Mildred Pierce

Chapter 3

From then on, Mildred knew she had to get a job. There came another little flurry of orders for cakes and pies, and she filled them, but all the time she was thinking, in a sick, frightened kind of way, or trying to think, of something she could do, some work she could get, so she could have an income, and not be put out of the house on the 1st of July, when the interest would be due on the mortgages Bert had put on the house. She studied the help-wanted advertisements, but there were hardly any. Each day there would be notices for cooks, maids, and chauffeurs, but she skipped quickly by them. The big advertisements, headed “Opportunity,” “Salesmen Wanted,” and “Men, Women, Attention,” — these she passed over entirely. They savored too much of Bert’s methods in getting rid of Pierce Homes. But occasionally something looked promising. One advertisement called for: “Woman, young, pleasing appearance and manners, for special work.” She answered, and was excited a day or two later when she got a note, signed by a man, asking her to call an address in the Los Feliz section of Hollywood. She put on the print dress, made her face up nicely, and went over there.

The man received her in sweat shirt and flannels, and said he was a writer. As to what he wrote, he was quite vague, though he said his researches were extensive, and called him to many different parts of the world, where, of course, she would be expected to travel with him. He was equally vague about her duties: it appeared she would help him “collect material,” “file documents,” and “verify citations”; also take charge of his house, get some order into it, and check his bills, on which he feared he was being cheated. When he sat down near her, and announced he felt sure she was the person he was looking for, she became suspicious. She hadn’t said a word that indicated any qualifications for the job, if indeed a job existed, and she came to the conclusion that what he wanted wasn’t a research assistant, but a sweetie. She left, feeling sullen over her wasted afternoon and wasted bus fare. It was her first experience with the sexological advertiser, though she was to find out he was fairly common. Usually he was some phony calling himself a writer, an agent, or a talent scout, who had found out that for a dollar and a half’s worth of newspaper space he could have a daylong procession of girls at his door, all desperate for work, all willing to do almost anything to get it.

She answered more ads, got repeated requests to call, and did call, until her shoes began to show the strain, and she had to take them constantly to the shoemaker’s, for heel-straightening and polishing. She began to feel a bitter resentment against Bert, for taking the car when she needed it so badly. Nothing came of the ad-answering. She would be too late, or not qualified, or disqualified, on account of the children, or unsuitable in one way and another. She made the rounds of the department stores, and became dismally familiar with the crowd of silent people in the hallway outside the personnel offices, and the tense, desperate jockeying for position when the doors opened at ten o’clock. At only one store was she permitted to fill out a card. This was at Corasi Bros., a big place in downtown Los Angeles that specialized in household furnishings. She was first through the door here, and quickly sat down at one of the little glass-topped tables reserved for interviews. But the head of the department, addressed by everybody as Mrs. Boole, kept passing her by, and she grew furious at this injustice. Mrs. Boole was rather good-looking, and seemed to know most of the applicants by name. Mildred was so resentful that they should be dealt with ahead of her that she suddenly gathered up her gloves and started to flounce out, without being interviewed at all. But Mrs. Boole held up a finger, smiled, and came over. “Don’t go. I’m sorry to keep you waiting, but most of these people are old friends, and it seems a pity not to let them know at once, so they can call at the other stores, and perhaps have a little luck. That’s why I always talk to new applicants last, when I really have a little time.”

Mildred sat down again, ashamed of her petulant dash for the door. When Mrs. Boole finally came over, she began to talk, and instead of answering questions in a tight-lipped defensive way, as she had at other places, opened up a little. She alluded briefly to the break-up of her marriage, stressed her familiarity with all things having to do with kitchens, and said she was sure she could be useful in that department, as saleswoman, demonstrator, or both. Mrs. Boole measured her narrowly at that, then led her into an account of what she had been doing about getting a job. Mildred held nothing back, and after Mrs. Boole cackled gaily at the story of Harry Engel and his anchors, she felt warm tears swimming into her eyes, for she felt if she didn’t have a job, at least she had a friend. It was then that Mrs. Boole had her fill out the card. “There’s nothing open right now, but I’ll remember what you said about the kitchenware, and if anything comes up, at least I’ll know where to get hold of you.”

