Mildred Pierce

Chapter 13

In a day or so, feeling that Veda was the victim of some sort of injustice, Mildred decided that the Messrs. Hannen and Treviso weren’t the only teachers in Los Angeles; that battles aren’t won by quitting, but by fighting hard; that Veda should go on with her music, whether the great masters liked it or not. But when she outlined this idea to Veda, the look from the bed cut her off in the middle of a sentence. Then, unable to give up the idea that Veda was “talented,” she decided that aesthetic dancing was the thing. There was a celebrated Russian dancer who often dined at Laguna, and this authority was sure that with Veda’s looks and good Russian instruction, things might still be straightened out. But at this Veda merely yawned. Then Mildred decided that Veda should enter one of the local schools, possibly Marlborough, and prepare herself for college. But this seemed a bit silly when Veda said: “But Mother, I can’t roll a hoop anymore.”

Yet Veda continued to mope in her room, until Mildred became thoroughly alarmed, and decided that whatever the future held, for the present something had to be done. So one day she suggested that Veda call up some of her friends and give them a little party. Conquering her loyalty to the house, the conviction that it was good enough for anything Veda might want to do in it, she said: “If you don’t want to ask them here, why not Laguna? You can have a whole room to yourself. I can have Lucy fix up a special table, there’s an orchestra we can get, and afterwards you can dance or do anything you want.”

“No, Mother. Thanks.”

Mildred might have persisted in this, if it hadn’t been for Letty, who heard some of it. In the kitchen she said to Mildred: “She ain’t going to see none of them people. Not them Pasadena people.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t you know? After she’s been Mr. Hannen’s candy kid? The one that was going to New York and play the pyanner so they’d all be hollering for her? You think she’s going to see them people now, and just be Veda? Not her. She’s the queen, or she don’t play. She ain’t giving no party, and you ain’t either.”

“I’ve simply got to do something.”

“Can’t you leave her alone?”

Letty, a devoted worshipper of Veda’s by now, spoke sharply, and Mildred left the kitchen, lest she lose her temper. Leaving Veda alone was something that hadn’t entered her mind, but after she cooled off she thought about it. However, she was incapable of leaving Veda alone. In the first place, she had an honest concern about her. In the second place, she had become so accustomed to domineering over the many lives that depended on her, that patience, wisdom, and tolerance had almost ceased to be a part of her. And in the third place, there was this feeling she had about Veda, that by now permeated every part of her, and colored everything she did. To have Veda play the piece about rainbows, just for her, was delicious. To have her scream at her was painful, but bearable, for at least it was she that was being screamed at. To have her lying there on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and not even thinking about her, was an agony too great to be borne. Even as she was trying to be detached, to weigh Letty’s remark fairly, she was deciding that where Veda really belonged was in pictures, and meditating a way whereby a director, one of Ida’s customers, could be induced to take an interest. This brilliant scheme, however, was never put to the test. Veda snapped out of it. Appearing at Laguna one night, she blithely ordered a cocktail, downed a $3.50 steak, and mingled sociably with everybody in the place. Casually, before she left, she asked Mildred if she could order some new clothes, explaining she had been embarrassed to go anywhere “in these rags.” Mildred, delighted at any sign of reviving interest, overlooked the cocktail and told her to order anything she wanted.

She was a little stunned when the bills began to come in, and they footed up to more than $1,300. And she was disturbed when she saw the clothes. Up to now, Veda had worn the quiet, well-made, somewhat sexless toggery sanctioned by Pasadena, as suitable to girls of her age. Now, in big, expensive hats and smart, striking dresses, with powder, rouge, and lipstick thick on her face, she hardly looked like the same girl. She was, by any standard, extraordinarily good-looking. Her hair, still a soft, coppery red, was cut and waved to flow over her shoulders. Her freckles were all gone, leaving the upper part of her face, which so much resembled Bert’s, even handsomer than it had been before: the shadows under her eyes gave her true beauty, and if the light blue of the eyes themselves, as well as the set of the resolute mouth, were a little hard, they were also suggestive of the modern world, of boulevards, theatres, and streamlined cars. She had grown but little these last three years. Though her carriage enhanced her height, she was actually but a shade taller than Mildred. And her figure had filled out, or taken on form, or undergone some elusive change, so the Dairy was no longer the bulging asymmetry it had been in the days when Monty complained about it. It melted pleasantly, even excitingly, into the rest of her. But what shook up Mildred, when this new finery arrived, was the perception that this child was no longer a child. At seventeen she was a woman, and an uncommonly wise one at that. Mildred tried to like the clothes, couldn’t. Unable to indict them, she harped on the three-quarter mink coat, the exact model she had picked out for herself, years before, and never yet bought. Querulously, she said such a purchase should never have been made “without consulting her.” But when Veda slipped it on, and called her “darling Mother,” and kissed her, and begged to be allowed to keep it, she gave in.

