Mildred Pierce

Chapter 11

“Baby, what are you doing about Repeal?”

“You mean Repeal of Prohibition?”

“Yeah, just that.”

“Why, I don’t see how it affects me.”

“It affects you plenty.”

Mrs. Gessler, having coffee with Mildred just before closing time, began to talk very rapidly. Repeal, she said, was only a matter of weeks, and it was going to stand the whole restaurant business on its head. “People are just crazy for a drink, a decent drink, a drink with no smoke or ether or formaldehyde in it, a drink they can have out in the open, without having to give the password to some yegg with his face in a slot. And places that can read the handwriting on the wall are going to cash in, and those that can’t are going to pass out. You think you’ve got a nice trade here, don’t you? And you think it’ll stick by you, because it likes you, and likes your chicken, and wants to help a plucky little woman get along? It will like hell. When they find out you’re not going to serve them that drink, they’re going to be sore and stay sore. They’re going to tag you for a back number and go someplace where they get what they want. You’re going to be out of luck.”

“You mean I should sell liquor?”

“It’ll be legal, won’t it?”

“I wouldn’t even consider such a thing.”

“Why not?”

“Do you think I’d run a saloon?”

Mrs. Gessler lit a cigarette, began snapping the ashes impatiently into Mildred’s Mexican ashtrays. Then she took Mildred to task for prejudice, for stupidity, for not being up with the times. Mildred, annoyed at being told how to run her business, argued back, but for each point she made Mrs. Gessler made two points. She kept reminding Mildred that liquor, when it came back, wasn’t going to be the same as it had been in the old days. It was going to be respectable, and it was going to put the restaurant business on its feet. “That’s what has ailed eating houses ever since the war. That’s why you’re lucky to get a lousy 85 cents for your dinner, when if you could sell a drink with it, you could get a buck, and maybe a buck and a quarter. Baby, you’re not talking sense, and I’m getting damned annoyed at you.”

“But I don’t know anything about liquor.”

“I do.”

Something about Mrs. Gessler’s manner suggested that this was what she had been trying to lead up to all the time, for she lit another cigarette, eyed Mildred sharply, and went on: “Now listen: You know and I know and we all know that Ike’s in the long-and short-haul trucking business. Just the same, Repeal’s going to hit him hard. We’ll have to do something, quick, while he reorganizes. That means I’ll have to do something. So how’s this? You put in the booze, and I’ll take charge of it for you, for a straight ten per cent, of what I take in, plus tips, if, as, and when there are any, and if, as and when I’m not too proud to pick them up — which ain’t likely, baby. It ain’t even possible.”

“You? A bartender?”

“Why not? I’ll be a damned good one.”

This struck Mildred so funny that she laughed until she heard a girdle seam pop. In spite of work, worry, and everything she could do about it, she was getting the least little bit fat. But Mrs. Gessler didn’t laugh. She was in dead earnest, and for the next few days nagged Mildred relentlessly. Mildred still regarded the whole idea as absurd, but on her trips downtown in connection with the pie business, she began to hear things. And then, as state after state fell in line for Repeal, she hardly heard anything else: every proprietor, from Mr. Chris to the owners of the big cafeterias, was in a dither to know what to do, and she began to get frightened. She had to talk to somebody, and on such matters she hadn’t much confidence in Bert, and none at all in Monty. On a sudden inspiration she called up Wally. She saw him quite a lot, in connection with their real-estate relations, but their previous relation, by the curious twists of human memory, had by tacit consent been completely erased, so it had never existed. Wally came over one afternoon, listened while Mildred explained her quandary, then shook his head. “Well I don’t know what you’re backing and filling about. Course you’ll sell liquor.”

“You mean I’ll have to, to hold my trade?”

“I mean there’s dough in it.”

He looked at her with his familiar stare, that was at the same time so vague and so shrewd, and her heart gave a little thump. It was the first time, for some reason, that this aspect of the problem had occurred to her. He went on, a little annoyed at her stupidity: “What the hell? Every drink you sell will be about eighty per cent profit, even at what you have to pay for your liquor. And it’ll pull in more people for the dinner trade. If Lucy Gessler wants to take it over, then O.K. If she don’t know about booze, I don’t know who does. Get going on it, and get going now. It’s coming, fast. And be sure you put on your sign, Cocktails. That’s what they’re waiting for. Put a red star in front of it, so they know you know it’s important.”

“Will I need some kind of a license?”

“I’ll fix that up for you.”

So the next time Mrs. Gessler came in, she found Mildred in a different frame of mind. She nodded approval of what Wally had said about the sign, then became coldly businesslike about other obligatory preparations. “I’ll need a bar, but there’s no room for one until you make alterations, so I’ll have to get along with a portable. It’ll be a perambular thing that I’ll wheel from table to table — the same as most other places are going to use, temporarily. It’ll have to be specially made and it’ll cost you about three hundred bucks. Then I’ll need a couple of hundred dollars’ worth of liquor. I ought to have more, but it’ll be all I can get, in the beginning. Then I want a couple of leather seats, near the door, with a low table between. Between trips to the tables, I’ll be running my own little soiree over here, and I’ll sell plenty of drinks to people waiting to be seated for dinner. Then I’ll want a special bus, assigned to me alone. Your kid Pancho has a pal that’ll do, by the name of Josie. He won’t be available for general work, because he’ll have to wash glasses for me all the time, and wash them the way I want them washed, and bring beer from the icebox when I call for it, and ice whatever wine we sell, and he’ll have all he can do, just helping me. Then I’ll need a full set of cocktail, highball, and wine glasses — not too many, but we’ll have to have the right glasses for the right drinks. Then, let’s see. You’ll need pads of special bar checks, to run separate from the others. It’s the only way we can keep it straight. That’s about all I can think of now.”

“How much, all in all?”

“About five hundred to start — for the bar, glasses, furniture and checks. The liquor will be over and above the five hundred, but you won’t pay till the Monday after delivery, and by that time we ought to have a few dollars coming in.”

