Mildred Pierce (4 page)

And Mildred’s figure got her attention in any crowd and all crowds. She had a soft, childish neck that perked her head up at a pretty angle; her shoulders drooped, but gracefully; her brassiere ballooned a little, with an extremely seductive burden. Her hips were small, like Veda’s, and suggested a girl, rather than a woman who had borne two children. Her legs were really beautiful, and she was quite vain of them. Only one thing about them bothered
her, but it bothered her constantly, and it had bothered her ever since she could remember. In the mirror they were flawlessly slim and straight, but as she looked down on them direct, something about their contours made them seem bowed. So she had taught herself to bend one knee when she stood, and to take short steps when she moved, bending the rear knee quickly, so that the deformity, if it actually existed, couldn’t be noticed. This gave her a mincing, feminine walk, like the ponies in a Broadway chorus; she didn’t know it, but her bottom switched in a wholly provocative way.

Or possibly she did know it.

The hair finished, she got up, put her hands on her hips, and surveyed herself in the mirror. For a moment the squint appeared in her eyes, as though she knew this was no ordinary night in her life, and that she must take stock, see what she had to offer against what lay ahead. Leaning close, she bared her teeth, which were large and white, and looked for cavities. She found none. She stood back again, cocked her head to one side, struck an attitude. Almost at once she amended it by bending one knee. Then she sighed, took off the rest of her clothes, slipped into her pyjamas. As she turned off the light, from force of long habit she looked over to the Gesslers’ to see if they were still up. Then she remembered they were away. Then she remembered what Mrs Gessler had said: ‘. . . the great American institution that never gets mentioned on Fourth of July, a grass widow with two small children to support’ – and snickered sourly as she got into bed. Then she caught her breath as Bert’s smell enveloped her.

In a moment the door opened, and little Ray trotted in, weeping. Mildred held up the covers, folded the little thing in, snuggled her against her stomach, whispered and crooned to her until the weeping stopped. Then, after staring at the ceiling for a time, she fell asleep.

F
or 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 faint-hearted 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 had 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 ship chandler 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 goodbye, 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 yourself. 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 self-consciously. 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 invite 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 potbellied 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 he’d be shocked at my party, it’s 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 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 grey, 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.’