"Where did you hear that?"
Mildred had sat down, but at these last words she looked up. She was wholly familiar with Veda's vocabulary, and she knew that this phrase was not part of it. At her question, Veda came over, leaned down close. "Why the poor goddam sap—do you think he'd marry you?"
"If I were willing, yes."
"Oh! Yee gods and little fishes hear my cynical laughter, from Pagliacci, by Ruggiero Leoncavallo, eighteen fifty-eightnineteen nineteen. If you were willing—! Pardon me while I regain my shattered composure. Stupid, don't you know what he sees in you?"
"About what you see, I think."
"No—it's your legs."
"He—told you—that?"
"Why certainly."
Veda's manner showed that she relished Mildred's consternation. "Of course he told me. We're very good friends, and I hope I have a mature point of view on these matters. Really, he speaks very nicely about your legs. He has a theory about them. He says a gingham apron is the greatest provocation ever invented by woman for the torture of man, and that the very best legs are found in kitchens, not in drawing rooms. 'Never take the mistress if you can get the maid,' is the way he puts it. And another thing, he says a pretty varlet is always agreeably grateful, and not too exacting, with foolish notions about matrimony and other tiresome things. I must say I find his social theories quite fascinating."
Veda went on at some length, snapping her cigarette and when it went out lighting another one and throwing the match on the floor. But for some time Mildred found her taunts nothing but a jumble. She was so stunned at the discovery that this man, whom she had put up with because he brought Veda closer to her, had all the time been sneering at her behind her back, making fun of her most intimate relations with him, setting the child against her, that every part of her seemed to have turned to jelly. Presently, however, words began to have meaning again, and she heard Veda saying: "After all, Mother, even in his darkest days, Monty's shoes are custom made."
"They ought to be. They cost me enough."
Mildred snapped this out bitterly, and for a second wished she hadn't. But the cigarette, suddenly still in mid-air, told her it was news to Veda, quite horrible news, and without further regret, she rammed home her advantage: "You didn't know that, did you?"
Veda stared incredulously, then decided to play it funny. "You buy his shoes? Yee gods and little—"
"His shoes and his shirts and his drinks and everything else he's had in the last few months, including his polo dues. And you needn't call on your gods and little fishes any more, or mention any more dates from the operas. If you want to see some dates I have them all written down, with an exact amount beside each one. Miss Pierce, you made a slight mistake. It's not my legs that he likes me for, it's my money. And so long as it's that, we'll see who's the varlet and who's the boss. It may interest you to know that that's why he's such a very good friend of yours. He doesn't haul you over to your music lesson because he wants to. In fact, he often complains about it. He does it because he has to. And surprising though it be to you, he'll marry me, or not marry me, or do anything I say, so his proud, gentlemanly belly can have something to eat." -
Mildred got up, something haughty in her manner for a moment suggesting Veda. "So you see, what he sees in me is about what you see, isn't it? And unfortunately, you're in exactly the position he's in, too. You have to do what I say. The hand that holds the money cracks the whip. And I say there'll be no more money for you, not one cent, until you take back everything you've said, and apologize for it."
Veda's answer was to abandon the grand manner, and become a yelling, devilish adolescent of fourteen. Coldly, Mildred listened to her curses, watched her kick at the Pierce upright with Bert's riding boots. "And that's the piano you're going to practice on, until I get ready, in my own good time, to buy you another."
Veda screamed at the top of her lungs, then leaped at the piano and began playing the Can-Can from Orpheus. Mildred didn't know what it was, but she knew it was wild, obscene music. Picking up her coat, she stalked out of the house and headed up the street toward the restaurant.
So far as Monty was concerned, Mildred knew this was the end, but she didn't do anything about it at once. She received him as usual when he dropped in at the restaurant that night, and the next two or three nights. She even submitted to his embraces, deriving a curious satisfaction from the knowledge that his access to the very best legs was rapidly drawing to a close. Stoppage of the spending money brought Veda to her milk, as no beating had ever done, and when it did, Mildred forgave her quite honestly, in a teary little scene two or three days after Christmas. It was almost automatic with her by now to acquit Veda of wrongdoing, no matter how flagrant the offense. In her mind, the blame was all Monty's, and presently she knew exactly how she would deal with him, and when. It would be at the New Year's party he had invited her to, a week or so before. "I thought I'd ask Paul and Louise Ewing—polo players, but you might like them. We could meet at my house around ten, have a drink, then go in to the Biltmore, for the noisy part."
