Mildred Pierce

Chapter 14

It was at least six months after this that Bert called up to invite her to the broadcast. For her, it had been a dismal six months. She had found out soon enough where Veda was staying. It was in one of the small, swank apartment houses on Franklin Avenue, in Hollywood. Every fibre of her being had wanted to pay a visit there, to take back what she had said, to reestablish things as they had been, or try to. But when this thought entered her mind, or rather shot through her heart like a hot arrow, she set her face as if it had been cast in metal, and not once did she even drive past Veda’s door. And yet, even in her loneliness, her relation with Veda was developing, twisting her painfully, like some sort of cancer. She discovered rye, and in the boozy dreams of her daily rest, she pictured Veda as going from bad to worse, as hungering and mending threadbare finery, until she had to come back, penitent and tearful, for forgiveness. This view of the future was somewhat obscured by the circumstance that Mildred didn’t know exactly how much Veda had obtained from the Lenhardts, and thus couldn’t calculate, with any degree of accuracy, when destitution was likely to strike. But Bert contributed a thought that assisted drama, if not truth. Bert, having tried unsuccessfully to stand on his rights as a father to bluff information out of Wally, and having threatened even to “hold up the settlement” unless full data were furnished, had learned only that his consent was not needed for a settlement; all the Lenhardts wanted was a release from Veda, a signed letter denying promises, intimidation, or pregnancy. But the episode had left him with a lower opinion of Wally’s honesty than he had had before, if that were possible, and he hatched the theory that “Wally would have every damned cent of it before the year was out, didn’t make a bit of difference what they paid, or what he got, or what she got.” On this theory Mildred eagerly seized, and pictured the cheated Veda, not only as cold, hungry, and in rags, but as horribly bruised in spirit, creeping to the strong, silent mother who could cope with Wally or anybody else. When the scene materialized almost daily before her eyes, with a hundred little variations and embellishments, she always experienced the same brief ecstasy as she lifted the weeping Veda into her arms, patted her, inhaled the fragrance of the soft, coppery hair, and bestowed love, understanding, and forgiveness. One slight incongruity she overlooked: Veda in real life, rarely wept.

At Bert’s mention of a broadcast it took her a moment or two to collect her wits. “What broadcast?”

“Why, Veda.”

“You mean she’s playing on the air?”

“Singing, the way I get it.”

“Veda? Singing?”

“Maybe I better come over.”

By the time he got there, she was a-tremble with excitement. She found the radio page of the Times, and there, sure enough, was Veda’s picture, with the news that “the popular singer will be heard tonight at 8:30, on the Hank Somerville (Snack-O-Ham) program.” Bert had seen the Examiner, but hadn’t seen the Times, and together they looked at the picture, and commented on how lovely Veda looked. When Mildred wanted to know how long this had been going on, meaning the singing, Bert said quickly you couldn’t prove it by him, as though to disclaim participation in secrets that had been withheld from Mildred. Then he added that the way he got it, Veda had been on the air quite a lot already, on the little afternoon programs that nobody paid any attention to, and that was how she’d got this chance on a big national hook-up. Mildred got the rye she had been sipping, poured two more drinks, and Bert revealed that his invitation had really been Mrs. Beiderhof’s idea. “She figured it meant a lot more to you than it would to her, so that’s how I came to call you up.”

“It was certainly nice of her.”

“She’s a real friend.”

“You mean we’ll go to the studio?”

“That’s it. It’s going out from the NBC studio right here in Hollywood, and we’ll be able to see it and hear it.”

“Don’t we have to have tickets?”

“... I got a couple.”

“How?”

“It’s taken care of.”

“From Veda?”

“Never mind. I got ‘em.”

