Mildred Pierce (39 page)

The number was quite long, was in fact the longest number Mildred had ever heard, but when it was done the sound that swept over the vast amphitheatre was like thunder. Veda came out for bow after bow, and presently, after her dozenth or so reappearance, she came out followed by Mr Treviso, and without hat or any encumbrance, just a simple, friendly little girl, hoping to be liked. A gentleman with a flute stepped forward, carrying a
chair, and camped near Veda. When she saw him she went over and shook his hand. Then Mr Treviso took the orchestra briskly through the introduction of ‘Lo, Hear the Gentle Lark’, and there was a ripple of applause, for this was one of the things that Veda had made popular on the radio. When she got through there were cheers, and she began a whole series of her radio numbers: ‘Love’s Old Sweet Song’, Schubert’s ‘Ave Maria’, an arrangement of the ‘Blue Danube Waltz’ that permitted her to do vocal gingerbread while the orchestra played the tune, and a Waldteufel waltz Mr Treviso had dug up for her, called ‘Estudiantina’.

Many of these had been called for, with insistent shouting, by the audience, and toward the end, the orchestra sat back and listened while Mr Treviso accompanied her on the piano that had been pushed out during the intermission. Now Veda came out, and said: ‘Even if it’s not a song that’s supposed to be sung on a symphony programme, may I sing a song just because I want to sing it?’ As the audience broke into amiable applause, Monty looked at Mildred, and she sensed something coming. Then Mr Treviso played a short introduction, and Veda began the song about rainbows that had been Mildred’s favourite back in the happy days when she used to come home for her rest, and Veda would play the numbers she liked to hear.

It was all for her.

Veda began it, but when she finished it, or whether she finished it, Mildred never quite knew. Little quivers went through her, and they kept going through her the rest of the night, during the supper party, when Veda sat with the white scarf wound around her throat, during the brief half hour, while she undressed Veda, and put the costume away; in the dark, while she lay there alone, trying to sleep, not wanting to sleep.

This was the climax of Mildred’s life.

It was also the climax, or would have been if she hadn’t got it postponed, of a financial catastrophe that had been piling up on her since the night she so blithely agreed to take the house off Mrs Beragon’s hands for 30,000 dollars, and pay the tax lien on 3,100 dollars. She had expected, when she made that arrangement,
to do the major part of the financing through the Federal Homes Administration, about which she had heard. She received her first jolt when she paid a visit to this authority, and found it made no loans of more than 16,000 dollars. She had to have at least 20,000 dollars, and wanted 25,000 dollars. She received another jolt when she went to her bank. It was willing to lend her whatever she wanted, seemed to regard her as an excellent risk, but refused to lend anything at all until repairs were made to the property, particularly in the way of a new roof.

Up to then, she had known there would be outlays, but thought of them vaguely as ‘a couple of thousand to put the place in order, and a few thousand to furnish it’. After the bank’s report, however, she had to consider whether it wouldn’t be better to give the place a complete overhaul, so that she would have a property that somebody might conceivably want to buy, instead of a monstrosity. That was when Monty was called into consultation. She didn’t tell him about the financial problem, but she was delighted when he hit on the plan of restoring the house to what it had been before Beragon, Snr, put into effect his bizarre ideas for improvement. But while this satisfied the bank, and qualified her for a 25,000-dollar loan, it cost upwards of 5,000 dollars, and cleaned out her personal cash. For the furnishings, she had to sell bonds. When she married Monty he had to have a car, or she thought he had. This meant 1,200 dollars more. To get the money, and cover one or two other things that had come up by then, she dipped into the reserves of the corporation. She drew herself a cheque for 2,500 dollars and marked it ‘bonus’. But she didn’t use a cheque from the big cheque-book used by Miss Jaeckel, the lady she employed to keep the books. She used one of the blanks she always carried in her handbag, in case of emergency. She kept saying to herself that she must tell Miss Jaeckel about the cheque, but she didn’t do it. Then, in December of 1939, to take care of Christmas expenses, she gave herself another bonus of 2,500 dollars, so that by the first of the year there was a difference of 5,000 dollars between what Miss Jaeckel’s books showed and what the bank was actually carrying on deposit.