Mildred gulped, told Mrs. Gessler she would let her know next day. That night she lay awake, and her mind darted first to this scheme, then to that, whereby she could furnish five hundred dollars. She kept a little reserve of two or three hundred dollars, but she dared not dip into it, as sad experience had taught her that emergencies arose constantly that demanded instant cash. It was a long time before her mind darted at last to the only way she could get the money: by robbing the special account for Veda’s piano. It now amounted to $567, and the moment she thought of it she tried not think of it, and began once more her frantic questing for schemes. But soon she knew this was what she had to do; knew that Veda couldn’t have her piano for Christmas. Then once more rage began to suffocate her — not at Mrs. Gessler, or Repeal, or any of the circumstances that made this new outlay necessary, but at Monty, for the money he had cost her, those endless $10’s and $20’s which now, if she had them, would see her through. She worked herself into such a state that presently she had to get up, put on a kimono, and make herself a cup of tea, so she could quiet down.

Christmas morning Mildred woke up with one of her rare hangovers. It had indeed been a gay night at the little restaurant, for the bar, opening promptly on December 6, had outdone all that had been expected of it. Not only had it taken in large sums itself, but it had drawn a bigger dinner trade, and a better dinner trade. Mrs. Gessler, in gabardine slacks of the same brickred as the waitresses’ uniforms, white mess jacket with brass buttons, and red ribbon around her hair, seemed to catch the diners’ fancy, and certainly she was expert enough to please the most fastidious. Tips went up, and when the kitchen celebration finally got going, it was exceedingly festive. Hans, the baker, was supposed to be off at night, but he showed up anyway, and got the party started with a bang by feeling Sigred’s leg. Sigrid was a Swedish girl Mildred had hired mainly for her looks, and then found out was one of the best waitresses she had ever seen. Then, just to be impartial, Hans felt Arline’s leg, and Emma’s, and Audrey’s. Emma and Audrey had been taken on the day after the opening, just to forestall the possibility of another jam-up. The ensuing squeals were enjoyed by Pancho and Josie, who sat apart, not quite of things, yet not quite out of them; and by Mrs. Kramer, an assistant cook Mildred was training. They were emphatically not enjoyed by Carl, a seventeen-year-old who drove the little secondhand delivery truck Mildred had bought, and painted cream, with “Mildred Pierce, Pies” lettered on it in bold red script. He concentrated on ice cream and cake, and eyed Hans’s efforts with stony disapproval, to the great delight of Arline, who kept screaming that he was learning “the facks of life.”

Mildred had sat down with them, and put out wine and whiskey, and taken two or three drinks herself. What with the liquor, and the thanks she received for the $10 she had given each of them, she began to feel so friendly that she weakened in her resolve to give Monty nothing whatever for Christmas. First she took his orchids out of the icebox and pinned them on, to a loud chorus of applause. Then she had another drink, went over to the cash box, and smooched four $10 bills. These she put in a little envelope and wrote on it, “Merry Christmas, Monty.” Then, hearing from Mrs. Gessler that he had arrived, she went into the dining room, weaving slightly, and elaborately took him outside. Under the trees she slipped the envelope into his pocket and thanked him for the orchids, which she said were the most beautiful she had ever had. Then she invited him to smell them. Laughing a little, obviously delighted at her condition, he reminded her that orchids had no smell. “Smell’m anyway.” So he smelled, and reported that the orchids still had no smell, but that she smelled fine. She nodded, satisfied, and kissed him. Then she took him inside, where Bert, Wally, Mrs. Gessler, and Veda were sitting at a table, having a little celebration of their own.

And yet the evening had had an unpleasant finish: Monty and Veda began whispering together, and went into gales of laughter at some joke of their own. Mildred heard the words “varlets’ yulabaloo,” and concluded, probably correctly, that they were laughing at the party in the kitchen. She launched into a long, boozy harangue on the rights of labor, and how anybody who worked for a living was as good as anybody else. Wally tried to shush her down and Mrs. Gessler tried to shush her down, but it was no use. She went on to the bitter end. Then, somewhat inconsistently, she lurched to her feet, went to the kitchen, and asked how people could enjoy themselves with all that yelling going on. This had the effect of ringing down the curtain, front and rear.

Now, as she got up and dressed, she had a sour recollection of the harangue, and a still sourer recollection of the four $10’s that had followed their predecessors down a bottomless rathole. She had given Letty the day off, so she went to the kitchen, made herself coffee, and drank it black. Then, hearing Veda’s water running, she knew she had to hurry. She went to her bedroom, got a pile of packages out of the closet, and took them to the living room. Quickly she arranged a neat display around the base of the tree that had already been set up and decorated. Then she took out her own offering and looked at it. It was a wristwatch. She had put off buying it until the last moment, hoping the profits from the bar would permit her to order the piano anyway. But the unforeseen had again intervened. During the first hectic days of Repeal, Mrs. Gessler had a devil’s own time finding liquor, and for much of it had to pay cash. So the hope died, and at the last minute, Mildred had dashed downtown and bought this gaud for $75. She listened close and heard its tiny tick, but it didn’t sound much like a grand piano. Glumly she wrapped it, wrote a little card, tucked it under the ribbon. Then she set it beside the package from Bert.

She had hardly stood up to survey the general effect when there came a tap on the door, and Veda, in her most syrupy Christmas voice, asked: “May I come in?” Mildred managed a soft smile, and opened the door. Suddenly Veda was smothering her with kisses, wishing a merry Christmas to “you darling, darling Mother!” Then, just as suddenly, the kisses stopped and so did the greetings. Veda was staring at the Pierce upright, and by the look on her face Mildred knew she had been told about the grand, by Bert, by Monty, by the cashier at the bank, by somebody — and had expected to see it there, as a fine surprise, this Christmas morning.

Mildred licked her lips, opened her mouth to make explanations, but at the cold look on Veda’s face, she couldn’t. Nervously she said something about there being a great many presents, and hadn’t Veda better make a list, so she would be sure who sent what? Veda made no reply, but stooped down and began pulling ribbons. When she got to the wristwatch she examined it with casual interest, laid it aside without comment. At this Mildred went back to her bedroom, lay down on the bed, tried to stop trembling. The trembling went on. Presently the bell rang, and she heard Bert’s voice. Going to the living room again, she was in time to hear Veda ecstatically thank him for the riding boots he had given her, and call him “you darling, darling Father.” A little scene ensued, with Bert saying the boots could be exchanged if they weren’t the right fit, and Veda trying them on. They were perfect, said Veda, and she wasn’t going to take them off all day. She was even going to sleep in them.

