Джеймс Кейн - Mildred Pierce

Ida put her head through the door and beckoned, and Anna came out. Anna, the girl with the sock, had been reinstated some time before. Ida pulled her into the huddle. “Listen, Anna, you heard what I said to him in there?”

“Ida, them pies are a disgrace, and—”

“O.K., then you do just like I say, and we’ll get Mildred’s pies in here, ’stead of them cow pies we got now. Anna, they’re just wonderful. But you know how he is, so tomorrow, when I put out the samples Mildred’s going to bring, you put the bee on him and say that’s what he’s been up to all along. Then he thought it up, and we break through his bullheadedness.”

“Just leave it to Little Orphan Annie.”

“And put it on thick.”

“I’ll take that Greek like Grant took Richmond. Don’t worry, Mildred. We’ll sell your pies for you.”

Mildred had a warm, wet-eyed feeling toward them both, and decided that Anna rated a free pie now and then, too. That afternoon she made the samples, and next morning Ida took charge of them herself, hurrying back to the kitchen with them like a spy carrying bombs. Changing into her uniform, Mildred was as nervous as an actress on opening night, and when she went into the kitchen there was expectancy in the air. Mr. Chris was at his desk, in the corner, and presently got up and went over to the out door. Here he posted, with a thumbtack, a piece of cardboard on which was written, in his Mediterranean handwriting the special order for the day:

All gathered around and looked at it. Ida went over to the desk, picked up the blue pencil, came back to the door and added:

One by one, the girls filed in the dining room.

Lunch had barely started when Mildred managed to sell two pieces of pie. Mr. Rand, one of her regular customers, came in early with another man, and when she handed him the menu to pick out his dessert, she asked innocently: “Would you care for a piece of pie, Mr. Rand? The lemon is very good today.”

Mr. Rand looked at his companion. “That just shows how much principle she’s got. The pie stinks, she knows it stinks, and yet she says the lemon is very good today. Lay off the pie — unless you’re really tired of this life, and prefer to be dead.”

“We have a new line of pie today, Mr. Rand.”

“Well — is it any good?”

“You try a piece. I think you’ll like it.”

The other man chose chocolate ice cream, and Mildred hurried to the kitchen to get the orders. As she came back with both desserts and the coffee, her heart gave a leap as she heard a customer say: “That pie looks good.” When she set it in front of Mr. Rand the other man didn’t even let her put the ice cream down. “Say, I want some of that! Can I switch?”

“Why certainly!”

“Principle? She’s got principle plus. Say, that meringue looks two inches thick.”

By noon, the lemon pie was a few smears of filling in an empty plate, and by one o’clock, all three pies were gone. By three, Ida had opened up on Mr. Chris, with everybody standing around, to watch the result. She said just look how them pies went. She said the lemon was gone before she could even turn around, and one customer wanted a second cut, and she didn’t have it to give him. She said it was just terrible what the people said, when Mildred’s pies ran out and she had to serve the bakery pies. To all of this, Mr. Chris made no reply whatever, merely hunching over his desk, and acting as though he was deaf. Ida plowed on, louder and louder. She said there was one lady, in a party of four, that wanted to know where they got such wonderful pies, and when she pointed out Mildred, she was that amazed. Mr. Chris twisted uneasily, and said not to bother him, he was busy, and—

“So that’s what you was up to!”

He jumped up, and found Anna’s finger not six inches from his nose, leveled at him as though it were a six-shooter. Giving him no time to recover, she went on: “So that’s why you been asking all them questions about Mildred! That’s why you been foxing around! And who told you she made pies, I’d like to know? Well can you beat that. Every time you take your eye off him he’s up to something!”

To this not unflattering harangue Mr. Chris at first returned a blank stare. Then he burst into loud laughter, and pointed a derisive finger at Ida, as though it was a great joke on her. Ida professed to be highly indignant, that he should “let her go on like that” when he knew about Mildred’s pies all the time, and had already made up his mind to take them. The more she talked the louder he laughed, and then, after he had wiped his streaming eyes, the bargain was struck. There was a little difficulty about price, he trying to beat Mildred down to thirty cents, but she held out for thirty-five, and presently he agreed. That night Mildred stood treat to Ida and Anna in a speako Wally had taken her to, and helped Anna pick up a man at a nearby table. Still with her first half-dozen pies to make, she drove home very late, full of a gulpy love for the whole human race.

On the strength of her new contract, she had a phone put in, and began to drum up more trade with the neighborhood customers, on the theory that a few extra pies were no more trouble, but that the extra money would be so much velvet. For pies one at a time, she had charged, and still charged, eighty-five cents each. Shortly, as a result of the neighborhood trade, there dropped into her lap another restaurant contract. Mr. Harbaugh, husband of one of her customers, spoke of her pies one night at the Drop Inn, a cafeteria on Brand Boulevard, not far from Pierce Drive, and they called her up and agreed to take two dozen a week. So within a month of the time she went to work as a waitress, she was working harder than she knew she could work, and still hold out until Sunday, when she could sleep. Taking care of the children was out of the question, so she engaged a girl named Letty, who cooked the children’s lunch and dinner, and helped with the washing, stirring, and drudgery that went with the pies. She bought two extra uniforms, so she could launder all three at once, over the weekend. This chore, however, she did in the bathroom, behind locked doors. She made no secret of the pies; she couldn’t very well. But she had no intention that either the children or Letty should know about the job.

And yet, tired as she was most of the time, there was a new look in her eye, even a change in her vocabulary. Talking with Mrs. Gessler, she spoke of “my pies,” “my customers,” “my marketing”; the first personal pronouns predominated. Unquestionably she was becoming a little important, in her own eyes, at least, a little conceited, a little smug. Well, why not? Two months before, she barely had pennies to buy bread. Now she was making eight dollars a week from her Tip-Top pay, about fifteen dollars on tips, more than ten dollars clear profit on pies. She was a going concern. She bought a little sports suit, got a permanent.

Only one thing bothered her. It was now late in June, and on July 1 seventy-five dollars was due on the mortgages. Her affluence was recent, and she had saved less than fifty dollars toward what she needed, but she was determined not to worry. One night, driving with Wally, she said abruptly: “Wally, I want fifty dollars out of you.”

“You mean — now?”

“Yes, now. But it’s to be a loan, and I’ll pay you back. I’m making money now, and I can let you have it in a month, easy. But the interest is due on those mortgages Bert took out, and I’m not going to be foreclosed out of my home for a measly fifty bucks. I want you to get it to me tomorrow.”

“O.K. I think I got it.”