Джеймс Кейн - Mildred Pierce

“He’s terribly nice.”

“How did you meet him?”

Mildred mumbled something about Monty’s having come into the Hollywood restaurant once or twice, then asked: “And how did you meet him?”

“Oh Mother, I didn’t! I mean, I didn’t say anything to him. He spoke to me . He said I looked so much like you he knew who I was. Did you tell him about me?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then he asked for Ray, and when I told him about her, he turned perfectly pale, and jumped up, and—”

“Yes, I know.”

“And Mother, those orchids!”

“You want them?”

“Mother! Mother!”

“All right, you can wear them to school.”

From the sofa came a voice, a little thick, a little unsteady: “I’ve been looking at that damned costume all night, and with great difficulty restrained myself from biting it. Now, get it off.”

“Oh, I’m not much in the humor for—”

“Get it off.”

So the costume came off, and she submitted to what, on the whole, seemed a reasonably appropriate finale to the evening. Yet she was too excited really to have her mind on Monty. When she went to bed she was tired, happy, and weepy, and Bert, Wally, Mrs. Gessler, Ida, Monty, the sign, the restaurant, and the $46 were all swimming about in a moonlit pool of tears. But the face that shimmered above it, more beautiful than all the rest, was Veda’s.

One morning, some months after this, she was driving down from Arrowhead with Monty. He was part of her life now, though on the whole not quite so satisfactory a part as it had seemed, in that first week or two, that he might be. For one thing, she had discovered that a large part of his appeal for her was physical, and this she found disturbing. So far, her sex experiences had been limited, and of a routine, tepid sort, even in the early days with Bert. This hot, wanton excitement that Monty aroused in her seemed somehow shameful; also, she was afraid it might really take possession of her, and interfere with her work, which was becoming her life. For in spite of mishaps, blunders, and catastrophes that sometimes reduced her to bitter tears, the little restaurant continued to prosper. Whether she had any real business ability it would be hard to say, but her common sense, plus an industry that never seemed to flag, did well enough. She early saw that the wholesale pie business was the key to everything else, and doggedly kept at the job of building it up, until it was paying all expenses, even above the wages of Hans, the baker that she hired. The restaurant intake had been left as clear profit, or what would become profit as soon as her debts, somewhat appalling still, were paid. That Monty might throw her out of step with this precious career was a possibility that distinctly frightened her.

And for another thing, she felt increasingly the sense of inferiority that he had aroused in her, that first night at the lake. Somehow, by his easy flippancy, he made her accomplishments seem small, of no consequence. The restaurant, which to her was a sort of Holy Grail, attained by fabulous effort and sacrifice, to him was the Pie Wagon, a term quickly taken up by Veda, who blandly shortened it to The Wagon. And even though he sometimes brought his friends there, and introduced them, and asked her to sit down, she noticed they were always men. She never met any of his women friends, and never met his family. Once, unexpectedly, he had pointed the car at Pasadena, and said he wanted her to see his home. She was nervous at the idea of meeting his mother, but when they got there it turned out that both mother and sister were away, with the servants off for the night. At once she hated the big stuffy mansion, hated the feeling she had been smuggled in the back door, almost hated him. There was no sex that night, and he professed to be puzzled, as well as hurt, by her conduct. She had a growing suspicion that to him she was a servant girl, an amusing servant girl, one with pretty legs and a flattering response in bed, but a servant girl just the same.

Yet she never declined his invitations, never put on the brake that her instinct was demanding, never raised the hatchet that she knew one day would have to fall. For there was always this delicious thing that he had brought into her life, this intimacy with Veda that had come when he came, that would go, she was afraid, when he went. Monty seemed devoted to Veda. He took her everywhere, to polo, to horse shows, to his mother’s, granting her all the social equality that he withheld from Mildred, so that the child lived in a horsy, streamlined heaven. Mildred lived in a heaven too, a heaven of more modest design, one slightly spoiled by wounded pride, but one that held the music of harps. She laved herself in Veda’s sticky affection, and bought, without complaining, the somewhat expensive gear that heaven required: riding, swimming, golf, and tennis outfits; overnight kits, monogrammed. If Mildred knew nobody in Pasadena, she had the consolation that Veda knew everybody, and had her picture on the society pages so often that she became quite blasé about it. And so long as this went on, Mildred knew she would put up with Monty, with his irritating point of view, his amused condescension, his omissions that cut her so badly — and not only put up with him, but cling to him.

This particular morning, however, she was in pleasant humor. She had slept well, after a romantic night; it was early fall again, with the mountain trees turning yellow, and she was pontificating amiably about Mr. Roosevelt. She pontificated a great deal now, particularly about politics. She hadn’t been in business very long before she became furiously aware of taxes, and this led quite naturally to politics and Mr. Roosevelt. She was going to vote for him, she said, because he was going to put an end to all this Hoover extravagance and balance the budget. Why the very idea, she said, of all those worthless people demanding help, and this Hoover even considering doing anything for them. There was nothing the matter with them except they were too lazy to work, and you couldn’t tell her that anybody couldn’t get along, even if there was a Depression, if they only had a little gump. In this, Monty may have detected a smug note, an allusion to what she had done with a little gump. At any rate, he listened with half an ear, and then asked abruptly: “Can I tell you something?”

“If it’s pro-Hoover I don’t want to hear it.”

“It’s about Veda.”

“What’s she up to now?”

“Music... Well what the hell, it’s not up to me to give you any advice. All I know is how the kid feels.”

“She takes lessons.”

“She takes lessons from some cheap little ivory thumper over in Glendale, and she has a squawk. She doesn’t think she’s getting anywhere. Well — it’s none of my affair.”

“Go on.”

“I think she’s got something.”

“I always said she had talent.”

“Saying she has talent and doing the right thing about it are two different things. If you don’t mind my saying so, I think you know more about pies than you do about music. I think she ought to be put under somebody that can really take charge of her.”

“Who, for instance?”

“Well, there’s a fellow in Pasadena that could do wonders with her. You may have heard of him — Charlie Hannen, quite well known, up to a few years ago, in the concert field. Then his lungs cracked up and he came out here. Doesn’t do much now. Organist, choirmaster, whatever you call it, at our church, leads a quiet life, but takes a few pupils. I’m sure I can get him interested in her. If he takes her on, she’ll be getting somewhere.”

“When did you learn so much about music?”