘Pleasant’, a new brand of mentholated cigarettes that was just coming on the market. For her weekly broadcast Veda received five hundred dollars, and was ‘sewed’, as Mr Levinson put it, for a year, meaning that during this period she could do no broadcasting for anybody else. Mildred thought five hundred dollars a week a fabulous stipend for so little work, and so apparently did Veda, until Monty came home one day with Mr Hobey, who was president of Consolidated Foods, and had decided to spend part of his year in Pasadena. They were in high spirits, for they had been in college together: it was Mr Hobey’s mountainous, shapeless form that reminded Mildred that Monty was not in his forties. And Mr Hobey met Veda. And Mr Hobey heard Veda sing. And Mr Hobey experienced a slight lapse of the senses, apparently, for he offered her two thousand five hundred dollars a week, a two-year contract, and a guarantee of mention in 25 per cent of Consol’s national advertising, if she would only sing for ‘Sunbake’, a new vitamin bread he was promoting. Veda, now sewed, was unable to accept, and for some days after that her profanity, her studied, cruel insults to Mr Levinson, her raving at all hours of the day and night, her monomania on this subject, were a little more than even Mildred could put up with amiably. But while Mildred was trying to think what to do, Mr Levinson revealed an unexpected ability to deal with such situations himself. He bided his time, waited until a Sunday afternoon, when highballs were being served on the lawn out back, and Veda chose to bring up the subject again, in front of Mildred, Monty, Mr Hobey, and Mr Treviso. A pasty, pudgy little man in his late twenties, he lit a cigar, and listened with half-closed eyes. Then he said: ‘OK, ya dirdy li’l rat. Now s’pose ya take it back. Now s’pose ya ’pologise. Now s’pose ya say ya sorry.’

‘I? Apologise? To
you
?’

‘I got a offer for ya.’

‘What offer?’

‘Bowl.’

‘Then, accept . . . If the terms are suitable.’

Mr Levinson evidently noted how hard it was for Veda to say
anything at all about terms, for the Hollywood Bowl is singer’s heaven. He smiled a little, and said: ‘Not so fast, baby. It’s a kind of double offer. They’ll take Pierce or they’ll take Opie Lucas – they leave it to me. I handle ya both, and Opie, she don’t cuss me out. She’s nice.’

‘A contralto’s no draw.’

‘Contralto gets it if you don’t ’pologise.’

There was silence in the sunlight, while Veda’s mouth became thick and wet, and Mr Treviso smiled at a dancing mote, looking like a very benign cadaver. After a long time, Veda said: ‘OK, Levy. I apologise.’

Mr Levinson got up, walked over to Veda, and slapped her hard, on the cheek. Monty and Mr Hobey jumped up, but Mr Levinson paid no attention. His soft, pendulous lower lip hanging down, he spoke softly to Veda: ‘What ya say now?’

Veda’s face turned pink, then crimson, then scarlet, and her light blue eyes stared at Mr Levinson with a fixity characteristic of certain varieties of shark. There was another dreadful pause, and Veda said: ‘OK.’

‘Then OK. And lemme tell ya someth’n, Pierce. Don’t ya start noth’n with Moe Levinson. Maybe ya don’t know where ya comin’ out.’ Before sitting down, Mr Levinson turned to Mr Hobey. ‘Opie Lucas, she’s free. She’s free and she’s hot. You want her? For twenty-five hunnerd?’

‘. . . No.’

‘I thought not.’

Mr Levinson resumed his seat. Monty and Mr Hobey resumed their seats. Mr Treviso poured himself a spoonful of the red wine he had selected, instead of a highball, and shot a charge of seltzer into it.

For the rest of the summer Mildred did nothing, and Veda did nothing, but get ready for this appearance at the Bowl. There were innumerable trips to buy clothes: apparently a coloratura couldn’t merely buy a dress, and let it go at that. All sorts of questions had to be considered, such as whether the material took up light, from the spots, or reflected it, whether it gave, or whether it took. Then the question of a hat had to be decided. Veda was determined she must have one, a little evening affair
that she could remove after the intermission, ‘to give some sense of progression, a gain in intimacy’. These points were a little beyond Mildred, but she went eagerly to place after place, until a dressmaker in the Sunset Strip, near Beverly Hills, seemed to be indicated, and presently made the dress. It was, Mildred thought, incomparably lovely. It was bottle-green, with a pale pink top, and a bodice that laced in front. With the little green bonnet it gave a sort of French garden-party effect. But Veda tried it on a dozen times, unable to make up her mind whether it was right. The question, it seemed, was whether it ‘looked like vaudeville’. ‘I can’t come out looking like both Gish sisters’, said Veda, and when Mildred replied that neither of the Gish sisters had ever been in vaudeville, so far as she knew, Veda stared in the mirror and said it was all the same thing. In the end, she decided the bodice was ‘too much’, and took it off. In truth, Mildred thought, the dress did look a little fresher, a little simpler, a little more suitable to a girl of twenty, than it had before. Still unsatisfied, Veda decided presently she would carry a parasol. When the parasol arrived, and Veda entered the living-room, one night, as she would enter the Bowl, she got a hand. Mildred knew, and they all knew, that this was it.

Then there was the question of the newspapers, and how they should be handled. Here again, it seemed out of the question merely to call up the editors, tell them a local girl was going to appear, and leave the rest to their judgment. Veda did a great deal of telephoning about the ‘releases’, as she called them, and then when the first item about her came out, she went into a rage almost as bad as the one that had been provoked by Mr Hobey. At the end of an afternoon in which she tried vainly to locate Mr Levinson, that gentleman arrived in person, and Veda marched around in a perfect lather: ‘You’ve got to stop it, Levy, you’ve got to kill this society girl stuff right now! And the Pasadena stuff ! What do they want to do, kill my draw? And get me razzed off the stage when I come on? How many society people are there in this town, anyway? And how many Pasadena people go to concerts? Glendale! And radio! And studied right here in Los Angeles. There’s twenty-five thousand seats in that place, Levy, and those boobs have got to feel that I’m their little
baby, that I’m one of them, that they’ve got to come out there and root for me.’

