Mildred Pierce (5 page)

‘Just the same, that was the idea.’

‘Not so fast, baby – let us pause and examine that idea.
Why
would he want to take you out? Why do they ever want to take us out? As a compliment to us, say they. To show us a good time, to prove the high regard they have for us. They’re a pack of goddam liars. In addition to being dirty bastards, and very dumb clucks, they are also goddam liars. There’s practically nothing can be said in favour of them, except they’re the only ones we’ve got. They take us out for one reason, and one reason only: so
they
can get a drink. Secondarily, so
we
can get a drink, and succumb to their fell designs after we get home, but mainly so
they
can have a drink. And, baby, right there is where I come in.’

She ducked out the screen door, ran across the yards, and presently was back with a basket, in which were quite a few bottles. She set them out on the kitchen table, then resumed her talk. ‘This stuff, the gin and the Scotch, is right off the boat, and better than he’s tasted in years. All the gin needs is a little orange juice, and it’ll make a swell cocktail; be sure you cut it down plenty with ice. Now this other, the wine, is straight California, but he doesn’t know it, and it’s OK booze, so lean on it. That’s the trick, baby. Handle the wine right and the high-priced stuff will last and last and last. Fill him up on it – much as he wants, and more. It’s thirty cents a quart, half a cent for the pretty French label, and the more he drinks of that, the less he’ll want of Scotch. Here’s three reds and three whites, just because I love you, and want you to get straightened out. With fish, chicken, and turkey, give him white, and with red meat, give him red. What are you having tonight?’

‘Who says I’m having anything?’

‘Now, listen, have we got to go all over that? Baby, baby, you
go out with him, and he buys you a dinner, and you get a little tight, and you come home, and something happens, and then what?’

‘Don’t worry. Nothing’ll happen.’

‘Oh, something’ll happen. If not tonight, then some other night. Because if it don’t happen, he’ll lose interest, and quit coming around, and you wouldn’t like that. And
when
it happens, it’s Sin. It’s Sin, because you’re a grass widow, and fast. And he’s all paid up, because he bought your dinner and that makes it square.’

‘He must have a wonderful character, my Wally.’

‘He’s got the same character they’ve all got, no better and no worse.
But
– if you bought
his
dinner and cooked it for him the way only you can cook, and you just happened to look cute in that little apron, and something just happened to happen, then it’s Nature. Old Mother Nature, baby, and we all know she’s no bum. Because that grass widow, she went back to the kitchen, where all women belong, and that makes it all right. And Wally, he’s not paid up, even a little bit. He even forgot to ask the price of the chips. He’ll find out. And another thing, this way is quick, and the last I heard of you, you were up against it, and couldn’t afford to waste much time. You play it right, and inside of a week your financial situation will be greatly eased, and inside a month you’ll have him begging for the chance to buy that divorce. The other way, making the grand tour of all the speakos he knows, it could go on for five years, and even then you couldn’t be sure.’

‘You think I want to be kept?’

‘Yes.’

For a while after that, Mildred didn’t think of Wally, at any rate to know she was thinking of him. After Mrs Gessler left, she went to her room and wrote a few letters, particularly one to her mother, explaining the new phase her life had entered, and going into some details as to why, at the moment, she wouldn’t be able to sell the anchors. Then she mended some of the children’s clothes. But around four o’clock, when it started to rain, she put
the sewing basket away, went to the kitchen, and checked her supplies, from the three or four oranges in reserve for the children’s breakfast to the vegetables she had bought yesterday in the market. The chicken she gave a good smelling, to make sure it was still fresh. The quart of milk she took out of the icebox with care, so as not to joggle it, and, using a tiny ladle intended for salt, removed the thick cream at the top and put it into a glass pitcher. Then she opened a can of huckleberries and made a pie. While that was baking she stuffed the chicken.

