Mildred Pierce

Chapter 12

For some time after that, Mildred was too busy to pay much attention to Veda. Relieved of Monty, she began to have money, above installments on the piano and everything else. In spite of hard times, her business grew better; the bar shook down into a profitable sideline; most important of all, she paid off the last of the $4,000 she had owed for the property, and last of her equipment notes. Now the place was hers, and she took a step she had been considering for some time. The pies put a dreadful strain on her kitchen, so she built an annex, out back of the parking space, to house them as a separate unit. There was some little trouble about it, on account of the zoning regulations. But when she submitted acceptable exterior plans, which made it look like a rather large private garage, and agreed to display no advertising except the neon sign she was already using, the difficulty was smoothed out. When it was finished, she added pastries to her list, clever items suitable for restaurant perambulators, and had little trouble selling them. Hans presently needed an assistant, and then another. She bought a new truck, a really smart one. About the same time she turned in the car, never quite recovered from the battering it took in the storm, and bought a new one, a sleek maroon Buick with white tires that Veda kissed when the dealer delivered it.

But when Ida, who was a regular visitor now, saw the annex, she grew thoughtful, and then one night started a campaign to get Mildred to open a branch in Beverly, with herself as manager. “Mildred, I know what I’m talking about. That town is just crying for a place that will put out a real line of ready desserts. Think of the entertaining they do over there. Them movie people giving parties every night, and the dessert nothing but a headache to them women. And look how easy you can give them what they want — why you’re making all that stuff right now. And look at the prices you’ll get. And look at the sidelines you got. Look at the fountain trade. Look at the sandwich trade. And I can do it all with four girls, a fountain man, a short-order cook, and a dish washer.”

Mildred, not wanting to assume risk when she had a certainty, was in no hurry about it. But she drove over to Beverly and made inquiries, and began to suspect that Ida was right. Then, snooping around one afternoon, she ran into a vacant property that she knew would be right for location. When she found out she could get a lease for an absurdly small rental, she made up her mind. There followed another hectic month of furniture, fixtures, and alterations. She wanted the place done in maple, but Ida obstinately held out for light green walls and soft, upholstered booths where people would find it comfortable to sit. Mildred gave way, but on the day of the opening she almost fainted. Without consulting her, Ida had ordered a lot of preserves, cakes, health breads, and other things she knew nothing about. Ida however said she herself knew all about them, at any rate all that was necessary to know. By the end of the week, Mildred was not only convinced, but completely flabbergasted. Ida’s report was ecstatic: “Mildred, we’re in. In the first place I got a lunch trade that’s almost like the Brown Derby. People that don’t want planked whitefish and special hamburgers. They want those little sandwiches I got, and the fruit salads, and you just ought to hear the comment. And I don’t hardly get them cleared out before I got a college trade, wonderful refined kids on their way home from Westwood that want a chocolate soda or a malt before they start playing tennis. And when they go my tea trade starts, and on top of that I got a little dinner trade, people that want to eat light before they catch a preview or something. And then on top of that I got a late trade, people that just want a cup of chocolate and a place to talk. From twelve noon until twelve midnight I got business. And the take-out trade from those people, it’s enough to take your breath away.” The receipts bore her out. Ida was to get $30 a week, plus 2 per cent of the gross. She had hoped, in time, to make $50 a week. That very first Saturday night Mildred wrote her a check for $53.71.

But it wasn’t all smooth sailing. Mrs. Gessler, when she heard what Mildred was up to, flew into a rage, and wanted to know why Ida had been singled out to manage the Beverly branch, instead of herself. Mildred tried to explain that it was all Ida’s idea, that some people are suited to one thing, some to another, but got nowhere. Mrs. Gessler continued bitter, and Mildred grew worried. She had come to depend on her tall, thin, profane bartender as she depended on nobody else, not only for shrewd business advice but also for some sort of emotional support that her nature demanded. Losing her would be a calamity, and she began to consider what could be done.