At the look on Mildred’s face, Bert quickly crossed over, took her hand. “Now what’s the use of acting like that? Yes, she called me up, and the tickets are there waiting for me. And she’ll call you up, of course she will. But why would she be calling you in the morning, like she did me? She knows you’re never home then. And then another thing, she’s probably been busy. I hear they run those singers ragged, rehearsing them, the day of a broadcast. O.K., they’ve got her there, where she can’t get to a phone or anything, but that’s not her fault. She’ll call. Of course she will.”

“Oh no. She won’t call me.”

As Bert didn’t know the full details of Veda’s departure from home, his optimism was understandable. He evidently regarded the point as of small importance, for he began to talk amiably, sipping his rye. He said it certainly went to show that the kid had stuff in her all right, to get a spot like that with a big jazz band, and nobody giving her any help but herself. He said he knew how Mildred felt, but she was certainly going to regret it afterwards if she let a little thing like this stand in the way of being there at the kid’s first big chance. Because it was a big chance all right. The torch singers with these big name bands, they’re in the money, and no mistake about it. And sometimes, if they had the right hot licks on their first broadcast, they hit the big time overnight.

Mildred let a wan, pitying smile play over her face. If Veda had got there, she said, it was certainly all right with her. Just the same, it certainly seemed funny, the difference between what Veda might have been, and what she was. “Just a year or two ago, it was a pleasure to listen to her. She played all the classical composers, the very best. Her friends were of the best. They weren’t my friends, but they were of the best. Her mind was on higher things. And then, after Mr. Hannen died, I don’t know what got into her. She began going around with cheap, awful people. She met that boy. She let Wally Burgan poison her mind against me. And now, Hank Somerville. Well, that’s the whole story — from Beethoven to Hank Somerville, in a little over a year. No, I don’t want to go to the broadcast. It would make me too sad.”

Truth to tell, Mildred had no such critical prejudice against Mr. Somerville, or the torch canon, as her remarks might indicate. If Veda had called her up, she would have been only too glad to regard this as “the first move,” and to have gone adoringly to the broadcast. But when Veda called Bert, and didn’t call her, she was sick, and her sickness involved a bad case of sour-grapes poisoning: so far as she was concerned, torch was the lowest conceivable form of human endeavor. Also, she hated the idea that Bert might go without her. She insisted that he take Mrs. Biederhof, but he got the point, and miserably mumbled that he guessed he wouldn’t go. Then suddenly she asked what advantage there was in going to the studio. He could hear it over the radio. Why not ride with her to Laguna and hear it there? He could have his dinner, a nice big steak if he wanted it, and then later she would have Mrs. Gessler put the radio on the veranda, and he could hear Veda without going to a lot of useless trouble. At the mention of steak, poor Bert perked up, and said he’d often wanted to see her place at Laguna. She said come right along, she’d be starting as soon as Tommy brought the car. He said O.K., and went legging it home to change into clothes suitable to a high-class place.

At Laguna, Mildred was indifferent to the impending event, and had little to say to the girls, the cooks, and the customers who kept telling her about Veda’s picture in the paper, and asking her if she wasn’t excited that her daughter was on the air. Bert, however, wasn’t so reticent. While his steak was on the fire, he held court in the bar, and told all and sundry about Veda, and promised that if hot licks were what it took, the kid had them. When the hour drew near, and Mrs. Gessler plugged in the big radio on the veranda, he had an audience of a dozen around him, and extra chairs had to be brought. Two or three were young girls, there were two married couples, and the rest were men. Mildred had intended to pay no attention to the affair at all, but along toward 8:25, curiosity got the better of her. With Mrs. Gessler she went outside, and there was a lively jumping up to give her a seat. One or two men were left perched on the rail.