Mildred left in, such a pleasant glow that she forgot to be disappointed, and she was halfway down the hall before she realized that her name was being called. Mrs. Boole was standing in the hallway, the card still in her hand, and came toward her nervously. She took Mildred’s hand, held it a moment or two while she looked down at the street, many stories below. Then: “Mrs. Pierce, there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

“Yes?”

“There aren’t any jobs.”

“Well, I knew things were slack, but—”

“Listen to me, Mrs. Pierce. I wouldn’t say this to many of them, but you seem different from most of the applicants that come in here. I don’t want you to go home thinking there’s any hope. There isn’t. In this store, we’ve taken on just two people in the last three months — one to take the place of a gentleman who was killed in an automobile accident, the other to take the place of a lady who had to retire on account of ill health. We see everybody that comes in, partly because we think we ought to, partly because we don’t want to close up the department altogether. There just aren’t any jobs, here or in the other stores either. I know I’m making you feel bad, but I don’t want you to be — kidded.”

Mildred patted her arm, and laughed. “Well my goodness, it’s not your fault. And I know exactly what you mean. You don’t want me to be wearing out shoes, for nothing.”

“That’s it. The shoes.”

“But if you do have something—”

“Oh, if I have anything, don’t worry. I’ll be only too glad to let you know — by paid telegram. And, if you’re down this way again, will you drop in on me? We could have lunch.”

“I’ll be only too glad to.”

Mrs. Boole kissed her, and Mildred left, feeling footsore, hungry, and strangely happy. When she got home there was a notice hanging on the door, asking her to call for a paid telegram.

“Mrs. Pierce, it was like something in a movie. You had hardly stepped into the elevator, honestly. In fact I had you paged downstairs, hoping you hadn’t left the store,”

They sat down, in Mrs. Boole’s private office this time, Mrs. Boole behind her big desk, Mildred in the chair beside it. Mrs. Boole went on: “I was watching you step into the down car, I was admiring your figure if you have to know why I was watching you, when this call came from the restaurant.”

“You mean the store restaurant?”

“Yes, the tea room on the roof. Of course, the store doesn’t have anything to do with that. It’s sublet, but the manager likes to take people from our lists, just the same. He feels it makes a better tie-up, and then of course we do quite a lot of sifting ourselves, before we place a name on file, and it puts him in touch with a better class of girls.”

“And what is the job?”

Mildred’s mind was leaping wildly from cashier to hostess to dietician: she didn’t quite know what a dietician was, but she felt she could fill the bill. Mrs. Boole answered at once: “Oh, nothing very exciting. One of his waitresses got married, and he wants somebody to take her place. Just a job — but those girls do very well for a four-hour day; they’re only busy at lunch, of course — and it would give you plenty of time with your own children, and home — and at least it’s a job.”

The idea of putting on a uniform, carrying a tray, and making her living from tips made Mildred positively ill. Her lips wanted to flutter, and she ran her tongue around inside them to keep them under control. “Why, thanks ever so much, Mrs. Boole. I realize, of course, that it’s quite a nice opening — but I doubt if I’m really fitted for it.”

Mrs. Boole suddenly got red, and began to talk as though she didn’t quite know what she was saying. “Well, I’m sorry, Mrs. Pierce, if I got you down here about something that — perhaps you don’t feel you could accept. But I somehow got the idea that you wanted work—”

“I do, Mrs. Boole, but-”

“But it’s perfectly all right, my dear—”

Mrs. Boole was standing now, and Mildred was edging toward the door, her face feeling hot. Then she was in the elevator again, and when she got out on the street she hated herself, and felt that Mrs. Boole must hate her, and despise her, and regard her as a fool.