But Veda never once looked at Mildred, and the trembling kept on. In a few minutes Mildred asked Bert if he was ready, and he said any time she was. They went to the kitchen for the flowers they were going to put on Ray’s grave, but Bert quickly closed the door. Jerking his thumb toward the living room he asked: “What’s the matter with her? She sick?”

“It’s about the piano. What with the bar and one thing and another I couldn’t get it. This Christmas, I mean. But somebody kindly tipped her off.”

“Not me.”

“I didn’t say so.”

“What did you give her?”

“A wristwatch. It was a nice watch, a little one, the kind they’re all wearing, and you’d think she’d at least—”

But the trembling had reached Mildred’s mouth by now, and she couldn’t finish. Bert put his arm around her, patted her. Then he asked: “Is she coming with us?”

“I don’t know.”

They went out the back door to get the car out of the garage, and Mildred drove. As they were backing down the drive, Bert told her to hold it. Then, lightly, he tapped the horn. After a few seconds, he tapped it again. There was no response from the house. Mildred eased into the street, and they drove to the cemetery. Mildred threaded her way slowly along the drive, so as not to disturb the hundreds of others who were out there too. When they came to the Pierce plot she stopped and they got out. Taking the flowers, they walked over to the little marker that had been placed there by the Pierces a short time before. It was a plain white stone, with the name, and under it the dates of the brief little life. Bert mumbled: “They wanted to put a quotation on it, ‘Suffer the little children,’ whatever it is, but I remembered you like things plain.”

“I like it just like it is.”

“And another thing they wanted to put on it was: ‘Erected by her loving grandparents Adrian and Sarah,’ but I told them ‘Hey, keep your shirt on. You’ll get your names in this marble orchard soon enough without trying to beat the gun in any way.’ ”

This struck Mildred as funny, and she started to titter, but somewhere down the drive a child began to laugh. Then a great lump rose in her throat and Bert quickly walked away. As she stood there she could hear him behind her, walking back and forth. She stood a long time. Then she put the flowers on the grave, paused for one last look, turned, and took his arm. He laced his fingers through hers, squeezed hard.

When Mildred got home, she found Veda exactly where she had left her: in the chair near the Christmas tree, the boots still on, staring malevolently at the Pierce upright. Mildred sat down and opened a package Bert had brought with him when he came, a jar of preserved strawberries from Mrs. Biederhof. For a few moments, except for the crackle of paper, there was silence. Then, in her clearest, most affected drawl, Veda said: “Christ, but I hate this dump.”

“Is there anything in particular that you object to?”

“Oh, no, Mother, not at all, not at all — and I do hope you don’t begin changing things around, just to please me. No, there’s nothing in particular. I just hate every lousy, stinking part of it, and if it were to burn down tomorrow I wouldn’t shed a furtive tear from the Elixir of Love, by Gaetano Donizetti, seventeen ninety-eight-eighteen forty-eight.”

“I see.”

Veda picked up a package of the cigarettes Mildred kept on hand for Monty, lit one, and threw the match on the floor. Mildred’s face tightened. “You’ll put out that cigarette and pick up the match.”

“I will like hell.”

Mildred got up, took careful aim, and slapped Veda hard, on the cheek. The next thing she knew, she was dizzy from her head to her heels, and it seemed seconds before she realized, from the report that was ringing in her ears, that Veda had slapped her back. Blowing smoke into Mildred’s face, Veda went on, in her cool, insolent tone: “Glendale, California, Land where the Orange Tree Blows, from Mignon, by Ambroise Thomas, eighteen eleven-eighteen ninety-six. Forty square miles of nothing whatever. A high-class, positively-restricted development for discriminating people that run filling stations, and furniture factories, and markets, and pie wagons. The garden spot of the world — in the pig’s eye. A wormhole, for grubs!”

“Where did you hear that?”

Mildred had sat down, but at these last words she looked up. She was wholly familiar with Veda’s vocabulary, and she knew that this phrase was not part of it. At her question, Veda came over, leaned down close. “Why the poor goddam sap — do you think he’d marry you?”

“If I were willing, yes.”

“Oh! Yee gods and little fishes hear my cynical laughter, from Pagliacci, by Ruggiero Leoncavallo, eighteen fifty-eight-nine teen nineteen. If you were willing—! Pardon me while I regain my shattered composure. Stupid, don’t you know what he sees in you?”

“About what you see, I think.”

“No — it’s your legs.”

“He — told you — that?”

“Why certainly.”

Veda’s manner showed that she relished Mildred’s consternation. “Of course he told me. We’re very good friends, and I hope I have a mature point of view on these matters. Really, he speaks very nicely about your legs. He has a theory about them. He says a gingham apron is the greatest provocation ever invented by woman for the torture of man, and that the very best legs are found in kitchens, not in drawing rooms. ‘Never take the mistress if you can get the maid,’ is the way he puts it. And another thing, he says a pretty varlet is always agreeably grateful, and not too exacting, with foolish notions about matrimony and other tiresome things. I must say I find his social theories quite fascinating.”

Veda went on at some length, snapping her cigarette and when it went out lighting another one and throwing the match on the floor. But for some time Mildred found her taunts nothing but a jumble. She was so stunned at the discovery that this man, whom she had put up with because he brought Veda closer to her, had all the time been sneering at her behind her back, making fun of her most intimate relations with him, setting the child against her, that every part of her seemed to have turned to jelly. Presently, however, words began to have meaning again, and she heard Veda saying: “After all, Mother, even in his darkest days, Monty’s shoes are custom made.”

“They ought to be. They cost me enough.”

Mildred snapped this out bitterly, and for a second wished she hadn’t. But the cigarette, suddenly still in midair, told her it was news to Veda, quite horrible news, and without further regret, she rammed home her advantage: “You didn’t know that, did you?”

