Джеймс Кейн - Mildred Pierce

“I didn’t see any storm.”

Following him into the bedroom, to see if she could be of help with the drink, she got a shock. It was a tiny cubicle, with one window and a hummocksy bed, on which were her trench coat and a cocktail service, consisting of a great silver shaker, a big B on its side, and beautiful crystal glasses. But not seven feet away, in the smallest, meanest bathroom she had ever seen, he was chopping away at a piece of ice he had evidently procured earlier in the day. Near him, on a small table, she could see a little two-burner gas fixture, a box of eggs, a package of bacon, and a can of coffee. Wishing she hadn’t come, she went back and resumed her seat by the fire.

He served the drinks presently, and she had two. When he reached for the shaker to pour her a third, she stopped him. “If I’m going to drive, I think I’ve had enough.”

“Drive? Where to?”

“Why — isn’t the Biltmore where we’re going?”

“Mildred — we’re not going anywhere.”

“Well we certainly are.”

“Listen—”

He stepped over and snapped on a small radio. An excited announcer was telling of bridges down between Glendale and Burbank, of a wrecked automobile on the San Fernando Road, of the fear that a whole family had been lost with the car. She tossed her head petulantly. “Well, my goodness, the Biltmore’s not in Burbank.”

“Wherever it is, and however we go to get to it, we have to cross the Los Angeles River, and by last report it’s a raging torrent, with half the bridges out and three feet of water boiling over the rest. We’re not going. The New Year’s party is here.”

He filled her glass and she began to sulk. In spite of the liquor, the main idea of the evening was still clear in her mind, and this turn of events was badly interfering with it. When he put his arm around her, she didn’t respond. Amiably, he said she was a very problematical drunk. On two drinks she’d argue with Jesus Christ, on three she’d agree with Judas Iscariot. Now would she kindly tilt over No. 3, so she’d be in a frame of mind to welcome the New Year the way it deserved? When she didn’t touch the drink, he asked for her key, so he could put her car in the garage. When she made no move to give it to him, he went downstairs.

Somewhere in the house, water began to drip. She shivered, for the first time really becoming aware of the rain that was cascading down the windows, roaring on the roof. She began to blame him for that too. When he came back, and took a sharp look at her face, he seemed a little bored. “Well, if you still feel like that, I suppose there’s nothing to do but go to bed... I pulled that cloth clear over your car, so it’ll probably be all right. I have green pajamas and red. Which do you prefer?”

“I’m not going to bed.”

“You’re not very amusing here.”

“I’m going home.”

“Then good night. But in case you change your mind, I’ll put out the green pajamas, and—”

“I haven’t gone yet.”

“Of course you haven’t. I’m inviting—”

“Why did you tell her that?”

What with the liquor, the rain, and his manner, her grievances had heavy compression behind them now, and she exploded with a snarl that left her without the least recollection of all the stuffy little things she had intended to say. He looked at her in astonishment. “Tell whom what? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. How could you say such things to that child? And who gave you the right to talk about my legs anyhow?”

“Everybody else does. Why not me?”

“What?”

“Oh come, come, come. Your legs are the passion of your life. They all but get a cheer when you appear with them in that Pie Wagon, and if you don’t want them talked about, you ought to wear your skirts longer. But you do want them talked about, and looked at, and generally envied, so why this howling fit? And after all, they are damned good-looking.”

“We’re talking about my child.”

“Oh for God’s sake, what do you mean, child? If she’s a child, she’s forgotten more about such things than you’ll ever know. You ought to keep up with the times. I don’t know how it was once — maybe the sweet young things were told by their mothers at the age of seventeen and were greatly surprised, you can’t prove it by me. But now — they know all there is to know before they’ve even been told about Santa Claus. Anyway, she knows. What am I supposed to do? Act like a zany when I drive off with you at night and don’t bring you back until the next morning? Do you think she doesn’t know where you’ve been? Hell she even asks me how many times.”

“And you tell her?”

“Sure. She greatly admires my capacity — and yours. Yours she simply can’t get over. ‘Who’d think the poor mope had it in her?’ ”

As Monty mimicked Veda, Mildred knew this was nothing he had invented, as a sort of counter-offensive. Her rage mounted still higher. She said “I see,” then said it over again, three or four times. Then, getting up and going over to him, she asked: “And how about the best legs being found in kitchens, not in the drawing room?”

“What in the hell are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

Monty stared, touched his brow, as though in a great effort of recollection. Then, snapping his fingers briskly, he said: “Oh, I knew there was something familiar about that. Yes, I did give a little dissertation along those lines one afternoon. We passed a girl — she had on a uniform of some sort, and an apron — quite a pretty little thing, especially around the ankles. And I got that off — what you’ve just quoted. Nothing original, I assure you. I had almost forgotten it... How does that concern us?”

He was plausible, circumstantial, casual, but a little flicker around the eyes betrayed him. Mildred didn’t answer his question. She came over close, and there was something snakelike about her as she said: “That’s a lie. You weren’t talking about any girl you saw on the street. You were talking about me.”

Monty shrugged and Mildred went back to her chair and sat down. Then she began to talk slowly, but with rising stridency. She said he had deliberately tried to set Veda against her, to hold her up to ridicule, to make the child think of her as an inferior, somebody to be ashamed of. “I see it all now. I always thought it was funny she never invited any of these people over here in Pasadena to see her once in a while. Not that I don’t give her the opportunity. Not that I don’t remind her that you can’t accept invitations all the time without giving any in return. Not that I didn’t do my part. But no. Because you were filling her up with all this foolishness, she’s been ashamed to ask these people over. She actually believes Glendale is not good enough for them. She thinks I’m not good enough. She-”

“Oh for God’s sake shut up.”

Monty’s eyes were black now, and had little hard points of light in them. “In the first place, what invitations did she accept? My mother’s, right here in this house. Well, we went all over that once, and we’re not going over it again. And to the Hannens’. And so far as I know the only invitation Charlie and Roberta ever got out of you was an invitation to go over and buy their dinner in that Pie Wagon, and they did go over, and—”

“No check was ever presented to them,”

“O.K., then you’re square. For the rest, who the hell would expect a kid of fourteen to be doing something about every cocktail party I dragged her to? She asked about it, and I said it would be silly. Come on. What else?”

“That may be all right, for older people. But there have been plenty of others she’s met, girls her own age—”