Mildred Pierce

Chapter 8

As Mom made her dozenth remark about Mildred’s disappearance over the weekend, Mildred’s temper flared. It had been, indeed, a trying hour. She had rung a dozen numbers without finding out anything, while Mrs. Floyd sat there and kept up a running harangue about mothers who run off with some man and leave other people to take care of their children. As a last resort she had rung Mrs. Biederhof, and while that lady told her which hospital Ray had been taken to, and one or two other things, her syrupy good wishes hadn’t exactly put Mildred in a good humor. Now, after a dash to Los Angeles and a quick look at Ray, she was sitting with Bert, Veda, Mom, and Mr. Pierce at one end of the hospital corridor, waiting for the doctor, listening to Bert rehearse exactly what had happened: Ray had been dull Friday night, and then yesterday at the beach, when she seemed to be running a temperature, they had called Dr. Gale, and he had advised taking her to a hospital. Mom interrupted Bert and corrected: The doctor hadn’t done no such a thing. He had ordered her home and they had taken her home. But when they got there with her the house was all locked up and they rang him again. It was then that he ordered her to a hospital, because there was no other place to take her. Mildred wanted to ask what was the matter with the Pierces’ house, but made herself swallow it back.

Bert took up the story again: There was nothing serious the matter, just a case of grippe, not flu, as Mildred had been told. “That strip of adhesive on her lip don’t mean a thing. They opened a little pimple she had, that’s all.” Mom took the floor again, making more insinuations, until Mildred said: “I don’t know that it’s any of your business where I was, or anybody else’s.”

Mom turned white, and sat bolt upright, but Mr. Pierce spoke quickly, and she sank back, her lips compressed. Then Mildred, after trying to keep quiet, went on: “I was at Lake Arrowhead, if you have to know. When some friends invited me up to their cottage by the lake, I didn’t see why I was the one person on earth that had to stay home. Of course I should have. That I readily admit. But I didn’t know at the time that I had a set of in-laws that couldn’t even find a place for a sick child that had been left in their care. I’ll certainly know better next time.”

“I think Mother’s perfectly right.”

Up to now, Veda had been coldly neutral, but when she heard about the swank cottage by the lake, she knew exactly where she stood. Bert looked unhappy, and said nothing. Mr. Pierce had a solemn rebuke: “Mildred, everybody did the best they knew, and I don’t see any need for personal remarks.”

“Who started these personal remarks?”

Nobody had an answer for this, and for a time there was silence. Mildred had little appetite for the wrangle, for deep down in her heart she had a premonition that Ray was really sick. After an interminable time Dr. Gale arrived. He was a tall, stooped man who had been the family doctor ever since Veda was born. He took Mildred into the sickroom, looked at Ray, listened to the night nurse’s whisper. Then he spoke reassuringly: “We get a lot of these cases, especially at this time of year. They shoot up a temperature, start running at the nose, refuse everything you give them to eat, and you’d think they were blowing up something really bad. Then next day they’re out running around. Though I don’t mind telling you I’m glad we’ve got her here instead of home. Even in a case of grippe you can’t be too careful.”

“I’m glad you opened that pimple. I meant to, day before yesterday — and then I forgot it.”

“Well I’m glad you didn’t open it. Those things, the rule is to let them strictly alone, especially on the upper lip. I didn’t open it. I put that little strip over it to keep her fingers off it, that’s all.”

Mildred took Veda home, improvising a tale about the people who had stopped by Saturday and invited her up to the lake. She named no names, but made them quite rich and high-toned. She undressed, with the light out, before she remembered her pies. It was three o’clock before she got to bed, and she was exhausted.

All next day she had an unreasoning, hysterical sense of being deprived of something her whole nature craved: the right to sit with her child, to be near it when it needed her. And yet the best she could manage was a few minutes in the morning, an hour after supper. She had got to the hospital early, and wasn’t at all reassured by the nurse’s cheery talk. And her heart had contracted when she saw Ray, all her bubbling animation gone, her face flushed, her breathing labored. But she couldn’t stay. She had to go, to deliver pies, to pay off painters, to check on announcements, to contract for chickens, to make more pies. It was dinnertime before she got another respite, and then she couldn’t eat. She fidgeted while Letty served Veda, then loaded Veda in the car, and took her in for another vigil. Home again, she put Veda to bed, but when she went to bed herself, she couldn’t sleep.