Veda stared incredulously, then decided to play it funny. “You buy his shoes? Yee gods and little—”

“His shoes and his shirts and his drinks and everything else he’s had in the last few months, including his polo dues. And you needn’t call on your gods and little fishes anymore, or mention any more dates from the operas. If you want to see some dates I have them all written down, with an exact amount beside each one. Miss Pierce, you made a slight mistake. It’s not my legs that he likes me for, it’s my money. And so long as it’s that, we’ll see who’s the varlet and who’s the boss. It may interest you to know that that’s why he’s such a very good friend of yours. He doesn’t haul you over to your music lesson because he wants to. In fact, he often complains about it. He does it because he has to. And surprising though it be to you, he’ll marry me, or not marry me, or do anything I say, so his proud, gentlemanly belly can have something to eat.”

Mildred got up, something haughty in her manner for a moment suggesting Veda. “So you see, what he sees in me is about what you see, isn’t it? And unfortunately, you’re in exactly the position he’s in, too. You have to do what I say. The hand that holds the money cracks the whip. And I say there’ll be no more money for you, not one cent, until you take back everything you’ve said, and apologize for it.”

Veda’s answer was to abandon the grand manner, and become a yelling, devilish adolescent of fourteen. Coldly, Mildred listened to her curses, watched her kick at the Pierce upright with Bert’s riding boots. “And that’s the piano you’re going to practice on, until I get ready, in my own good time, to buy you another.”

Veda screamed at the top of her lungs, then leaped at the piano and began playing the Can-Can from Orpheus. Mildred didn’t know what it was, but she knew it was wild, obscene music. Picking up her coat, she stalked out of the house and headed up the street toward the restaurant.

So far as Monty was concerned, Mildred knew this was the end, but she didn’t do anything about it at once. She received him as usual when he dropped in at the restaurant that night, and the next two or three nights. She even submitted to his embraces, deriving a curious satisfaction from the knowledge that his access to the very best legs was rapidly drawing to a close. Stoppage of the spending money brought Veda to her milk, as no beating had ever done, and when it did, Mildred forgave her quite honestly, in a teary little scene two or three days after Christmas. It was almost automatic with her by now to acquit Veda of wrongdoing, no matter how flagrant the offense. In her mind, the blame was all Monty’s, and presently she knew exactly how she would deal with him, and when. It would be at the New Year’s party he had invited her to, a week or so before. “I thought I’d ask Paul and Louise?wing — polo players, but you might like them. We could meet at my house around ten, have a drink, then go in to the Biltmore, for the noisy part.”

This had obviously been an effort to kill two birds with one stone, to give some plausibility to what he had said about her hours, and at the same time introduce her to somebody, quite as though he would have done so all along if only the right kind of evening had presented itself. She had taken it as evidence of a change of heart, and accepted. Indeed, she had more than accepted. She had consulted anxiously with Mrs. Gessler over what she should wear, and gone into Bullock’s and picked out an evening gown. Then she had gone into a veritable agony over the question of a coat. She didn’t have a fur coat, and the prospect of making her debut in the world of mink with nothing but her battered blue haunted her horribly. But Mrs. Gessler, as usual, stepped into the breach. She knew a lady, it seemed, with a brocade coat. “It’s a beautiful thing, baby, ashy rose, all crusted with gold, just what you want with your hair. It’s really a Chinese mandarin’s coat, but it’s been re-cut, and you couldn’t put a price on it. There’s nothing like it on sale anywhere. It’ll be the snappiest thing in the room, even at the Biltmore, and — she’s broke. She needs the money. I’ll see what I can do.”

So for $25, Mildred got the coat, and when the dress arrived, she caught her breath at the total effect. The dress was light blue, and gave something to the rose of the coat, so she was a-shimmer with the delicate colors that her general colorlessness needed. She bought gold stockings and gold shoes, and her panic changed to smug complacency. All this had been before Christmas, and her choice of the New Year’s party as the occasion for the break with Monty may possibly have been prompted by a matter-of-fact determination not to let such a costume go to waste, as well as a vivid recollection of the $40 she had contributed to the expense. However, no such motive obtruded on her own virtuous consciousness. It was merely, she told herself, that a resolve had to be made, and New Year’s morning was a very good time to make it. As she rehearsed the scene mentally, it became clear in its details, and she knew exactly how she would play it. At the Biltmore, she would be gay, and rattle her rattle, and throw her balloon, and tell the story of Harry Engel and the anchors. Back at Monty’s house, she would watch the Ewings take their departure, and then, at his invitation to come in, she would decline, and climb into her car. Then, at his surprised look, she would make a little speech. She would say nothing of Veda, or money, or legs. She would merely remark that all things had to come to an end sometime, and it looked as though he and she had reached that point. It had been very pleasant, she had enjoyed his company, every minute of it, she wished him the very best in the world, and she certainly hoped he would regard her as his friend. But — and at this point she saw herself putting out a graceful hand, and in case he merely stood there looking at it, as stepping on the starter.

The whole thing, perhaps, was a little stuffy, and certainly it was singsongy, as she kept adding to it. But it was her valedictory, and no doubt her privilege to deliver it any way she chose.

December 31, 1933, dawned dark in California, and before the morning was over, quite a little rain was falling. By mid-afternoon, tall tales interrupted the broadcasts: of washouts in the hills, of whole families evacuated from this village and that village, of roads blocked, of trains held in Arizona pending dispatcher’s orders. But in Glendale, except for the wet, and quite a little rubble that washed down on the streets, nothing ominous met the eye, and Mildred viewed the downpour as an annoyance, a damper on business, but nothing to get excited about. Around five o’clock, when it didn’t let up, she stopped Mrs. Kramer from sectioning more chickens, on the ground that nobody would be there to eat them, and they could wait until next day. When Arline, Emma, and Audrey successively called up to say they couldn’t get there, she thought little of it, and when Sigrid came, she set her to cleaning silver.

Around six, Monty called up to know if she had cold feet. Laughing, she asked: “What from?”

“Well, it’s a little wet.”

“Do you mean you’re getting cold feet?”

“No, not at all. Just being the perfect host and giving you one last chance to back out if you want to.”

“Why, this little shower is nothing.”

“Then I’ll be expecting you.”

“Around ten.”

