Mildred Pierce Part 3

"If Bert left me, and he's out of my life, why do you have to do all this thinking about him, when n.o.body else is?"

"We're good friends. G.o.ddam good friends."

"But not so G.o.ddam good that you wouldn't block him off from a job he was ent.i.tled 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 fo-und 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 ap.r.o.n strings. You remember them, don't you?" - "I didn't hear you saying no."

"No, I was a sap."

She drew breath to say be was just like the rest of them, and then add Mrs. -Gessler's phrase, "the ditty b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," but somehow the words didn't come. There was some core of honesty within her that couldn't quite accept Mrs. Gessler's mterpretations of life, however, they might amuse her at the moment. She didn't really believe they were dirty b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, 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."

"h.e.l.l, that's all right."

"I've been a little upset lately."

"Who wouldn't be?"

Next morning, Mildred was glumly was.h.i.+ng 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.ds that were G.o.ddam 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.

CHAPTER III.

FROM 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 the 1st of July, when the interest would be due on the mortgages Bert had put on the house. She studied the help-wanted advertis.e.m.e.nts, but there were hardly any. Each day there would be notices for cooks, maids, and chauffeurs, but she skipped quickly by them. The big advertis.e.m.e.nts, headed "Opportunity," "Salesmen Wanted," and "Men, Women, Attention,"— these she pa.s.sed over entirely. They savored too much of Bert's methods in getting rid of Pierce Homes. But occasionally something looked promising. One advertis.e.m.e.nt 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 doc.u.ments," 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 a.s.sistant, but a sweetie. She left, feeling sullen over her wasted afternoon and wasted bus fare. It was her first experience with the s.e.xological 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 s.p.a.ce 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 heelstraightening and polis.h.i.+ng. 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 specialized in household furnis.h.i.+ngs. She was first through the door here, and quickly sat down at one of the little gla.s.stopped tables reserved for interviews. But the head of the department, addressed by everybody as Mrs. Boole, kept pa.s.sing her by, and she grew furious at this injustice. Mrs. Boole was rather good-looking, 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 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 realized 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 stories 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 peop-le 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 do have something—" 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 p-lace a name on file, and it puts him in touch with a better cla.s.s of girls."

"And what is the job?"

Mildred's mind was leaping wildly from cas.h.i.+er to hostess to dietician: she didn't quite know what a dietician was, but she 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 realize, of course, that it's quite a nice opening—but I doubt if I'm really fitted for it."

Mrs. Boole suddenly got 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 advertis.e.m.e.nt:

ACCOUNTANTS.

CAs.h.i.+ERS.

SALESMEN.

SALESWOMEN.

OFFICE MANAGERS.

Alice Brooks Turner Skilled Personnel Only

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 hardboiled 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.

Then she came to the great yawning s.p.a.ces in which she was to fill in the names and addresses of her former employers. Regretfully she wrote: Not previously employed. Then she signed the card, walked over, and handed it in. Miss Turner waved her to a chair, studied the card, shook her head, and pitched it on the desk. "You haven't got a chance."

"Why not?"

"Do you know what a receptionist is?"

"I'm not sure, but—"

"A receptionist is a lazy dame that can't do anything on earth, and wants to sit out front where everybody can watch her do it. She's the one in the black silk dress, cut low in the neck and high in the legs, just inside the gate, in front o-f that little one-position switc'hboard, that she gets a right number out of now and then, mostly then. You know, the one that tells you to have a seat, Mr. Doakes will see you in just a few minutes. Then she goes on showing her legs and polis.h.i.+ng her nails. If she sleeps with Doakes she gets twenty bucks a week, if -not she gets twelve. In other words, nothing personal about it and I don't want to hurt your feelings, but by the looks of this card I'd say that was you."

"It's quite all right. I sleep fine."

If this bravado had any effect on Miss Turner, there was no sign of it. She nodded, and said: "I'm sure you sleep fine. Don't we all? But I'm not running a house of call, and it just happens that at the moment receptionists are out. That was then. In those good old days. When even a hockshop had to have this receptionist thing out there in front to show it had cla.s.s. But then they found out she wasn't strictly necessary. They began sleeping with their wives, and I guess it worked all right. Anyway, the birth rate went up. So I guess you're out of luck."

"Receptionist isn't the only thing I can do."

"Yes, it is."