The first hint she got that Veda’s performance might not be quite the torchy affair that Bert had taken for granted came when Mr. Somerville, early in the program, affected to faint, and had to be revived, somewhat noisily, by members of his band. The broadcast had started in the usual way, with the Krazy Kaydets giving the midshipmen’s siren yell and then swinging briskly into Anchors Aweigh. Then Mr. Somerville greeted his audience, and then he introduced Veda. When he asked if Veda Pierce was her real name, and she said it was, he wanted to know if her voice was unduly piercing. At this the kaydets rang a ship’s gong, and Veda said no, but her scream was, as he’d find out if he made any more such remarks. The studio audience laughed, and the group on the veranda laughed, especially Bert, who slapped his thigh. A man in a blue coat, sitting on the rail, nodded approvingly. “She put that one across all right.”

Then Mr. Somerville asked Veda what she was going to sing. She said the Polonaise from Mignon, and that was when he fainted. While the kaydets were working over him, and the studio audience was laughing, and the ship’s gong was clanging, Bert leaned to the man in the blue coat. “What’s it about?”

“Big operatic aria. The idea is, it’s a little over the kaydets’ heads.”

“Oh, now I get it.”

“Don’t worry. They’ll knock it over.”

Mildred, who found the comedy quite disgusting, paid no attention. Then the kaydets crashed into the introduction. Then Veda started to sing. Then a chill, wholly unexpected, shot up Mildred’s backbone. The music was unfamiliar to her, and Veda was singing in some foreign language that she didn’t understand. But the voice itself was so warm, rich, and vibrant that she began to fight off the effect it had on her. While she was trying to get readjusted to her surprise, Veda came to a little spray of rippling notes and stopped. The man in the blue coat set his drink on a table and said: “Hey, hey, hey!”

After a bar or two by the orchestra, Veda came in again, and another chill shot up Mildred’s back. Then, as cold prickly waves kept sweeping over her, she really began to fight her feelings. Some sense of monstrous injustice oppressed her: it seemed unfair that this girl, instead of being chastened by adversity, was up there, in front of the whole world, singing, and without any help from her. Somehow, all the emotional assumptions of the last few months were stood on their head, and Mildred felt mean and petty for reacting as she did, and yet she couldn’t help it.

Soon Veda stopped, the music changed slightly, and the man in the blue coat sipped his drink. “O.K. so far. Now for the flying trapeze.” When Veda started again, Mildred gripped her chair in sheer panic. It seemed impossible that anybody could dare such dizzy heights of sound, could even attempt such vocal gymnastics, without making some slip, some dreadful error that would land the whole thing in ruin. But Veda made no slip. She went on and on, while the man in the blue coat jumped down from the rail, squatted by the machine, and forgot his drink, forgot everything except what was pouring out into the night. Bert and the others watched him with some sort of fascinated expectancy. At the end, when the last, incredibly high note floated over the finale of the orchestra, he looked up at Mildred. “Jesus Christ, did you hear it? Did you—”

But Mildred didn’t wait for him to finish. She got up abruptly and walked down toward Mrs. Gessler’s flowers, waving back Bert and Mrs. Gessler, who called after her, and started to follow. Pushing through the bushes, she reached the bluff overlooking the sea, and stood there, lacing her fingers together, screwing her lips into a thin, relentless line. This, she needed nobody to tell her, was no descent from Beethoven to Hank Somerville, no cheap venture into torch. It was the coming true of all she had dreamed for Veda, all she had believed in, worked for, dedicated her life to. The only difference was that the dream that had come true was a thousand times rosier than the dream she had dreamed. And come what might, by whatever means she would have to take, she knew she would have to get Veda back.

This resolve remained hot in her mouth, but back of it, like a fishbone across her throat, was her determination, that Veda, and not herself, would have to make the first move. She tried to put this aside, and drove to Veda’s one morning with every intention of stopping, ringing the bell, and going in. But as she approached the little white apartment house, she hurriedly told Tommy to drive on without stopping, and leaned far back in the car to avoid being seen, as she had done that morning at Mrs. Lenhardt’s. She felt hot-faced and silly, and the next time she decided to visit Veda she drove the car herself, and went alone. Again she went by without stopping. Then she took to driving past Veda’s at night, and peeping, hoping to see her. Once she did see her, and quickly pulled in at the curb. Taking care not to slam the car door, she slipped out of the car and crept to the window. Veda was at the piano, playing. Then suddenly the miracle voice was everywhere, going through glass and masonry as though they were air. Mildred waited, a-tremble, until the song was finished, then ran back to her car and drove off.

