Джеймс Кейн - Mildred Pierce

Of the three dollars she got from Mrs. Whitley, and the nine she got from the other orders, she still had a few dollars left. So she walked down to the gas company office and paid the bill, carefully saving the receipt. Then she counted her money and stopped by a market, where she bought a chicken, a quarter pound of hot dogs, some vegetables, and a quart of milk. The chicken, first baked, then creamed, then made into three neat croquettes, would provision her over the weekend. The hot dogs were a luxury. She disapproved of them, on principle, but the children loved them, and she always tried to have some around, for bites between meals. The milk was a sacred duty. No matter how gritty things got, Mildred always managed to have money for Veda’s piano lessons, and for all the milk the children could drink.

This was a Saturday morning, and when she got home she found Mr. Pierce there. He had come to invite the children over for the weekend—”no use coming back here with them. I’ll bring them direct to school Monday morning, and they can come home from there.” By this Mildred knew there was dirty work afoot, probably a trip to the beach, where the Pierces had friends, and where Bert would appear, quite by coincidence. She resented it, and resented still more that Mr. Pierce had delayed his coming until she had spent the money for the chicken. But the prospect of having the children fed free for two whole days was so tempting that she acted quite agreeably about it, said of course they could go, and packed a little bag for them. But unexpectedly, as she ran back in the house after waving them good-bye, she began to cry, and went in the living room to resume a vigil that was rapidly becoming a habit. Everybody in the block seemed to be going somewhere, spinning importantly down the street, with blankets, paddles, and even boats lashed to the tops of their cars, and leaving blank silence behind. After watching six or seven such departures Mildred went to the bedroom and lay down, clenching and unclenching her fists.

Around five o’clock the bell rang. She had an uneasy feeling it might be Bert, with some message about the children. But when she went to the door it was Wally Burgan, one of the three gentlemen who had made the original proposition to Bert which led to Pierce Homes, Inc. He was a stocky, sandy-haired man of about forty, and now worked for the receivers that had been appointed for the corporation. This was another source of irritation between Mildred and Bert, for she thought he should have had the job, and that if he had bestirred himself a little, he could have had it. But Wally had got it, and he was out there now, without a hat, greeting her with a casual wave of the cigarette that seemed to accompany everything he did. “Hello, Mildred. Is Bert around?”

“Not right now he isn’t.”

“You don’t know where he went?”

“No, I don’t.”

Wally stood thinking a minute, then turned to go. “All right, I’ll see him Monday. Something came up, little trouble over a title, I thought maybe he could help us out. Ask him if he can drop over, will you?”

Mildred let him get clear down the walk before she stopped him. She hated to wash the dirty linen in front of any more people than she could help, but if straightening out a title would mean a day’s work for Bert, or a few dollars in some legal capacity, she had to see that he got the chance. “Ah — come in, Wally.”

Wally looked a little surprised, then came back and stepped into the living room. Mildred closed the door. “If it’s important, Wally, you’d better look Bert up yourself. He — he’s not living here anymore.”

“What?”

“He went away.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know exactly. He didn’t tell me. But I’m sure old Mr. Pierce would know, and if they’ve gone away, why — I think Maggie Biederhof might know, at least how to reach him.”

Wally looked at Mildred for a time, then said: “Well — when did all this happen?”

“Oh — a few days ago.”

“You mean you’ve busted up?”

“Something like that.”

“For good?”

“As far as I know.”

“Well, if you don’t know I don’t know who does know.”

“Yes, it’s for good.”

“You living here all alone.”

“No, I have the children. They’re away with their grandparents for the weekend, but they’re staying with me, not with Bert.”

“Well say, this is a hell of a note.”

Wally lit another cigarette and resumed looking at her. His eyes dropped to her legs. They were bare, as she was saving stockings, and she pulled her skirt over them self-consciously. He looked several other places, to make it appear that his glance had been accidental, then said: “Well, what do you do with yourself?”

“Oh, I manage to keep busy.”

“You don’t look busy.”

“Saturday. Taking a day off.”

“I wouldn’t ask much to take it off with you. Say, I never did mind being around you.”

“You certainly kept it to yourself.”

“Me, I’m conscientious.”

They both laughed, and Mildred felt a little tingle, as well as some perplexity that this man, who had never taken the slightest interest in her before, should begin making advances the moment he found out she had no husband anymore. He talked along, his voice sounding a little unnatural, about the swell time they could have, she replying flirtatiously, aware that there was something shady about the whole thing, yet a bit giddy at her unaccustomed liberty. Presently he sighed, said he was tied up for tonight, “But look.”

“Yes?”

“What you doing tomorrow night?”

“Why, nothing that I know of.”

“Well then—?”

She dropped her eyes, pleated her dress demurely over her knee, glanced at him. “I don’t know why not.”

He got up and she got up. “Then it’s a date. That’s what we’ll do. We’ll step out.”

“If I haven’t forgotten how.”

“Oh, you’ll know how. When? Half past six, maybe?”

“That suits me fine.”

“Make it seven.”

“Seven o’clock I’ll be ready.”

Around noon next day, while Mildred was breakfasting off the hot dogs, Mrs. Gessler came over to invite her to a party that night. Mildred, pouring her a cup of coffee, said she’d love to come, but as she had a date, she wasn’t sure she could make it. “A date? Gee, you’re working fast.”

“You’ve got to do something.”

“Do I know him?”

“Wally Burgan.”

“Wally — well, bring him!”

“I’ll see what his plans are.”

“I didn’t know he was interested in you.”

“Neither did I... Lucy, I don’t think he was. I don’t think he’d ever looked at me. But the second he heard Bert was gone, well it was almost funny the effect it had on him. You could see him get excited. Will you kindly tell me why?”

“I ought to have told you about that. The morals they give you credit for, you’d be surprised. To him, you were a red-hot mamma the second he found out about you.”

“About what?”

“Grass widow! From now on, you’re fast.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am. And they are.”

Mildred, feeling no faster than she had ever felt, pondered this riddle for some little time, while Mrs. Gessler sipped her coffee and seemed to be pondering something else. Presently she asked: “Is Wally married?”

“Why — not that I know of. No, of course he’s not. He was always gagging about how lucky the married ones were on income-tax day. Why?”

“I wouldn’t bring him over, if I were you.”

“Well, as you like.”

“Oh, it’s not that — he’s welcome, so far as that goes. But — you know. These are business friends of Ike’s, with their lady friends, all-right guys, trying to make a living same as anybody else, but a little rough, and a little noisy. Maybe they spend too much time on the sea, playing around in their speedboats. And the girls are the squealing type. None of them are what you ought to be identified with, specially when you’ve got a single young man on your hands, that’s already a little suspicious of your morals, and—”