Mildred Pierce (6 page)

‘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.’

‘Mildred, cussing’s no good, coming from you.’

‘And double-crossing’s no good, coming from anybody.’

‘I don’t like that.’

‘I don’t care whether you like it or not.’

‘They needed a lawyer.’

‘After you talked to them they did. Oh yes, at least a dozen people came to Bert, and warned him what you were doing, and begged him to go down and put his claim in, and he wouldn’t do it, because he didn’t think it was proper. And then he found out what was proper. And what a pal you were.’

Mildred, I give you my word—’

‘And what’s that worth?’

She jumped out of bed and began marching around the dark room, bitterly reviewing the history of Pierce Homes, Inc., the incidents of the crash, and the procedure of the receivers. He started a slow, solemn denial. ‘Why don’t you tell the truth? You’ve had all you wanted of me, haven’t you? A drink, a dinner, and other things I’d prefer not to mention. And now you want to duck, and you start talking about Bert. Funny you didn’t think about Bert when you came in here, wanting to pull those apron strings. You remember them, don’t you?’

‘I didn’t hear you saying no.’

‘No, I was the sap.’

She drew breath to say he was just like the rest of them, and then add Mrs Gessler’s phrase, ‘the dirty bastards’, but somehow the words didn’t come. There was some core of honesty within her that couldn’t quite accept Mrs Gessler’s interpretations of life, however they might amuse her at the moment. She didn’t really believe they were dirty bastards, and she had set a trap for Wally. If he was wriggling out of it the best way he could, there was no sense in blaming him for things that were rapidly becoming too much for her, but that he certainly had nothing to do with. She sat down beside him. ‘I’m sorry, Wally.’

‘Hell, that’s all right.’

‘I’ve been a little upset lately.’

‘Who wouldn’t be?’

Next morning, Mildred was glumly washing the dinner dishes when Mrs Gessler dropped over, to give an account of the party. She rather pointedly didn’t refer to Wally until she was leaving, and then, as though she had just thought of it, asked how he was. Mildred said he was all right, and listened while Mrs Gessler added a few more details about the party, and then said abruptly: ‘Lucy.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m on the town.’

‘Well – you don’t mean he actually left the money on the bureau, do you?’

‘All but.’

Mrs Gessler sat on the corner of the table, looking at Mildred. There didn’t seem to be much to say. It had all seemed so pat, so simple, and amusing yesterday, but neither of them had allowed for prophecies that merely half came true, or for dirty bastards that were goddam liars, but not quite such clucks as they should have been. A wave of helpless rage set over Mildred. She picked up the empty wine bottle, heaved it into the pantry, laughed wildly as it smashed into a hundred pieces.

F
rom then on, Mildred knew she had to get a job. There came another little flurry of orders for cakes and pies, and she filled them, but all the time she was thinking, in a sick, frightened kind of way, or trying to think, of something she could do, some work she could get, so she could have an income, and not be put out of the house on July 1st, when the interest would be due on the mortgages Bert had put on the house. She studied the help-wanted advertisements, but there were hardly any. Each day there would be notices for cooks, maids, and chauffeurs, but she skipped quickly by them. The big advertisements, headed ‘Opportunity’, ‘Salesmen Wanted’, and ‘Men, Women, Attention’, – these she passed over entirely. They savoured too much of Bert’s methods in getting rid of Pierce Homes. But occasionally something looked promising. One advertisement called for: ‘Woman, young, pleasing appearance and manners, for special work.’ She answered, and was excited a day or two later when she got a note, signed by a man, asking her to call at an address in the Los Feliz section of Hollywood. She put on the print dress, made her face up nicely, and went over there.

The man received her in sweat shirt and flannels, and said he was a writer. As to what he wrote, he was quite vague, though he said his researches were extensive, and called him to many different parts of the world, where, of course she would be expected to travel with him. He was equally vague about her duties: it appeared she would help him ‘collect material’, ‘file
documents’, and ‘verify citations’; also take charge of his house, get some order into it and check his bills, on which he feared he was being cheated. When he sat down near her, and announced he felt sure she was the person he was looking for, she became suspicious. She hadn’t said a word that indicated any qualifications for the job, if indeed a job existed, and she came to the conclusion that what he wanted wasn’t a research assistant, but a sweetie. She left, feeling sullen over her wasted afternoon and wasted bus fare. It was her first experience with the sexological advertiser, though she was to find out he was fairly common. Usually he was some phony calling himself a writer, an agent, or a talent scout, who had found out that for a dollar and a half ’s worth of newspaper space he could have a day-long procession of girls at his door, all desperate for work, all willing to do almost anything to get it.

She answered more ads, got repeated requests to call, and did call, until her shoes began to show the strain, and she had to take them constantly to the shoemaker’s, for heel-straightening and polishing. She began to feel a bitter resentment against Bert, for taking the car when she needed it so badly. Nothing came of the ad-answering. She would be too late, or not qualified, or disqualified, on account of the children, or unsuitable in one way and another. She made the rounds of the department stores, and became dismally familiar with the crowd of silent people in the hallway outside the personnel offices, and the tense, desperate jockeying for position when the doors opened at ten o’clock. At only one store was she permitted to fill out a card. This was at Corasi Bros, a big place in downtown Los Angeles that specialised in household furnishings. She was first through the door here, and quickly sat down at one of the little glass-topped tables reserved for interviews. But the head of the department, addressed by everybody as Mrs Boole, kept passing her by, and she grew furious at this injustice. Mrs Boole was rather goodlooking, and seemed to know most of the applicants by name. Mildred was so resentful that they should be dealt with ahead of her that she suddenly gathered up her gloves and started to flounce out, without being interviewed at all. But Mrs Boole held up a finger, smiled, and came over. ‘Don’t go. I’m sorry to
keep you waiting, but most of these people are old friends, and it seems a pity not to let them know at once, so they can call at the other stores, and perhaps have a little luck. That’s why I always talk to new applicants last, when I really have a little time.’