But the broadcasts continued, and Mildred’s feeling of being left out in the cold increased, until it became intolerable. Veda didn’t appear again on the Snack-O-Ham program. To Mildred’s astonishment, her regular spot on the air was Wednesdays, at 3:15, as part of the Treviso Hour, offered by star pupils of the same Carlo Treviso who had once closed the piano so summarily over her knuckles. And then, after listening to two of these broadcasts, and drinking in Veda’s singing and everything the announcer said about her, Mildred had an idea. By making use of Mr. Treviso, she could compel Veda to call her on the phone, to thank her for favors rendered. After that, pride would be satisfied and almost anything might happen.

So presently she was in the same old anteroom, with the same old vocalizing going on inside, and her temper growing hotter and hotter. But when Mr. Treviso finally received her, she had herself under what she thought was perfect control. As he gave no sign of recognition, she recalled herself to him, and he looked at her sharply, then bowed, but otherwise made no comment. She then made her little speech, which sounded stiff, and no doubt was supposed to sound stiff. “Mr. Treviso, I’ve come on a matter that I shall have to ask you to keep confidential, and when I tell you the reason, I’m sure you’ll be only too glad to do so. My daughter Veda, I believe, is now taking lessons from you. Now for reasons best known to herself, she prefers to have nothing to do with me at the moment, and far be it from me to intrude on her life, or press her for explanations. Just the same, I have a duty toward her, with regard to the expenses of her musical education. It was I, Mr. Treviso, who was responsible for her studying music in a serious way, and even though she elects to live apart from me, I still feel that her music is my responsibility, and in the future, without saying anything to her, without saying one word to her, Mr. Treviso, I’d like you to send your bills to me, and not to her. I hope you don’t find my request unreasonable.”

Mr. Treviso had seated himself, and listened with his death-mask smile, and for some moments he studied his fingernails attentively. Then he stood up. “Am ver’ sorry, Madame, but dees is subject w’ich I cannot discuss wit’ you.”

“Well I’m very sorry too, Mr. Treviso, but I’m afraid you’ll have to discuss it with me. Veda is my daughter, and—”

“Madame, you excuse me, ’ave engagement.”

With quick strides, he crossed to the door, and opened it as though Mildred were the queen of Naples. Nothing happened. Mildred sat there, and crossed her still shapely legs in a way that said plainly she had no intention of going until she had finished her business. He frowned, looked at his watch. “Yes, himportant engagement. You excuse me? Please.”

He went out, then, and Mildred was left alone. After a few minutes, the little fat woman came in, found a piece of music, sat down at the piano, and began to play it. She played it loud, and then played it again, and again, and each time she played it was louder and still louder. That went on perhaps a half hour, and Mildred still sat there. Then Mr. Treviso came back and motioned the little fat woman out of the room. He strode up and down for a few minutes, frowning hard, then went over and closed the door. Then he sat down near Mildred, and touched her knee with a long, bony forefinger, “Why you want dees girl back? Tell me that?”

“Mr. Treviso, you mistake my motives. I—”

“No mistake, no mistake at all. I tell Veda, well you pretty lucky, kid, somebody else pay a bill now. And she, she got no idea at all, hey? Don’t know how to call up, say thanks, sure is swell, how you like to see me again, hey?”