Shortly after this, she registered with an employment agency. To decide which agency, she consulted the phone book, and decided on Alice Brooks Turner, mainly on account of the crisp succinctness of her advertisement:

Miss Turner, who had a small suite in one of the downtown office buildings, turned out to be a trim little person, not much older than Mildred, and a little on the hard-boiled side. She smoked her cigarette in a long holder, with which she waved Mildred to a small desk, and without looking up, told her to fill out a card. Mildred, remembering to write neatly, furnished what seemed to her an absurd amount of information about herself, from her age, weight, height, and nationality, to her religion, education, and exact marital status. Most of these questions struck her as irrelevant, and some of them as impertinent. However, she answered them. When she came to the question: What type of work desired? — she hesitated. What type of work did she desire? Any work that would pay her something, but obviously she couldn’t say that. She wrote: Receptionist. As in the case of Dietician, she wasn’t quite sure what it meant, but it had caught her ear these last few weeks, and at least it had an authoritative sound to it.

Then she came to the great yawning spaces in which she was to fill in the names and addresses of her former employers. Regretfully she wrote: Not previously employed. Then she signed the card, walked over, and handed it in. Miss Turner waved her to a chair, studied the card, shook her head, and pitched it on the desk. “You haven’t got a chance.”

“Why not?”

“Do you know what a receptionist is?”

“I’m not sure, but—”

“A receptionist is a lazy dame that can’t do anything on earth, and wants to sit out front where everybody can watch her do it. She’s the one in the black silk dress, cut low in the neck and high in the legs, just inside the gate, in front of that little one-position switchboard, that she gets a right number out of now and then, mostly then. You know, the one that tells you to have a seat, Mr. Doakes will see you in just a few minutes. Then she goes on showing her legs and polishing her nails. If she sleeps with Doakes she gets twenty bucks a week, if not she gets twelve. In other words, nothing personal about it and I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but by the looks of this card I’d say that was you.”

“It’s quite all right. I sleep fine.”

If this bravado had any effect on Miss Turner, there was no sign of it. She nodded, and said: “I’m sure you sleep fine. Don’t we all? But I’m not running a house of call, and it just happens that at the moment receptionists are out. That was then. In those good old days. When even a hockshop had to have this receptionist thing out there in front to show it had class. But then they found out she wasn’t strictly necessary. They began sleeping with their wives, and I guess it worked out all right. Anyway, the birth rate went up. So I guess you’re out of luck.”

“Receptionist isn’t the only thing I can do.”

“Yes, it is.”

“You don’t give me much chance to tell you.”

“If there was something else you could do, you’d have put it down in great big letters, right on this card. When you say receptionist, that’s all I want to know. There’s no more after that, and no use your wasting my time, and me wasting yours. I’ll file your card, but I told you once and I’m telling you again, you haven’t got a chance.”

The interview, obviously, was ended, but Mildred forced herself to make a little speech, a sales talk. As she talked she warmed up to it, explaining that she was married before she was seventeen, and that while other women were learning professions, she had been making a home, raising two children, “not generally regarded as a disgraceful career.” Now that her marriage had broken up, she wanted to know if it was fair that she be penalized for what she had done, and denied the right to earn her living like anybody else. Furthermore, she said, she hadn’t been asleep all that time, even if she had been married. She taught herself to be a good housekeeper and a fine cook, was in fact earning such little income as she had by peddling her cookery around the neighborhood. If she could do that, she could do other things. She kept repeating: “What I do, I do well.”

Miss Turner pulled out a lot of drawers, set them in a row on her desk. They were filled with cards of different colors. Looking intently at Mildred, she said: “I told you you’re not qualified. O.K., you can take a look here and see what I mean. These three drawers are employers, people that call me when they want somebody. And they call me, too. They call me because I’m on the level with them and save them the trouble of talking to nitwits like you. You see those pink ones? That means ‘No Jews.’ See the blues? ‘No Gentiles’ — not many of them, but a few. That’s got nothing to do with you, but it gives you an idea. People are sold over this desk just like cattle in the Chicago yards, and for exactly the same reason: they’ve got the points the buyer wants. All right, now take a look at something that does concern you. See those greens? That means ‘No Married Women.’ ”

“Why, may I ask?”

“Because right in the middle of rush hour you wonderful little homemakers have a habit of getting a call that Willie’s got the croup, and out you run, and maybe you come back next day, and maybe you come back next week.”

“Somebody has to look after Willie.”