She called the hospital at eight the next morning, and after getting a favorable report, stayed on the phone, crowding her business into the next two hours. Around ten, she loaded her pies into the car, made the rounds of delivery, and arrived at the hospital about eleven. She was surprised to find Dr. Gale already there, whispering in the corridor with a big hairy man in an undershirt, with tattoo marks on his arm. He called Mildred aside. “Now I don’t want you to get alarmed. But her temperature’s gone up. It’s a hundred and four now, and I don’t like it. I don’t like it, and I don’t like that thing on her lip.”

“You mean it could be infected?”

“I don’t know, and there’s no way to tell. I’ve taken a smear from the pimple, another from the mucus that’s coming from her nose, and a couple of CC’s of blood. They’re on their way to the laboratory now. They’ll ring me as soon as they possibly can. But Mildred, here’s the point. If we’ve got trouble there, she can’t wait for any lab report. She’s got to have a transfusion, right away. Now I’ve got this man here, he’s a professional donor, but it’s his means of livelihood, and he won’t go in the room till he gets his twenty-five dollars. It’s entirely up to you, but—”

Without a thought of what twenty-five dollars would do to her little reserve, Mildred was writing the check before he finished talking. The man demanded an indorsement. Dr. Gale signed, and Mildred, her hands sweating with fear, went into the sickroom. She had that same terrible feeling in her bowels that she had had that day on the boulevard. The child’s eyes were dull, her face hot, her whimpering a constant accompaniment to her rapid breathing. There was a new strip on her lip, a bigger one, covering a pack of gauze stained with the livid red of mercurochrome. A nurse looked up, but didn’t stop spooning ice into the fluttering little mouth. “This happened after I talked to you, Mrs. Pierce. She had a nice night, temperature constant, and we thought she’d be all right in a few hours. Then just like that it went up.”

Ray began to fret, and the nurse began talking to her, saying it was her mother, and didn’t she know her mother? Mildred spoke to her. “It’s Mamma, darling.”

“Mamma!”

Ray’s voice was a wail, and Mildred wanted to gather her into her arms, but she merely took one of the little hands and patted it. Then Dr. Gale came in, and other doctors, in white smocks, and nurses, and the donor, his sleeves rolled high this time, showing a veritable gallery of tattoo marks. He sat down, and Mildred stood like a woman of stone while a nurse swabbed his arm. Then she went out in the corridor and started walking up and down, quietly, slowly. Somehow, by a supreme effort of will, she made time pass. Then two nurses came out of the room, then one of the doctors, then the donor, and some orderlies. She went in. The same nurse, the one who had spoken to her before, was at the head of the bed, busy with thermometer and watch. Dr. Gale was bent over, peering intently at Ray. “Her temperature’s down, Doctor.”

“Good.”

“A hundred and one.”

“That’s just great. How’s the pulse?”

“Down too. To ninety-six.”

“That’s wonderful. Mildred, I’ve probably put you to a lot of expense over nothing. Just the same—”

They walked out to the corridor, came to an angle, went on. He resumed talking in a casual way: “I hated to do it, Mildred, just hated to slap that outlay on you — though I’ll see that every charge is as reasonable as they can make it. But if I had it to do over again, I’d tell you just what I told you before. You see, here’s what we’re up against. Any infection above the mouth drains into the lateral sinus, and that means the brain. Now with that little pip on her lip there was no way to tell. Every symptom she had spelled grippe, but just the same, all of those symptoms could have been caused by strep, and if we had waited until we were sure, it would have been too late. The way she’s reacting to that transfusion shows it was all a false alarm — but I’m telling you, if it had been that other, and we hadn’t moved fast, I’d never have forgiven myself, and neither would you.”

“It’s all right.”

“These things happen, they can’t be helped.”