Thereafter, she hardly saw Veda. In the morning, when she went out, Veda was still asleep, and at night, when she came in, Veda wasn’t home yet, and usually didn’t arrive until two or three in the morning. One night, when Veda’s car backed and started several times before making the garage, and the footsteps sounded heavy in the hall, Mildred knew that Veda was drunk. But when she went to Veda’s door, it was locked, and there was no answer to her knock. Then one afternoon, when she came home for her rest, Veda’s car was there, and so was a dreadful girl, named Elaine. Her place of residence, it turned out, was Beverly, her occupation actress, though when Mildred asked what pictures she had acted in, the answer was merely, “character parts.” She was tall, pretty, and cheap, and Mildred instinctively disliked her. But as this was the first girl Veda had ever chosen as a friend, she tried to “be nice to her.” Then Mildred began to hear things. Ida cornered her one night, and began a long, whispered harangue. “Mildred, it may be none of my business, but it’s time you knew what was going on with Veda. She’s been in here a dozen times, with that awful girl she goes around with and not only here but at Eddie’s across the street, and at other places. And all they’re up to is picking up men. And the men they pick up! They’re driving all around in that car of Veda’s, and sometimes they’ve got one man with them and sometimes it’s five. Five, Mildred. One day there was three inside, sitting all over the girls’ laps, and two more outside, one on each running board. And at Eddie’s they drink...”

Mildred felt she had to talk to Veda about this, and one Sunday morning screwed up her courage to start. But Veda elected to be hurt. “After all, Mother, it was you that said I couldn’t lie around here all the time. And just because that prissy Ida — oh well, let’s not get on that subject. There’s nothing to be alarmed at, Mother. I may go into pictures, that’s all. And Elaine may be a bum — well there’s no use being silly about it. I grant at once that she’s nothing but a tramp. But she knows directors. Lots of them. All of them. And you have to know directors to get a test.”

Mildred tried conscientiously to accept this version, reminded herself that the picture career had been her own idea, too. But she remained profoundly miserable, almost physically sick.

One afternoon, at the Glendale restaurant, Mildred was checking inventory with Mrs. Kramer when Arline came into the kitchen and said a Mrs. Lenhardt was there to see her. Then, lowering her voice, Arline added excitedly: “I think it’s the director’s wife.”

Mildred quickly scrubbed up her hands, dried them, and went out. Then she felt her face get prickly. Arline had said Mrs. Lenhardt, but the woman near the door was the very Mrs. Forrester to whom she had applied, years before, for the job as housekeeper. She had just time to recall that Mrs. Forrester had expected to be married again when the lady turned, then came over beaming, with outstretched glove and alarming graciousness. “Mrs. Pierce? I’ve been looking forward so much to meeting you. I’m Mrs. Lenhardt, Mrs. John Lenhardt, and I’m sure we’re going to work out our little problem splendidly.”

This greeting left Mildred badly crossed up, and as she led Mrs. Lenhardt to a table she speculated wildly as to what it might mean. She had a panicky fear that it had something to do with that visit years before, that Veda would find out she had once actually applied for a servant’s job, that the consequences would be horrible. As she faced her visitor, she suddenly made up her mind that whatever this was about, she was going to deny everything; deny that she had ever seen Mrs. Forrester before, or been to her house, or even considered a position as housekeeper. She had no sooner made this decision than she saw Mrs. Forrester eyeing her sharply. “But haven’t we met before, Mrs. Pierce.”

“Possibly in one of my restaurants.”

“But I don’t go to restaurants, Mrs. Pierce.”

“I have a branch in Beverly. You may have dropped in for a cup of chocolate sometime, many people do. You probably saw me there. Of course, if I’d seen you I’d remember it.”

“No doubt that’s it.”

As Mrs. Lenhardt continued to stare, Arline appeared and began dusting tables. It seemed to Mildred that Arline’s ears looked bigger than usual, so she called her over, and asked Mrs. Lenhardt if she could offer her something. When Mrs. Lenhardt declined, she pointedly told Arline she could let the tables go until later. Mrs. Lenhardt settled into her coat like a hen occupying a nest, and gushed: “I’ve come to talk about our children, Mrs. Pierce — our babies, I’m almost tempted to say, because that’s the way I really feel about them.”

“Our—?”

“Your little one, Veda — she’s such a lovely girl, Mrs. Pierce. I don’t know when I’ve taken a child to my heart as I have Veda. And... my boy.”

Mildred, nervous and frightened, stared for a moment and said: “Mrs. Lenhardt, I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh come, come, Mrs. Pierce.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Mildred’s tone was sharp, and Mrs. Lenhardt looked at her steadily, her lips smiling, her eyes not believing. Then she broke into a high, shrill laugh. “Of course you don’t! How stupid of me, Mrs. Pierce. I should have explained that my boy, my baby, is Sam Forrester.”

