Джеймс Кейн - Mildred Pierce

“Not yet.”

“For crying out loud.”

Ida made a dive for the lift spigot, drew two glasses of water, slid them expertly so they fetched up beside the four plates. Then she pitched two napkins up against the water glasses. “Get in there with them — if they haven’t walked out on you.”

Mildred blinked helplessly at this formidable array. “Well — can I have a tray?”

In despair, Ida picked up plates, glasses, and napkins, so they were spread across her fingers like playing cards, and balanced halfway up her arm. “Get the soup, and come on.” She was gone before Mildred could recover from the speed of her legerdemain. The soup Mildred picked up gingerly, kicking the out door open as she saw the others doing. Taking care not to spill any of it, she eventually reached the table. Ida was smoothing the two women down, and from their glances Mildred knew it had been fully explained to them that she was a new girl, and that allowances had to be made for her. At once they began amusing themselves by calling her January and Slewfoot. Lest she show resentment, she started for the kitchen, but it seemed impossible to get away from Ida. “Pick up something! Don’t never make a trip, in or out, without something in your hand. You’ll trot all day and you’ll never get done! Get them dirty dishes over there, on No. 3. Pick up something!”

The afternoon dragged on. Mildred felt stupid, heavy, slow, and clumsy. Try as she would to “pick up something,” dirty dishes piled on her tables, and unserved orders in the kitchen, until she thought she would go insane from the confusion. Her trouble, she discovered, was that she hadn’t the skill to carry more than two dishes at a time. Trays were prohibited here, Ida informed her, because the aisles were so narrow they would lead to crashes, and this meant that everything had to be carried by hand. But the trick of balancing half a dozen dishes at a time was beyond her. She tried it once, but her hand crumpled under the weight, and a hot fudge sundae almost went on the floor. The climax came around three o’clock. The place was empty by then and the fish-faced cashier came back to inform her she had lost a check. The subsequent figuring showed that the check was for fifty-five cents, which meant that her whole hourly wage was lost. She wanted to throw everything in the place at the cashier’s head, but didn’t. She said she was sorry, gathered up the last of her dirty dishes, and went back with them.

In the kitchen, Mr. Chris and Ida were in a huddle, evidently talking about her. From their expressions as they started toward her, she sensed that the verdict was unfavorable, and she waited miserably for them to get it over with, so she could get away from Ida, and the Filipino dish washers, and the smell, and the noise, and drearily wonder what she was going to do next. But as they passed Archie, he looked up and made a gesture such as an umpire makes in calling a man safe at the plate. They looked surprised, but that seemed to settle it. Mr. Chris said “hokay, hokay,” and went into the dining room. Ida came over to Mildred. “Well, personally, Mildred, I don’t think you’re suited to the work at all, and Mr. Chris, he wasn’t a bit impressed either, but the Chef thinks you’ll do, so against our better judgment we’re going to give you a trial.”

Mildred remembered the reconstructed club sandwich and the little nod she had received from Archie, realized that it was indeed important to be in good with the Chef. But by now her dislike of Ida was intense, arid she made no effort to keep the acid out of her voice as she said: “Well please thank Archie for me and tell him I hope I won’t disappoint him.” She spoke loud enough for Archie to hear, and was rewarded with a loud, ursine cackle.

Ida went on: “Your hours are from eleven in the morning, ten thirty if you want breakfast, to three in the afternoon, and if you want lunch then, you can have it. We don’t do a big dinner business here, so we only keep three girls on at night, but they take turns. You’re on call twice a week from five to nine, same wages as in the daytime. Sundays we’re closed. You’ll need white shoes. Ask for nurses’ regulation at any of the stores, two ninety-five. Well what’s the matter, Mildred, don’t you want the job?”

“I’m a little tired, that’s all.”

“I don’t wonder, the way you trot.”

When she got home, the children had just arrived from school. She gave them milk and cookies and shooed them out to play. Then she changed her dress and put slippers on her aching feet. She was about to lie down, when she heard a yoo-hoo, and Mrs. Gessler joined her, in a somewhat dark humor. Ike, it appeared, hadn’t come home last night. He had phoned around nine, telling her of a hurry call that would prevent his arrival until next morning. It was all in his line of work, he had appeared at ten as he said he would, and yet... The extent to which Mrs. Gessler trusted Ike, or anybody, was evidently very slight.

Mildred presently asked: “Lucy, can you lend me three dollars?”

“More if you want it.”

“No, thanks. I’ve taken a job, and need some things.”

“Right away?”

“In the morning.”

Mrs. Gessler went out, and Mildred went back to the kitchen to make her some tea. When she came back she sat down gratefully to the smoking cup, and flipped Mildred a bill. “I didn’t have three, but here’s five.”

“Thanks. I’ll pay it back.”

“What kind of a job?”

“Oh... just a job.”

“I’m sorry... But if it’s that kind of a job, I hope you picked a five-dollar house. You’re too young for the two-dollar trade, and personally I wouldn’t like sailors.”

“I’m a waitress. In a hash-house.”

“It rhymes up the same way.”

“Just about.”

“That’s funny, though. It was none of my business, but all the time you were answering those ads, and trying to get hired on as a saleswoman, or whatever it was — I kept wondering to myself why you didn’t try something like this.”

“Why, Lucy?”

“Suppose you did get a job as a saleswoman? What would you get for it? No matter how they figure it up, when you’re selling goods you get paid on commission, because it stands to reason if you weren’t making commission they wouldn’t pay you. But who’s buying any goods? You’d have just stood around some store, all day long, waiting for the chance to make a living, and not making it. People eat , though, even now. You’ll have something coming in. And then, I don’t know. It may sound funny, but at selling, I’d say you just weren’t the type. At this , though—”

All that Mrs. Boole had said, all that Miss Turner had said, all that her bowels had told her, after that trip to Beverly Hills, came sweeping over Mildred, and suddenly she dived for the bathroom. The milk, the sandwich, the tea, all came up, while moaning sobs racked her. Then Mrs. Gessler was beside her, holding her head, wiping her mouth, giving her water, leading her gently to bed. Here she collapsed in a paroxysm of hysteria, sobbing, shaking, writhing. Mrs. Gessler took her clothes off, massaged her back, patted her, told her to let it come, not to try to hold back. She relaxed, and cried until tears gushed down her face, and let Mrs. Gessler wipe them away as they came. After a long time she was quiet, but it was a glum, hopeless quiet. Then: “I can’t do it, Lucy! I — just — can’t — do — it.”

“Baby! Do what?”

“Wear a uniform. And take their tips. And face those awful people. They called me names. And one of them grabbed my leg. Ooh... I can feel it yet. He put his hand clear up to—”

“What do they pay you?”

“Twenty-five cents an hour.”

“And tips extra?”