Somewhere on the floor a buzzer sounded, then sounded again, sharply, insistently. It seemed to Mildred that Dr. Gale turned rather quickly, that their saunter was no longer a saunter. As they approached the room an orderly hurried past them, carrying hot-water bottles. He entered the room. When they went in, the nurse was jamming them under the covers, which were thick with the extra blankets she had already piled on. “She’s having a chill, doctor.”

“Orderly, get Dr. Collins.”

“Yes sir.”

From the ice that was forming around her heart, Mildred knew it was no false alarm this time. She sat down, watched Ray’s face turn white, then blue; when the little teeth began to chatter she looked away. An orderly came in with more bottles, which the nurse pushed under the covers without looking up. He was followed by Dr. Collins, a short, heavy man who bent over Ray and studied her as though she were an insect. “It’s the pimple, Dr. Gale.”

“I can’t believe it. She reacted to that transfusion—”

“I know it.”

Dr. Collins turned to an orderly and snapped orders in a curt, clipped voice: for oxygen, adrenaline, ice. The orderly went. Both doctors studied Ray in silence, the chattering of her teeth the only sound in the room. After a long time the nurse looked up. “Her pulse is faster, Dr. Collins.”

“What is it?”

“A hundred and four.”

“Take off the hot-water bottles.”

As the nurse pulled out the hot-water bottles and dropped them to the floor the room began to fill. Other nurses appeared, wheeling an oxygen apparatus and a white table full of vials and syringes. They stood around, as though waiting. Ray’s teeth stopped chattering and her face lost the blue look. Then red spots appeared on her cheeks, and the nurse felt her forehead. “Her temperature’s rising, Dr. Collins.”

“Take off the blankets.”

Two nurses stripped off the blankets and a third stepped forward with icebags, which she packed around Ray’s head. For a long time they were all motionless, and there was no sound except Ray’s labored breathing, and the first nurse’s report on the pulse: “A hundred and twelve... A hundred and twenty-four... A hundred and thirty-two...”

Presently Ray was panting like a little dog, and her whimpering had a pitiful note in it that made Mildred want to cry out against the injustice that one so small, so helpless, should have to bear such agony. But she sat perfectly still, not distracting by so much as a movement the attention of those on whom Ray’s chance depended. The child’s struggle went on and on, and then suddenly Mildred tightened. The breathing stopped for a second, then resumed in three or four short, harrowing gasps, then stopped altogether. Dr. Collins motioned quickly, and two nurses stepped forward. They had scarcely begun their rapid lifting and lowering of Ray’s arms before Dr. Gale had the mask of the oxygen apparatus over her face, and Mildred caught the thunderstorm smell of the gas. Dr. Collins filed the neck of a vial, snapped it off. Quickly filling a syringe, he lifted the covers and jabbed it into Ray’s rump. The first nurse had Ray’s wrist, and Mildred saw her catch Dr. Collins’s eye and glumly shake her head. The artificial respiration went steadily on. After a minute or two, Dr. Collins refilled his syringe, again jabbed it into Ray’s rump. Another minute went by, and Mildred saw glances exchanged between nurses. As Dr. Collins refilled his syringe, she stood up. She knew the truth, and she also knew that one more jab into the lifeless little bottom would be more than she could stand. She lifted the mask of the oxygen apparatus, bent down, kissed Ray on the mouth, and pulled the sheet over her face.

She was sitting in the alcove again, but here it was Dr. Gale who broke down, not she. The cruel suddenness of it had left her numb, as though she had no capacity to feel, but as he approached, his stoop was a tottering slump. He dropped down beside her, took off his glasses, massaged his face to keep it from jerking. “I knew it. I knew it when I saw that orderly, running with the bottles. From then on there was no hope. But — we do everything we can. We can’t give up.”

Mildred stared straight ahead of her, and he went on: “I loved her like she was mine. And there’s only one thing I can say. I did everything I could. If anything could have saved her, that transfusion would — and she had it. And you too, Mildred. We both did everything that could have been done.”

They sat for a few minutes, both swallowing, both locking their teeth behind twitching lips. Then, in a different tone, he asked: “You got any choice on an undertaker, Mildred?”

“I don’t know any undertaker.”

“I generally recommend Mr. Murock, out there in Glendale, just a few blocks from you. He’s reasonable, and won’t run up charges on you, and he’ll attend to everything the way most people want it done.”