Around six she laid a fire, feeling a little guilty that most of the wood consisted of the dead limbs Bert had sawed off the avocado trees the afternoon he left. She didn’t build it in the living-room. She built it in the ‘den’, which was on the other side of the chimney from the living-room and had a small fireplace of its own, It was really one of the three bedrooms, and had its own bathroom, but Bert had fixed it up with a sofa, comfortable chairs, and photographs of the banquets he had spoken at, and it was here that they did their entertaining. The fire ready to light, she went to the bedroom and dressed. She put on a print dress, the best she had. She examined a great many stockings, found two that showed no signs of runs, put them on. Her shoes, by careful sparing, were in fair shape, and she put on simple black ones. Then, after surveying herself in the mirror, admiring her legs, and remembering to bend the right knee, she threw a coat around her and went to the den. Around ten minutes to seven she put the coat away and turned on one button of heat. Then she pulled down the shades and turned on several lamps.

Around ten after seven, Wally rang the bell, apologetic for being late, anxious to get started. For one long moment Mildred was tempted: by the chance to save her food, by the chance to eat without having to cook, most of all by the chance to go somewhere to sit under soft lights, perhaps even to hear an orchestra, and dance. But her mouth seemed to step out in front of her, and take charge in a somewhat gabby way. ‘Well my goodness, I never even dreamed you’d want to go out on a night like this.’

‘Isn’t that what we said?’

‘But it’s so awful out. Why can’t I fix you something, and maybe we could go out some other night?’

‘Hey, hey, I’m taking
you
out.’

‘All right, but at least let’s wait a few minutes, in case this rain’ll let up a little. I just hate to go out when it’s coming down like this.’

She led him to the den, lit the fire, took his coat, and disappeared with it. When she came back she was shaking an orange blossom in a pitcher, and balancing a tray on which were two glasses.

‘Well say!
Say
!’

‘Thought it might help to pass the time.’

‘You bet it will.’

He took his glass, waited for her to take hers, said, ‘Mud in your eye,’ and sipped. Mildred was startled at how good it was. As for Wally, he was downright reverent at how good it was. ‘What do you know about that? Real gin! I haven’t tasted it since – God knows when. All they give you in these speaks is smoke, and a guy’s taking his life in his hands, all the time. Say, where did
you
tend bar?’

‘Oh, just picked it up.’

‘Not from Bert.’

‘I didn’t say where.’

‘Bert’s hooch was God-awful. He was one of these home-laboratory guys, and the more stuff he put in it to kill the taste, the worse it tasted. But this – say, Bert must be crazy if he walked out on
you
.’

He looked at her admiringly and she refilled his glass. ‘Thanks, Mildred. I couldn’t say no if I tried. Hey, what about yours?’

Mildred, not much of a drinker under any circumstances, had decided that tonight might be an excellent time to exercise a certain womanly restraint. She laughed, shook her head. ‘Oh – one’s all I take.’

‘Don’t you like it?’

‘I like it all right, but I’m really not used to it.’

‘You’ve got to get educated.’

‘I can see that right now. But we can attend to that part a little bit at a time. Tonight, the rest of it’s yours.’

He laughed excitedly, strolled over to the window, stood looking out at the rain. ‘You know, I’m thinking about something . . . Maybe you were right about not going out. That look’s wetter than a Chinaman’s wash. Did you really mean it, what you said about knocking something together that we could eat?’

‘Of course I meant it.’

‘Putting you to one hell of a lot of trouble, though.’

‘Don’t be silly, it’s no trouble at all. And I bet you get a better meal here than you would outside. That’s another thing you might have noticed, all the time you’ve been coming here. I don’t know how much of a bartender I am, but I’m an awfully good cook.’

‘Quit kidding me. That was the hired girl.’

‘That was me. Want to watch?’

‘I sure do.’

She really was a marvellous cook, and he watched delightedly while she popped the chicken into the oven, scraped four potatoes, shelled a little dish of peas. They went back to the den until it should be time to put the vegetables on to boil, and he had another cocktail. By now she was wearing a little blue apron, and he oafishly admitted that he ‘sure would like to give those apron strings a pull’.

‘You’d better not.’