But these large outlays were only part of her difficulties. The
bank, to her surprise, insisted on amortisation of her loan as well as regular interest payments, so that to the 125 dollars a month in carrying charges were added 250 dollars in reduction charges, a great deal more than she had anticipated. Then Monty, when he sold her Kurt and Frieda at 150 dollars a month, put her to somewhat heavier expenses in the kitchen than she had expected. Then the endless guests, all of whom seemed to have the thirst of a caravan of camels, ran up the bill for household entertainment to an appalling figure. The result was that she was compelled to increase her salary from the corporation. Until then, she had allowed herself 75 dollars a week from each of the corporation’s four component parts: the Pie Wagon, the pie factory, the Beverly restaurant, and the Laguna restaurant, or 300 dollars a week in all. This was so grotesquely in excess of her living expenses that the money piled up on her account, and it was so much less than the corporation’s earnings that a nice little corporate reserve piled up too. But when she hiked it to 400 dollars, the reserve ceased growing, and in fact Miss Jaeckel, with stern face, several times notified her that it would be necessary to transfer money from Reserve, which was carried on a special account, to Current Cash, which was carried on another account. These transfers of 500 dollars each Mildred OK’d hurriedly, and with averted eyes, feeling miserable, like a thief.

Reserve, being a sort of sacred cow outside the routine bookkeeping system, didn’t often come into Miss Jaeckel’s purview, so there was no immediate danger she would learn of Mildred’s withdrawals. And yet in March of 1940, when Miss Jaeckel made up the income statements, and took them down to the notary and swore to them, and left them, with the tax cheques, for Mildred’s signature, Mildred was in a cold sweat. She could not now face Miss Jaeckel and tell her what she had done. So she took the statements to an accountant, and swore him to secrecy, and told him what she had done, and asked him to get up another set, which she herself would swear to, and which would conform with the balance at the bank. He seemed upset, and asked her a great many questions, and took a week making up his mind that nothing unlawful had been done, so far. But he kept emphasising that ‘
so far
’, and looking at Mildred
in an accusing way, and he charged 100 dollars for his services, an absurd sum for what amounted to a little recopying, with slight changes. She paid him, and had him forward the cheques, and told Miss Jaeckel she had mailed them herself. Miss Jaeckel looked at her queerly, and went back to her little office in the pie factory without comment.

Then, within a week or two, two things happened, of an elusive, tantalising sort, and it was hard to say what was cause and what was effect, but the Laguna business took an alarming drop, and didn’t recover. The Victor Hugo, one of the oldest and best of the Los Angeles restaurants, opened a place not far from Mrs Gessler’s place, at once did a thriving trade. And Mrs Gessler, white-lipped and tense, informed Mildred one night that ‘that little bitch, that trollop from Los Feliz Boulevard, had moved down here.’

‘Is Ike seeing her?’

‘How do I know who Ike sees? He’s out on call half the time, and who knows where he goes, or when he comes back.’

‘Can’t you find out?’

‘I’ve found out, or tried to. No, he’s not seeing her, that I know of. Ike’s all right, if he gets half a break. But she’s
here
. She’s working in that pottery place, up the road about three miles, in a smock, and—’

After that, it didn’t seem to Mildred that Mrs Gessler quite had her mind on her work. Trade slacked off, and Mildred couldn’t think of any way to get it back. She cut prices, and that didn’t help. She would have closed the place down, but she was bound by a lease, unless she could get rid of it, and the other three places would not yield enough to pay rent under the lease, and maintain her establishment in Pasadena too. It was almost weekly now that Miss Jaeckel came to her for more cash, and the transfers from Reserve, instead of being 500 dollars each, dwindled to 250 dollars, to 150 dollars, to 100 dollars, to 50 dollars, and still the spiral was going downwards. Mildred lived a queer, unnatural life. By day she was nervous, worried, hunted, afraid to look Miss Jaeckel in the eye, sure all her employees were whispering about her, suspecting her, accusing her. By night, when she came home to Monty, to Veda, to the inevitable guests,
she abandoned herself to quiet, mystical, intense enjoyment. In these hours, she sealed herself off from the crises of the day, permitted herself no anxious thoughts, stared at Veda, drew deep, tremulous breaths.