“If you recommend him, then it’s all right.”

“I’ll call him.”

“Is there a phone around?”

“I’ll find you one.”

He took her to a little office on the same floor, and she sat down and dialed Mrs. Biederhof. She asked for Bert, but he was out, and she said: “Mrs. Biederhof, this is Mildred Pierce. Will you tell Bert that Ray died a few minutes ago? At the hospital. I wanted him to know, right away.”

There was a long, bellowing silence, and then: “Mrs. Pierce, I’ll tell him. I’ll tell him just as soon as I can find him, but I want to tell you that I’m sorry from the bottom of my heart. Now is there anything I can do?”

“No, thank you.”

“Can I take Veda for a little while?”

“No, thanks ever so much.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Biederhof.”

She drove home mechanically, but after a few blocks she began to dread the stop signals, for sitting there, waiting for the light to change, she would have time to think, and then her throat would clutch and the street begin to blur. When she got home, Bert came out to meet her, and took her into the den, where Letty was trying to quiet Veda. Letty went back to the kitchen, and Veda broke into loud sobs. Over and over, she kept saying: “I owed her a nickel! Oh, Mother, I cheated her out of it, and I meant to pay it back, but — I owed her a nickel!”

Soothingly, Mildred explained that if she really meant to pay it back, this was the main thing, and presently Veda was quiet. Then she began to fidget. Mildred kissed her and said: “Would you like to go over to your grandfather’s, darling? You could practice your piano lessons, or play, or whatever you want to do.”

“Oh Mother, do you think it would be right?”

“Ray wouldn’t mind.”

Veda trotted out of the house, and Bert looked a little shocked. “She’s a child, Bert. They don’t feel things the way we feel them. It’s better that she not be here while — arrangements are being made.”

Bert nodded, wandered about the room. A match in the fireplace caught his attention, and he stooped to pick it up. So doing, he bumped his head. If he had been hit with an axe he couldn’t have collapsed more completely. Instinctively, Mildred knew why: poking-into the fireplace had brought it all back, the game he used to play with Ray, all the gay nonsense between the elephant and the monk. Mildred led him to the sofa, took him in her arms. Then together, in the darkened room, they mourned their child. When he could speak, he babbled of Ray’s sweet, perfect character. He said if ever a kid deserved to be in heaven she did, and that’s where she was, all right. Goddam it, that’s where she was. Mildred knew this was a solace from a pain too great for him to bear: that he was taking refuge in the belief she wasn’t really dead. Too realistic, too literal-minded, to be stirred much by the idea of heaven, she nevertheless craved relief from this aching void inside of her, and little heat lightnings began to shoot through it. They had an implication that terrified her, and she fought them off.

The phone rang. Bert answered, and sternly said there had been a death in the family, and that Mrs. Pierce couldn’t possibly talk business today. Mildred barely heard him. The restaurant seemed remote, unreal, part of a world that no longer concerned her.

Around three thirty, Mr. Murock arrived. He was a roly-poly little man, and after seven seconds of purring condolences, he got down to brass tacks. Everything in connection with the body had been taken care of. In addition, notices had been placed in the afternoon papers, though the morning notices would have to wait until Mildred decided when she wanted the funeral, so perhaps that should be the first thing to consider. Mildred tried to get her mind on this, but couldn’t. She was grateful to Bert when he patted her hand and said he would attend to all that. “Fact of the matter, Pop wants to stand the expense, anyhow. He and Mom, they both wanted to come over when I came, but I told them to wait a little while.”

“I’m glad you came alone.”

“But Pop, he wants to stand the expense.”

“Then you attend to it.”

So Bert talked to Mr. Murock, apparently knowing instinctively what she wanted. He set the time of the funeral at noon the next day. “No use stringing it out,” a point to which Mr. Murock instantly agreed. The grave could be dug in the Pierce family plot in Forest Lawn Cemetery, which had been acquired on the death of the uncle who left Bert the ranch. Services were to be conducted at the house, by the Rev. Dr. Aldous, whom Mr. Murock said he knew very well, and would call at once. Dr. Aldous was Bert’s rector, and for a miserable moment Mildred felt ashamed that she could claim no rector as her own. As a child she had gone to the Methodist Sunday school, but then her mother had begun to shop around, and finally wound up with the astrologers who had named Veda and Ray. Astrologers, she reflected unhappily, didn’t quite seem to fill the bill at this particular time.