At that time there was considerable talk about the rise of Laguna Beach, a resort along the coast, a few miles below Long Beach. Mildred began to wonder if it would be a good place for still another branch, with Mrs. Gessler in charge. She drove down a number of times and looked it over. Except for one place, she found no restaurants that impressed her, and unquestionably the resort was coming up, not only for summer trippers, but for year-round residents as well. Again it was the lease that decided her. She found a large house, with considerable land around it, on a bluff, overlooking the ocean. With an expert eye, she noted what would have to be done to it, noted that the grounds would be expensive to keep up. But when the terms were quoted to her, they were so low that she knew she could make a good profit if she got any business at all. They were so low that for a brief time she was suspicious, but the agent said the explanation was simple enough. It had been a private home, but it couldn’t be rented for that, as it was entirely too big for most of the people who came down from the city just to get a coat of tan. Furthermore, the beach in front of it was studded with rocks and was therefore unsuitable to swimming. For all ordinary purposes it was simply a turkey, and if she could use it, it was hers at the rate quoted. Mildred inspected the view, the house, the grounds, and felt a little tingle inside. Abruptly, she paid $25 cash for a ten-day option, and that night held Mrs. Gessler after closing time for a little talk. But she barely got started when Mrs. Gessler broke in: “Oh shut up, will you for God’s sake shut up?”

“But — aren’t you interested?”

“Does a duck like water? Listen, it’s halfway between L.A. and San Diego, isn’t it? Right on the main line, and Ike still has his trucks. It’s the first honest-to-God’s chance he’s had to get started again, in a legal way, since — well, you know. And it gets him out of this lousy place. Do you want me bawling right on your shoulder?”

“What’s the matter with this place?”

“It’s not the place, it’s him. O.K., I’m working, see, and he has to find something to do with himself, at night. So he finds it. He says it’s pool, and he does come home with chalk all over him. I’ll say that for him. But he’s a liar. It’s a frazzle-haired blonde that works in one of those antique furniture factories on Los Feliz. Nothing serious maybe, but he sees her. It’s what I’ve been so jittery about, if you’ve got to know. And now, if I can just get him out of here, and in business again so he can hold his head up — well, maybe that’ll be that. Go on, tell me some more.”

So once again Mildred was in a flurry of alterations, purchases of inventory, and arguments about policy. She wanted a duplicate of the Glendale place, which would specialize in chicken, waffles, and pies, and operate a small bar as a sideline. Mrs. Gessler, however, had other ideas. “Do they come all the way to the ocean just to get chicken? Not if I know them. They want a shore dinner — fish, lobster, and crab — and that’s what we’re giving them. And that’s where we make the dough. Don’t forget: fish is cheap. But we’ve got to have a little variety, so we give them steak, right from our own built-in charcoal broiler.”

When Mildred protested that she knew nothing about steaks, or fish, or lobster, or crab, and would be helpless to do the marketing, Mrs. Gessler replied she could learn. It wasn’t until she sent for Mr. Otis, the federal meat inspector who had been romantic about her in her waitress days, that her alarm eased a little. He came to the Glendale restaurant one night, and confirmed her suspicions that there were about a hundred different ways to lose money on steaks. But when he talked with Mrs. Gessler he was impressed. He told Mildred she was “smart,” and probably knew where she was coming out. It depended mainly, he said, on the chef, and to Mildred’s surprise he recommended Archie, of Mr. Chris’s establishment. Archie, he assured her, had been wasted for years in a second-class place, but “he’s still the best steak man in town, bar none. Any bum can cook fish and make money on it, so don’t worry about that. But on steaks, you’ve got to have somebody that knows his stuff. You can’t go wrong on Archie.”

