Mildred Pierce (13 page)

Mildred gladly promised all these things, but later, when Veda was in bed and she herself was undressing, she wondered how long she could keep up the pretence, and whether she could get another job before her bluff was called. And then a hot, electric idea flashed through her mind. Why not have her own restaurant? She looked in the mirror, and saw a calculating, confident woman’s face squinting back at her.
Well, why not
? Her breath began to come just a little bit fast as she canvassed her qualifications. She could cook, she had such a gift for it as few
ever have. She was learning the business; in fact, so far as pies went, she was in business already. She was young, healthy, stronger than she looked. She had two children, all she wanted, all she could be expected to bring into the world, so there need be no more of that. She was implacably determined to get ahead, somehow. She put on her pyjamas, turned out the light, but kept walking around the room, in the dark. In spite of herself, the limousine, the chauffeur, and the grand piano began to gleam before her eyes, but as real this time, not imaginary. She started for bed, then hurried to the children’s room. ‘Veda?’

‘Yes, Mother. I’m awake.’

She went over, knelt down, put her arms around the child, hugged her passionately. ‘You were right, darling, and I was wrong. No matter what I say, no matter what anybody says, never give up that pride, that way you have of looking at things. I wish I had it, and – never give it up!’

‘I can’t help it, Mother. It’s how I feel.’

‘Something else happened tonight.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Nothing to tell. Only now I feel it, now I know it, that from now on things are going to get better for us. So we’ll have what we want. Maybe we won’t be rich, but – we’ll have something. And it’ll all be on account of you, if Mother only had sense enough to know it.’

‘Oh Mother, I love you. Truly I do.’

‘Say it again . . . Say it – just once – more.’

A
gain Mildred’s attitude toward the restaurant changed, from critical disapproval to eager curiosity. Mr Chris, while his cuisine might not excite her, had been in business many years, and it dawned on her now that his system was the ancient system that any restaurant must use, if it is to run at all. She began to study it hard, noting the bookkeeping, the marketing, the method of using up left-overs, particularly the tricks used by Archie, who did many things that annoyed her, but never used two motions where one would suffice, never wondered if a dish was done, but always knew, and at that moment picked it up. Some of his principles she adopted at once in making her pies, for she was addicted to a deal of peeping into the oven, and giving them one more minute, just to make sure. Now she put them in by the clock and took them out by the clock, and saved herself much fretting, and made better pies.

All the time her confidence was growing, her ideas clarifying as to the kind of place she meant to have. But one thing vexed her constantly. Where was she going to get the money? In the afternoons, if she had an hour, she drove to the restaurant supply houses on Main Street, in Los Angeles, and priced, calculated, and added up. As well as she could tell, she would need a thousand dollars’ worth of equipment before she could start, even in a small way. A range, icebox, steam table, and sink were going to cost at least half that, and furniture, dishes, silver, and linen would account for the rest. To save this money, at her present income, was going to take a long time, and there was
always the risk that she would lose her job, or that some shift in the pie situation would wipe her out completely, and leave her exactly where she was in the spring. She had to get started, but on whose money she didn’t know. She thought about Wally, and even about Mrs Gessler, but she doubted if they were good for such a sum, and some instinct told her not to ask them.

For a short time she flirted with the idea of getting it from Mr Otis, a retired butcher turned federal meat inspector, who was a regular customer, and always left her a quarter. She worked on his romantic nature to the point where he suggested meeting her outside, and then realised she should have her notes and memoranda in some kind of order if she was to impress him enough to make a deal. So one night, when Wally had reached the stage of yawns and a cigarette, she turned on the light and sat down at the desk. ‘Wally, want to help me with something?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘I have to have it soon. Tomorrow, maybe.’

‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know what you’d call it. An estimate of costs, something like that. For a man that may back me in business. But I want it all written down, with the right words for what I mean, so it looks businesslike.’

Wally, snapping his cigarette ashes into the fireplace, turned around and blinked. ‘What kind of business?’

‘Just a restaurant.’

‘Hey, wait a minute,
wait
a minute.’

He squashed his cigarette and came over to her. Then he pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘Start all over again. And at the beginning. Not in the middle.’

Haltingly, feeling suddenly self-conscious about it, she told him her plan: a small restaurant, where she would do the cooking herself, and sell nothing but chicken. ‘They have steak places. And fish places. And I thought – well, down where I work practically every other order is for chicken, so it looks to me as though I ought to have plenty of customers. And then I wouldn’t have to fool around with all those a la carte prices, or bookkeeping, or menus, or left-overs, or anything like that. Everybody gets a chicken-and-waffle dinner, or chicken and vegetables, if they
want, but all at the same price. And then I’ll have pies to take out, and keep on getting all the wholesale pie business that I can, and – well, it looks like one would help the other. I mean, the pies would help the restaurant and the restaurant would help the pies.’

‘And who is this guy?’

‘Just an old fogey that eats lunch with me every day. But I think he’s got money. And if I could show him it was a good investment, he might let me have what I need.’

Wally took several turns around the room, looking at her as he went. She was so accustomed to think of him as a fat blob that she occasionally forgot what a cold little eye he really had. Presently he asked: ‘You really think you can put that across?’

‘Well – don’t you?’

‘I’m asking
you
.’

‘It seems as though it ought to pay. I’ve worked it all out in my mind and I’m pretty
sure
I’ve thought of everything. I can certainly cook. And I’ve studied the business down there, every little thing I could think of. I mean, the system. And how to save money. That’s the main thing, Wally, about this idea of mine. What costs in a restaurant is waste, and the extras, like printing, for the menus, and the people you have to have, for every little feature you put in. But this way, there wouldn’t be any waste. All the left-overs would go into gravy and soup, and there wouldn’t be any printing, or extras of any kind. I certainly think I can put it across.’