By seven thirty not one customer had showed up, and Mrs. Gessler abruptly suggested that they close, and begin getting Mildred dressed, if she was still fool enough to go to the damned party. Mildred agreed, and started her preparations to lock up. Then she, Mrs. Gessler, Mrs. Kramer, Pancho, Josie, and Sigrid all burst out laughing at the discovery that there were no preparations — no dishes to wash, no bottles to put out, no cash to count. Mildred simply cut the lights and locked the door, and as the others went scuttling off into the night, she and Mrs. Gessler climbed into her car and drove down Pierce Drive. It was a little windswept, a little rough from the stones that had washed down on it, but otherwise as usual. Mildred parked close by the kitchen door and dived inside, then held out her hand to Mrs. Gessler.

She was surprised to find Letty and Veda there. Letty had been afraid to start home, and timidly asked Mildred if she could spend the night. Veda, due long ago at the Hannens’ for dinner, a party, and an overnight visit, said Mrs. Hannen had called to say the party had been postponed. At this, Mrs. Gessler looked sharply at Mildred, and Mildred went calmly to her room and began taking off her uniform.

By nine, Mildred was powdered, puffed, perfumed, and patted to that state of semi-transparency that a woman seems to achieve when she is really dressed to go out. Her hair, waved the day before, was fluffed out softly; her dress adjusted to the last fold and flounce; her face fashioned to the fish-eyed look that marks the last stage of such rites. Letty was entranced, and even Veda admitted that “you really look quite nice, Mother.” Mildred stood before the full-length mirror for a final critical inspection, but Mrs. Gessler disappeared for a final look at the night. When she came back she camped on the bed, and looked moodily at Mildred. “Well, I hate to say it after taking all that trouble over you, but I wouldn’t go to that party, if I were you.”

“Why, for heaven’s sake?”

“Because it’s bad out there. You call that idiot up and tell him you’re not coming.”

“Can’t.”

“Oh he’ll understand. He’ll be relieved.”

“His phone’s disconnected.”

“It would be. Then send him a wire. It won’t be delivered till tomorrow, but it’ll prove you got manners.”

“I’m going”.

“Baby, you can’t.”

“I said I’m going.”

Irritated, Mrs. Gessler ordered Veda to get the trench coat she wore to school, and her galoshes. Mildred protested, but when Veda appeared with the things, Mrs. Gessler went to work. She pinned Mildred’s dress up, so it was a sort of sash around her hips, with a foot of white slip showing. Then she put on the galoshes, over the gold shoes. Then she put on the evening coat, and pulled the trench coat over it. Then she found a kerchief, and bound it tightly around Mildred’s head. Mildred, suddenly transformed into something that looked like Topsy, sweetly said good-bye to them all. Then she went to the kitchen door, reached out into the wet, and pulled open the car door. Then she hopped in. Then she started the motor. Then she started the wiper. Then she tucked the robe around her. Then, waving gaily to the three anxious faces at the door, she started the car, and went backing down to the street.

Turning into Colorado Boulevard, she laughed. Snug in her two coats, with the motor humming smoothly and the wiper chattering cheerfully against the glass, she thought it funny that people should get so excited over a little rain.

Heading down into Eagle Rock, she was halted by two men with lanterns. One of them came over, and in a hoarse voice asked: “Pasadena?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t get through. Not without you detour.”

“Well? Which way do I go?”

He took off his hat, swooshed the water out of it, then quickly put it on again and gave intricate directions as to how she was to drive up to the hills, then turn and follow along the higher ground until she came to Colorado Boulevard again. “That is, if you don’t hit washouts. But believe me, lady, unless you got to get there tonight, it’ll be a whole lot better to turn back.”

Mildred, perfectly familiar with the road, took up her journey again. She came to a washout, where part of the hill had slid down on the road, but one track was still open, and she slipped easily by. She came back to Colorado Boulevard at a point not far from the high bridge, so popular with suicides at the time, and went splashing across. At the traffic circle she turned right into Orange Grove Avenue. Except for a few tree limbs that had blown down on it, and a lot of leaves, it was clear. As she rolled over its shining black expanse, she laughed again at the way people got all worked up over nothing.

On the portico of the Beragon mansion a light was lit. She turned in through the pillars and followed the drive up past the big trees, the iron dogs, and the marble urn. She parked at the steps, and had hardly cut the motor when Monty popped out of the door, in a dinner coat, and stared as though he could hardly believe his eyes. Then he yelled something at her, popped in the house again, and emerged, carrying a big doorman’s umbrella with one hand and dragging a gigantic tarpaulin with the other. The tarpaulin he hurriedly threw over her hood to keep the rain out of the motor. The umbrella he opened for her, and as she made a nimble jump for the portico, said: “God, I had no idea you’d show up. It didn’t even enter my mind.”

“You put the light on, and got all dressed up. If you don’t look out I’ll begin wondering who you were expecting.”

“All that was before I turned on the radio and heard what it’s really like out there. How in the hell did you get here anyway? For the last hour it’s been nothing but a story of bridges out, roads blocked, whole towns under water, and yet — here you are.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear.”

Inside, Mildred saw the reason for the tarpaulin he had produced so unexpectedly, quite as though he kept such things around in case they were needed. The whole place was under gray, ghostly cloths that covered rugs, furniture, even paintings. She shivered as she looked into the great dark drawing room, and he laughed. “Pretty gloomy, hey? Not quite so bad upstairs.” He led the way up the big staircase, snapping on lights and then snapping them off when she had passed; through several big bedrooms, all under cloths as the drawing room was, to a long narrow hall, at the end of which was the tiny apartment where he lived. “This is my humble abode. How do you like it?”

“Why it’s — quite nice.”

“Really servants’ quarters, but I moved into them because I could have a little fire — and they seemed cozier, somehow.”

The furnishings had the small, battered, hand-me-down look of servants’ quarters, but the fire was friendly. Mildred sat down in front of it and slipped off the galoshes. Then she took off the kerchief and trench coat, and unpinned her dress. His face lit up as she emerged like a butterfly from her very drab cocoon, and he turned her around, examining every detail of her costume. Then he kissed her. For a moment he had the old sunny look, and she had to concentrate hard to remember her grievances. Then he said such grandeur deserved a drink. She was afraid that with a drink she couldn’t remember any grievances at all, and asked if they hadn’t better wait until the Ewings got there. “The — who did you say?”