So Mildred stole Archie off Mr. Chris, and under his dour supervision installed the built-in charcoal broiler. Presently, after signs had been put up along the road, and announcements inserted in the Los Angeles papers, the place opened. It was never the snug little gold mine that Ida’s place was, for Mrs. Gessler was careless of expenses, and tended to slight the kitchen in favor of the bar. But her talent at making a sort of club out of whatever she touched drew big business. The ingenuity with which she worked out the arrangements drew Mildred’s reluctant admiration. The big living room of the house was converted into a maple-panelled bar, with dim lights. The rooms behind it were joined together in a cluster of small dining rooms, each with a pleasant air of intimacy about it. One of them opened on a veranda that ran around the house, and out here were tables for outdoor drinkers, bathing suiters, and the overflow trade. But the most surprising thing to Mildred was the flower garden. She had never suspected Mrs. Gessler of any such weakness, but within a few weeks the whole brow of the bluff was planted with bushes, and here, it appeared, was where Mrs. Gessler spent her mornings, spading, pruning, and puttering with a Japanese gardener. The expense, what with the water and the gardener, was high, but Mrs. Gessler shrugged it off. “We’re running a high-class dump, baby, and we’ve got to have something. For some reason I don’t understand, a guy with an old-fashioned on the table likes to listen to the bumblebees.” But when the flowers began to bloom, Mildred paid without protest, because she liked them. At twilight, just before the dinner rush, she would stroll among them, smelling them and feeling proud and happy. On one of these strolls Mrs. Gessler joined her, and then led her a block or two down the main road that ran through the town. Then she stopped and pointed, and across the street Mildred saw the sign:

Mrs. Gessler looked at it intently. “He’s on call all the time, too. All he needed was a chance. Next week he’s getting a new truck, streamlined.”

“Is everything all right upstairs?”

Mildred had reference to the terms of Mrs. Gessler’s employment. She didn’t get $30 a week and 2 per cent of the gross, as Ida did. She got $30 and 1 per cent, the rest of her pay being made up of free quarters in the upper part of the house, with light, heat, water, food, laundry, and everything furnished. Mrs. Gessler nodded. “Everything’s fine. Ike loves those big rooms, and the sea, and the steaks, and — well, believe it or not he even likes the flowers. ‘Service with a gardenia’ — he’s thinking of having it lettered on the new truck. We’re living again, that’s all.”

Mildred never cooked anything herself now, or put on a uniform. At Glendale, Mrs. Kramer had been promoted to cook, with an assistant named Bella; Mrs. Gessler’s place was taken by a man bartender, named Jake; on nights when Mildred was at Beverly or Laguna, Sigrid acted as hostess, and wore the white uniform. Mildred worked from sunup, when her marketing started, until long after dark; she worked so hard she began to feel driven, and relieved herself of every detail she could possibly assign to others. She continued to gain weight. There was still something voluptuous about her figure, but it was distinctly plump. Her face was losing such little color as it had had, and she no longer seemed younger than her years. In fact, she was beginning to look matronly. The car itself, she discovered, took a great deal out of her, and she engaged a driver named Tommy, older brother to Carl, who drove the truck. After some reflection she took him to Bullock’s and bought him a uniform, so he could help on the parking lots. When Veda first saw him in this regalia, she didn’t kiss him, as she had kissed the car. She gave her mother a long, thoughtful look, full of something almost describable as respect.

And in spite of mounting expenses, the driver, the girl Mildred engaged to keep the books, the money kept rolling in. Mildred paid for the piano, paid off the mortgages Bert had plastered on the house; she renovated, repainted, kept buying new equipment for all her establishments, and still it piled up. In 1936, when Mr. Roosevelt came up for reelection, she was still smarting from the tax she had paid on her 1935 income, and for a few weeks wavered in her loyalty. But then business picked up, and when he said “we planned it that way,” she decided she had to take the bitter with the sweet, and voted for him. She began to buy expensive clothes, especially expensive girdles, to make her look thin. She bought Veda a little car, a Packard 120, in dark green, “to go with her hair.” On Wally’s advice, she incorporated, choosing Ida and Mrs. Gessler as her two directors, in addition to herself. Her big danger, Wally said, was the old woman in Long Beach. “O.K., she’s crossing against the lights, Tommy had his brakes on when he hit her, she’s not hurt a bit, but when she finds out you’ve got three restaurants just watch what she does to you. And it works the other way around too. Sooner or later you’re going to have those five people that got ptomaine poisoning, from the fish, or say they did. And what those harpies do to you, once they get in court, will be just plain murder. You incorporate, your personal property is safe.” The old woman in Long Beach, to say nothing of the five harpies on their pots, fretted Mildred terribly, as many things did. She bought fantastic liability insurance, on the car, on the pie factory, on the restaurants. It was horribly expensive, but worth it, to be safe.

