Джеймс Кейн - Mildred Pierce

She led him to the den, lit the fire, took his coat, and disappeared with it. When she came back she was shaking an orange blossom in a pitcher, and balancing a tray on which were two glasses.

“Well say! Say!”

“Thought it might help pass the time.”

“You bet it will.”

He took his glass, waited for her to take hers, said “Mud in your eye,” and sipped. Mildred was startled at how good it was. As for Wally, he was downright reverent at how good it was. “What do you know about that? Real gin! I haven’t tasted it since — God knows when. All they give you in these speaks is smoke, and a guy’s taking his life in his hands, all the time. Say, where did you tend bar?”

“Oh, just picked it up.”

“Not from Bert.”

“I didn’t say where.”

“Bert’s hooch was God-awful. He was one of these home-laboratory guys, and the more stuff he put in it to kill the taste, the worse it tasted. But this — say, Bert must be crazy if he walked out on you.”

He looked at her admiringly and she refilled his glass. “Thanks, Mildred. I couldn’t say no if I tried. Hey, what about yours?”

Mildred, not much of a drinker under any circumstances, had decided that tonight might be an excellent time to exercise a certain womanly restraint. She laughed, shook her head. “Oh — one’s all I take.”

“Don’t you like it?”

“I like it all right, but I’m really not used to it.”

“You’ve got to get educated.”

“I can see that right now. But we can attend to that part a little bit at a time. Tonight, the rest of it’s yours.”

He laughed excitedly, strolled over to the window, stood looking out at the rain. “You know, I’m thinking about something... Maybe you were right about not going out. That looks wetter than a Chinaman’s wash. Did you really mean it, what you said about knocking something together that we could eat?”

“Of course I meant it.”

“Putting you to one hell of a lot of trouble, though.”

“Don’t be silly, it’s no trouble at all. And I bet you get a better meal here than you would outside. That’s another thing you might have noticed, all the time you’ve been coming here. I don’t know how much of a bartender I am, but I’m an awfully good cook.”

“Quit kidding me. That was the hired girl.”

“That was me. Want to watch?”

“I sure do.”

She really was a marvelous cook, and he watched delightedly while she popped the chicken into the oven, scraped four potatoes, shelled a little dish of peas. They went back to the den until it should be time to put the vegetables on to boil, and he had another cocktail. By now she was wearing a little blue apron, and he oafishly admitted that he “sure would like to give those apron strings a pull.”

“You better not.”

“Why?”

“I might tie it on you, and put you to work.”

“O.K. by me.”

“Would you like to eat here? By the fire?”

“I’d love it.”

She got a bridge table out of the closet and set it up in front of the fireplace. Then she got out silver, glassware, and napkins, and arranged them for two. He followed her around like a puppy, his cocktail glass in his hand. “Hey, this looks like a real dinner.”

“I told you. Maybe you weren’t listening.”

“From now on, I’m nothing but ears.”

The dinner was a little more of a success than she bargained for. For soup, she served some chicken jelly she had had left over from the middle of the week, and it struck him as very high-toned. When she had taken away the cups, she came in with the wine, which by a curious coincidence had been in the icebox since Mrs. Gessler left, and poured it, leaving the bottle on the table. Then she came in with the chicken, the potatoes, and peas, all deftly arranged on one platter. He was enthusiastic about everything, but when she came in with the pie, he grew positively lyrical. He told how his mother made such pies, back in Carlisle, Pa. He told about the Indian School, and Mt. Pleasant, the quarterback.

But the food, much as it delighted him, seemed almost incidental. He insisted that she sit beside him, on the sofa, and wear the apron. When she came in with the coffee, she found he had turned out the lights, so they drank it by firelight alone. When they finished it he put his arm around her. Presently, deciding she ought to be sociable, she dropped her head on his shoulder, but when he touched her hair with his finger she got up. “I’ve got to take these things out.”

“I’ll put the table away for you.”

“Then all right, and when you get done with that, if you want the bath, it’s right beyond you, and that’s the door over there. As for the cook, as soon as she gets the dishes out of sight, she’s going to put on a warmer dress.”

What with the rain, and the general clammy feel of the night, the little print dress was becoming more and more uncomfortable, despite its pleasing appearance. She went to the bedroom, slipped out of it, and hung it up in the closet. But when she reached for her dark blue woolen dress, she heard something and turned around. He was standing in the door, a foolish grin on his face. “Thought you might need a little help.”

“I don’t need help, and I didn’t ask you in here.”

She spoke sharply, for her resentment at this invasion of her privacy was quick and real. But as she spoke, her elbow touched the closet door, and it swung open, revealing her. He caught his breath and whispered “Jesus.” Then he seemed bewildered, and stood looking at her and yet not looking at her.

Badly annoyed, she took the woolen dress off its hanger and slipped it over her head. Before she could close the snaps, however, she felt his arms around her, heard him mumbling penitently in her ear. “I’m sorry, Mildred. I’m sorry as hell. But it didn’t break like I figured it would. I swear to God, I came in here for nothing but to pull those apron strings. It was just a gag, that’s all. Hell, you know I wouldn’t pull any cheap tricks like that on you, don’t you?” And as though to prove his contempt for all cheap tricks, he reached over and turned out the light.

Well, was she angry at him or not? In spite of the way in which she had followed all instructions, and the way he had justified all predictions, she still didn’t know what she wanted to do about Wally. But as she twisted her head to keep her mouth from meeting his, it flitted through her mind that if she didn’t have to open the Scotch, she might be able to get six dollars for it somewhere.

Along about midnight, Wally lit a cigarette. Feeling warm, Mildred kicked the covers off and let the cold damp air prickle her quite lovely nakedness. She raised one leg, looked at it judiciously, decided once and for all it was not bowed, and that she was going to stop worrying about it. Then she wiggled her toes. It was a distinctly frivolous operation, but there was nothing frivolous about Wally as he set an ashtray near him, and pulled the covers over his more or less lovely nakedness. He was silently, almost ostentatiously glum as he lay there and smoked, so much so that Mildred said: “Penny.”

“I’m thinking about Bert.”

Without hearing any more about it, she knew what this meant: Wally had had his fun, and now he was getting ready to get out from under. She waited a moment or two, as she often did when angered, but in spite of her effort to sound casual, her voice had a vibrant sound to it. “And what about Bert?”

“Oh — you know.”

“If Bert left me, and he’s out of my life, why do you have to do all this thinking about him, when nobody else is?”

“We’re good friends. Goddam good friends.”

“But not so goddam good that you wouldn’t block him off from a job he was entitled to have, and then go around playing all the politics you knew how, to get it for yourself.”