“Isn’t that their name?”

“Good God, they can’t get here.”

“Why not?”

“They live on the other side of Huntington Avenue, and it’s three feet deep in water, and — how in the hell did you get here? Haven’t you heard there’s a storm going on? I think you were hiding two blocks up the street, and just pretended to drive over from Glendale.”

“I didn’t see any storm.”

Following him into the bedroom, to see if she could be of help with the drink, she got a shock. It was a tiny cubicle, with one window and a hummocksy bed, on which were her trench coat and a cocktail service, consisting of a great silver shaker, a big B on its side, and beautiful crystal glasses. But not seven feet away, in the smallest, meanest bathroom she had ever seen, he was chopping away at a piece of ice he had evidently procured earlier in the day. Near him, on a small table, she could see a little two-burner gas fixture, a box of eggs, a package of bacon, and a can of coffee. Wishing she hadn’t come, she went back and resumed her seat by the fire.

He served the drinks presently, and she had two. When he reached for the shaker to pour her a third, she stopped him. “If I’m going to drive, I think I’ve had enough.”

“Drive? Where to?”

“Why — isn’t the Biltmore where we’re going?”

“Mildred — we’re not going anywhere.”

“Well we certainly are.”

“Listen—”

He stepped over and snapped on a small radio. An excited announcer was telling of bridges down between Glendale and Burbank, of a wrecked automobile on the San Fernando Road, of the fear that a whole family had been lost with the car. She tossed her head petulantly. “Well, my goodness, the Biltmore’s not in Burbank.”

“Wherever it is, and however we go to get to it, we have to cross the Los Angeles River, and by last report it’s a raging torrent, with half the bridges out and three feet of water boiling over the rest. We’re not going. The New Year’s party is here.”

He filled her glass and she began to sulk. In spite of the liquor, the main idea of the evening was still clear in her mind, and this turn of events was badly interfering with it. When he put his arm around her, she didn’t respond. Amiably, he said she was a very problematical drunk. On two drinks she’d argue with Jesus Christ, on three she’d agree with Judas Iscariot. Now would she kindly tilt over No. 3, so she’d be in a frame of mind to welcome the New Year the way it deserved? When she didn’t touch the drink, he asked for her key, so he could put her car in the garage. When she made no move to give it to him, he went downstairs.

Somewhere in the house, water began to drip. She shivered, for the first time really becoming aware of the rain that was cascading down the windows, roaring on the roof. She began to blame him for that too. When he came back, and took a sharp look at her face, he seemed a little bored. “Well, if you still feel like that, I suppose there’s nothing to do but go to bed... I pulled that cloth clear over your car, so it’ll probably be all right. I have green pajamas and red. Which do you prefer?”

“I’m not going to bed.”

“You’re not very amusing here.”

“I’m going home.”

“Then good night. But in case you change your mind, I’ll put out the green pajamas, and—”

“I haven’t gone yet.”

“Of course you haven’t. I’m inviting—”

“Why did you tell her that?”

What with the liquor, the rain, and his manner, her grievances had heavy compression behind them now, and she exploded with a snarl that left her without the least recollection of all the stuffy little things she had intended to say. He looked at her in astonishment. “Tell whom what? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. How could you say such things to that child? And who gave you the right to talk about my legs anyhow?”

“Everybody else does. Why not me?”

“What?”

“Oh come, come, come. Your legs are the passion of your life. They all but get a cheer when you appear with them in that Pie Wagon, and if you don’t want them talked about, you ought to wear your skirts longer. But you do want them talked about, and looked at, and generally envied, so why this howling fit? And after all, they are damned good-looking.”

“We’re talking about my child.”

“Oh for God’s sake, what do you mean, child? If she’s a child, she’s forgotten more about such things than you’ll ever know. You ought to keep up with the times. I don’t know how it was once — maybe the sweet young things were told by their mothers at the age of seventeen and were greatly surprised, you can’t prove it by me. But now — they know all there is to know before they’ve even been told about Santa Claus. Anyway, she knows. What am I supposed to do? Act like a zany when I drive off with you at night and don’t bring you back until the next morning? Do you think she doesn’t know where you’ve been? Hell she even asks me how many times.”

“And you tell her?”

“Sure. She greatly admires my capacity — and yours. Yours she simply can’t get over. ‘Who’d think the poor mope had it in her?’ ”

As Monty mimicked Veda, Mildred knew this was nothing he had invented, as a sort of counter-offensive. Her rage mounted still higher. She said “I see,” then said it over again, three or four times. Then, getting up and going over to him, she asked: “And how about the best legs being found in kitchens, not in the drawing room?”

“What in the hell are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

Monty stared, touched his brow, as though in a great effort of recollection. Then, snapping his fingers briskly, he said: “Oh, I knew there was something familiar about that. Yes, I did give a little dissertation along those lines one afternoon. We passed a girl — she had on a uniform of some sort, and an apron — quite a pretty little thing, especially around the ankles. And I got that off — what you’ve just quoted. Nothing original, I assure you. I had almost forgotten it... How does that concern us?”

He was plausible, circumstantial, casual, but a little flicker around the eyes betrayed him. Mildred didn’t answer his question. She came over close, and there was something snakelike about her as she said: “That’s a lie. You weren’t talking about any girl you saw on the street. You were talking about me.”

Monty shrugged and Mildred went back to her chair and sat down. Then she began to talk slowly, but with rising stridency. She said he had deliberately tried to set Veda against her, to hold her up to ridicule, to make the child think of her as an inferior, somebody to be ashamed of. “I see it all now. I always thought it was funny she never invited any of these people over here in Pasadena to see her once in a while. Not that I don’t give her the opportunity. Not that I don’t remind her that you can’t accept invitations all the time without giving any in return. Not that I didn’t do my part. But no. Because you were filling her up with all this foolishness, she’s been ashamed to ask these people over. She actually believes Glendale is not good enough for them. She thinks I’m not good enough. She-”

“Oh for God’s sake shut up.”