Through all the work, however, the endless driving, the worry, the feeling there were not enough hours in the day for all she had to do, one luxury she permitted herself. No matter how the day broke, she was home at three o’clock in the afternoon, for what she called her “rest.” It was a rest, to be sure, but that wasn’t the main idea. Primarily it was a concert, with herself the sole auditor. When Veda turned sixteen, she persuaded Mildred to let her quit high school, so she could devote her whole time to music. In the morning she did harmony, and what she called “paper work.” In the afternoon she practiced. For two hours she practiced exercises, but at three she began to practice pieces, and it was then that Mildred arrived. Tiptoeing in the back way, she would slip into the hall, and for a moment stand looking into the living room, where Veda was seated at the satiny black grand. It was a picture that never failed to thrill her: the beautiful instrument that she had worked for and paid for, the no less beautiful child she had brought into the world; a picture moreover, that she could really call her own. Then, after a soft “I’m home, darling,” she would tiptoe to her bedroom, lie down, and listen. She didn’t know the names of many of the pieces, but she had her favorites, and Veda usually played one. There was one in particular, something by Chopin, that she liked best of all, “because it reminds me of that song about rainbows.” Veda, somewhat ironically, said: “Well Mother, there’s a reason”; but she played it, nevertheless. Mildred was delighted at the way the child was coming along; warm, shy intimacy continued, and Mildred laughed to think she had once supposed that Monty had something to do with it. This, she told herself, was what made everything worthwhile.

One afternoon the concert was interrupted by a phone call. Veda answered, and from the tone of her voice, Mildred knew something was wrong. She came in and sat on the bed, but to Mildred’s “What is it darling?” returned no answer at once. Then, after a few moments of gloomy silence, she said: “Hannen’s had a hemorrhage.”

“Oh my, isn’t that awful!”

“He knew it was coming on. He had two or three little ones. This one caught him on the street, while he was walking home from the post office. The ambulance doctor made a mess of it — had him lifted by the shoulders or something — and it’s a lot worse than it might have been. Mrs. Hannen’s almost in hysterics about it.”

“You have to go over there. At once.”

“Not today. He’s all packed in icebags, and they give him some kind of gas to inhale. It’s just hell.”

“Is there something I could do? I mean, if there are any special dishes he needs, I can send anything that’s wanted, hot, all ready to serve—”

“I can find out.”

Veda stared at the Gessler house, now for rent. Then: “God, but I’m going to miss that damned he-bear.”

“Well my goodness, he’s not gone yet.”

Mildred said this sharply. She had the true California tradition of optimism in such matters; to her it was almost blasphemous not to hope for the best. But Veda got up heavily and spoke quietly. “Mother, it’s bad. I know from the way he’s been acting lately that he’s known it would be bad, when it came. I can tell from the way she was wailing over that phone that it’s bad... And what I’m going to do I don’t know.”