On the choice of a casket, Bert haggled bravely, bringing all his business judgment to bear, and presently settled on a white enamelled one, with silver handles and satin lining, which would be furnished complete for $200, with two limousines and the usual bearers. Mr. Murock got up. The body, he said, would be delivered at five, and they took him to the door, on which two assistants had already fastened a white crepe. Mr. Murock paused a moment to inspect the wire frames they were erecting in the living room, for flowers. Then he started. “Oh — I almost forgot. The burial clothes.”

Mildred and Bert went back to the children’s room. They decided on the white dress Ray had worn at the school pageant, and with the little pants, socks and shoes, they packed it in one of the children’s little valises. It was the gilt crown and fairy wand that broke Bert up again, and Mildred once more had to pat him back to normal. “She’s in heaven, she’s got to be.”

“Of course she is, Bert.”

“I know goddam well she’s not anywhere else.”

A minute or two after Mr. Murock left, Mrs. Gessler came over and joined them in the den. She slipped in without greeting, sat down beside Mildred, and began patting her hand with the infinite tact that seemed to be the main characteristic of her outwardly bawdy nature. It was a minute or two before she spoke. Then: “You want a drink, Bert?”

“Not right now, Lucy.”

“It’s right there, and I’m right here.”

“Thanks, I’d rather not.”

Then to Mildred: “Baby, Mamma’s listening.”

“There’s a couple of things, Lucy.”

Mildred took her to the bedroom, wrote a number on a piece of paper. “Will you call my mother for me, and tell her? Say I’m all right, and the funeral is tomorrow at twelve, and — be nice to her.”

“I’ll do it on my phone. Anything else?”

“I have no black dress.”

“I’ll get one for you. Size twelve?”

“Ten.”

“Veil?”

“Do you think I should?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Then no veil. And no hat. I have one that’s all right. And no shoes. I have them too. But — gloves. Size six. And I think I ought to have a mourning handkerchief.”

“I’ll have everything. And—”

“What is it, Lucy?”

“They’ll be dropping in now. People, I mean. And — I’ll probably pull something. I just thought I’d tell you, so you’ll know I had a reason.”

So a little while later, Mrs. Gessler was back, and certainly pulled something. By then, quite a few people were there: Mrs. Floyd, Mrs. Harbaugh, Mrs. Whitley, Wally, and to Mildred’s surprise, Mr. Otis, the federal meat inspector, who had seen the notice in one of the afternoon papers. Letty’s contribution was tea and sandwiches, which she had just begun to pass when Mrs. Gessler came in, hatted, gloved, and carrying a gigantic set of lilies. With a wave of the hand she dismissed the florist’s driver, and finding the card, read: “Mr. and Mrs. Otto Hildegarde — oh, aren’t they beautiful, just beautiful!” Then, to everybody in the room: “You know, the couple Mildred visited over the weekend, up at the lake. Lovely people. I’m just crazy about them.”

Then Mildred knew that there had indeed been talk, serious talk. But she also knew, from the look that went around, that now it was squelched, once and for all. She felt a throb of gratitude to Mrs. Gessler, for dealing with something she would have been helpless to deal with herself. Bert took the lilies outside, where he spread them on the lawn. Then, coupling up the hose, he attached the revolving nozzle, so they were gently refreshed by the edge of the whirling spray. Other flowers came, and he set them out too, until there was a canopy of blossoms on the grass, all glistening with tiny drops. There was a basket of gladioluses from the Drop Inn, which touched Mildred, but the one that made her swallow hardest was a mat of white gardenias, to which was attached a bluebird card, reading:

As she was fingering this a hush fell over the room, and she turned to see Mr. Murock’s assistants carrying Ray in the door. Under Bert’s direction, they set up trusses near the window, arranged the casket, and stepped back to permit the guests to pass by. Mildred couldn’t look. But then Mrs. Gessler caught her arm, and she was looking in spite of herself. In the setting sun, a rainbow was shimmering over the spray, framing Ray’s head. This broke Bert up again, and most of the guests tiptoed silently out. But it left Mildred unstirred. There was something unreal about Ray’s appearance. The hot flush of the last few minutes was gone, also the animation of life, also the deadly pimple. All that remained was a waxy pallor that suggested nothing but heaven, which Bert was now babbling about for the fourth or fifth time.

