Mildred Pierce Part 23

But what had left her with a scar on her soul that she thought nothing could ever heal, was a little session, lasting barely an hour, with a stenographer and a pair of attorneys. It seemed that Veda, the day after she left the hospital, reported as usual at the broadcasting studio, for rehearsal with the Pleasant Orchestra. The rough, male voice that came' out of the amplifiers wasn't quite what Pleasant had contracted for, and the conductor had called 'the rehearsal off. Veda, that day and the day after, had insisted that she was willing to go through with her 'contract. Thereupon Pleasant had gone to court to have the contract annulled, on the ground that Veda was no longer able to fulfill it.

Veda's attorney, brother of Mr. Levinson, her 'agent, felt it necessary to prove that Veda's vocal condition was due to no fault of her own. Thus it was that Mildred, before she moved out of the Beragon mansion and advertised it for rent, before she went to Reno 'for the divorce, before she even got the ice bags off her head had to give a deposition, telling about the quarrel, and how she had throttled Veda, so she had lost her voice. This was painful enough, even though neither attorney pressed her for an exact account of what the quarrel was about, and let her ascribe it to "a question of discipline." But the next day, when the newspapers decided this was a strange, exciting, and human story, and published it under big headlines, 'with pictures of Mildred and Veda, and insets of Monty, and hints that Monty might have been back of the "question of discipline," then indeed was the albatross publicly hung on Mildred's neck. She had destroyed the beautiful thing that she loved most in the world, and 'had another breakdown, and couldn't get up for some days.

Yet when Veda came to Reno, and elaborately forgave her, and there were more pictures', and big stories in the papers, Mildred was weepily grateful. It was a strange, unnatural Veda who settled down with her at the hotel, a wan, smiling wraith who talked in whispers, on account of the condition of her throat, and seemed more like the ghost of Veda than Veda herself. But at night, when she thought about it, it all became clear to Mildred. She had done Veda a wrong, and there was but one way to atone for it. Since she had deprived Veda of her "means of livelihood," she must provide the child a home, must see that she would never know want. Here again was a familiar emotional pattern, with new excuses. But Bert felt about it as she did. She sent him $50, asking if he could come up and see her, and explaining that she couldn't go to see him, as she wasn't permitted to leave the state of Nevada until her divorce was granted. He came up the next weekend, and she took him for a long ride, down toward Tonopah, and they threshed it out. Bert was greatly moved by the details of Veda's arrival, and forgiveness. G.o.ddam it, he said, but that made him feel good. It just went to show that when the kid was seei'ng the right kind of people, she was true blue inside, just what you'd want her to be. He agreed that the least Mildred could do was provide Veda a home. To her stammering inquiry as to whether he wanted to help her provide it, he gravely said he didn't know anything he'd like better. He was up for two more weekends, and after the divorce there was a quiet courthouse wedding. To Mildred's surprise, Veda wasn't the only guest. Mr. Levinson showed up, saying he happened to be in town on business, and was a sucker for rice.

The days after Thanksgiving had been bleak and empty for Mildred: she couldn't get used to it that the Pie Wagon was no longer hers, that she had nothing to do. And she couldn't get used to it that she was cramped for small money. She had mortgaged the house on Pierce Drive, into which she had now moved, obtaining $5,000. But most of this had been spent in Reno, and the rest of it was rapidly melthg. Yet she had resolved they were going 'to have Christmas, and bought Bert a new suit, and Veda one of the big automatic phonographs, and 'several alb.u.ms of records. This bit of recklessness restored her to a touch of her old self, and 'she was a little gay as Letty announced dinner. Bert had made eggnog, and it felt warm and pleasant, and as the three of them went back to the dining room she suddenly remembered she had b.u.mped into Mr. Chris the day before, at the Tip-Top, and he was furious at the pies that were being delivered to him by Mildred Pierce, Inc. "He couldn't believe it when I told him I had nothing more to do with it, but when I asked him how he'd like to have some of my pies, he almost kissed me. 'Hokay, hokay, any time, bring'm in, appliss, limmon, e poomkin!'"

She was so pleased at the way she imitated Mr. Chris's dialect that she started to laugh, and they all started to laugh. Then Bert said if she felt like making pies again, just leave the rest to him. He'd sell them. Veda laughed, pointed at her mouth, whispered that 'she'd eat them. Mildred wanted to jump up and kiss her, but didn't.

The doorbell rang. Letty went to answer it, returned in a moment with a puzzled look on her face. "The taxi man's there, Mrs. Pierce."

"Taxi? I didn't order any taxi."

"Yes'm, I'll tell him."

Veda stopped Letty with a gesture. "I ordered it."

"You ordered it." ordered it."

"Yes, Mother."

Veda got up from her untouched turkey, and calmly faced Mildred. "I decided some time' ago that the place for me is New York, and I'm leaving in a little while from Union Air Terminal, in Burbank. I meant to tell you."

Bewildered, Mildred blinked at Veda's cold, cruel eyes, noted that Veda was now talking in her natural voice. A suspicion flashed into her mind. "Who are you going with?"