Special dishes, it turned out, were needed desperately, on the chance that the stricken man could be tempted to eat, and in that way build up his strength. So daily, for a week, a big hamper was delivered by Tommy, full of chicken cooked by Mildred herself, tiny sandwiches prepared by Ida, cracked crab nested in ice by Archie, sherries selected by Mrs. Gessler. Mildred Pierce, Inc., spit on its hands to show what it could do. Then one day Mildred and Veda took the hamper over in person, together with a great bunch of red roses. When they arrived at the house, the morning paper was still on the grass, a market circular was stuffed under the door. They rang, and there was no answer. Veda looked at Mildred, and Tommy carried the things back to the car. That afternoon, a long incoherent telegram arrived for Mildred, dated out of Phoenix, Ariz., and signed by Mrs. Hannen. It told of the wild ride to the sanitarium there, and begged Mildred to have the gas turned off.

Three days later, while Mildred was helping Ida get ready for the Beverly luncheon rush, Veda’s car pulled up at the curb. Veda got out, looking half combed and queer. When Mildred unlocked the door for her, she handed over the paper without speaking, went to a booth, and sat down. Mildred stared at the unfamiliar picture of Mr. Hannen, taken before his hair turned white, read the notice of his death with a blank, lost feeling. Then, noting that the funeral was to be held in New York, she went to the phone and ordered flowers. Then she called Western Union, and dictated a long telegram to Mrs. Hannen, full of “heartfelt sympathy from both Veda and myself.” Then, still under some dazed compulsion to do something, she stood there, trying to think what. But that seemed to be all. She went over and sat down with Veda. After a while Veda asked one of the girls to bring her coffee. Mildred said: “Would you like to ride to Laguna with me, darling?”

“All right.”

For the rest of the day, Veda tagged at Mildred’s heels, silent about Mr. Hannen, but afraid, apparently, to be alone. The next day she hung around the house, and when Mildred came home at three, the piano was silent. The day after that, when she still moped, Mildred thought it time to jog her up a bit. Finding her in the den, she said: “Now darling, I know he was a fine man, and that you were very fond of him, but you did all you could do, and after all, these things happen, and—”

“Mother.”

Veda spoke quietly, as one would speak to a child. “It isn’t that I was fond of him. Not that I didn’t love the shaggy brute. To me he’ll always be the one and only, and — oh well, never mind. But — he taught me music, and—”

“But darling there are other teachers.”

“Yes, about seven hundred fakes and advertisers in Los Angeles alone, and I don’t know one from another, and besides—”

Veda broke off, having evidently intended to say something, and then changed her mind. Mildred felt something coming, and waited. But Veda evidently decided she wasn’t going to say it, and Mildred asked: “Can’t you make inquiries?”

“There’s one man here, just one, that Hannen had some respect for. His name is Treviso, Carlo Treviso. He’s a conductor. He conducts a lot of those operas and things out at the Hollywood Bowl. I don’t know if he takes piano pupils or not, but he might know of somebody.”

“Do you want me to call him up?”

Veda took so long answering that Mildred became impatient, and wanted to know what it was that Veda was holding back, anyway. “Has it anything to do with money? You know I don’t begrudge anything for your instruction, and—”

“Then — call him up.”

Mr. Treviso’s studio was located in downtown Los Angeles, in a building with several signs beside the door, and as Mildred and Veda walked up to the second floor, a bedlam of noises assailed their ears; tenors vocalizing, pianists running dizzy scales, violinists sawing briskly in double stops. They didn’t get in to Mr. Treviso at once. Their knock was answered by a short, fat woman with an Italian accent, who left them in a windowless anteroom and went into the studio. At once there were sounds from within. A baritone would sing a phrase, then stop. Then there would be muffled talk. Then he would sing the same phrase again, and there would be more talk. This went on and on, until Mildred became annoyed. Veda, however, seemed mildly interested. “It’s the end of the Pagliacci Prologue, and he can’t hit the G on pitch. Well, there’s nothing to do about him. Treviso might just as well save his time.”

“To say nothing of my time.”

“Mother, this is a wop. So we sit.”

