Джеймс Кейн - Mildred Pierce

Mildred caught her by both arms, threw her over one knee, whipped the kimono up with one motion, the pants down with another, and brought her bare hand down on Veda’s bottom with all the force her fury could give her. Veda screamed and bit her leg. Mildred pulled loose, then beat the rapidly reddening bottom until she was exhausted, and Veda screamed as though demons were inside of her. Then Mildred let Veda slide to the floor, and sat there panting and fighting the nausea that was swelling in her stomach.

Presently Veda got up, staggered to the sofa, and flung herself down in tragic despair. Then she gave a soft laugh, and whispered, in sorrow rather than in anger: “A waitress.”

Mildred now began to cry. She rarely struck Veda, telling Mrs. Gessler that “the child didn’t need it,” and that she “didn’t believe in beating children for every little thing.” But this wasn’t the real reason. The few times she had tried beating, she had got exactly nowhere. She couldn’t break Veda, no matter how much she beat her. Veda got victory out of these struggles, she a trembling, ignoble defeat. It always came back to the same thing. She was afraid of Veda, of her snobbery, her contempt, her unbreakable spirit. And she was afraid of something that seemed always lurking under Veda’s bland, phony toniness: a cold, cruel, coarse desire to torture her mother, to humiliate her, above everything else, to hurt her. Mildred apparently yearned for warm affection from this child, such as Bert apparently commanded. But all she ever got was a stagy, affected counterfeit. This half loaf she had to accept, trying not to see it for what it really was.

She wept, then sat with a dismal feeling creeping over her, for she was as far from settling the main point as she had ever been. Veda had to be made to accept this job she had taken, else her days would be dull misery, and in the end she would have to give it up. But how? Presently, not conscious of having hatched any idea, she began to talk. “You never give me credit for any finer feelings, do you?”

“Oh, Mother, please — let’s not talk about it anymore. It’s all right. You’re working in a — in Hollywood, and I’ll try not to think about it.”

“As a matter of fact, I felt exactly about it as you do, and I certainly would never have taken this job if it hadn’t been that I—” Mildred swallowed, made a wild lunge at something, anything, and went on: “—that I had decided to open a place of my own, and I had to learn the business. I had to know all about it and—”

At least Veda did sit up at this, and show some faint sign of interest. “What kind of a place, Mother? You mean a—”

“Restaurant, of course.”

Veda blinked and for a dreadful moment Mildred felt that this didn’t quite meet Veda’s social requirements either. Desperately she went on: “There’s money in a restaurant, if it’s run right, and—”

“You mean we’ll be rich?”

“Many people have got rich that way.”

That did it. Even though a restaurant might not be quite the toniest thing that Veda could imagine, riches spoke to the profoundest part of her nature. She ran over, put her arms around her mother, kissed her, nuzzled her neck, insisted on being punished for the horrible way she had acted. When Mildred had given her a faltering pat on the bottom, she climbed into the chair, and babbled happily to Mildred about the limousine they would have, and the grand piano, on which she could practice her music.

Mildred gladly promised all these things, but later, when Veda was in bed and she herself was undressing, she wondered how long she could keep up the pretense, and whether she could get another job before her bluff was called. And then a hot, electric idea flashed through her mind. Why not have her own restaurant? She looked in the mirror, and saw a calculating, confident woman’s face squinting back at her. Well, why not? Her breath began to come just a little bit fast as she canvassed her qualifications. She could cook, she had such a gift for it as few ever have. She was learning the business; in fact, so far as pies went, she was in business already. She was young, healthy, stronger than she looked. She had two children, all she wanted, all she could be expected to bring into the world, so there need be no more of that. She was implacably determined to get ahead, somehow. She put on her pajamas, turned out the light, but kept walking around the room, in the dark. In spite of herself, the limousine, the chauffeur, and the grand piano began to gleam before her eyes, but as real this time, not imaginary. She started for bed, then hurried to the children’s room. “Veda?”

“Yes, Mother. I’m awake.”

She went over, knelt down, put her arms around the child, hugged her passionately. “You were right, darling, and I was wrong. No matter what I say, no matter what anybody says, never give up that pride, that way you have of looking at things. I wish I had it, and — never give it up!”

“I can’t help it, Mother. It’s how I feel.”

“Something else happened tonight.”

“Tell me.”

“Nothing to tell. Only now I feel it, now I know it, that from now on things are going to get better for us. So we’ll have what we want. Maybe we won’t be rich, but — we’ll have something. And it’ll all be on account of you. Every good thing that happens is on account of you, if Mother only had sense enough to know it.”

“Oh Mother, I love you. Truly I do.”

“Say it again... Say it — just once — more.”

Again Mildred’s attitude toward the restaurant changed, from critical disapproval to eager curiosity. Mr. Chris, while his cuisine might not excite her, had been in business many years, and it dawned on her now that his system was the ancient system that any restaurant must use, if it is to run at all. She began to study it hard, noting the bookkeeping, the marketing, the method of using up leftovers, particularly the tricks used by Archie, who did many things that annoyed her, but never used two motions where one would suffice, never wondered if a dish was done, but always knew, and at that moment picked it up. Some of his principles she adopted at once in making her pies, for she was addicted to a deal of peeping into the oven, and giving them one more minute, just to make sure. Now she put them in by the clock and took them out by the clock, and saved herself much fretting, and made better pies.

All the time her confidence was growing, her ideas clarifying as to the kind of place she meant to have. But one thing vexed her constantly. Where was she going to get the money? In the afternoons, if she had an hour, she drove to the restaurant supply houses on Main Street, in Los Angeles, and priced, calculated, and added up. As well as she could tell, she would need a thousand dollars’ worth of equipment before she could start, even in a small way. A range, icebox, steam table, and sink were going to cost at least half that, and furniture, dishes, silver, and linen would account for the rest. To save this money, at her present income, was going to take a long time, and there was always the risk that she would lose her job, or that some shift in the pie situation would wipe her out completely, and leave her exactly where she was in the spring. She had to get started, but on whose money she didn’t know. She thought about Wally, and even about Mrs. Gessler, but she doubted if they were good for such a sum, and some instinct told her not to ask them.

For a short time she flirted with the idea of getting it from Mr. Otis, a retired butcher turned federal meat inspector, who was a regular customer, and always left her a quarter. She worked on his romantic nature to the point where he suggested meeting her outside, and then realized she should have her notes and memoranda in some kind of order if she was to impress him enough to make a deal. So one night, when Wally had reached the stage of yawns and a cigarette, she turned on the light and sat down at the desk. “Wally, want to help me with something?”