Mildred Pierce (23 page)

So Veda bawled, and she was still bawling when they got in the car and started home. Mildred kept patting her hand, and gave up all thought of a little light twitting on the subject of ‘Sir’. Then, in explosive jerks, Veda started to talk. ‘Oh, Mother – I was so afraid – he wouldn’t take me. And then – he
wanted
me. He said I had something – in my head. Mother – in my
head
!’

Then Mildred knew that an awakening had taken place in Veda, that it wasn’t in the least phony, and that what had awakened was precisely what she herself had mutely believed in all these years. It was as though the Star of Bethlehem had suddenly appeared in front of her.

So Monty was vindicated, but when Mildred snuggled up to him one night in the den, and wanted to talk about it, the result left a great deal to be desired. He lit a cigarette and rehearsed his reasons for thinking Veda ‘had it’; they were excellent reasons, all in praise of Veda, but somehow they didn’t hit the spot. When she tried to break through his habit of treating everything with offhand impersonality, saying wasn’t it wonderful, and how did he ever think up something like that, he seemed uncomfortable at her kittenishness, and rather curtly brushed her off. To hell with it, he said. He had done nothing that anybody couldn’t have done that knew the child, so why give him any credit? Then, as though bored with the whole subject, he began stripping off her stockings.

But there was a great hunger in Mildred’s heart: she had to
share
this miracle with somebody, and when she had stood it as long as she could she sent for Bert. He came the next afternoon,
to the restaurant, when the place was deserted and she had him to herself. She had Arline serve lunch and told him about it. He had already heard a little, from Mom, who had got a brief version from Veda, but now he got it all, in complete detail. Mildred told about the studio, the Rachmaninoff prelude, the sight-reading, the accompaniment to the violin selection. He listened gravely, except for the laugh he let out over the ‘Sir’ episode. When Mildred had finished he thought a long time. Then, solemnly, he announced: ‘She’s some kid. She’s some kid.’

Mildred sighed happily. This was the kind of talk she wanted, at last. He went on, then, flatteringly reminding her that she had always said Veda was ‘artistic’, gallantly conceding that he himself had had his doubts. Not that he didn’t appreciate Veda, he added hastily, hell no. It was only that he didn’t know of any music on Mildred’s side or his, and he always understood this kind of thing ran in families. Well, it just went to show how any of us can be wrong, and goddam it, he was glad it had turned out this way.
Goddam
it he was. Then, having polished off the past, he looked at the future. The fingers, he assured Mildred, were nothing to worry about. Because, suppose she didn’t become a great pianist? From all he had heard, that market was shot anyhow. But if it was like this guy said, and she had talent in her head, and began to write music, that was where the real dough was, and it didn’t make a bit of difference whether you could play the piano or not. Because, he said dramatically, look at Irving Berlin. He had it straight that the guy couldn’t play a note, but with a million bucks in the bank and more coming in every day,
he
should worry whether he could tickle the keys or not. Oh no, Mildred needn’t worry about Veda now. The way it looked to
him
, the kid was all set, and before very long she’d be pulling off something big.

Having Veda turn into Irving Berlin, with or without a million bucks in the bank, wasn’t exactly what Mildred had in mind for her. In her imaginations she could see Veda already, wearing a pale green dress to set off her coppery hair, seated at a big piano before a thousand people, grandly crossing her right hand over her left, haughtily bowing to thunderous applause – but no
matter. The spirit was what counted. Bert spun her dreams for her, while she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, and Arline poured him more coffee, from a percolator, the way he liked it. It was the middle of the afternoon before Mildred returned to earth, and said suddenly: ‘Bert, can I ask a favour?’

‘Anything, Mildred.’

‘It’s not why I asked you here. I just wanted to tell you about it. I knew you’d want to hear.’

‘I know why you asked me. Now what is it?’

‘I want that piano, at Mom’s.’