Presently the baritone, a stocky, red-faced boy, popped through the door and left sheepishly, and the woman came out and motioned them in. Mildred entered a studio that was rather different from Mr. Hannen’s. It was almost as large, but nothing like as austere. The great black piano stood near the windows, and the furniture matched it, in size as well as elegance. Almost covering the walls were hundreds of photographs, all of celebrities so big that even Mildred had heard of some of them, and all inscribed personally to Mr. Treviso. That gentleman himself, clad in a gray suit with black piping on the waistcoat, received them as a ducal counselor might have received a pair of lesser ladies in waiting. A tall, thin Italian of perhaps fifty, with bony face and sombre eyes, he listened while Mildred explained what they had come for, then bowed coldly and waved them to seats. When Veda cut in with what Mildred had neglected to mention, that she had studied with Mr. Hannen, he became slightly less formal, struck a tragic pose and said: “Poor Charl’. Ah, poor, poor Charl’.” Then he paid tribute to the Hannen tone, and said it marked him as a great artist, not merely as a pianist. Then, smiling a little, he permitted himself to reminisce. “I first know Charl’, was in 1922. We make tour of Italy together, I play Respighi program wit’ orchestr’, Charl’ play Tschaikowsky concerto. Was just after Mussolini come in, and Charl’, ’e was afraid somebody make him drink castor oil. Was bad afraid. ’e buy gray spat, black ’at, learn Giovanezaz, change name to Annino, do ever’ little t’ing to look like wop. So last concert, was in Turino. After concert, all go to little cafe, ’ave last drink, say good-bye. So concertmaster, ’e make little spich, tell how fine Charl’ play Tschaikowsky concerto, say whole orchestr’ want make Charl’ little gift, express happreciation. ’e give Charl’ big mahogany box, look like ’ave gold cup in it, somet’ing pretty nice. Charl’, ’e make little spich too, say t’anks boys, sure is big surprise. ’E open box — was roll toilet paper!”

Mr. Treviso’s smile had broadened into a grin, and his black eyes sparkled so brightly they almost glared. Mildred, whether because of the anecdote itself, or the recent death of its subject, or the realization that she was in the presence of a point of view completely alien to her, wasn’t amused, though she smiled a little, to be polite. But Veda affected to think this was the funniest thing she had ever heard in her life, and egged Mr. Treviso on to more stories. He looked at his watch and said he would now listen to her play.

The Veda who sat down at the piano was a quite different Veda from the one who had so airily entertained Mr. Hannen three years ago. She was genuinely nervous, and it occurred to Mildred that her encouragement to Mr. Treviso’s storytelling might have been a stall for time. She thought a moment, then with grim face launched into a piece known to Mildred as the Brahms Rhapsody. Mildred didn’t like it much. It went entirely too fast, for her taste, except for a slow part in the middle, that sounded a little like a hymn. However, she sat back comfortably, waiting for the praise that Mr. Treviso would bestow, and that she would tell Ida about, that night.

Mr. Treviso wandered over to the window, and stood looking down at the street. When Veda got to the slow part, he half turned around, as though to say something, then didn’t. All during the slow part he stared down at the street. When Veda crashed into the fast part again, he walked over and closed the piano, elaborately giving Veda time to get her hands out of the way. In the bellowing silence that followed, he went to the far corner of the studio and sat down, a ghastly smile on his face, as though he had been prepared for burial by an undertaker who specialized in pleasant expressions.

It was an appreciable interval before it dawned on Mildred what he had done, and why. Then she looked toward the piano to suggest that Veda play one of her slower pieces. But Veda was no longer there. She was at the door, pulling on her gloves, and before Mildred could say anything, she dived out the door. Mildred jumped up, followed, and in the hall called to her. But Veda was running down the stairs and didn’t look up. The next Mildred knew, Tommy was driving them home, and Veda was sitting with writhing face and clenched hands, staring horribly at the floor. Even as Mildred looked, a white line appeared on the back of one of the gloves and it popped.

