Джеймс Кейн - Mildred Pierce

It was well after eight when she heard another car door slam. Bert, Wally, and Veda had adjourned their meeting, on Ida’s invitation, to the running board of Wally’s car, and for some time she had heard them talking out there, while she worked. But now, as a foot crunched on the gravel, the conversation stopped, and then Veda burst in the back door. “Mother! Guess who just came in!”

“Who was it, darling?”

“Monty Beragon!”

Mildred’s heart skipped a beat, and she looked at Veda sharply. But Veda’s shining eyes didn’t suggest knowledge of scandal, so cautiously she asked: “And who is Monty Beragon?”

“Oh, Mother, don’t you know?”

“I guess not.”

“He plays polo for Midwick, and he lives in Pasadena, and he’s rich, and good-looking, and all the girls just wait for his picture to come out in the paper. He’s — keen!”

It was the first she had known that Monty was anybody in particular, but she was too busy to be excited much. Veda began dancing up and down, and Bert came in, followed by Wally, who looked as though he had just beheld God. “Sa-a-a-a-ay! If that guy’s here, Mildred, you’re in! Why there’s not a restaurant in L.A. that wouldn’t pay him to eat there. Isn’t that so, Bert?”

“He’s very well known.”

“Known? Hell, he’s a shot.”

Arline came in, from the dining room. “One waf.”

Veda went to the out door, peeped, and disappeared into the dining room. Wally began speculating as to how Monty knew about the opening. He wasn’t on any list, and it seemed unlikely he had seen the Glendale papers. Bert, with some irritation, said that Mildred’s reputation as a cook had spread far and wide, and that seemed sufficient reason, at least to him, without doing any fancy sleuthing about it. Wally said by God he had a notion to find out, when all of a sudden he was standing there with open mouth, and Mildred felt herself being turned slowly around. Monty was there, looking down at her gravely, intently. “Why didn’t you tell me about the little girl?”

“I don’t know. I — couldn’t call anybody.”

“I didn’t hear about it until her sister told me, just now.”

“She seems to be quite an admirer of yours.”

“She’s the most delightful little thing I’ve met in a long time, but never mind about her. I’d like you to know that if I’d had any idea about it, you’d have heard from me.”

As though to corroborate this declaration, a box of flowers appeared suddenly under Mildred’s nose, together with a slip the messenger was offering her to sign. She opened the box, found herself staring at two gigantic orchids. But Monty took the card and tore it up. “I doubt if you’re in the humor for gags.”

She put the flowers in the icebox, and introduced Bert and Wally. She was relieved when Ida came over, demanding that the kitchen be cleared. Monty gave her a little pat and went to the dining room. Bert and Wally went outside, eyeing her a little queerly.

By nine o’clock there were only two customers left, and as they were eating the last of the chickens, Mildred went to the switchboard and cut off the sign. Then she counted her cash. She had hoped for thirty people, and had ordered five extra chickens to be safe. Now, having been high-pressured into taking four more than that, she had barely had enough. Truly, as Wally had promised, there had been a mob, and she found she had taken in $46, or $10 more than her wildest hopes. She folded all the bills together, so she could feel their fat thickness. Then, having little to do until Arline, Pancho, and Letty finished up, she slipped off her apron, pinned on her orchids, and went into the dining room.

Ida was still waiting on the last customers, but Bert, Wally, Monty, Veda and Mrs. Gessler were sitting sociably at one of the tables for four. Bert and Monty were discussing polo ponies, a subject that Bert seemed impressively familiar with. Veda had curled herself into the crook of his arm and was drinking in the heavenly words about the only world that could mean anything to her. Mildred pulled up a chair and sat down beside Mrs. Gessler, who at once began making queer noises. Staring into each face, she repeated “H’m? H’m?” in an insistent way, evoking only puzzled stares. It was Monty who got it. His face lit up and he bellowed “Yes!”

Then everybody bellowed yes, and Mrs. Gessler went out to her car. When she came back she had Scotch and White Rock. Mildred had Arline bring glasses, ice, and an opener, and Mrs. Gessler began her ancient rites. Bert took charge of Veda’s drink, but Mildred forbade the usual switcheroo. She knew it would remind him of Ray, and she didn’t want that. Veda received her drink, with its two drops of Scotch, without any tricks, and Bert suddenly got to his feet. Raising his glass to Mildred, he said: “To the best little woman that any guy was crazy enough to let get away from him.”

“You ought to know, you cluck.”

Mrs. Gessler was quite positive about it, and everybody laughed, and raised a glass to Mildred. She didn’t know whether to raise her glass or not, but finally did. Then Ida, having disposed of the customers, was standing beside her, taking in the conviviality with a twisted grin that seemed strange and pathetic on her extremely plain face. Mildred jumped up, quickly made her a drink, and said: “Now I’m going to propose a toast.” Raising her glass, she intoned: “To the best little woman that nobody was ever crazy enough to let get away from them.” Wally said: “ ’Ray!” Everybody said “ ’Ray!” Ida was flustered, and first giggled, then looked as though she was going to cry, and paid no attention when Mildred introduced her around. Then she plopped down in a chair and began: “Well, Mildred, I wish you could have heard the comment. You got no idea how they went for that chicken. And how amazed they was at them waffles. Why, they said, they never got such waffles since they was little, and they had no idea anybody knew how to make them anymore. It’s a hit, Mildred. It’s going to do just grand.” Mildred sipped her drink, feeling trembly and self-conscious and unbearably happy.

She could have sat there forever, but she had Veda to think of, and Ida to think of too, for after such help, she had to give her a lift home. So she reminded Bert that Veda had to go to school, stuffed the precious cash into her handbag, and prepared to lock up. She shook hands with them all, looking away quickly when she came to Monty, and finally got them outside. On the lawn, the party gathered around Mrs. Gessler’s car, and Mildred suspected the Scotch was being finished somewhat informally, but she didn’t wait to make sure. Calling to Bert not to keep Veda up late, she loaded Ida into her car, and went roaring down the boulevard.

When she got home she was surprised to find the blue Cord outside. Inside, the house was dark, but she could see a flicker of light from the den, and there she found Monty and Veda, in the dark except for the fire they had lit for themselves, and evidently getting on famously. To Mildred, Monty explained: “We had a date.”

“Oh, you did.”

“Yes, we made a date that I was to take her home, so I did. Of course we had to take Pop home first—”

“Or at least, to the B—”

But before Veda could finish her languid qualification, she and Monty burst into howls of laughter, and when she could get her breath she gasped: “Oh Mother! We saw the Biederhof! Through the window! And — they flopped!”

Mildred felt she ought to be shocked, but the next thing she knew she had joined in, and then the three of them laughed until their stomachs ached and tears ran down their faces, as though Mrs. Biederhof and her untrammelled bosom were the funniest things in the world. It was a long time before Mildred could bring herself to send Veda to bed. She wanted to keep her there, to warm herself in this sunny, carefree friendliness that had never been there before. When the time finally came, she took Veda in herself, and helped her undress, and put her in bed, and held her tight for a moment, still ecstatic at the miracle that had come to pass. Then Veda whispered: “Oh Mother, isn’t he just wonderful!”