‘Nothing to it. They’ll be only too glad—’

‘No, wait a minute. I don’t want it as a gift, nothing like that at all. I just want to borrow it until I can get Veda a piano that—’

‘It’s all right. They’ll—’

‘No, but wait a minute. I’m going to get her a piano. But the kind of piano that she ought to have, I mean a real grand, costs eleven hundred dollars. And they’ll give me terms, but I just don’t dare take on any more debt. What I’m going to do, I’m going to open a special account, down at the bank, and keep putting in, and I know by next Christmas, I mean a year from now, I can manage it. But just now—’

‘I only wish I could contribute a little.’

‘Nobody’s asking you to.’

Quickly she put her hand over his and patted it. ‘You’ve done plenty. Maybe you’ve forgotten how you gave me the house outright, and everything that went before, but I haven’t. You’ve done your share. Now it’s my turn. I don’t mind about that, but I do want them to know, Mom and Mr Pierce I mean, that I’m not trying to
get
anything from them. I just want to borrow the piano, so Veda can practise at home, and—?’

‘Mildred.’

‘Yes?’

‘Will you just kindly shut up?’

‘All right.’

‘Everything’s under control. Just leave it to me.’

So presently the piano was carted down, and on January 2nd,
Mildred went to the bank and deposited 21 dollars, after multiplying carefully, and making sure that 21 dollars a week, at the end of a year, would almost exactly equal 1,100 dollars.

Mildred was in such a panic over the bank holiday, as well as the other alarums that attended Mr Roosevelt’s inauguration, that she paid scant attention to anything except her immediate concerns. But when her apprehension slacked off, she began to notice that Monty seemed moody and abstracted, with little of the flippancy that was normally part of him. Then, in a speakeasy one night, the sharp way he glanced at the check told her he didn’t have much money with him. Then another night, when he revoked an order for a drink he obviously wanted, she knew he was hard up. But it was Veda who let the cat out of the bag. Walking home from the restaurant one night, she suddenly asked Mildred: ‘Heard the news?’

‘What news, darling?’

‘The House of Beragon is ge-finished. It is ffft, fa-down-go-boom, oop-a-doop-whango. Alas, it is no more. Pop goes the weasel.’

‘I’ve been suspecting something like that.’

Mildred said this quickly, to cover the fact that she actually had been told nothing at all, and for the rest of the walk home was depressed by the realisation that Monty had suffered some sort of fantastic reverses without saying a word to her. But soon curiosity got the better of her. She lit a fire in the den, had Veda sit down, and asked for more details. ‘Well, Mother, I really don’t know a great deal about it, except that it’s all over Pasadena, and you hardly hear anything else. They had some stock, the Duenna, that’s his mother, and the Infanta, that’s his sister. Stock in a bank, somewhere in the East. And it was assessable, whatever that means. So when the bank didn’t open it was most unfortunate. What
is
assessable?’

‘I heard some talk about it, when the banks were closed. I think it means that if there’s not enough money to pay the depositors, then the stockholders have to make it good.’

‘
That’s
it. That explains about their assets being impounded, and why they’ve gone to Philadelphia, the Duenna and the
Infanta, so papers can’t be served on them. And of course when Beragon Brothers, dear old Beragon Brothers, founded in 1893 – when they went bust, that didn’t help any, either.’

‘When did that happen?’

‘Three or four months ago. Their growers, the farmers that raised the fruit, all signed up with the Exchange, and
that
was what cooked Monty’s goose. He didn’t have any bank stock. His money was in the fruit company, but when that folded his mother kicked in. Then when the bank went under she had nothing to kick. Anyway there’s a big sign on the lawn, “For Sale, Owner Must Sacrifice”, and Monty’s showing the prospective buyers around.’

‘You mean their
house
?’

‘I mean their palatial residence on Orange Grove Avenue, with the iron dogs out front and the peacock out behind – but a buyer had better show up pretty soon, or Monty’ll be eating the peacock. It certainly looks as though the old buzzard will have to go to work.’