As Mildred still stared, Mrs. Lenhardt saw at last that this might not be pretense. Her manner changing, she leaned forward and asked eagerly: “You mean Veda hasn’t told you anything?”

“Not a word.”

“Ah!”

Mrs. Forrester was excited now, obviously aware of her advantage in being able to give Mildred her own version of this situation, whatever it was, first. She stripped off her gloves and shot appraising glances at Mildred for some time before proceeding. Then: “Shall I begin at the beginning, Mrs. Pierce?”

“Please.”

“They met — well it seems only yesterday, actually it was several weeks ago, at my house. My husband, no doubt you’ve heard of him — he’s a director, and he was considering Veda for a part. And as he so often does with these kids, when we have a little party going on, he asked her over — Veda and her little friend Elaine, another lovely child, Mrs. Pierce. My husband has known her for years, and—”

“Yes, I’ve met her.”

“So it was at my own house, Mrs. Pierce, that Veda and Sam met. And it was simply love at first sight. It must have been, because that boy of mine, Mrs. Pierce, is so sincere, so—”

“You mean they’re engaged?”

“I was coming to that. No, I wouldn’t say they were engaged. In fact I know that Sammy had no such thing in mind. But Veda has somehow got the idea that — well, I understand it, of course. Any girl wants to get married, but Sam had no such thing in mind. I want that made clear.”

Mrs. Lenhardt’s voice was becoming a little high, a little strident, and she waggled a stiff forefinger at Mildred as she went on. “And I’m quite sure you’ll agree with me, Mrs. Pierce, that any discussion of marriage between them would be most undesirable.”

“Why?”

So far as Mildred was concerned, marriage for Veda would have been a major calamity, but at Mrs. Lenhardt’s manner she bristled with hot partisanship. Mrs. Lenhardt snapped: “Because they’re nothing but children! Veda can’t be over nineteen—”

“She’s seventeen.”

“And my boy is twenty. That’s too young. Mrs. Pierce, it’s entirely too young. Furthermore, they move in two different worlds—”

“What different worlds?”

Mildred’s eyes blazed, and Mrs. Lenhardt hastily backed off. “That isn’t quite what I mean, Mrs. Pierce, of course. Let us say different communities. They have different backgrounds, different ideals, different friends. And of course, Sam has always been used to a great deal of money—”

“Do you think Veda hasn’t?”

“I’m sure she has everything you can give her—”

“You may find she’s been used to just as much as your boy has, and more. I’m not exactly on relief, I can tell you.”

“But you didn’t let me finish, Mrs. Pierce. If Veda’s accustomed to wealth and position, so much the more reason that this thing should not for a second be considered. I want to make this clear: If Sammy gets married, he’ll be completely on his own, and it will certainly be hard for two young people, both born with silver spoons in their mouths, to live on what he can earn.”

Having made this clear, Mrs. Lenhardt tried to calm down, and Mildred tried to calm down. She said this was the first she had heard of it, and she would have to talk to Veda before she could say what she thought. But as Mrs. Lenhardt politely agreed that this was an excellent idea, Mildred began to have a suspicion that the whole truth had not been told. Suddenly and sharply she asked: “Why should Veda feel this way about it, and your boy not?”

“Mrs. Pierce, I’m not a mind reader.”

Mrs. Lenhardt spoke angrily, the color appearing in her cheeks. Then she added: “But let me tell you one thing. If you, or that girl, or anybody, employ any more tricks, trying to blackmail my boy into—”

“Trying to — what?”

Mildred’s voice cracked like a whip, and for a few moments Mrs. Lenhardt didn’t speak. Apparently she knew she had said too much, and was trying to be discreet. Her effort was unsuccessful. When her nostrils had dilated and closed several times, she exploded: “You may as well understand here and now, Mrs. Pierce, that I shall prevent this marriage. I shall prevent it in any way that I can, and by legal means, if necessary.” The way she said “necess’ry” had a very ominous sound to it.

By now the reality behind this visit was beginning to dawn on Mildred, and she became calm, cold, calculating. Looking up, she saw Arline at her dusting again, her ears bigger than ever. Calling her, she told her to straighten the chairs at the next table, and as she approached turned pleasantly to Mrs. Lenhardt. “I beg your pardon. For a moment I wasn’t listening.”

Mrs. Lenhardt’s voice rose to a scream. “I say if there are any more threats, any more officers at my door, any more of these tricks she’s been playing — I shall have her arrested, I shall have her prosecuted for blackmail, I shall not hesitate for one moment, for I’ve quite reached the limit of my patience!”

Mrs. Lenhardt, after panting a moment, got up and swept out. Mildred looked at Arline. “Did you hear what she said?”