Mr Levinson agreed, and seemed to regard the matter as important. Mildred, despite her worship of Veda, felt indignant that she should now claim Glendale as her own, after all the mean things she had said about it. But the mood passed, and she abandoned herself to the last few days before the concert. She took three boxes, holding four seats each, feeling sure that these would be enough for herself, Monty, and such few people as she would care to invite. But then the Bowl began calling up, saying they had another lovely box available, and she began remembering people she hadn’t thought of before. In a day or so, she had asked Mom and Mr Pierce, her mother and sister, Harry Engel and William, Ida and Mrs Gessler, and Bert. All accepted except Mrs Gessler, who rather pointedly declined. Mildred now had six boxes, with more than twenty guests expected, and as many more invited to the supper she was giving, afterwards.

According to Bert, who sat on the edge of her box and unabashedly held her hand, it had been a magnificent job of promotion and the thing was a sell-out. So it seemed, for people were pouring through all entrances, and Bert pointed to the upper tiers of seats, already filling up, by which, he said, ‘you could tell’. Mildred had come early, so she ‘wouldn’t miss anything’, particularly the crowd, and knowing that all these people had come just to hear her child sing. It was almost dark when Monty, who had driven Veda, slipped into the box and shook hands with Bert. Then the orchestra filed into the shell, and for a few minutes there was the sound of tuning. Then the lights went up, and the orchestra came to attention. Mildred looked around, and for the first time felt the vastness of the place, with these thousands of people sitting there waiting, and still other thousands racing up the ramps and along the aisles, to get to their seats. Then there was a crackle of applause, and she looked around in time to see Mr Treviso, who was to conduct, mounting his little stand, bowing to the audience and to the orchestra. Without turning around, Mr Treviso raised his hand. The audience stood. Bert and Monty stood, both very erect, both with stern, noble looks on their faces. Bewildered, Mildred stood.
The orchestra crashed into the Star-Spangled Banner, and the crowd began to sing.

The first number, called the Fire Bird, meant nothing to Mildred. She couldn’t make out, after reading her programme, whether there was to be a ballet or not, and she wasn’t at all certain, after it finished, whether there had been one or not. She concluded, while Mr Treviso was still acknowledging his applause, that if there had been one she would have noticed it. He went out, the lights went up, and for a long time there was a murmur like the murmur of the ocean, as the later comers ran, beckoned to each other, and followed hurrying ushers, to find their seats. Then the murmur died off a little. The lights went out. A drawstring pulled tight on Mildred’s stomach.

The parasol, wide open and framing the bonnet in a luminous pink circle, caught the crowd by surprise, and Veda was in the centre of the stage before they recovered. Then they decided they liked it, and the applause broke sharp. For a moment Veda stood there, smiling at them, smiling at the orchestra, smiling at Mr Treviso. Then, expertly, she closed the parasol, planted it on the floor in front of her, and folded both hands over its rather high handle. Mildred, having learned to note such things by now, saw that it gave her a piquant, foreign look, and something to do with her hands. The first number, ‘Caro Nome’, from Rigoletto, went off well, and Veda was recalled for several bows. The second number, ‘Una Voce Poco Fa’, from the Barber of Seville, ended the first half of the concert. The lights went up. People spilled into the aisles, smoking, talking, laughing, visiting. Bert was sitting on the box again, saying it was none of his business, but in his opinion that conductor could very well have allowed Veda to sing an encore after all that applause. By God, that was an ovation if he ever heard one. Monty, not much more of an authority in this field than Bert was, but at least a little more of an authority, said it was his impression that no encores were ever sung in the first half of a programme. All that, said Monty, in his understanding at least, was reserved for the end. Mildred said she was sure that was the case. Bert said then it was his mistake and that explained it. Because if he knew anything about it, these
people were eating it up, and it did look as though Treviso would want to give the kid a break, if he could. All agreed that the people were eating it up.

The New World Symphony had little effect on Mildred, except that three airplanes went over while it was being played, and she became terrified lest one go over while Veda was singing, and ruin everything. But the sky was clear when she appeared again, looking much smaller than she had in the first half, quite girlish, a little pathetic. The parasol was gone, and the bonnet, instead of being on Veda’s head, was carried in her hand. A single orchid was pinned to Veda’s shoulder, and Mildred fiercely hoped that it was one of the six
she
had sent. The programme said merely ‘Mad Scene from Lucia di Lammermoor’, but there seemed to be a little more tension than usual before Mr Treviso raised his stick, and presently Mildred knew she was present at a tremendous vocal effort. She had never heard one note of this music before, so far as she knew: it must have been rehearsed at the studio, not at home. After the first few bars, when she sensed that Veda was all right, that she would make no slip, that she would get through to the end, Mildred relaxed a little, permitted herself to dote on the demure, pathetic little figure, pouring all this elaborate vocal fretwork out at the stars. There came a tap on her shoulder, and Mr Pierce was handing her a pair of opera glasses. Eagerly she took them, adjusted them, levelled them at Veda. But after a few moments she put them down. Up close, she could see the wan, stagey look that Veda turned on the audience, and the sharp, cold look that she constantly shot at Mr Treviso, particularly when there was a break, and she was waiting to come in. It shattered illusion for Mildred. She preferred to remain at a distance, to enjoy this child as she seemed, rather than as she was.