Джеймс Кейн - Mildred Pierce

“They ought to be. They cost me enough.”

Mildred snapped this out bitterly, and for a second wished she hadn’t. But the cigarette, suddenly still in midair, told her it was news to Veda, quite horrible news, and without further regret, she rammed home her advantage: “You didn’t know that, did you?”

Veda stared incredulously, then decided to play it funny. “You buy his shoes? Yee gods and little—”

“His shoes and his shirts and his drinks and everything else he’s had in the last few months, including his polo dues. And you needn’t call on your gods and little fishes anymore, or mention any more dates from the operas. If you want to see some dates I have them all written down, with an exact amount beside each one. Miss Pierce, you made a slight mistake. It’s not my legs that he likes me for, it’s my money. And so long as it’s that, we’ll see who’s the varlet and who’s the boss. It may interest you to know that that’s why he’s such a very good friend of yours. He doesn’t haul you over to your music lesson because he wants to. In fact, he often complains about it. He does it because he has to. And surprising though it be to you, he’ll marry me, or not marry me, or do anything I say, so his proud, gentlemanly belly can have something to eat.”

Mildred got up, something haughty in her manner for a moment suggesting Veda. “So you see, what he sees in me is about what you see, isn’t it? And unfortunately, you’re in exactly the position he’s in, too. You have to do what I say. The hand that holds the money cracks the whip. And I say there’ll be no more money for you, not one cent, until you take back everything you’ve said, and apologize for it.”

Veda’s answer was to abandon the grand manner, and become a yelling, devilish adolescent of fourteen. Coldly, Mildred listened to her curses, watched her kick at the Pierce upright with Bert’s riding boots. “And that’s the piano you’re going to practice on, until I get ready, in my own good time, to buy you another.”

Veda screamed at the top of her lungs, then leaped at the piano and began playing the Can-Can from Orpheus. Mildred didn’t know what it was, but she knew it was wild, obscene music. Picking up her coat, she stalked out of the house and headed up the street toward the restaurant.

So far as Monty was concerned, Mildred knew this was the end, but she didn’t do anything about it at once. She received him as usual when he dropped in at the restaurant that night, and the next two or three nights. She even submitted to his embraces, deriving a curious satisfaction from the knowledge that his access to the very best legs was rapidly drawing to a close. Stoppage of the spending money brought Veda to her milk, as no beating had ever done, and when it did, Mildred forgave her quite honestly, in a teary little scene two or three days after Christmas. It was almost automatic with her by now to acquit Veda of wrongdoing, no matter how flagrant the offense. In her mind, the blame was all Monty’s, and presently she knew exactly how she would deal with him, and when. It would be at the New Year’s party he had invited her to, a week or so before. “I thought I’d ask Paul and Louise?wing — polo players, but you might like them. We could meet at my house around ten, have a drink, then go in to the Biltmore, for the noisy part.”

This had obviously been an effort to kill two birds with one stone, to give some plausibility to what he had said about her hours, and at the same time introduce her to somebody, quite as though he would have done so all along if only the right kind of evening had presented itself. She had taken it as evidence of a change of heart, and accepted. Indeed, she had more than accepted. She had consulted anxiously with Mrs. Gessler over what she should wear, and gone into Bullock’s and picked out an evening gown. Then she had gone into a veritable agony over the question of a coat. She didn’t have a fur coat, and the prospect of making her debut in the world of mink with nothing but her battered blue haunted her horribly. But Mrs. Gessler, as usual, stepped into the breach. She knew a lady, it seemed, with a brocade coat. “It’s a beautiful thing, baby, ashy rose, all crusted with gold, just what you want with your hair. It’s really a Chinese mandarin’s coat, but it’s been re-cut, and you couldn’t put a price on it. There’s nothing like it on sale anywhere. It’ll be the snappiest thing in the room, even at the Biltmore, and — she’s broke. She needs the money. I’ll see what I can do.”

So for $25, Mildred got the coat, and when the dress arrived, she caught her breath at the total effect. The dress was light blue, and gave something to the rose of the coat, so she was a-shimmer with the delicate colors that her general colorlessness needed. She bought gold stockings and gold shoes, and her panic changed to smug complacency. All this had been before Christmas, and her choice of the New Year’s party as the occasion for the break with Monty may possibly have been prompted by a matter-of-fact determination not to let such a costume go to waste, as well as a vivid recollection of the $40 she had contributed to the expense. However, no such motive obtruded on her own virtuous consciousness. It was merely, she told herself, that a resolve had to be made, and New Year’s morning was a very good time to make it. As she rehearsed the scene mentally, it became clear in its details, and she knew exactly how she would play it. At the Biltmore, she would be gay, and rattle her rattle, and throw her balloon, and tell the story of Harry Engel and the anchors. Back at Monty’s house, she would watch the Ewings take their departure, and then, at his invitation to come in, she would decline, and climb into her car. Then, at his surprised look, she would make a little speech. She would say nothing of Veda, or money, or legs. She would merely remark that all things had to come to an end sometime, and it looked as though he and she had reached that point. It had been very pleasant, she had enjoyed his company, every minute of it, she wished him the very best in the world, and she certainly hoped he would regard her as his friend. But — and at this point she saw herself putting out a graceful hand, and in case he merely stood there looking at it, as stepping on the starter.

The whole thing, perhaps, was a little stuffy, and certainly it was singsongy, as she kept adding to it. But it was her valedictory, and no doubt her privilege to deliver it any way she chose.

December 31, 1933, dawned dark in California, and before the morning was over, quite a little rain was falling. By mid-afternoon, tall tales interrupted the broadcasts: of washouts in the hills, of whole families evacuated from this village and that village, of roads blocked, of trains held in Arizona pending dispatcher’s orders. But in Glendale, except for the wet, and quite a little rubble that washed down on the streets, nothing ominous met the eye, and Mildred viewed the downpour as an annoyance, a damper on business, but nothing to get excited about. Around five o’clock, when it didn’t let up, she stopped Mrs. Kramer from sectioning more chickens, on the ground that nobody would be there to eat them, and they could wait until next day. When Arline, Emma, and Audrey successively called up to say they couldn’t get there, she thought little of it, and when Sigrid came, she set her to cleaning silver.

Around six, Monty called up to know if she had cold feet. Laughing, she asked: “What from?”

“Well, it’s a little wet.”

“Do you mean you’re getting cold feet?”

“No, not at all. Just being the perfect host and giving you one last chance to back out if you want to.”

“Why, this little shower is nothing.”