“I wasn’t listening, Mrs. Pierce.”

“I asked if you heard what she said?”

Arline studied Mildred for a cue. Then: “She said Veda was trying to blackmail her boy into marrying her and if she kept it up she’d have the law on her.”

“Remember that, in case I need you.”

“Yes’m.”

That night Mildred didn’t go to Laguna or to Beverly. She stayed home, tramping around, tortured by the fear that Arline had probably told everybody in the restaurant by now, by uncertainty as to what dreadful mess Veda had got herself into, by a sick, nauseating, physical jealousy that she couldn’t fight down. At eleven, she went to her room and lay down, pulling a blanket over her but not taking off her clothes. Around one, when Veda’s car zipped up the drive, she took no chances on a locked door, but jumped up and met Veda in the kitchen. “Mother!... My, how you startled me!”

“I’m sorry, darling. But I have to talk to you. Something has happened.”

“Well — at least let me take off my hat.”

Mildred went to the den, relieved that she had smelled no liquor. In a minute or two Veda came in, sat down, lit a cigarette, yawned. “Personally, I find pictures a bore, don’t you? At least Nelson Eddy pictures. Still, I suppose it’s not his fault, for it isn’t how he sings but what he sings. And I suppose he has nothing to do with how dreadfully long they are.”

Miserably, Mildred tried to think how to begin. In a low, timid voice, she said: “A Mrs. Lenhardt was in to see me today. A Mrs. John Lenhardt?”

“Oh, really?”

“She says you’re engaged to marry her son, or have some idea you want to marry him, or — something.”

“She’s quite talkative. What else?”

“She opposes it.”

In spite of her effort, Mildred had been unable to get started. Now she blurted out: “Darling, what was she talking about? What does it all mean?”

Veda smoked reflectively a few moments, then said, in her clear, suave way: “Well, it would be going too far to say it was my idea that Sam and I get married. After the big rush they gave me, with Pa breaking his neck to get me a screen test and Ma having me over morning, noon and night, and Sonny boy phoning me, and writing me, and wiring me that if I didn’t marry him he’d end his young life — you might say it was a conspiracy. Certainly I said nothing about it, or even thought about it, until it seemed advisable.”

“What do you mean, advisable?”

“Well, Mother, he was certainly very sweet, or seemed so at any rate, and they were most encouraging, and I hadn’t exactly been happy since — Hannen died. And Elaine did have a nice little apartment. And I was certainly most indiscreet. And then, after the big whoop-de-do, their whole attitude changed, alas. And here I am, holding the bag. One might almost say I was a bit of a sap.”

If there was any pain, any tragic overtone, to this recital, it was not audible to the ordinary ear. It betrayed regret over folly, perhaps a little self-pity, but all of a casual kind. Mildred, however, wasn’t interested in such subtleties. She had reached a point where she had to know one stark, basic fact. Sitting beside Veda, clutching her hand, she said: “Darling, I have to ask you something. I have to, I have to. Are you — going to have a baby?”

“Yes, Mother, I’m afraid I am.”

For a second the jealousy was so overwhelming that Mildred actually was afraid she would vomit. But then Veda looked at her in a pretty, contrite way, as one who had sinned but is sure of forgiveness, and dropped her head on Mildred’s shoulder. At this the sick feeling left, and a tingle went through Mildred. She gathered Veda to her bosom, held her tight, patted her, cried a little. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was afraid.”

“Of me? Of Mother?”

“No, no! Of the suffering it would bring you. Darling Mother, don’t you know I can’t bear to see you unhappy?”

Mildred closed her eyes for a moment, to savor this sweet blandishment. Then, remembering, she asked: “What did she mean about officers?”

“You mean police?”

“I guess so. At her door.”

“My, that is funny.”

Veda sat up, lit another cigarette, and laughed in a silvery, ironical way. “From what I’ve learned of the young man since this happened, I’d say that any girl from Central Casting, perhaps all eight thousand of them for that matter, could have sent officers to his door. He has a very inclusive taste. Well, that’s really funny, when you stop to think about it, isn’t it?”

Hoping for more saccharine remarks, Mildred asked Veda if she’d like to sleep with her, “just for tonight,” but Veda said it was something she’d have to face alone, and went to her room. All through the night, Mildred kept waking with the jealousy gnawing at her. In the morning, she went to the Glendale restaurant and called Bert. Dispensing with Tommy, she went down to Mrs. Biederhof’s corner and picked him up. Then, starting for the hills, she started to talk. She put in everything that seemed relevant, beginning with Mr. Hannen’s hemorrhage, and emphasizing Veda’s forebodings about it. When she got to Mr. Treviso, Bert’s face darkened, and he exclaimed at the “rottenness” of a dirty wop that would treat a young girl that way. Then, finding the going more difficult, Mildred told about Elaine, the drinking, and Ida’s harrowing tales. Then, disconnectedly, hardly able to speak anymore, or to drive, she told about Mrs. Lenhardt. Then, trying to tell about her talk with Veda, she broke down completely, and blurted: “Bert! She’s going to have a baby! She’s in a family way!”