"You don't give me much chance to tell you."

"If there was something else you could do, you'd have put it down in great big letters, right on this card. When you say receptionist, that's all I want to know. There's no more after that, and no use your wasting my time, and me wasting yours. I'll ifie your card, but I told you once and I'm telling you again, you haven't got a chance."

The interview, obviously, was ended, but Mildred forced herself to make a little speech, a sales talk. As she talked she warmed up to it, explaining that she was married before she was seventeen, and that while other women were learning professions, she had been making a home, raising two children, "not generally regarded as a disgraceful career." Now that her marriage had broken up, she wanted to know if it was fair that she be penalized for what she had done, and denied the right to earn her living like anybody else. Furthermore, she said, she hadn't been asleep all that time, even if she had been married. She taught herself to be a good housekeeper and a fine cook, was in fact earning such little income as she had by peddling her cookery around the neighborhood. If she could do that, she could do other things. She kept repeating: "What I do, I do well."

Miss Turner pulled out a lot of drawers, set them in a row on her desk. They were filled with cards of different colors. Looking intently at Mildred, she said: "I told you you're not qualified. O.K., you can take a look here and see what I mean. These three drawers are employers, people that call me when they want somebody. And they call me, too. They call me because I'm on the level with them and save them the trouble of talking to nitwits like you. You see those pink ones? That means 'No Jews.' See the blues? 'No Gentiles'—not many of them, but a few. That's got nothing to do with you, but it gives you an idea. People are sold over this desk just like cattle in the Chicago yards, and for exactly the same reason: they've got the points the buyer wants. All right, now take a look at something that does concern you. See those greens? That means 'No Married Women'."

"Why, may I ask?"

"Because right in the middle of rush hour you wonderful little homemakers have a habit of getting a call that Willie's got the croup, and out you run, and maybe you come back next day, and maybe you come back next week."

"Somebody has to look after Willie."

"These people, these employers on the greens, they're not much interested in Willie. And another habit you wonderful homemakers have got is running up a lot of bills you thought friend husband would pay, and then when he wouldn't you had to get a job. And then the first pay check you draw, there's eighteen attachments on it—and life's too short."

"Do you call that fair?"

"I call them green. I go by the cards."

"I don't owe a cent."

"Not one?"

Mildred thought guiltily of the interest that would be due July 1, and Miss Turner, seeing the flicker in her eye, said: "I thought so. . . . Now take a look at these other drawers. They're all applicants. These are stenographers—a dime a dozen, but at least they can do something something. These are qualified secretaries—a dime a dozen too, but they rate a different file. These are stenographers with scientific experience, nurses, laboratory a.s.sistants, chemists all able to take charge of a clinic, or run an office for three or four doctors, or do hospital work. Why would I recommend you ahead of any of them? Some of those girls are Ph.D.'s and Sc.D.'s from U.C.L.A. and other places. Here's a whole file of stenographers that are expert bookkeepers. Any one of them could take charge of all the office work for a small firm, and still have time for a little sleeping. Here are sales people, men and women, every one of them with an A-i reference-they can really move goods. They're all laid off, there's no goods moving, but I don't see how I could put you ahead of them. And here's the preferred list. Look at it, a whole drawerful, men and women, every one of them a real executive, or auditor, or manager of some business, and when I recommend one, I know somebody is getting something for his money. They're all home, sitting by their phones, hoping I'll call. I won't call. I've gornothing to tell them. What I'm trying to get through your head is: You haven't got a chance. Those people, it hurts me, it makes me lie awake nights, that I've got nothing for them. They deserve something, and there's not a thing I can do. But there's not a chance I'd slip you ahead of any one of them. You're not qualified. There's not a thing on earth you can do, and I hate people that can't do anything."

"How do I qualify?"

Mildred's lips were fluttering again, the way they had in Miss Boole's office. Miss Turner looked quickly away, then said: "Can I make a suggestion?"

"You certainly can."

"I wouldn't call you a raving beauty, but you've got an A-i shape and you say you cook fine and sleep fine. Why don't you forget about a job, hook yourself a man, and get married again?"

"I tried that."

"Didn't work?"

"I don't seem to be able to kid you much. It was the first thing I thought of, and just for a little while I seemed to be doing all right. But then, I guess two little children disqualified me, even there. That wasn't what he said, but—"

"Hey, hey, you're breaking my heart."