“Well that wasn’t my idea, Mr. Treviso, but I’m sure, if Veda did happen to guess who was paying the bill, and called up about it, I could find it in my heart to—”

“Listen, you. I tell you one t’ing. Is make no difference to me who pay. But I say to you: you want to ’ear dees girl sing, you buy a ticket. You pay a buck. You pay two bucks. If a ticket cost eight eighty, O.K. you pay eight eighty, but don’t try to ’ear dees girl free. Because maybe cost you more than a whole Metropolitan Grand Opera is wort’.”

“This is not a question of money.”

“No by God, sure is not. You go to a zoo, hey? See little snake? Is come from India, is all red, yellow, black, ver’ pretty little snake. You take ’ome, hey? Make little pet, like puppy dog? No — you got more sense. I tell you, is same wit’ dees Veda. You buy ticket, you look at a little snake, but you no take home. No.”

“Are you insinuating that my daughter is a snake?”

“No — is a coloratura soprano, is much worse. A little snake, love mamma, do what papa tells, maybe, but a coloratura soprano, love nobody but own goddam self. Is son-bitch-bast’, worse than all a snake in a world. Madame, you leave dees girl alone.”

As Mildred sat blinking, trying to get adjusted to the wholly unexpected turn the interview had taken, Mr. Treviso took another turn around the room, then apparently became more interested in his subject than he had intended. He sat down now, his eyes shining with that Latin glare that had so upset her on her first visit. Tapping her knee again, he said: “Dees girl, she is coloratura, inside, outside, all over.”

“What is a coloratura soprano?”

“Madame, is special fancy breed, like blue Persian cat. Come once in a lifetime, sing all a trill, a staccato ha-ha-ha, cadenza, a tough stuff—”

“Oh, now I understand.”

“Cost like ’ell. If is real coloratura, bring more dough to a grand opera house than big wop tenor. And dees girl, is coloratura, even a bones is coloratura. First, must know all a rich pipple. No rich, no good.”

“She always associated with nice people.”

“Nice maybe, but must be rich. All coloratura, they got, ’ow you say? — da gimmies. Always take, never give. O.K., you spend plenty money on dees girl, what she do for you?”

“She’s a mere child. She can’t be expected to—”

“So — she do nothing for you. Look.”

Mr. Treviso tapped Mildred’s knee again, grinned. “She even twiddle la valiere all a coloratura, sit back like a duchess twiddle a la valiere.” And he gave a startling imitation of Veda, sitting haughtily erect in her chair, twiddling the ornament of her neck chain.

“She’s done that since she was a little girl!”

“Yes — is a funny part.”

Warming up now, Mr. Treviso went on: “All a coloratura crazy for rich pipple, all take no give, all act like a duchess, all twiddle a la valiere, all a same, every one. All borrow ten t’ous-and bucks, go to Italy, study voice, never pay back a money, t’ink was all friendship. Sing in grand opera, marry a banker, get da money. Got da money, kick out a banker, marry a baron, get da title. ’ave a sweetie on a side, guy she like to sleep wit’. Den all travel together, all over Europe, grand opera to grand opera, ’otel — a baron, ’e travel in Compartment C, take care of dog. A banker, ’e travel in Compartment B, take care of luggage. A sweetie, ’e travel in Drawing Room A, take care of coloratura — all one big ’appy family. Den come a decoration from King of Belgium — first a command performance, Theatre de la Monnaie, den a decoration. All coloratura ’ave decoration from King of Belgium, rest of life twiddle a la valiere, talk about a decoration.”

“Well — Los Angeles is some distance from Belgium—”