Bert’s grip tightened on her arm. “Hold it! Stop this goddam car. I got to — get someplace where I can move around.”

She stopped, and pulled to one side, on Foothill Boulevard. He got out, began tramping up and down beside the car. Then he began to curse. He said goddam it, he was going to kill that son of a bitch if it was the last thing he did on earth. He said he was going to kill him if they hung him for it and his soul rotted in hell. With still more frightful oaths, he went into full particulars as to where he was going to buy the gun, the way he would lay for the boy, what he would say when he had him face to face, and how he would let him have it. Mildred watched the preposterous little figure striding up and down, and a fierce, glowing pride in him began to warm her. Even his curses gave her a queer, morbid satisfaction. But after a while she said: “Get in, Bert.”

He climbed in beside her, held his face in his hands, and for a moment she thought he was going to weep. When he didn’t, she started the car and said: “I know you’d kill him, Bert. I know you would, and I glory in you for it. I love you for it.” She took his hand, and gripped it, and tears came to her eyes, for he had reached her own great pain, somehow, and by his ferocity, eased it. “But — that wouldn’t do Veda any good. If he’d dead, that’s not getting her anywhere.”

“That’s right.”

“What are we going to do?”

Gagging over her words, Mildred presently broached the subject of an operation. It was something she knew little about, and hated, not only on account of its physical aspect, but because it went counter to every instinct in her wholly feminine nature. Bert cut her off with a gesture. “Mildred, girls die in that operation. They die. And we’re not going to let her die. We lost one, and that’s enough. By God, I’ll say she’s not going to have any operation, not to make it easy for a dirty little rat that took advantage of her and now wants to do a run-out.”

Bert now turned toward Mildred, his eyes flashing. “He’s going to marry her, that’s what he’s going to do. After he’s given her child a name, then he can do his run-out. He better do a run-out, and do it fast, before I catch up with him. He can go to hell, for all I give a damn, but before he does, he’ll march up beside her and say ‘I do.’ I’ll see to that.”

“It’s the only thing, Bert.”

Mildred drove along, and presently had a hollow feeling they were right back where they started. It was all very well to say the boy had to marry Veda, but how could they make him do it? Suddenly she burst out: “Bert, I’m going to get a lawyer.”

“It’s just what I’ve been thinking.”

“You and I, we can’t do a thing. Precious time is going by, and something has to be done. And the first thing is to get that lawyer.”

“O.K. And get him quick.”

When Mildred got home, Veda was just getting up. Closing the door, she addressed the tousled girl in the green kimono. “I told your father. We had a talk. He agrees that we need a lawyer. I’m going to call up Wally Burgan.”

“Mother, I think that’s an excellent idea... As a matter of fact, I’ve already called him up.”

“You — what?”

Veda spoke sleepily, and a little impatiently. “Mother, can’t you see that I’m trying to arrange things myself, without putting you to all kinds of trouble about it? I’ve been trying to spare you. I want to make things easy for you.”

Mildred blinked, tried to adjust herself to this astounding revelation.

Wally arrived around three. Mildred brought him to the privacy of the den, then went and sent Letty on an errand that would take her all afternoon. When she got back to the den, Veda was there, in a simple little blue frock that had cost Mildred $75, and Wally was looking at the pictures of Bert attending the banquets. He said things certainly did look familiar, and casually got down to business. He said he had done a little inquiring around, and the situation was about what he figured it was. “The kid comes into dough on his twenty-first birthday, that’s the main thing. How much I don’t exactly know, but it’s well up in six figures. He’s got to inherit. There’s no way the mother, or the stepfather, or any of them can juggle the books to keep him out of it, and once he dies, whoever is married to him at the time cuts in for her share of the community property. That’s what this is all about, and it’s all it’s all about. That’s why they’re breaking their necks to head it off. It’s got nothing to do with their being too young, or loving each other, or not loving each other, or the different ways they’ve been brought up, or any of the stuff that mother has been dishing out. It’s nothing but the do-re-mi — the old army game.”

When Wally stopped Mildred drew a deep breath and spoke slowly, raising her voice a little: “Wally, I’m not interested in whether he inherits, or how much he inherits, or anything of that kind. So long as I’m here, I don’t think Veda will be in want. But a situation has been created. It’s a terrible situation for Veda, and the only thing that boy can do about it is marry her. If he’s a decent boy, he’ll do the right thing on his own initiative, regardless of what his family says. If he’s not, he’ll have to be made. Wally, that woman had a great deal to say that I haven’t told Veda, but that I have witnesses to substantiate — about law, and what she’ll do, and other things. I’ll go just as far as she will. If it’s the only way, I want that boy arrested — and you can tell him he can be very glad it’s only the police he has to face, instead of Bert.”