This had obviously been an effort to kill two birds with one stone, to give some plausibility to what he had said about her hours, and at the same time introduce her to somebody, quite as though he would have done so all along if only the right kind of evening had presented itself. She had taken it as evidence of a change of heart, and accepted. Indeed, she had more than accepted. She had consulted anxiously with Mrs. Gessler over what she should wear, and gone into Bullock's and picked out an evening gown. Then she had gone into a veritable agony over the question of a coat. She didn't have a fur coat, and the prospect of making her debut in the world of mink with nothing but her battered blue haunted her horribly. But Mrs. Gessler, as usual, stepped into the breach. She knew a lady, it seemed, with a brocade coat. "It's a beautiful thing, Baby, ashy rose, all crusted with gold, just what you want with your hair. It's really a Chinese mandarin's coat, but it's been re-cut, and you couldn't put a price on it. There's nothing like it on sale anywhere. It'll be the snappiest thing in the room, even at the Biltmore, and—she's broke. She needs the money. I'll see what I can do."
So for $25, Mildred got the coat, and when the dress arrived, she caught her breath at the total effect. The dress was light blue, and gave something to the rose of the coat, so she was a-shimmer with the delicate colors that her general colorlessness needed. She bought gold stockings and gold shoes, and her panic changed to smug complacency. All this had been before Christmas, and her choice of the New Year's party as the occasion for the break with Monty may possibly have been prompted by a matter-of-fact determination not to let such a costume go to waste, as well as a vivid recollection of the $40 she had contributed to the expense. However, no such motive obtruded on her own virtuous consciousness. It was merely, she told herself, that a resolve had to be made, and New Year's morning was a very good time to make it. As she rehearsed the scene mentally, it became clear in its details, and she knew exactly how she would play it. At the Biltmore, she would be gay, and rattle her rattle, and throw her balloon, and tell the story of Harry Engel and the anchors. Back at Monty's house, she would watch the Ewings take their departure, and then, at his invitation to come in, she would decline, and climb into her car. Then, ai his surprised look, she would make a little speech. She would say nothing of Veda, or money, or legs. She would merely remarks that all things had to come to an end some time, and it looked as though he and she had reached that point. It had been very pleasant, she had enjoyed his company, every minute of it, she wished him the very best in the world, and she certainly' hoped he would regard her as his friend. But—and at this point she saw herself putting out a graceful hand, and in case he merely stood there looking at it, as stepping on the starter.
The whole thing, perhaps, was a little stuffy, and certainly it was sing-songy, as she kept adding to it. But it was her valedictory, and no doubt her privilege to deliver it any way she chose.
/> December 31, 1933, dawned dark in California, and before the morning was over, quite a little rain was falling. By mid-afternoon, tall tales interrupted the broadcasts: of washouts in the hills, of whole families evacuated from this village and that village, of roads blocked, of trains held in Arizona pending dispatcher's orders. But in Glendale, except for the wet, and quite a little rubble that washed down on the streets, nothing ominous met the eye, and Mildred viewed the downpour as an annoyance, a damper on business, but nothing to get excited about. Around five o'clock, when it didn't let up, she stopped Mrs. Kramer from sectioning more chickens, on the ground that nobody would be there to eat them, and they could wait until next day. When Arline, Emma, and Audrey successively called up to say they couldn't get there, she thought little of it, and when Sigrid came, she set her to cleaning silver.
Around six, Monty called up to know if she had cold feet. Laughing, she asked: "What from?"
"Well, it's a little wet."
"Do you mean you're getting cold feet?"
"No, not at all. Just being the perfect host and giving you one last chance to back out if you want to."
"Why, this little shower is nothing."
"Then I'll be expecting you."
"Around ten."
By seven thirty not one customer had showed up, and Mrs. Gessler abruptly suggested that they close, and begin getting Mildred dressed, if she was still fool enough to go to the damned party. Mildred agreed, and started her preparations to lock up. Then she, Mrs. Gessler, Mrs. Kramer, Pancho, Josie, and Sigrid all burst out laughing at the discovery that there were no preparations—no dishes to wash, no bottles to put out, no cash to count. Mildred simply cut the lights and locked the door, and as the others went scuttling off into the night, she and Mrs. Gessler climbed into her car and drove down Pierce Drive. It was a little windswept, a little rough from the stones that had washed down on it, but otherwise as usual. Mildred parked close by the kitchen door and dived inside, then held out her hand to Mrs. Gessler.
