Mildred Pierce (19 page)

While all of Veda’s delicately shaded accents were soaking in, the sound of the hose stopped. When Mildred went to look, Mr Murock was carrying flowers in the front door, to place them on the wire racks, and his assistants were carrying in chairs.

‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, even though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.’

It wasn’t the words, it was the voice, that crumpled Mildred as though something had struck her. Sitting there in the bedroom with Bert and Veda, the door open so they could hear, she had expected something different, something warm, something soothing, particularly after Dr Aldous’s remarks of last night. And then this flat, far-away whine, with a dreadful note of cold finality in it, began intoning the service. Not naturally religious, she bowed her head as if from some ancient instinct, began shuddering from the oppression that closed over her. Then Veda said something. Somewhere she had dug up a prayer book, and it was a moment before Mildred realised she was reading responses: ‘“For they shall see God . . . Henceforth, world without end . . . And let our cry come unto thee . . .”’ To the critical ear, Veda’s enunciation might have seemed a bit too loud, a shade too clear, as though intended for the company in the living-room, rather than God. But to Mildred, it was the purest of childish trebles, and once more the heat lightnings began to flicker within her, and once more she fought them down. After a long time, when she thought she would scream if she didn’t get some relief from her woe, the far-away voice stopped, and Mr Murock appeared at the door. She wondered if she could walk to the kerb. But Bert took her arm and Veda her hand, and she went slowly through the living-room. Quite a few people were there, half-remembered faces from her youth, grotesquely marked by time.

‘Jesus saith to his disciples, Ye now therefore have sorrow.’

It was the same cold, far-away voice, and looking across the open grave, with the casket over it, Mildred saw it indeed came from Dr Aldous, though he looked old and frail in his white robes. In a moment, however, he dropped his voice, adopted a softer, more sympathetic tone, and as she caught the familiar words, ‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want’, Mildred knew that the moment had come for the special prayers made
necessary by Mom’s stipulations, and for intimate solace. They murmured on, and her lips began to twitch as she realised they were mainly for her benefit, to ease her pain. They only made her feel worse. Then, after an interminable time, she heard:

‘O God, whose mercies cannot be numbered; accept our prayers on behalf of the soul of Moire, thy servant departed, and grant her an entrance into the land of light and joy, in the fellowship of the Saints; through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.’

And as the child sank down, on Mr Murock’s patent pulleys, Mildred realised, with bitter shame, that now for the first time, in death, it heard itself correctly addressed, that it had lived its brief life without even knowing its name.

The worst came that evening, when she was left alone, with nobody to console, nobody to be brave in front of, nobody to face but herself. The Pierces left in the afternoon, taking Bert with them, and the Engels shortly after, taking her mother, so as to reach San Diego before dark. Then, after an early supper, she had Letty take Veda to a moving picture show. Then she found herself in a house from which all flowers, all chairs, all wire racks had been removed, which was exactly as it had been before. Desolation swept over her. She tramped around, then changed into her smock and began making pies. Around eleven she drove to the theatre, took Letty home, and held tight to Veda’s hand on the way back to the house. Veda had a glass of milk, and talked gaily about the picture. It was called ‘The Yellow Ticket’, and Mildred winced at the circumstantial account of how Miss Elissa Landi had pulled out the gun and shot Mr Lionel Barrymore in the stomach. When Veda went to bed, Mildred helped her undress, and couldn’t bring herself to leave. Then: ‘Would you like to sleep with me tonight, darling?’

‘But Mother, of
course
!’

Mildred was pretending to herself that she was doing Veda a kindness, but Veda wasn’t one to let such a spot go to somebody else. She immediately began to
give
comfort, in large, clearly
articulated, perfectly grammatical gobs. ‘Why you poor, dear Mother! You
lamb
. Think of all she’s been through today, and the beautiful way she’s looked after everybody, without giving one thought to herself ! Why of
course
I’ll sleep with you, Mother! You poor darling!’