“Arresting him may be a little tough.”

“Haven’t we got laws?”

“He’s skipped.”

Wally shot a glance at Veda, who considered a few moments, then said: “I think you’d better tell her.”

“You see, Mildred, just happens we already thought of that. Two, three days, maybe a week ago, I took Veda over to the sheriff’s office and had her swear out a warrant for Sam. No statutory rape, nothing unpleasant like that. Just a little morals charge, and same afternoon, couple of the boys went over to serve it. He wasn’t there. And so far—”

“So that’s what she meant by officers!”

Veda stirred uneasily under Mildred’s accusing eyes. “Well Mother, if you’re talking about what I said last night, I didn’t know at that time that any officers had actually been there.”

Mildred turned on Wally. “It does seem to me that on a thing of this kind, a matter as serious as this, I should have been the first one you would have talked to about it. Why the very idea, of legal steps being taken without my knowing anything whatever about it!”

“Now just hold your horses a minute.”

Wally’s eyes became very cold, and he got up and marched up and down in front of Mildred before he went on. “One thing you might consider: I’ve got a little thing called legal ethics to consider. Sure, I’d have been willing to talk to you. We’ve talked plenty before, haven’t we? But when my client makes an express stipulation that I not talk to you, why—”

When Mildred turned, Veda was ready. “Mother, it’s about time you got it through your head that after all, I, and not you, am the main figure in this little situation, as you call it. I’m not proud of it. I readily admit it’s my own fault, and that I’ve been very foolish. But when I act on that assumption, when I try to relieve you of responsibility, when I try to save you unhappiness, it does seem to me you could give me credit for some kind of decent motives, instead of going off the handle in this idiotic way.’

“I never in all my life—!”

“Now, Mother, nobody was asking any help from you, and as Wally has taken my case as a great favor to me, I think the least you can do is let him tell us what to do, as I imagine he knows much more about such things than you do.”

As Mildred subsided, a little frightened at Veda’s tone, Wally resumed in the casual way he had begun: “Well, so far as his doing anything goes, I’d say the next move was up to them. Way I look at it, we’ve taken Round 1. When we got out that warrant, that showed we meant business. On a morals charge, all the jury wants to know is the age of the girl — after that it’s dead open and shut. When they got him under cover quick, that shows they knew what they’re up against. And what they’re up against is tough. So long as that warrant is out against him, he dare not come back to the state of California, he can’t go back to college, or even use his right name. Course there’s a couple of other things we might do, like suing the mother, but then we’re in the newspapers, and that’s not so good. I’d say leave it like it is. Sooner or later they got to lead to us, and the more we act like we don’t care, the prettier we’re sitting.”

“But Wally!”

Mildred’s voice was a despairing wail. “Wally! Time is going on! Days are passing, and look at this girl’s condition! We can’t wait! We—”

“I think we can leave it to Wally.”

Veda’s cool tone ended the discussion, but all that day and all that night Mildred fretted, and by next morning she had worked herself into a rage. When Tommy reported, at noon, she had him drive her over to Mrs. Lenhardt’s, to “have it out with her.” But as they whirled up the drive, she saw the house man that had let her in, that morning long ago, talking to the driver of a delivery truck. She knew perfectly well he would remember her, and she called shrilly to Tommy to drive on, she had changed her mind. As the car rolled around the loop in front of the house, she leaned far back, so she wouldn’t be seen. Then she had Tommy drive her to Ida’s, and telephoned Bert. Leaving Tommy in Beverly, she again picked up Bert at Mrs. Biederhof’s corner, and headed up to the hills.

Bert listened, and began shaking his head. “Gee Mildred, I wish you’d told me you had Wally Burgan in mind. I’m telling you, I don’t like the guy, and I don’t like the way he does business. Telling him to step on the gas is like — well, he’s been liquidating Pierce Homes for eight years now, hasn’t he? And they’re not liquidated yet. He’s not trying to get Veda married. He’s just running up a bill.”

They rode along, each trying to think of something, and suddenly Bert had it. “To hell with him! What we want is to find that boy, isn’t it? Isn’t that right?”

“That’s it! Instead of—”

“What this needs is a private detective.”

A hot, savage thrill shot through Mildred. At last she knew they were getting somewhere. Excitedly they talked about it, and then Bert told her to get him to a drugstore, or any place where he could get to a phone book. She stopped in San Fernando, and Bert hopped out before the car stopped rolling. He was back in a minute or two, a slip of paper in his hands. “Here’s three, with phone numbers and addresses. I’d say let’s go first to this Simons agency. I’ve heard of it, for one thing, and it’s right there in Hollywood, not too far away.”