Letty served the rest of the sandwiches for supper, and Bert and Mildred ate tremulously, silently, hardly tasting what was put in front of them. Then Mr. Pierce and Mom arrived, with Veda, and after viewing Ray, came back to the den. Then Dr. Aldous arrived, a tall, gray, kindly man who sat near Mildred, and didn’t put her on the defensive at all for not being a member of his church. Then Mom and Dr. Aldous were in an argument, or rather Mom was, with Dr. Aldous having little to say, and Mr. Pierce correcting Mom on a number of points of ritual. The trouble was that Mom, who had been originally a Methodist, only joining the Episcopal Church after marrying Mr. Pierce, was somewhat confused as to the service that was to be used tomorrow. As Mr. Pierce told her, she had the burial service, the communion service, the psalms, and perhaps even the wedding service, so thoroughly mixed up that it was rather difficult to disentangle them. Mom said she didn’t care, she wanted the Twenty-third Psalm, it was only right they should have it when the child was dead, and also there was no use telling her there would be no praying for the child’s soul. What were they doing there, anyway? Mr. Pierce sharply reminded her that the burial service had nothing to do with a soul. The whole point was that the soul had already gone, and the burial was nothing but the commitment of a body. As Bert listened unhappily, Mr. Pierce kept calling on Dr. Aldous, as a sort of referee. That gentleman, listening with bowed head, presently said: “As the child wasn’t baptized, certain changes will have to be made in the service anyway. Small omissions, but I’m required to make them. Now, in that case, there’s no reason why the Twenty-third Psalm, and the little passage in the Communion Service that Mrs. Pierce evidently has in mind, and whatever else we want, can’t be included. At the end of the service, special prayers can be, and often are, offered, and I’ll be very glad to include these passages — that is, if the mother feels the need of them too.”

He looked at Mildred, who nodded. At first, she had resented Mom’s taking charge in this high-handed way, and felt mean remarks rising within her. Just in time, she had remembered that the Pierces were paying for everything, and kept her reflections to herself. Now she went to the children’s room and packed Veda’s things, so the Pierces could have her back in the morning, properly dressed. When she came out with the little suitcase, the Pierces decided it was time to go. Dr. Aldous, however, stayed a few minutes longer. Taking Mildred’s hand, he said: “I’ve often thought the burial service could be a little more intimate, a little more satisfying to the emotions, than it is. It’s quite true, as Mr. Pierce said, that it is the commitment of a body, not the consecration of a soul. Just the same, most people find it hard to make the distinction, and — to them, what they see isn’t a body. It’s a person, no longer alive, but still the same person, loved and terribly mourned... Well, I hope I can arrange a little service that will be satisfactory to the old lady, and the mother, and father, and — everybody.”

After Dr. Aldous left, Bert and Mildred were able to talk a little more naturally. She still had to make the inexorable pies, and as he kept her company in the kitchen, and even helped her where he could, he gave details of what had happened at the beach, and she reciprocated with a final version of what happened at the lake, making it correspond with Mrs. Gessler’s version, though not feeling any particular desire to deceive. She merely wanted to be friendly. Bert nodded when she got to the part about Mrs. Floyd. “One hell of an end to a nice vacation.”

“I didn’t care what she thought. But about Ray, I could feel it, even before I got to the hospital. I knew it, even then.”

When the pies were made, they sat with Ray for a time, then went back to the den. She said: “You don’t have to worry about me, Bert. If Mrs. Biederhof is waiting up for you, why don’t you run along?”

“She’s not waiting up.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“... She was awfully nice.”

“Mildred, can I tell you something? About what really happened Saturday?”

“Certainly.”