All the way home Mildred fumed at the way Mr. Treviso had treated them. She said she had never seen anything like that in her life. If he didn’t like the way Veda had played the piece, he could have said so like a gentleman, instead of acting like that. And the very idea, having an appointment with two ladies for four o’clock, keeping them waiting until a quarter to five, and then, when they had barely got in the door, telling them a story about toilet paper. If that was the only man in Los Angeles that Mr. Hannen had any respect for, she certainly had her opinion of Mr. Hannen’s taste. A lot of this expressed Mildred’s very real irritation, but some of it was to console Veda, by taking her side after an outrageous episode. Veda said nothing, and when they got home she jumped out of the car and ran in the house. Mildred followed, but when she got to Veda’s room, it was locked. She knocked, then knocked again, sharply. Then she commanded Veda to open the door. Nothing happened, and inside there was silence. Letty appeared, and asked in a frightened way what the trouble was. Paying no attention to Letty, Mildred ran out to the kitchen, grabbed a chair, and ran outside. A sudden paralyzing fear had come over her as to what Veda might be doing in there. Putting the chair near the house, she stood on it and raised the screen. Then she stepped into the room. Veda was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling in the same unseeing way she had stared at the floor of the car. Her hands were still clenching and unclenching, and her features looked thick. Mildred, who had expected at the very least to see an empty iodine bottle lying around somewhere, first felt relieved, then cross. Unlocking the door, she said: “Well my goodness, you don’t have to scare everybody to death.”

“Mother, if you say my goodness one more time I shall scream, I shall scream!”

Veda spoke in a terrible rasping whisper, then closed her eyes. Stiffening and stretching out her arms as though she were a figure on a crucifix, she began to talk to herself, in a bitter voice, between clenched teeth. “You can kill it — you can kill it right now — you can drive a knife through its heart — so it’s dead, dead, dead — you can forget you ever tried to play the piano — you can forget there ever was such a thing as a piano — you can—”

“Well my g—. Well for heaven’s sake, the piano isn’t the only thing on earth. You could — you could write music.” Pausing, Mildred tried to remember what Bert had said that day, about Irving Berlin, but just then Veda opened her eyes. “You damned, silly-looking cluck, are you trying to drive me insane?... Yes, I could write music. I can write you a motet, or a sonata, or a waltz, or a cornet solo, with variation — anything at all, anything you want. And not one note of it will be worth the match it would take to burn it. You think I’m hot stuff, don’t you? You, lying there every day, dreaming about rainbows. Well, I’m not. I’m just a Glendale Wunderkind. I know all there is to know about music, and there’s one like me in every Glendale on earth, every one-horse conservatory, every tank-town university, every park band. We can read anything, play anything, arrange anything, and we’re just no good. Punks. Like you. God, now I know where I get it from. Isn’t that funny? You start out a Wunderkind, then find out you’re just a goddam punk.”

“Well, if that’s the case, it certainly does seem peculiar that he wouldn’t have known it. Mr. Hannen, I mean. And told you so. Instead of—”

“Do you think he didn’t know it? And didn’t tell me? He told me every time he saw me — my tunes stunk, my playing stunk, everything I did stunk — but he liked me. And he knew how I felt about it. Christ, that was something, after living with you all my life. So we went on with it, and he thought perhaps Old Man Maturity, as he called him, might help out, later. He will like hell. In this racket you’ve got it or you haven’t, and — will you wipe that stupid look off your face and stop acting as if it was somebody’s fault?”

“It certainly would seem, after all that work—”

“Can’t you understand anything at all? They don’t pay off on work, they pay off on talent! I’m just no good! I’M NO GOD-DAMN GOOD AND THERE’S NOTHING THAT CAN BE DONE ABOUT IT!”

When a shoe whizzed past her head, Mildred went out, picked up her handbag, and started over to Beverly. She felt no resentment at this tirade. She had got it through her head at last that something catastrophic had happened to Veda, and that it was completely beyond her power to understand. But that wouldn’t stop her from trying, in her own way, to think what she could do about it.