“These people, these employers on the greens, they’re not much interested in Willie. And another habit you wonderful homemakers have got is running up a lot of bills you thought friend husband would pay, and then when he wouldn’t you had to get a job. And then the first paycheck you draw, there’s eighteen attachments on it — and life’s too short.”

“Do you call that fair?”

“I call them green. I go by the cards.”

“I don’t owe a cent.”

“Not one?”

Mildred thought guiltily of the interest that would be due July 1, and Miss Turner, seeing the flicker in her eye, said: “I thought so... Now take a look at these other drawers. They’re all applicants. These are stenographers — a dime a dozen, but at least they can do something. These are qualified secretaries — a dime a dozen too, but they rate a different file. These are stenographers with scientific experience, nurses, laboratory assistants, chemists all able to take charge of a clinic, or run an office for three or four doctors, or do hospital work. Why would I recommend you ahead of any of them? Some of those girls are Ph.D.’s and Sc.D.’s from U.C.L.A. and other places. Here’s a whole file of stenographers that are expert bookkeepers. Any one of them could take charge of all the office work for a small firm, and still have time for a little sleeping. Here are sales people, men and women, every one of them with an A-1 reference — they can really move goods. They’re all laid off, there’s no goods moving, but I don’t see how I could put you ahead of them. And here’s the preferred list. Look at it, a whole drawerful, men and women, every one of them a real executive, or auditor, or manager of some business, and when I recommend one, I know somebody is getting something for his money. They’re all home, sitting by their phones, hoping I’ll call. I won’t call. I’ve got nothing to tell them. What I’m trying to get through your head is: You haven’t got a chance. Those people, it hurts me, it makes me lie awake nights, that I’ve got nothing for them. They deserve something, and there’s not a thing I can do. But there’s not a chance I’d slip you ahead of any one of them. You’re not qualified. There’s not a thing on earth you can do, and I hate people that can’t do anything.”

“How do I qualify?”

Mildred’s lips were fluttering again, the way they had in Miss Boole’s office. Miss Turner looked quickly away, then said: “Can I make a suggestion?”

“You certainly can.”

“I wouldn’t call you a raving beauty, but you’ve got an A-1 shape and you say you cook fine and sleep fine. Why don’t you forget about a job, hook yourself a man, and get married again?”

“I tried that.”

“Didn’t work?”

“I don’t seem to be able to kid you much. It was the first thing I thought of, and just for a little while I seemed to be doing all right. But then, I guess two little children disqualified me, even there. That wasn’t what he said, but—”

“Hey, hey, you’re breaking my heart.”

“I didn’t know you had a heart.”

“Neither did I.”

The cold logic of Miss Turner’s harangue reached Mildred’s bowels, where the tramping, waiting, and hoping of the last few weeks hadn’t. She went home, collapsed, and wept for an hour. But next day she doggedly registered at three more agencies. She took to doing desperate things, like turning suddenly into business places, as she was passing them on the street, and asking for an opening. One day she entered an office building and, beginning at the top floor, called on every firm, in only two places getting past the gate. All the time the thought of July 1 haunted her, and she got weaker, paler, and tackier-looking. The print dress was pressed so many times that she searched the seams anxiously every time she put the iron on it. She lived on oatmeal and bread, reserving for the children such eggs, chicken, and milk as she could buy.

One morning, to her surprise, there came a card from Miss Turner, asking her to call. She dressed in about four minutes, caught the nine o’clock bus, and was in the familiar little office by nine thirty. Miss Turner waved her to a seat. “Something’s come up, so I dropped you that card.”

“What is it?”

“Housekeeper.”

“... Oh.”

“It’s not what you think, so don’t employ that tone of voice. I mean, there’s no sleeping in it, so far as I know. And it means nothing to me. I don’t handle domestic help, so I won’t collect a dime. But I was over in Beverly the other night, and got talking with a lady that’s going to marry a director, and he doesn’t know it yet, but his house is due for a big shake-up. So she wants a housekeeper. So, on account of all that fine domestic efficiency you were telling me about, I told her about you, and I think it’s yours if you want it. Children O.K. You’ll have your own quarters and I think you can nick her for one fifty if you get tough, but you’d better ask for two hundred and come down. That’s over and above all your uniforms, food, laundry, heat, light, and quarters, and quite a lot more than most of my talented stable are making.”