Monty’s eyes were black now, and had little hard points of light in them. “In the first place, what invitations did she accept? My mother’s, right here in this house. Well, we went all over that once, and we’re not going over it again. And to the Hannens’. And so far as I know the only invitation Charlie and Roberta ever got out of you was an invitation to go over and buy their dinner in that Pie Wagon, and they did go over, and—”

“No check was ever presented to them,”

“O.K., then you’re square. For the rest, who the hell would expect a kid of fourteen to be doing something about every cocktail party I dragged her to? She asked about it, and I said it would be silly. Come on. What else?”

“That may be all right, for older people. But there have been plenty of others she’s met, girls her own age—”

“No, there haven’t. And right there’s where I suggest you get better acquainted with your own daughter. She’s a strange child. Girls her own age don’t interest her. She likes older women—”

“If they’re rich.”

“Anyway, she’s damned nice to them. And it’s unusual as hell. And you can’t blame them for liking it. And liking her. But as for her trying to throw some kind of a shindig for them, what are you trying to do, make me laugh?”

In some elusive, quicksilver way that she couldn’t get her finger on, Mildred felt the argument slipping away from her, and like Veda, she abandoned logic and began to scream: “You’ve set her against me! I don’t care a bit for your fine talk — you’ve set her against me!”

Monty lit a cigarette, smoked sullenly a few moments without speaking. Then he looked up. “Ah! So this is why you came. Stupid of me not to have thought of it sooner.”

“I came because I was invited.”

“On a night like this?”

“It’s as good a time as any other.”

“What a nice little pal you turned out to be... Funny — I had something to say, too.”

He looked with a little self-pitying smile into the fire, evidently decided to keep his intentions to himself, then changed his mind. “... I was going to say you’d make a fine wife for somebody — if you didn’t live in Glendale.”

She had been feeling outpointed, but at this all her self-righteousness came back. Leaning forward, she stared at him. “Monty, you can still say that? After what I’ve said to you? Just to have somebody take care of you, you’d ask me to marry you? Haven’t you any more self-respect than that?”

“Ah, but that’s what I was going to say.”

“Monty, don’t make it any worse than it is. If I got excited about it, you were going to let it stay said. If I didn’t, you were going to pretend that was what you were going to say. Gee, Monty, but you’re some man, aren’t you?”

“Now suppose you listen to what I am going to say.”

“No, I’m going home.”

She got up, but he leaped at her, seized her by both arms, and flung her back in her chair. The little glittering points of light in his eyes were dancing now, and his face was drawn and hard. “Do you know why Veda never invites anybody to that house of yours? Do you know why nobody, except that string-bean that lives next door, ever goes there?”

“Yes — because you set her against me and—”

“Because you are a goddam varlet, and you’re afraid to have people come there, because you wouldn’t know what to do about them — you just haven’t got the nerve.”

Looking into his contorted face, she suddenly had the same paralyzed, shrunken feeling she had had the morning Miss Turner told her off, and sent her over to the housekeeper’s job, because there was nothing else she could do. And she kept shrinking, as Monty went on, pouring a torrent of bitter, passionate invective at her. “It’s not her. It’s not me. It’s you. Doesn’t that strike you as funny? That Veda has a hundred friends, here, there, everywhere she goes, and that you haven’t any? No, I’m wrong — you have one. That bartender. And that’s all. Nobody ever gets invited to your house, nobody—”

“What are you talking about? How can I give parties, or invite people, with a living to make? Why you—”

“Living, my eye! That’s the alibi, not the reason. You damned little kitchen scullion, you’d tell me who’s setting your child against you? Me? Listen, Mildred. Nobody but a varlet would give a second’s thought to what you’ve been talking about tonight. Because that’s the difference. A lady doesn’t care. A varlet does.”

He walked around, panting, then turned on her again. “And I like a fool, like a damned idiot, I once thought maybe I’d been mistaken, that you were a lady, and not a varlet. That was when you handed me the $20 bill that night, and I took it. And then I took more. I even gave you credit for something. God knows what it is, some sense of humor that only an aristocrat ever has, and asked you for money. And then what? Could you go through with it? The very thing that you yourself started? A lady would have cut her heart out before she let me know the money meant anything. But you, before I had even fifty bucks out of you, you had to make a chauffeur out of me, didn’t you? To get your money’s worth? A lackey, a poodle dog. You had to rub it in. Well no more. I’ve taken my last dime off you, and God willing, before my sun goes down, I’ll pay you back. Why you scum, you — waitress. I guess that’s one reason I love Veda. She wouldn’t pick up a tip. That’s one thing she wouldn’t do — and neither would I.”

“Except from me.”

White with rage, she opened her evening bag, took out a crisp $10 bill, threw it at his feet. He took the fire tongs, picked it up, dropped it on the fire. When the flame flared up he took out a handkerchief and mopped his face.

For a time, nothing was said by either of them, and when their panting had died down, Mildred began to feel ashamed, defeated, and miserable. She had said it all, had goaded him to say it all too, those things that she knew he felt, and that left her crumpled and unable to answer. Yet nothing had been settled: there he was and there she was. As she looked at him, she saw for the first time that he was tired, worn, and haggard, with just a touch of middle age dragging at what she had always thought of as a youthful face. Then a gush of terrible affection for him swept over her, compounded of pity, contempt, and something motherly. She wanted to cry, and suddenly reached over and rubbed his bald spot. For a long time, it had been a little joke between them. He made no move, but he didn’t repulse her either, and when she leaned back she felt better. Then again she heard the rain, and for the first time was afraid of it. She drew the coat around her. Then she picked up Manhattan No. 3, drank half of it, set it down again. Without looking at her, he filled her glass. They sat a long time, neither of them looking at the other.

Then abruptly, as though he had solved a very difficult problem, he banged his fist on the arm of his chair, and said: “Damn it, what this needs is the crime of rape!”