“Mom, she was just scared, that was all. Mom was never any good in a spot like that. And me, maybe I take after her, because I was scared too. That’s why, when Doc Gale began talking hospital I fell for it so quick. But Maggie, she wasn’t scared. We had to stop there, on our way to the hospital, because I was still in my beach shorts, and I had to put on some pants. And Maggie, she raised hell about taking Ray to the hospital. She wanted to bring her right in, then and there. That’s what I wanted too. It seemed a hell of a note, a poor little kid, and nobody even had a place for her. But — I didn’t know how you’d feel about it.”

“If that’s what happened, it does her credit.”

“She’s a goddam good friend.”

“If that’s what she did, I want you to thank her for me, and tell her I would have been only too glad. It was better that she was brought to the hospital, but if she had been put in Mrs. Biederhofs care, I wouldn’t have had any objection at all. And I know she’d have been properly taken care of, well taken care of.”

“She’s as broken up as if it was her own child.”

“I want you to tell her.”

“And will she be glad to hear it.”

Bert got wood, and made a fire, and lit it. The next Mildred knew, it was daylight, and one arm was asleep, and her head was on Bert’s shoulder. He was staring into the embers of the fire. “Bert! I must have been asleep.”

“You slept three or four hours.”

“Did you sleep?”

“I’m all right.”

They went in with Ray for a few minutes, and then Bert went out to look at the flowers. The spray was still whirling, and he reported they were “as fresh as when they were cut.”

She got a dustcloth and began moving about the house, cleaning, dusting, putting things in order. Presently she got breakfast, and they ate it in the kitchen. Then he took his departure, to dress.

Around ten, Mrs. Gessler came over, with the black dress, and took the pies, for delivery. Then the Pierces arrived, with Bert, in a dark suit, and Veda, in white. Then Letty arrived, in a Sunday dress of garnet silk. Before her clean apron could be issued, Mildred saw the Engels drive up with her mother, and sent her out to let them in. When Mildred heard them in the den, she sent Veda to say she would be there in a minute. Then she tried on the dress, noted with relief that it was a fair fit. Quickly she got into the rest of her costume. Carrying the black gloves, she went to the den.

Her mother, a small, worried-looking woman, got up and kissed her, as did her sister Blanche. Blanche was several years older than Mildred, and had a housewifey look, with some touch about her of the ineffectuality that seemed to be the main characteristic of the mother. Neither of them had the least trace of the resolute squint that was the most noticeable thing about Mildred’s face, nor did they share her voluptuous figure. Harry Engel, the unfortunate possessor of the anchor inventory, got up and shook hands, awkwardly and self-consciously. He was a big, raw-boned man, with a heavy coat of sunburn and a hint of the sea in his large blue eyes. Then Mildred saw William, a boy of twelve, in what was evidently his first long-pants suit. She shook hands with him, then remembered she should kiss him, which she did to his acute embarrassment. He sat down, and resumed his unwinking stare at Veda. To Veda, the Engels were the scum of the earth, and William was even scummier than his parents, if that was possible. Under his stare she became haughtily indifferent, crossing one bored leg over the other, and fingering the tiny cross which hung from a gold chain around her neck. Mildred sat down, and Mr. Pierce resumed his account of the catastrophe, giving a fair version this time, with full faith and credence to Mildred’s visit to the Hildegardes, at Lake Arrowhead. Mildred closed her eyes and hoped he would make it long and complete, so she wouldn’t have to talk herself. Bert tiptoed over and took the receiver off the hook, so there would be no jangling phone bell.

But when Letty, now aproned, came in to ask if anybody wanted coffee, the Engels stiffened, and Mildred knew something had gone wrong. As soon as the girl had gone, it developed that when she had let them in, they had all shaken hands, taking her for “a friend.” Mildred tried to shrug it off, but Blanche was quite bitter about it, obviously feeling that Letty had compromised her social position in front of the Pierces. Mildred began getting annoyed, but it was Veda who put an end to the discussion. With an airy wave of her hand, she said: “Well personally, I don’t see why you should object to shaking hands with Letty. She’s really a very nice girl.”

While all of Veda’s delicately shaded accents were soaking in, the sound of the hose stopped. When Mildred went to look, Mr. Murock was carrying flowers in the front door, to place them on the wire racks, and his assistants were carrying in chairs.