“I hardly know what to say.”

“Make up your mind. I’ve got to let her know.”

“Why did you think of me, for this?”

“Didn’t I tell you? You broke my goddamn heart.”

“Yes but — it’s the second time lately I’ve had an offer of this kind. Not long ago a lady offered me a job as — as a waitress.”

“And you turned it down?”

“I had to.”

“Why?”

“I can’t go home and face my children if they know I’ve been working all day at taking tips, and wearing a uniform, and mopping up crumbs.”

“But you can face them with nothing for them to eat?”

“I’d rather not talk about that.”

“Listen, this is just one woman’s opinion, and it may be all wrong. I’ve got my own little business, and it’s all shot, and I’m just about holding my own if I eat in the tea rooms instead of the Biltmore. But if that goes, and I have to choose between my belly and my pride, I’m telling right now, I’m picking my belly every time. I mean, if I had to wear a uniform, I’d do it.”

“I’ll go over there, as a courtesy to you.”

For the first time, Miss Turner departed from her hard-boiled manner, and showed some sign of annoyance. “What have I got to do with it? Either you want this place or you don’t. If you don’t just say so and all I’ve got to do is call her up and tell her, and that lets me out. But if you do want it, for God’s sake get over there and act like you mean it.”

“I’ll go, as a courtesy to you.”

Miss Turner got out a card and savagely wrote a note on it, her eyes snapping as she handed it over to Mildred. “All right, you wanted to know why that lady offered you a job as waitress, and why I recommended you for this. It’s because you’ve let half your life slip by without learning anything but sleeping, cooking, and setting the table, and that’s all you’re good for. So get over there. It’s what you’ve got to do, so you may as well start doing it.”

Shaken, Mildred got on the Sunset bus, but the address was unfamiliar to her, and she had to ask the conductor where to get off. At Coldwater Cañon Drive, where he set her down, there was no sign of the street, and she started wandering around an unfamiliar neighborhood, trying to get her bearings. The houses were big and forbidding, with driveways in front of them and clipped grass all around, and she couldn’t find the courage to approach one. Of pedestrians there were none, and she plodded around for the better part of an hour, peering at each street sign, losing all sense of direction in the winding streets. She got into a hysteria of rage at Bert, for taking the car, since if she had that, she would not only be saved walking, but could slip into a filling station and inquire in a self-respecting way, having the attendant produce maps. But here there were no filling stations, nobody she could ask, nothing but miles of deserted pavements, shaded by frowning trees. Finally a laundry truck pulled up, and she got the driver to straighten her out. She found the house, a big mansion with a low hedge around it, went up to the door and rang. A white-coated houseman appeared. When she asked for Mrs. Forrester he bowed and stepped aside for her to enter. Then he noticed she had no car, and froze. “Housekeeper?”

“Yes, I was sent by—”

“Back way.”

His eyes glistening with suddenly secreted venom, he closed the door, and she savagely trudged around to the back. Here he admitted her, and told her to wait. She was in a sort of service foyer, and in the kitchen, which was only a few steps away, she could see a cook and a waitress eyeing her. He returned, led her through dark, cool halls to a library, and left her. She sat down, glad to rest her aching feet. In a few minutes Mrs. Forrester came in. She was a tall woman in flowing negligee, who wafted graciousness all around her, putting the world at its ease. Mildred got up, handed over Miss Turner’s note, and sat down while Mrs. Forrester read it. Evidently it was flattering, for it evoked one or two nods and clucks. Then Mrs. Forrester smilingly looked up. “It’s customary, Mildred, for the servant to sit on the Mistress’s invitation, not on her own initiative.”

Mildred was so startled at hearing herself addressed by her first name that it was a second or two before the sense of this made its way to her mind. Then she shot up as though her legs were made of springs, her face hot, her mouth dry. “Oh. I beg your pardon.”

“It’s perfectly all right, but on little things, especially with an inexperienced woman, I find it well to begin at the beginning. Do sit down. We’ve many things to talk about, and it’ll make me quite uncomfortable to have you standing there.”

“This is all right.”