‘Why?’

‘I might tie it on you, and put you to work.’

‘OK by me.’

‘Would you like to eat here? By the fire?’

‘I’d love it.’

She got a bridge table out of the closet and set it up in front of the fireplace. Then she got out silver, glassware, and napkins, and arranged them for two. He followed her around like a puppy, his cocktail glass in his hand. ‘Hey, this looks like a real dinner.’

‘I told you. Maybe you weren’t listening.’

‘From now on, I’m nothing but ears.’

The dinner was a little more of a success than she bargained for. For soup, she served some chicken jelly she had had left over from the middle of the week, and it struck him as very high-toned. When she had taken away the cups she came in with the wine, which by a curious coincidence had been in the icebox since Mrs Gessler left, and poured it, leaving the bottle on the table. Then she came in with the chicken, the potatoes, and peas, all deftly arranged on one platter. He was enthusiastic about everything, but when she came in with the pie he grew positively lyrical. He told how his mother made such pies, back in Carlisle, Pa. He told about the Indian School, and Mt Pleasant, the quarterback.

But the food, much as it delighted him, seemed almost incidental. He insisted that she sit beside him, on the sofa, and wear the apron. When she came in with the coffee, she found he had turned out the lights, so they drank it by firelight alone. When they finished it he put his arm around her. Presently, deciding she ought to be sociable, she dropped her head on his shoulder, but when he touched her hair with his fingers she got up. ‘I’ve got to take these things out.’

‘I’ll put the table away for you.’

‘Then all right, and when you get done with that, if you want the bath, it’s right beyond you, and that’s the door over there. As for the cook, as soon as she gets the dishes out of sight, she’s going to put on a warmer dress.’

What with the rain, and the general clammy feel of the night, the little print dress was becoming more and more uncomfortable, despite its pleasing appearance. She went to the bedroom, slipped out of it, and hung it up in the closet. But when she reached for her dark blue woollen dress she heard something and turned around. He was standing in the door, a foolish grin on his face. ‘Thought you might need a little help.’

‘I don’t need help, and I didn’t ask you in here.’

She spoke sharply, for her resentment at this invasion of her privacy was quick and real. But as she spoke, her elbow touched the closet door, and it swung open, revealing her. He caught his breath and whispered, ‘Jesus.’ Then he seemed bewildered, and stood looking at her and yet not looking at her.

Badly annoyed, she took the woollen dress off its hanger and slipped it over her head. Before she could close the snaps, however, she felt his arms around her, heard him mumbling penitently in her ear. ‘I’m sorry, Mildred. I’m sorry as hell. But it didn’t break like I figured it would. I swear to God, I came in here for nothing but to pull those apron strings. It was just a gag, that’s all. Hell, you know I wouldn’t pull any cheap tricks like that on you, don’t you?’ And as though to prove his contempt for all cheap tricks, he reached over and turned out the light.

Well, was she angry at him or not? In spite of the way in which she had followed all instructions, and the way he had justified all predictions, she still didn’t know what she wanted to do about Wally. But as she twisted her head to keep her mouth from meeting his, it flitted through her mind that if she didn’t have to open the Scotch she might be able to get six dollars for it somewhere.

Along about midnight Wally lit a cigarette. Feeling warm, Mildred kicked the covers off and let the cold damp air prickle her quite lovely nakedness. She raised one leg, looked at it judiciously, decided once and for all it was not bowed, and that she was going to stop worrying about it. Then she wiggled her toes. It was a distinctly frivolous operation, but there was nothing frivolous about Wally as he set an ashtray near him, and pulled the covers over his more or less lovely nakedness. He was silently, almost ostentatiously glum as he lay there and smoked, so much so that Mildred said: ‘Penny.’

‘I’m thinking about Bert.’

Without hearing any more about it, she knew what this meant: Wally had had his fun, and now he was getting ready to get out from under. She waited a moment or two, as she often did when angered, but in spite of her effort to sound casual, her voice had a vibrant sound to it. ‘And what about Bert?’