I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.

It wasn’t the words, it was the voice, that crumpled Mildred as though something had struck her. Sitting here in the bedroom with Bert and Veda, the door open so they could hear, she had expected something different, something warm, something soothing, particularly after Dr. Aldous’s remarks of last night. And then this flat, faraway whine, with a dreadful note of cold finality in it, began intoning the service. Not naturally religious, she bowed her head as if from some ancient instinct, began shuddering from the oppression that closed over her. Then Veda said something. Somewhere she had dug up a prayer book, and it was a moment before Mildred realized she was reading responses: “For they shall see God... Henceforth, world without end... And let our cry come unto thee...” To the critical ear, Veda’s enunciation might have seemed a bit too loud, a shade too clear, as though intended for the company in the living room, rather than God. But to Mildred, it was the purest of childish trebles, and once more the heat lightnings began to flicker within her, and once more she fought them down. After a long time, when she thought she would scream if she didn’t get some relief from her woe, the faraway voice stopped, and Mr. Murock appeared at the door. She wondered if she could walk to the curb. But Bert took her arm and Veda her hand, and she went slowly through the living room. Quite a few people were there, half-remembered faces from her youth, grotesquely marked by time.

Jesus saith to his disciples, Ye now therefore have sorrow.

It was the same cold, faraway voice, and looking across the open grave, with the casket over it, Mildred saw it indeed came from Dr. Aldous, though he looked old and frail in his white robes. In a moment, however, he dropped his voice, adopted a softer more sympathetic tone, and as she caught the familiar words, “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want,” Mildred knew that the moment had come for the special prayers made necessary by Mom’s stipulations, and for intimate solace. They murmured on, and her lips began to twitch as she realized they were mainly for her benefit, to ease her pain. They only made her feel worse. Then, after an interminable time, she heard: “O God, whose mercies cannot be numbered; Accept our prayers on behalf of the soul of Moire, thy servant departed, and grant her an entrance into the land of light and joy, in the fellowship of the saints, through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.”

And as the child sank down, on Mr. Murock’s patent pulleys, Mildred realized, with bitter shame, that now for the first time, in death, it heard itself correctly addressed, that it had lived its brief life without even knowing its name.

The worst came that evening, when she was left alone, with nobody to console, nobody to be brave in front of, nobody to face but herself. The Pierces left in the afternoon, taking Bert with them, and the Engels shortly after, taking her mother, so as to reach San Diego before dark. Then, after an early supper, she had Letty take Veda to a moving picture show. Then she found herself in a house from which all flowers, all chairs, all wire racks had been removed, which was exactly as it had been before. Desolation swept over her. She tramped around, then changed into her smock and began making pies. Around eleven she drove to the theatre, took Letty home, and held tight to Veda’s hand on the way back to the house. Veda had a glass of milk, and talked gaily about the picture. It was called The Yellow Ticket, and Mildred winced at the circumstantial account of how Miss Elissa Landi had pulled out the gun and shot Mr. Lionel Barrymore in the stomach. When Veda went to bed, Mildred helped her undress, and couldn’t bring herself to leave. Then: “Would you like to sleep with me tonight, darling?”

“But Mother, of course!”

Mildred was pretending to herself that she was doing Veda a kindness, but Veda wasn’t one to let such a spot go to somebody else. She immediately began to give comfort, in large, clearly articulated, perfectly grammatical gobs. “Why you poor, dear Mother! You lamb. Think of all she’s been through today, and the beautiful way she’s looked after everybody, without giving one thought to herself! Why of course I’ll sleep with you, Mother! You poor darling!”

To Mildred it was fragrant, soothing oil in a gaping wound. They went to her bedroom, and she undressed, and got into bed, and took Veda into her arms. For a few minutes she breathed tremulous, teary sighs. But when Veda nestled her head down, and blew into her pajamas, the way she used to blow into Ray’s, the heat lightnings flickered once, then drove into her sorrow with a blinding flash. There came torrential shaking sobs, as at last she gave way to this thing she had been fighting off: a guilty, leaping joy that it had been the other child who was taken from her, and not Veda.