The Simons Detective Agency was located in a small, one-story office on Vine Street, and Mr. Simons turned out to be a friendly little man with bushy black hair. He listened attentively as Bert stated the problem, and refrained from asking embarrassing questions. Then he tilted back in his chair and said he saw no particular difficulty. He got jobs of this sort all the time, and on most of them was able to show results. However, since time seemed to be of the essence, there would be certain expenses, and he would have to ask for an advance. “I’d have to have two fifty before I can start at all. First, to get the young man’s picture and other information I’ll need, I’ll have to put an operative to work, and he’ll cost me ten dollars a day. Then I’ll have to offer a reward, and—”

“Reward?”

Mildred suddenly had visions of a horrible picture tacked up in post offices. “Oh, don’t worry, Mrs. Pierce.” Mr. Simons seemed to divine her fear. “This is all strictly confidential, and nobody’ll know anything. Just the same, we work through our connections, and they’re not in business for their health. I’d say, on this, a $50 reward should be ample. Then there’s the printing of our fliers, and the pay of a girl to address a couple thousand envelopes and...”

Bert suggested that half the advance should be paid now, the other half when the boy was found, but Mr. Simons shook his head. “This is all money I’ll have to pay out before I can start at all. Mind, I haven’t said anything yet about my services. Of course, other places may do it cheaper, and you’re perfectly welcome to go where you please. But, as I always say, the cheaper the slower in this business — and, the riskier.”

Mildred wrote the check. On the way home, both of them applauded themselves handsomely for what they had done, and agreed it should be between themselves, with nothing said to Wally or Veda until they had something to “lay on the line,” as Bert put it. So for several days Mildred was ducking into phone booths and talking in guarded tones to Mr. Simons. Then one afternoon he told her to come in. She picked up Bert, and together they drove to the little frame office. Mr. Simons was all smiles. “We had a little luck. Of course it wasn’t really luck. In this business, you can’t be too thorough. We found out that when he left town, the young man was driving one of his stepfather’s cars, and just because I was about to put that information on the flier, now we’ve got something. Here’s the itemized bill, and if you’ll just let me have the check while the girl is typing out the address for you...”

Mildred wrote a check for $125, mainly for “services.” Mr. Simons put a card in her hand, with an address on it. “That’s a dude ranch near Winslow, Ariz. The young man is using his right name, and I don’t think you’ll have any trouble locating him.”

Driving back, they stared at one of Mr. Simons’s fliers, bearing the weak, handsome face of the boy they had chosen for a son-in-law. Then, nervously, they discussed what was to be done, and came to the conclusion, in Bert’s phrase, that they had to “go through with it.” When Mildred dropped him off, they agreed that the time had come to get action out of Wally, and rather grimly Mildred drove home. Going to the kitchen, she sent Letty on another protracted errand. Then, when the girl had gone, she hurried into the den and called Wally. Shrilly, she told what she had done, and read him the address furnished by Mr. Simons. He said hey wait a minute, till he got a pencil. Then he made her repeat the address slowly, and then said: “Swell. Say, that’s a help. It’s a good thing to have, just in case.”

“What do you mean, in case?”

“In case they get tough.”

“Aren’t you calling the sheriffs office?”

“No use going off half-cocked. We’ve got them right where we want them, and as I said before, our play is to make them come to us. Just let it ride, and—”

“Wally, I want that boy arrested.”

“Mildred, why don’t you let me—”

Mildred slammed up the receiver and jumped up, her eyes blazing, her hat slightly askew. When she turned to dash out, Veda was at the door. At once she launched into a denunciation of Wally. “That man’s not even trying to do anything. I’ve told him where that boy is. I had a detective find out — and still he does nothing. Well that’s the last he’ll hear from me! I’m going over to the sheriff’s office myself!”

Quivering with her high, virtuous resolve, Mildred charged for the door. She collided with Veda, who seemed to have moved to block her path. Then her wrist was caught in a grip like steel, and slowly, mercilessly, she was forced back, until she plunged down on the sofa. “You’ll do nothing of the kind.”

“Let go of me! What are you pushing me for? What do you mean I’ll do nothing of the kind?”

“If you go to the sheriffs office, they’ll bring young Mr. Forrester back. And if they bring him back, he’ll want to marry me, and that doesn’t happen to suit me. It may interest you to know that he’s been back. He sneaked into town, twice, and a beautiful time I had of it, getting him to be a nice boy and stay where Mamma put him. He’s quite crazy about me. I saw to that. But as for matrimony, I beg to be excused. I’d much rather have the money.”