To Mildred it was fragrant, soothing oil in a gaping wound. They went to her bedroom, and she undressed, and got into bed, and took Veda into her arms. For a few minutes she breathed tremulous, teary sighs. But when Veda nestled her head down, and blew into her pyjamas, the way she used to blow into Ray’s, the heat lightnings flickered once, then drove into her sorrow with a blinding flash. There came torrential, shaking sobs, as at last she gave way to this thing she had been fighting off: a guilty, leaping joy that it had been the other child who was taken from her, and not Veda.

O
nly an act of high consecration could atone for this, and some time during the night Mildred knew what it would be, and so knowing, found peace. She may have found a little more than peace. There was something unnatural, a little unhealthy, about the way she inhaled Veda’s smell as she dedicated the rest of her life to this child who had been spared, as she resolved that the restaurant must open today, as advertised, and that it must not fail. She was up at daybreak carrying out this resolution, setting out pie plates, flour, utensils, cans of supplies, all sorts of things, for removal to the model home. There was a great deal of stuff, and she packed it carefully into the car, but it required several trips. On the last one, she found her staff waiting for her: a waitress named Arline and a Filipino, to do double service as dish washer and vegetable peeler, named Pancho. Both had been engaged the previous week, on the recommendations of Ida. Arline, a small, half pretty girl of twenty-five, hadn’t looked very promising, but Ida had recommended her highly. Pancho, it seemed, was addicted to flashy clothes, and had thus incurred the enmity of Archie, but once he was in his kitchen regimentals he was absolutely all right.

Mildred noted Pancho’s cream-coloured suit, but wasted no time on it. She handed out uniforms and put them both to work. They were to give the place a thorough cleaning, and as soon as the front room was done, they were to hang the percale drapes that lay in a pile on the floor. She showed how the fixtures worked, and on Pancho’s assurance that he was a virtuoso with
the screwdriver, she drove back to the house, picked up her pies, and made the rounds of delivery.

When she got back she caught her breath at what she saw. Pancho had indeed made a fine job of the drapes: the fixtures were all up and he was hanging the last of them. Arline had put the tables around, so that what had been a dreary pile of wood, metal, and cloth in one corner was now a restaurant, warm, clean, and inviting. Mildred still had many things to do, but when the laundry service delivered her napkins and doilies, she couldn’t resist setting a table to see how it looked. To her, it was beautiful. The red-and-white check of the linen combined pleasantly with the maple, and with Arline’s brick-red uniform, just as she had hoped it would. For a few minutes she lingered, drinking in the picture with her eyes. Then, after pointing out what was to be done in the kitchen, she got in the car again, to resume her errands.

At the bank, she drew 30 dollars, filling out the stub quickly, and trying not to think of the 7 she had to write, under ‘Balance Forward’. She asked for 10 dollars in change, against the requirements of the evening, dropped the rolls of coin into her handbag, and went on. At the ranch where her chickens were on order, she found twenty-six waiting for her, instead of the stipulated twenty. Mr Gurney, the rancher, was quite voluble about it, saying them birds was in such prime condition he hated to see anybody else get them. Just the same, she was annoyed. He did raise fine chickens, honestly corn-fed, not milk-fed, and fine chickens she had to have. And yet she couldn’t have him overselling her like this. After fingering them for a time, she rejected two because they weren’t properly picked and took the rest, paying eight dollars, the price being three for a dollar. Loading them into the car, she went to the U-Bet market, for vegetables, eggs, bacon, butter, and groceries. She spent 11 dollars, almost having to dig into her reserve of coin.

Back at the restaurant, she inspected the kitchen, found it fairly satisfactory. Arline had mopped the floor, and Pancho had washed the new dishes without breaking any. Letty arrived, and Mildred had her make lunch for Arline and Pancho, then settled
down to what she really liked, which was cooking. She got out the chickens, went over them carefully for pinfeathers, found Mr Gurney’s picking a great deal better than most market picking. Then she took a small cleaver and sectioned them up. She was going to serve half a fried chicken, with vegetables or waffle, for 85c, but she hated the half chicken that was served in most places. It came on the table in one loathsome piece, and she wondered how people could possibly eat it. She was going to do it differently. First, she cut off the necks, then cut the chickens in half. Then she took off the wings and the legs. The legs she separated into second joints and drumsticks, and then she trimmed the breasts so there was only a sliver of breastbone backing them, without any wishbone or rib. Then, remembering Archie’s system for such things, she packed breasts, drumsticks, second joints, and wings into four different dishes, and placed them in the icebox so she could pick up a portion with one motion. The necks and bone she pitched into a pot, for soup. The giblets she cut up and put in a pan, for gravy. She started her other soup, the cream of tomato, and put Pancho to preparing vegetables.