He came over, put one arm around her, slipped the other under her legs, and carried her into the bedroom. A little moaning laugh escaped her as he dumped her down on the hummocksy bed. She felt weak and drugged. In a moment, the brocaded coat was off, was sliding to the floor. She thought of her dress, and didn’t care: she wanted him to rip it off her, to tear it away in shreds, if he had to, so he got her out of it. But he wasn’t ripping it off. He was fumbling with the zipper, and for a moment her fingers were over his, trying to help. Then something stirred inside of her, an unhappy recollection of what she had come for, of what had been piling up between them these last few months. She fought it off, tried to make it sink under the overwhelming blend of liquor, man, and rain. It wouldn’t sink. If she had lifted a mountain, it couldn’t have been harder than it was to put both palms in Monty’s face, push him away, squirm off the bed, and lurch to her feet. She grabbed both coats, ran into the other room. He was after her, trying to drag her back, but she fought him off as she snatched up the galoshes and dashed into the dark hall.

Somehow, she got through the ghostly rooms, down the stairs, and to the front door. It was locked. She twisted the big brass key, and at last was on the portico, in the cold wet air. She pulled on both coats, stepped into the galoshes. Then suddenly the light came on, and he was beside her, reaching for her, trying to pull her back. She dashed out into the rain, yanked the cloth off the car, let it fall in the mud, and jumped in. As she snapped on the lights and started the motor, she could see him under the light, gesticulating at her, expostulating with her. There was nothing of passion in his face now. He was angrily telling her not to be a fool, not to go out in the storm.

She started out. On Orange Grove Avenue more tree limbs were down, and it didn’t look so sleek and harmless. She pulled in to the curb, found the kerchief in the trench coat pocket, tied it around her head. Then, cautiously, feeling a throb of fright every time the car bucked in the wind, she went on. As she turned at the traffic circle, she caught the lights of another car, behind.

There were no men with lanterns now, nothing but the black, wild, and terrible night. She got over the bridge without trouble, but when she came to the detour, she was afraid, and waited until the other car caught up a little. Then she went on, noting with relief that the other car turned into the detour too. She had no trouble for a mile or so, and then she came to the washout. To her dismay it had spread: the road was completely blocked. All resolution having deserted her, she stopped and waited, to see what the other car was going to do. It stopped, and she watched. A door slammed, and she strained her eyes to see. Then Monty’s face was at the window, not six inches from her own. Water was pouring off an old felt hat, and off the slicker that was buttoned to his ears. Furiously he pointed at the washout. “Look at that! It never occurred to you there’d be something like that, did it? Damn it, the trouble you’re putting me to!”

For a moment or two, as he savagely ordered her to lock the car, get out, and come back with him, she had a happy, contented feeling, as though he were her father, she a bad little girl that would be taken care of, anyway. Then once more her fixed resolve rose in her. She shifted into reverse and backed. She backed past his car, came to a corner, headed into it. When she had followed the new road a few feet, she saw it led down into Eagle Rock. It was full of rubble, and she proceeded by inches, rolling and braking, then rolling on again. Then ahead of her she saw that the rubble stopped, that a black shining road lay ahead. She stepped on the gas. It was the check of the car that told her the black shining road was black shining water. When she stepped on the brake the car slid right on. The lights went out. The motor stopped. The car stopped. She was alone in a pool that extended as far as she could see. When she took her foot off the brake she felt it splash into a puddle. She screamed.

The rain was driving against her, and she wound up the window. Outside, she could hear the purling of the torrent against the wheels, and in a moment or two the car began to move. She guided it to the right, and when she felt it catch the curb, pulled up the hand brake. Then she sat there. In a few minutes, her breath had misted the glass so she could see nothing. Then the door beside her was jerked open, and once more Monty was standing there. He had evidently gone back to his car to take off his trousers, for as the slicker floated on the pool she could see he was in his shorts. He braced his right arm against the doorjamb. “All right, now throw your legs over my arm, and put your arm around my neck. Hold on tight, and I think I can get you to the top of the hill.”

She lifted her feet to the seat, took off the gold shoes and stockings, put them in the dashboard compartment. Then she put on the galoshes, over her bare feet. Then she wriggled out of both coats and the dress. The dress and the brocaded coat she stuffed over the shoes, closed the compartment and locked it. Then shivering, she got into the trench coat. Then she motioned to Monty to move his hand. When he did, she pulled the door shut and snapped the catch. Then she slipped out the opposite door, locking it. A yelp came out of her as she stepped off the running board and felt the water around her thighs, and the current almost swept her off her feet. But she held on to the door handle and steadied herself. Above her was a high bank, evidently with some sort of sidewalk on top of it. Paying no attention to Monty and his barely audible shouts, she scrambled up, and then slipped, slid, and staggered home through the worst storm in the annals of the Los Angeles weather bureau, or of any weather bureau.

She passed many cars stalled as hers was stalled, some deserted, some full of people. One car, caught between vast lakes of water, was standing near a curb, its top lights on, filled with people in evening clothes, helpless to do anything but sit. She slogged on, up the long hill to Glendale, down block after block of rubble, torrents, seas of water. Her galoshes filled repeatedly, and periodically she stopped, holding first one foot high behind her, then the other, to let the water run out. But she couldn’t let the sand and pebbles out, and they cut her feet cruelly. She was in a hysteria of weakness, cold, and pain when she finally reached Pierce Drive, and half ran, half limped, the rest of the way to the house.

Veda and Letty, like two frightened kittens, hadn’t slept very well that night, and when lights began to snap on in the house, and a sobbing, mud-spattered, staggering apparition appeared at their door, they screamed in terror. When they realized it was Mildred, they dutifully followed her to her room, but it was seconds before they got readjusted to the point of helping her out of her clothes and getting her into bed. But suddenly Letty recovered from her fright, and was soon running around frantically, getting Mildred what she needed, especially whiskey, coffee, and a hot-water bottle. Veda sat on the bed, chafing Mildred’s hands, spooning the scalding coffee into her mouth, pushing the covers close around her. Presently she shook her head. “But Mother, I simply can’t understand it. Why didn’t you stay with him? After all, it wouldn’t have been much of a novelty.”

“Never mind. Tomorrow you get your piano.”

At Veda’s squeal of delight, at the warm arms around her neck, the sticky kisses that started at her eyes and ended away below her throat, Mildred relaxed, found a moment of happiness. As the gray day broke, she fell into a deep sleep.