"Monty."

"Ah."

All sorts of things now began to flit through Mildred's mind, and piece themselves together: remarks by Mr. Hobey, the Sunbake Sunbake promoter, the big forgiveness scene in Reno, featured by the newspapers, the curious appearance of Mr. Levinson at her wedding. Then, while Veda still stood coldly smiling, Mildred began to talk, her tongue licking her 11ps with quick, dry motions like the motions of a snake's tongue. "I see it now. . . . You didn't lose any voice, you just thought faster than anybody else, that night. . . . If you could make me say I choked you, then you could break your contract with Pleasant, the company that gave you your first big chance. You used to sing full chest, like a man, and you could do it again, if you had to. So you did, and you made me swear to all that, for a court record, so the newspapers could print it. But then you found out you'd gone a little too far. The newspapers found out about Monty, and that wasn't so good for the radio public. So you came to Reno, and had pictures of yourself taken, with me in your arms. And at my wedding, to your father. And you even invited that Levinson to be there, as though he meant anything to me. Anything to cover up, to hide what had really been going on, the love affair you'd been having with your mother's husband, with your own stepfather." promoter, the big forgiveness scene in Reno, featured by the newspapers, the curious appearance of Mr. Levinson at her wedding. Then, while Veda still stood coldly smiling, Mildred began to talk, her tongue licking her 11ps with quick, dry motions like the motions of a snake's tongue. "I see it now. . . . You didn't lose any voice, you just thought faster than anybody else, that night. . . . If you could make me say I choked you, then you could break your contract with Pleasant, the company that gave you your first big chance. You used to sing full chest, like a man, and you could do it again, if you had to. So you did, and you made me swear to all that, for a court record, so the newspapers could print it. But then you found out you'd gone a little too far. The newspapers found out about Monty, and that wasn't so good for the radio public. So you came to Reno, and had pictures of yourself taken, with me in your arms. And at my wedding, to your father. And you even invited that Levinson to be there, as though he meant anything to me. Anything to cover up, to hide what had really been going on, the love affair you'd been having with your mother's husband, with your own stepfather."

"Anyway, I'm going."

"And I know perfectly well why you're going. Now the publicity has blown over a little, you're going to sing for Sunbake, for $2,500 a week. All right—but this time, don't come back."

Mildred's voice rose as she said this, and Veda's hand involuntarily went to her throat. Then Veda went to her father, and kissed him. He kissed her, and patted her, but his eyes were averted, and he seemed a little cold. Then she left. When the taxi door slammed, and it had noisily pulled away, Mildred went to the bedroom, lay down, and began to cry. Perhaps she had something to cry about. She was thirtyseven years old, fat, and gettin'g a little shapeless. She had lost everything she had worked for, over long and weary years. The one living thing she had loved had turned on her repeatedly, with tooth and fang, and now had left her without so much as a kiss or a pleasant goodbye. Her only crime, if she had committed one, was that she had loved this girl too well.

Bert came in, with a decisive look in his eye and a bottle of rye in his hand. In masterful fas.h.i.+on he sloshed it once or twice, then sat down on the bed. "Mildred."

"Yes."

"To h.e.l.l with her."

This remark only served to step up the tempo of Mildred's sobs, which were approaching a wail already. But Bert took hold of her 'and shook her. "I said to h.e.l.l with her!"

Through the tears, the woe, Mildred seemed to sense what he meant. What it cost her to swallow back her sobs, look at him, squint, and draw the knife across an umbilical cord G.o.d alone knows. But she did it. Her hand tightened on his until her linger nails dug into his skin, and she said: "O.K., Bert. To h.e.l.l with her!"

"G.o.ddam it, that's what I want to hear! Come on, we got each other, haven't we? Let's get stinko." it, that's what I want to hear! Come on, we got each other, haven't we? Let's get stinko."

"Yes—let's get stinko."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

JAMES M. CAIN (1892-1977) is recognized today as one of the masters of the hard-boiled school of American novels. Born in Baltimore, the son of the president of Was.h.i.+ngton College, he began his career as reporter on the Baltimore papers, served in the American Expeditionary Force in World War I and wrote the material for The Cross of Lorraine The Cross of Lorraine, the newspaper of the 79th Division. He returned to become professor of journalism at St. John's College in Annapolis and then worked for H.L. Mencken on The American Mercury The American Mercury. He later wrote editorials for Walter Lippman on the New York World New York World and was for a short period managing editor of and was for a short period managing editor of The New Yorker The New Yorker, before he went to Hollywood as a script writer. His first novel, The Postman Always Rings Twice The Postman Always Rings Twice, was published when he was forty-two and at once became a sensation. It was tried for obscenity in Boston, was said by Albert Camus to have inspired his own book, The Stranger The Stranger, and is now a cla.s.sic. Cain followed it the next year with Double Indemnity Double Indemnity, leading Ross MacDonald to write years later, "Cain has won unfading laurels with a pair of native American masterpieces, Postman Postman and and Double Indemnity Double Indemnity, back to back." Cain published eighteen books in all and was working on his autobiography at the time of his death.