Around four, Wally came in, to inspect the alterations, and report. His main activity, since she had seen him, had been to send out the announcements, and for this he had drafted his secretary. She had utilised all the old Pierce Home lists, so that every person who had bought a home, or had even thought of buying a home, had been covered. Mildred listened, pleased that all this had been so well attended to, but he kept hanging around, and she wished he would go, so she could work. Then she noticed him looking at the showcase. This was the most expensive piece of furniture she had, and the only one that had been made to order. The base and back were of maple, but the sides, top, and shelves were of glass. It was to display the pies she hoped to sell to the ‘takeout’ trade, and presently, looking rather self-conscious, Wally asked, ‘Well, how did you like that little surprise I fixed up for you?’

‘—? What surprise?’

‘Didn’t you see it?’

‘I haven’t seen anything.’

‘Hey – you go back to the kitchen, then, and wait, and believe me pretty soon you’re going to see something.’

Mystified, she went to the kitchen, and still more mystified, saw Wally appear there in a moment or two, find her pies, and carry two into the restaurant, then two more, then two more. Then she could see him arranging the pies in the showcase. Then she could see him fumbling with something against the wall. Then suddenly the showcase lighted up, and she gave a little cry, and went running out. Wally beamed. ‘Well, how do you like it?’

‘Why, Wally, it’s
beautiful
!’

‘Something I did for you while – well, the last few days. I slipped in here at night and worked on it.’ He proudly pointed out the tiny reflectors that screwed into the maple, almost invisibly, to shoot the light downward, on the pies; the bulbs, no bigger than her finger; the wiring, cunningly tacked to the back in such manner as to leave the panels free to slide. ‘You know how much that little job cost?’

‘I haven’t any idea.’

‘Well, let’s see now, the reflectors, they were seven cents apiece, six of them, that’s forty-two cents. The lights, a nickel apiece – say, they’re Christmas-tree bulbs, can you beat that? Thirty cents for them, that’s seventy-two cents. The wire, ten cents. The sockets, screws, and plug, maybe a dollar. Say altogether, a couple of bucks. How’s that?’

‘I just can’t believe it.’

‘Took me maybe an hour. But it ought to sell pies.’

‘And get a free dinner.’

‘Oh, never mind that.’

‘A free dinner, and second helpings.’

But the clock was ticking inexorably on, and she hurried back to work as soon as he left, though in a pleasant glow now, feeling that everybody was trying to help her. The vegetables, started before Wally came, were now ready, and they took them up. She put them in their pots and turned the hot water into the steam table. She made waffle batter, laid beside it the dipper that held
exactly one waffle. She made pie-crust, for biscuits. Her ice cream arrived: chocolate, strawberry, and vanilla. She had Pancho set all three freezers on a bench, where they could be easily reached, and showed Arline how to dip it up, reminding her she would be responsible for desserts as well as starters. She made salad, started the coffee.

At five-thirty she went to the ladies’ room to change for the evening. She had given considerable thought to what she would wear. She had decided on white, but not the sleazy white of the nurse uniforms then becoming so common. She went to Bullocks, and bought sharkskin dresses, of a shade just off white, white with a tint of cream in it, and had little Dutch caps made to go with them. Always vain of her legs, she had the dresses shortened a little. Now, she hurriedly got into one, put on her Tip-Top shoes, stuck on the little cap. As she hurried out carrying the apron she would wear in the kitchen, and slip off when she came out to greet the customers, she looked like the cook in a musical comedy.