‘Then if you can, I might be able to put you in on a deal. One that would start you off with a bang. A deal that would leave you sitting so pretty you wouldn’t even
need
a backer.’

‘Wally! If you don’t look out, I’ll cry.’

‘You do the crying later and listen to what I’m going to say to you. You know that model home we had? That dream house that Bert built, so we could take the prospects in there and show them what their place was going to look like if they spent twice as much dough as any of them had?’

‘Yes, of course.’ She had special, rather romantic reasons for remembering the model home.

‘OK. They got to get rid of it.’

‘Who?’

‘The receivers. For Pierce Homes, Inc. The outfit that pays me to be their attorney, and messenger boy, and thief, and anything else they can think of. They’ve got to get rid of it, and if you’ll take it over and put this chicken place in it, it’s yours. And believe me, Mildred, if that’s not a natural for a restaurant, I never saw one. Why, that place even smells like chicken. Right there under the trees, with the old colonial architecture that Bert spent all that dough on – is that a place to gnaw wishbone! Dump a little gravel on one side – free parking for everybody that comes in. That big reception room – perfect for the restaurant part. The model Pierce bedroom – there’s your pantry. The streamlined Pierce office – there’s your kitchen. Every stick in the place complies with the fire law and the health law, even to the toilets, and there’s two of them, not just one. If you really mean this, I can get it for you for four thousand bucks, house, lot, and every improvement that’s on it.’

‘Wally, now I
am
going to cry.’

‘Was I asking if you had four thousand bucks? I know what you’ve got and what you haven’t got, and I’m telling you, if you want it, it’s yours.’

He leaned down close, looked melodramatically around, as though to make sure nobody could hear. Then, in a low voice, ‘They’ve got to establish losses.’

‘Who?’

‘The receivers! On their federal income tax, the return due next March, for the year 1931, they’ve got to show losses. If they don’t, they’re sunk. That’s why it’s yours, for four thousand bucks.’

‘Wally, I’d still have to have money!’

‘Who says you would? That’s the beauty of it. Once you take title to a piece of property around this town, that’s all they want to know – you can get all the credit you want, more than you can use. You think those supply houses aren’t feeling this Depression too? They can’t give the stuff away, and all they ask is: Do you own property, or not? They’ll deliver anything you
want, and connect it up for you, too. You need a little cash, two, three hundred dollars, maybe. I can take care of that. All you’ve got to do is take over that property and get going, quick.’

For the first time in her life, Mildred felt the quick, hot excitement of a conspiratorial deal. She comprehended the credit aspect of it, once Wally explained it, and she didn’t need to be told how perfect the place was for her purposes. In her mind’s eye she could already see the neon sign, a neat blue one, without red or green in it:

But it all seemed too good to be true, and when she asked eager questions about it, Wally explained: ‘There’s no catch to it. They’re in one hell of a hole. On those other properties, even if they did get rid of one, the federal rulings leave them worse off than they were before. I mean, when we didn’t build the houses, even if we had to recapture when the buyer defaulted, there’s no way we can show losses. But on this, there’s the twenty-five hundred the corporation paid Bert for the lot, that not even a government auditor can question. And there’s the eleven thousand five hundred that Bert spent on the house, and the corporation’s money, not his. Fourteen grand altogether, and if we let you have it for four, there’s a loss of ten thousand dollars that just about takes care of every little thing for 1931, and then some.’

‘But why
me
?’

‘Why not? Who else wants it? Nobody can live in that dump, you know. All Bert was building was a real estate office, but for some reason nobody seems to want a real estate office right now. It’s got to be somebody that can use it for something else, and that means you.’

‘I know, but before I get too excited about it, you’d better make sure. Because if they’re just giving it away, it looks as though there’d be somebody, on the inside—’

‘Oh – I see what you mean. As a matter of fact, a couple of them did have that bright idea. I put my foot down. They were
original incorporators, and I’ve dealt with the government enough to know that if some fast stuff like that was pulled, we’d all land in jail. On a thing like this, it’s got to be bona fide, and that’s where
you
come in. If the government agent don’t like it, he can go up and see your place, and eat the chicken, and satisfy himself you’re using it for the purposes you said you were going to use it for. And then he can take a look at our files and see that we took the best offer we could get. It’ll be on the up-and-up. You’re no insider. You’re no original incorporator. You’re—’

He broke off, sat down, and began cursing, first softly, then with rising vehemence. Sensing something wrong, she asked: ‘What is it, Wally?’

‘Bert.’

‘What’s he got to do with it?’

‘Original incorporator.’

‘Well?’

‘He’s an original incorporator, and you’re married to him, and there goes your restaurant, and the prettiest deal I’ve had a chance to put across since Pierce Homes folded.’

It was ten minutes before Mildred could get through her head the ramifications of community property, and the fact that Bert, by merely being married to her, would be co-owner of the restaurant, and therefore subject to a ruling. Then she argued about it, indignantly and passionately, but she could see by Wally’s face that the point was serious. He left presently, saying he would talk to his colleagues and look up the law, and she went to bed frantic lest this, her first big chance, would be lost on a legal technicality. She had a recurrence of her bitter fury against Bert, and the way he seemed to thwart her at every turn. Next night Wally was back, looking more cheerful. ‘Well, it’s OK, but you’ll have to get a divorce.’

‘Is that the only way?’

‘Well? Bert left you, didn’t he?’