Mildred didn’t know whether she was more shocked at the tale she heard or Veda’s complete callousness about it. But one thing was clear: Monty wanted no sympathy from her, so for a time she ate with him, drank with him, and slept with him under the pretence that she knew nothing whatever. But presently the thing became so public, what with pieces in the paper about the sale of his polo ponies, the disappearance of the Cord in favour of a battered little Chevrolet, and one thing and another, that he did begin to talk about it. But he always acted as though this were some casual thing that would be settled shortly, a nuisance while it lasted, but of no real importance. Never once did he let Mildred come close to him in connection with it, pat him on the head, tell him it didn’t really matter, do any of the things that in her scheme of life a woman was expected to do under these circumstances. She felt sorry for him, terribly upset about him. And yet she also felt snubbed and rebuffed. And she could never shake off the feeling that if he accepted her as his social equal he would act differently about it.

And then one night she came home to find him with Veda, waiting for her. They were in the den, having a furious argument
about polo, which continued after she sat down. It seemed that a new team had been organised, called the Ramblers; that its first game would be at San Diego, and that Monty had been invited to make the trip. Veda, an expert on such matters, was urging him to go. ‘There’d better be
one
eight-goal man with that outfit, or they can stop calling it The Ramblers and call it Mussolini Reviewing the Cavalry, because that’s what it’s going to be all right. Just a one-way parade of horses, and they won’t wake up until the score is about forty to nothing.’

‘I’ve got too much to do.’

‘Such as what?’

‘This and that.’

‘Nothing whatever, if I’m any good at guessing. Monty, you’ve got to go with them. If you don’t, they’re sunk. It’ll be embarrassing. And they’ll simply ruin your horses. After all,
they’ve
got some rights.’

Polo was a complete mystery to Mildred. How Monty could sell his ponies and still be riding them she couldn’t understand, and chiefly she couldn’t understand
why
he was riding them, or anybody was. And yet it tore her heart that he should want to go, and not be able to, and it kept bothering her long after Veda had gone to bed. When he got up to go she pulled him down beside her, and asked: ‘Do you need money?’

‘Oh Lord no!’

His voice, look, and gesture were those of a man pained beyond expression at an insinuation utterly grotesque. But Mildred, nearly two years in the restaurant business, was not fooled. She said: ‘I think you do.’

‘Mildred – you leave me without any idea – what to say to you. I’ve – run into a little bad luck – that’s true. My mother has we all have. But – it’s nothing that involves – small amounts. I can still – hold up my end of it – if that’s what you’re talking about.’

‘I want you to play in that game.’

‘I’m not interested.’

‘Wait a minute.’

She found her handbag, took out a crisp 20-dollar bill. Going over to him she slipped it in the breast pocket of his coat. He
took it out, with an annoyed grimace, and pitched it back at her. It fell on the floor. She picked it up and dropped it in his lap. With the same annoyed grimace, very much annoyed this time, he picked it up, started to pitch it back at her again, then hesitated, and sat there snapping it between his fingers, so it made little pistol shots. Then, without looking at her: ‘Well – I’ll pay it back.’

‘That’s all right.’

‘I don’t know when – two or three things have to be straightened out first – but it won’t be very long. So – if it’s understood to be distinctly a loan—’

‘Any way you want.’

That week, with the warm June weather, her business took a sharp drop. For the first time, she had to skip an instalment on Veda’s piano.

The next week when he changed his mind about going to a speakeasy that he liked, she slipped 10 dollars into his pocket, and they went. Before she knew it, she was slipping him 10 dollars and 20 dollars regularly, either when she remembered about it, or he stammeringly asked her if he could tap her for another small loan. Her business continued light, and when the summer had gone, she had managed to make only three deposits on the piano, despite hard scrimping. She was appalled at the amount of money he cost, and fought off a rising irritation about it. She told herself it wasn’t his fault, that he was merely going through what thousands of others had already gone through, were still going through. She told herself it was her duty to be helping somebody, and that it might as well be somebody that meant something to her. She also reminded herself she had practically forced the arrangement on him. It was no use. The piano had become an obsession with her by now, and the possibility that it was slipping away from her caused a baffled, frustrated sensation that almost smothered her.