“Mildred, I invited you to sit down.”

Her throat throbbing, tears of rage swimming into her eyes, Mildred sat down, while Mrs. Forrester spoke grandly of her plans for reorganizing the house. Apparently it was her intended husband’s house, though what she was doing in it, in negligee, a full month before the wedding, she didn’t bother to explain. Mildred, it appeared, would have her own quarters, above the garage. She herself had two children by a former marriage, and of course no fraternization between children could be permitted, though there need be no trouble about that, as Mildred would have her own entrance on the lane, and “all such questions can be worked out.” Mildred listened, or tried to, but suddenly a vision leaped in front of her eyes. She saw Veda, haughty, snobbish Veda, being told that she had to come in the back way, and that she couldn’t fraternize with Forrester offspring. Then Mildred knew that if she took this place she would lose Veda. Veda would go to her father, her grandfather, the police, or a park bench, but not even whips could make her stay with Mildred, in the Forrester garage. A surge of pride in the cold child swept over her, and she stood up. “I don’t think I’m quite the person you want here, Mrs. Forrester.”

“The Mistress terminates the interview, Mildred.”

“Mrs. Pierce, if you don’t mind. And I’m terminating it.”

It was Mrs. Forrester’s turn to shoot up as though her legs were made of springs, but if she contemplated further instruction in the relation of the servant to the Mistress, she thought better of it. She found herself looking into Mildred’s squint, and it flickered somewhat ominously. Pressing a button, she announced coldly: “I’ll have Harris show you out.”

“I’ll find my way, thank you.”

Picking up her handbag, Mildred left the library, but instead of turning toward the kitchen, she marched straight for the front door, closing it calmly behind her. She floated to the bus stop on air, rode into Hollywood without seeing what she was passing. But when she found she had got off too soon, and had to walk two blocks for the Glendale connection, she wilted and moved on trembling legs. At Hollywood Boulevard, the bench was full, and she had to stand. Then everything began spinning around, and the sunshine seemed unnaturally bright. She knew she had to sit down, or topple over, right there on the sidewalk. Two or three doors away was a restaurant, and she lurched into it. It was crowded with people eating lunch, but she found a small table against the wall, and sat down.

After picking up the menu, and dropping it quickly so the girl wouldn’t notice her trembling hands, she asked for a ham sandwich, with lettuce, a glass of milk, and a glass of water, but she was an interminable time getting served. The girl puttered about, complained of the service that was demanded of her, and the little that she got for it, and Mildred had a vague suspicion that she was being accused of stealing a tip. She was too near collapse for argument, however, and beyond repeating that she wanted the water right away, said nothing. Presently her order arrived, and she sat apathetically munching it down. The water cleared her head, and the food revived her, but there was still a quivering in her bowels that didn’t seem to have anything to do with the walking, fretting, and quarreling she had done all morning. She felt gloomy indeed, and when she heard a resounding slap, a few inches from her ear, she barely turned her head. The girl who had served her was facing another girl, and even as Mildred looked, proceeded to deal out a second loud slap. “I caught you, you dirty little crook! I caught you red-handed, right in the act!”

“Girls! Girls!”

“I caught her! She’s been doing it right along, stealing tips off my tables! She stole ten cents off eighteen, before that lady sat down, and now she stole fifteen out of a forty-cent tip right here — and I seen her do it!”

In a moment the place was like a beehive, with other girls shouting their accusations, the hostess trying to restore order, and the manager flying out of the kitchen. He was a rotund little Greek, with flashing black eyes, and he summarily fired both girls and apologized profusely to the customers. When the two of them suddenly paraded out, in their street clothes, a few minutes later, Mildred was so lost in her reflections that she didn’t even give her girl a nod. It was not until the hostess appeared in an apron, and began serving orders, that she woke up to the fact that she was face to face with one of the major decisions of her life. They needed help, that was plain, and needed it now. She stared at the water glass, twisted her mouth into a final, irrevocable decision. She would not do this kind of work, if she starved first. She put a dime on the table. She got up. She went to the cashier’s desk, and paid her check. Then, as though walking to the electric chair, she turned around, headed for the kitchen.