Mildred sat down again, ashamed of her petulant dash for the door. When Mrs Boole finally came over, she began to talk, and instead of answering questions in a tight-lipped defensive way, as she had at other places, opened up a little. She alluded briefly to the break-up of her marriage, stressed her familiarity with all things having to do with kitchens, and said she was sure she could be useful in that department, as saleswoman, demonstrator, or both. Mrs Boole measured her narrowly at that, then led her into an account of what she had been doing about getting a job. Mildred held nothing back, and after Mrs Boole had cackled gaily at the story of Harry Engel and his anchors, she felt warm tears swimming into her eyes, for she felt if she didn’t have a job, at least she had a friend. It was then that Mrs Boole had her fill out the card. ‘There’s nothing open right now, but I’ll remember what you said about the kitchenware, and if anything comes up, at least I’ll know where to get hold of you.’

Mildred left in such a pleasant glow that she forgot to be disappointed, and she was halfway down the hall before she realised her name was being called. Mrs Boole was standing in the hallway, the card still in her hand, and came toward her nervously. She took Mildred’s hand, held it a moment or two while she looked down at the street, many storeys below. Then: ‘Mrs Pierce, there’s something I’ve got to tell you.’

‘Yes?’

‘There aren’t any jobs.’

‘Well, I knew things were slack, but—’

‘Listen to me, Mrs Pierce. I wouldn’t say this to many of them, but you seem different from most of the applicants that come in here. I don’t want you to go home thinking there’s any hope. There isn’t. In this store, we’ve taken on just two people in the last three months – one to take the place of a gentleman who was killed in an automobile accident, the other to take the place of a lady who had to retire on account of ill health. We see
everybody that comes in, partly because we think we ought to, partly because we don’t want to close up the department altogether. There just aren’t any jobs, here or in the other stores either. I know I’m making you feel bad, but I don’t want you to be – kidded.’

Mildred patted her arm, and laughed. ‘Well my goodness, it’s not your fault. And I know exactly what you mean. You don’t want me to be wearing out shoes, for nothing.’

‘That’s it. The shoes.’

‘But if you
do
have something—’

‘Oh, if I have anything, don’t worry. I’ll be only too glad to let you know – by paid telegram. And, if you’re down this way again, will you drop in on me? We could have lunch.’

‘I’ll be only too glad to.’

Mrs Boole kissed her, and Mildred left, feeling footsore, hungry, and strangely happy. When she got home there was a notice hanging on the door, asking her to call for a paid telegram.

‘Mrs Pierce, it was like something in a movie. You had hardly stepped into the elevator, honestly. In fact I had you paged downstairs, hoping you hadn’t left the store.’

They sat down, in Mrs Boole’s private office this time, Mrs Boole behind her big desk, Mildred in the chair beside it. Mrs Boole went on: ‘I was watching you step into the down car, I was admiring your figure if you have to know why I was watching you, when this call came from the restaurant.’

‘You mean the store restaurant?’

‘Yes, the tea room on the roof. Of course, the store doesn’t have anything to do with that. It’s sublet, but the manager likes to take people from our lists, just the same. He feels it makes a better tie-up, and then of course we do quite a lot of sifting ourselves, before we place a name on file, and it puts him in touch with a better class of girls.’

‘And what is the job?’

Mildred’s mind was leaping wildly from cashier to hostess to dietician: she didn’t know what a dietician was, but felt she could fill the bill. Mrs Boole answered at once: ‘Oh, nothing very exciting. One of his waitresses got married, and he wants
somebody to take her place. Just a job – but those girls do very well for a four-hour day; they’re only busy at lunch, of course – and it would give you plenty of time with your own children, and home – and at least it’s a job.’

The idea of putting on a uniform, carrying a tray, and making her living from tips made Mildred positively ill. Her lips wanted to flutter, and she ran her tongue around inside them to keep them under control. ‘Why, thanks ever so much, Mrs Boole. I realise, of course, that it’s quite a nice opening – but I doubt if I’m really fitted for it.’

Mrs Boole suddenly got quite red, and began to talk as though she didn’t quite know what she was saying. ‘Well, I’m sorry, Mrs Pierce, if I got you down here about something that – perhaps you don’t feel you could accept. But I somehow got the idea that you wanted work—’

‘I do, Mrs Boole, but—’

‘But it’s perfectly all right, my dear—’

Mrs Boole was standing now, and Mildred was edging toward the door, her face feeling hot. Then she was in the elevator again, and when she got out on the street she hated herself, and felt that Mrs Boole must hate her, and despise her, and regard her as a fool.

Shortly after this, she registered with an employment agency. To decide which agency, she consulted the phone book, and decided on Alice Brooks Turner, mainly on account of the crisp succinctness of her advertisement:

Miss Turner, who had a small suite in one of the downtown office buildings, turned out to be a trim little person, not much
older than Mildred, and a little on the hard-boiled side. She smoked her cigarette in a long holder, with which she waved Mildred to a small desk, and without looking up, told her to fill out a card. Mildred, remembering to write neatly, furnished what seemed to her an absurd amount of information about herself, from her age, weight, height, and nationality, to her religion, education, and exact marital status. Most of these questions struck her as irrelevant, and some of them as impertinent. However, she answered them. When she came to the question: What type of work desired? – she hesitated. What type of work did she desire? Any work that would pay her something, but obviously she couldn’t say that. She wrote: Receptionist. As in the case of Dietician, she wasn’t quite sure what it meant, but it had caught her ear these last few weeks, and at least it had an authoritative sound to it.