“No, no distance. Dees girl, make you no mistake, is big stuff. You know what make a singer? Is first voice, second voice, t’ird voice — yes, all know dees gag. Was Rossini’s gag, but maybe even Rossini could be wrong. Must ’ave voice, yes. But is not what make a singer. Must ’ave music, music inside. Caruso, ’e could no read one note, but ’e have music in a soul is come out ever’ note ’e sing. Must have rhythm, feel a beat of a music before conductor raise a stick. And specially coloratura — wit’out rhythm, wit’out music, all dees ha-ha-ha is vocalize, not’ing more. O.K., dees Veeda. I work on dees girl one week. She sing full chest, sound very bad, sound like a man. I change to head tone, sound good, I t’ink, yes, ’ere is a voice. ’Ere is one voice in a million. Den I talk. I talk music, music, music. I tell where she go to learn a sight-read, where learn ’armonia, where learn piano. She laugh, say maybe I ’ave somet’ing she can read by sight. On piano is a Stabat Mater, is ’ard, is tricky, is Rossini, is come in on a second beat, sing against accompaniment t’row a singer all off. I say O.K., ’ere is little t’ing you can read by sight. So I begin to play Inflammatus, from a Rossini Stabat Mater. Madame, dees girl hit a G on a nose, read a whole Inflammatus by sight, step into a C like was not’ing at all — don’t miss one note. I jump up, I say Jesus Christus, where you come from? She laugh like ’ell. Ask is little ’armonia I want done maybe. Den tell about Charl’, and I remember her now. Madame, I spend two hours wit’ dees girl dees afternoon, and find out she know more music than I know. Den I really look dees girl over. I see dees deep chest, dees big bosom, dees ‘igh nose, dees big antrim sinus in front of a face. Den I know what I see. I see what come once in a lifetime only — a great coloratura. I go to work. I give one lesson a day, charge one a week. I bring dees girl along fast, fast. She learn in six mont’ what most singer learn in five year, seven year. Fast, fast, fast. I remember Malibran, was artist at fifteen. I remember Melba, was artist at sixteen. Dees girl, was born wit’ a music in a soul, can go fast as I take. O.K., you ’ear Snack-O-Ham program?”

“Yes, I did.”

“A Polonaise from Mignon, is tough. She sing like Tetrazzini. Oh, no, Madame, is not far from Los Angeles to Belgium for dees girl. Is no good singer. Is great singer. O.K., ask a pipple. Ask a pipple turned in on a Snack-O-Ham.”

Mildred, who had listened to this eulogy as one might listen to soul-nourishing organ music, came to herself with a start, and murmured: “She’s a wonderful girl.”

“No — is a wonderful singer.”

As she looked at him, hurt and puzzled, Mr. Treviso stepped nearer, to make his meaning clear. “Da girl is lousy. She is a bitch. Da singer — is not.”

This seemed to be all, and Mildred got up. “Well — we’re all entitled to our opinion, but I would like it, if you don’t mind, if you’d send your bills hereafter to me—”

“No, Madame.”

“Have you any particular objection?”

“Yes, Madame. I no enjoy a snake bite. You come in ’ere, you try to make me play little part, part in intrigue to get your daughter back—”

“Mr. Treviso, that is your surmise.”

“Is no surmise. For last two weeks, ever since Snack-O-Ham broadcast, dees little bitch ’ave told me a poor dumb mother will try to get ’er back, and a first t’ing she do is come here, offer pay for singing lesson.”

“She—!”

“Yes! Dees girl, she live for two t’ing. One is make a mother feel bad, odder is get back wit’ all a rich pipple she know one time in Pasadena. I tell you, is snake, is bitch, is coloratura. You want Veda back, you see Veda self. I ’ave not’ing to do wit’ dees intrigue. She ask me, I say you not been ’ere at all — any’ow, I no see.”

Mildred was so shaken up by Mr. Treviso’s last revelation, that she wasn’t capable of plans, schemes, or intrigues for the rest of that day. She felt as if she had been caught in some shameful act, and drove herself with work so as not to think about it. But, later that night things began to sort themselves out into little piles. She found some consolation in the certitude that at least Veda wouldn’t know what she had done. And then, presently, she sat up in bed, hot excitement pulsing all through her. At last she knew, from that disclosure of Veda’s desire to get back with the rich Pasadena people, how she would get her, how she would make even a coloratura come grovelling, on her knees.

She would get Veda through Monty.