But there came a day when Reserve, on the books, was 5,003.61 dollars and at the bank was 3.61 dollars. She had to tell a long story to Miss Jaeckel, to cover her inability to make another transfer. Two days after that she couldn’t pay her meat bill. Bills of all kinds, in the restaurant business, are paid on Monday, and failure to pay is a body blow to credit. Mr Eckstein, of Snyder Bros & Co., listened to Mildred with expressionless eyes, and agreed to deliver meat until she ‘straightened this little matter out’. But all during the following week, Archie was raging at the inferior quality of the top sirloins, and Mrs Gessler had to be restrained from calling Mr Eckstein personally. By Monday, Snyder Bros were paid, but Mildred was asking time on other bills, particularly her liquor bill, most of which she owed Bodega, Inc. And then one day Wally Burgan strolled into the Pie Wagon, and it developed that he had been retained by several of her creditors. He suggested a little conference. As most of the trouble seemed to be at Laguna, how would she like to meet them down there the following night? They could have dinner, and then talk things over. The following night was the night Veda was to sing at the Bowl. Mildred shrilly said it was impossible, she had to be at the Bowl; nothing could interfere. Then, said Wally, how about one night next week? How about Monday?

The delay made matters worse, for Monday saw more unpaid bills, and in addition to Mr Eckstein, Mr Rossi of the Bodega, and representatives of three wholesale grocers, Mildred had to face Mr Gurney and several small-fry market men who had previously been flattered if she so much as said good morning. Wally, however, kept everything on a courteous plane. He enjoined silence about the matter in hand while dinner was being served, lest waitresses hear things. He insisted that Mildred give him the cheque for the creditors’ banquet, as he somewhat facetiously called it. He encouraged her to talk, to lay her cards on the table, so something could be arranged. He kept reminding her that nobody wanted to make trouble. It was to the interest
of all that she get on her feet again, that she become the A1 customer she had been in the past.

Yet, at the end of two or three hours of question, of answers, of figures, of explanations, the truth at last was out, and not even Mildred’s stammering evasions could change it: All four units of the corporation, even the Laguna restaurant, would be showing a profit if it were not for the merciless milking that Mildred was giving them in order to keep up the establishment in Pasadena. Once this was in the open there was a long, grave pause, and then Wally said: ‘Mildred, you mind if we ask a few questions about your home finances? Kind of get that a little straightened out?’

‘That’s nobody’s business but mine.’

‘None of it’s anybody’s business, so far as that goes. If we just went by what was our business, we’d have gone to court already, asked for receivers, and strictly kept our questions to ourselves. We didn’t do that. We wanted to give you a break. But looks like we’re entitled to a little consideration too, don’t it. Looks like we could go into what
we
think is important. Maybe you don’t think so. Maybe that’s where the trouble is. It’s you that’s behind the eight ball, not us.’

‘. . . What do you want to know.’

‘How much does Veda pay in.’

‘I don’t charge my own child board, I hope.’

‘She’s the big expense though, isn’t she?’

‘I don’t keep books on her.’

‘This is what I’m getting at: Veda, she’s making plenty. She had some dough, that I got for her, and she was smart the way she invested it. She’s dragging down 500 dollars a week from “Pleasant”, and even after she pays all them agents, teachers, and chisellers, she must have quite a lot left over. Well, wouldn’t you be justified in deducting an amount to pay for her keep? If you did, that would kind of ease the pressure all around.’

Mildred opened her mouth to say she couldn’t do any deducting, that she had nothing to do with Veda’s income. Then, under Wally’s bland manner she noted something familiar, something cold. As her heart skipped a beat, she knew she mustn’t fall into any traps, mustn’t divulge any of her arrangements with Veda.
She must stall, say this was something she hadn’t thought of before, insist there were legal angles she would have to look into before she would know how she felt. So mumbling, she kept watching and saw Mr Rossi look at Mr Eckstein. Then she knew what this was about. Wally was engineering a little deal. The creditors were to get their money, the corporation was to be placed on a sounder basis, and Veda was to foot the bill. It didn’t occur to her that there was an element of justice in this arrangement: that the creditors had furnished her with goods, and were entitled to payment; that Veda earned large sums, and had run a lengthy bill. All she knew was that hyenas were leaping at her chick, and her craftiness, her ability to stall, deserted her. She became excited, said that no child of hers was going to be made the victim of any such gyp, if she had anything to do with it. Then, looking Wally in the eye, she went on: ‘And what’s more, I don’t believe you or anybody has any right, even any legal right, to take what belongs to me, or what belongs to my child, to pay the bills of this business. Maybe you’ve forgotten, Mr Wally Burgan, that it was you that had me incorporate. It was you that had the papers drawn up, and explained the law to me. And your main talking point was that if I incorporated, then my personal property was safe from any and all creditors of the corporation. Maybe you’ve forgotten that, but I haven’t.’