Mildred took off her hat, and stared at the cold, beautiful creature who had sat down opposite her, and who was now yawning as though the whole subject were a bit of a bore. The events of the last few days began ticking themselves off in her mind, particularly the strange relationship that had sprung up, between Veda and Wally. The squint appeared, and her face grew hard. “Now I know what that woman meant by blackmail. You’re just trying to shake her down, shake the whole family down, for money. You’re not pregnant, at all.”

“Mother, at this stage it’s a matter of opinion, and in my opinion, I am.”

Veda’s eyes glinted as she spoke, and Mildred wanted to back down, to avoid one of those scenes from which she always emerged beaten, humiliated, and hurt. But something was swelling within her, something that began in the sick jealously of a few nights before, something that felt as though it might presently choke her. Her voice shook as she spoke. “How could you do such a thing? If you had loved the boy, I wouldn’t have a word to say. So long as I thought you had loved him, I didn’t have a word to say, not one word to blame you. To love is a woman’s right, and when you do, I hope you give everything you have, brimming over. But just to pretend you loved him to lead him on, to get money out of him — how could you do it?”

“Merely following in my mother’s footsteps.”

“What did you say?”

“Oh, stop being so tiresome. There’s the date of your wedding, and there’s the date of my birth. Figure it out for yourself. The only difference is that you were a little younger at that time than I am now — a month or two anyway. I suppose it runs in families.”

“Why do you think I married your father?”

“I rather imagine he married you. If you mean why you got yourself knocked up, I suppose you did it for the same reason I did — for the money.”

“What money?”

“Mother, in another minute I’ll be getting annoyed. Of course he has no money now, but at the time he was quite rich, and I’m sure you knew it. When the money was gone you kicked him out. And when you divorced him, and he was so down and out that the Biederhof had to keep him, you quite generously stripped him of the only thing he had left, meaning this lovely, incomparable, palatial hovel that we live in.”

“That was his idea, not mine. He wanted to do his share, to contribute something for you and Ray. And it was all covered with mortgages, that he couldn’t even have paid the interest on, let alone—”

“At any rate, you took it.”

By now, Mildred had sensed that Veda’s boredom was pure affectation. Actually she was enjoying the unhappiness she inflicted, and had probably rehearsed her main points in advance. This, ordinarily, would have been enough to make Mildred back down, seek a reconciliation, but this feeling within kept goading her. After trying to keep quiet, she lashed out: “But why? Why — will you tell me that? Don’t I give you everything that money can buy? Is there one single thing I ever denied you? If there was something you wanted, couldn’t you have come to me for it, instead of resorting to — blackmail. Because that woman was right! That’s all it is! Blackmail! Blackmail! Blackmail!”

In the silence that followed, Mildred felt first frightened, then coldly brave, as the feeling within drove her on. Veda puffed her cigarette, reflected, and asked: “Are you sure you want to know?”

“I dare you to tell me!”

“Well, since you ask, with enough money, I can get away from you, you poor, half-witted mope. From you, and your pie wagon, and your chickens, and your waffles, and your kitchens, and everything that smells of grease. And from this shack, that you blackmailed out of my father with your threats about the Biederhof, and its neat little two-car garage, and its lousy furniture. And from Glendale, and its dollar days, and its furniture factories, and its women that wear uniforms and its men that wear smocks. From every rotten, stinking thing that even reminds me of the place — or you.”

“I see.”

Mildred got up and put on her hat. “Well it’s a good thing I found out what you were up to, when I did. Because I can tell you right now, if you had gone through with this, or even tried to go through with it, you’d have been out of here a little sooner than you expected.”

She headed for the door, but Veda was there first. Mildred laughed, and tore up the card Mr. Simons had given her. “Oh you needn’t worry that I’ll go to the sheriff’s office now. It’ll be a long time before they find out from me where the boy is hiding, or you do either.”

Again she started for the door, but Veda didn’t move. Mildred backed off and sat down. If Veda thought she would break, she was mistaken. Mildred sat motionless, her face hard, cold, and implacable. After a long time the silence was shattered by the phone. Veda jumped for it. After four or five brief, cryptic monosyllables, she hung up, turned to Mildred with a malicious smile. “That was Wally. You may be interested to know that they’re ready to settle.”

“Are you?”

“I’m meeting them at his office.”

“Then get out. Now.”

“I’ll decide that. And I’ll decide when.”

“You’ll get your things out of this house right now or you’ll find them in the middle of Pierce Drive when you come back.”

Veda screamed curses at Mildred, but presently she got it through her head that this time, for some reason, was different from all other times. She went out, backed her car down to the kitchen door, began carrying out her things, and packing them in the luggage carrier. Mildred sat quite still, and when she heard Veda drive off she was consumed by a fury so cold that it almost seemed as though she felt nothing at all. It didn’t occur to her that she was acting less like a mother than like a lover who has unexpectedly discovered an act of faithlessness, and avenged it.