She was surprised to find Letty and Veda there. Letty had been afraid to start home, and timidly asked Mildred if she could spend the night. Veda, due long ago at the Hannens' for dinner, a party, and an overnight visit, said Mrs. Hannen had called to say the party had been postponed. At this, Mrs. Gessler looked sharply at Mildred, and Mildred went calmly to her room and began taking off her uniform.
By nine, Mildred was powdered, puffed, perfumed, and patted to that state of semi-transparency that a woman seems to achieve when she is really dressed to go out. Her hair, waved the day before, was fluffed out softly; her dress adjusted to the last fold and flounce; her face fashioned to the fish-eyed look that marks the' last stage of such rites. Letty was entranced, and even Veda admitted that "you really look quite nice, Mother." Mildred stood before the full-length mirror for a final critical inspection, but Mrs. Gessler disappeared for a final look at the night. When she came back she camped on the bed, and looked moodily at Mildred. "Well, I hate to say it after taking all that trouble over you, but I wouldn't go to that party, if I were you."
"Why, for heaven's sake?"
"Because .it's bad out there. You call that idiot up and tell him you're not coming."
"Can't."
"Oh he'll understand. He'll be relieved."
"His phone's disconnected."
"It would be. Then send him a wire. It won't be delivered till tomorrow, but it'll prove you got manners."
"I'm going."
"Baby, you can't."
"I said I'm going."
Irritated, Mrs. Gessler ordered Veda to get the trench coat she wore to school, and her galoshes. Mildred protested, but when Veda appeared with the things, Mrs. Gessler went to work. She pinned Mildred's dress up, so it was a sort of sash around her hips, with a foot of white slip showing. Then she put on the galoshes, over the gold shoes. Then she put on the evening coat, and pulled the trench coat over it. Then she found a kerchief, and bound it tightly around Mildred's head. Mildred, suddenly transformed into something that looked like Topsy, sweetly said good-by to them all. Then she went to the kitchen door, reached out into the wet, and pulled open the car door. Then she hopped in. Then she started the motor. Then she started the wiper. Then she tucked the robe around her. Then, waving gaily to the three anxious faces at the door, she started the car, and went backing down to the street.
Turning into Colorado Boulevard, she laughed. Snug in her two coats, with the motor humming smoothly and the wiper chattering cheerfully against the glass, she thought it funny that people should get so excited over a little rain.
Heading down into Eagle Rock, she was halted by two men with lanterns. One of them came over, and in a hoarse voice asked: "Pasadena?"
"Yes."
"You can't get through. Not without you detour."
"Well? Which way do I go?"
He took off his hat, swooshed the water out of it, then quickly put it on again and gave intricate directions as to how she was to drive up to the hills, then turn and follow along the higher ground until she came to Colorado Boulevard again. "That is, if you don't hit washouts. But believe me, lady, unless you got to get there tonight, it'll be a whole lot better to turn back."
Mildred, perfectly familiar with the road, took up her journey again. She came to a washout, where part of the hill had slid down on the road, but one track was still open, and she slipped easily by. She came back to Colorado Boulevard at a point not far from the high bridge, so popular with suicides at the time, and went splashing across. At the traffic circle she turned right into Orange Grove Avenue. Except for a few tree limbs that had blown down on it, and a lot of leaves, it was clear. As she rolled over its shining black expanse, she laughed again at the way people got all worked up over nothing.
On the portico of the Beragon mansion a light was lit. She turned in through the pillars and followed the drive up past the big trees, the iron dogs, and the marble urn. She parked at the steps, and had hardly cut the motor when Monty popped out of the door, in a dinner coat, and stared as though he could hardly believe his eyes. Then he yelled something at her, popped in the house again, and emerged, carrying a big doorman's umbrella with one hand and dragging a gigantic tarpaulin with the other. The tarpaulin he hurriedly threw over her hood to keep the rain out of the motor. The umbrella he opened for her, and as she made a nimble jump for the portico, said: "God, I had no idea you'd show up. It didn't even enter my mind."
"You put the light on, and got all dressed up. If you don't look out I'll begin wondering who you were expecting."
"All that was before I turned on the radio and heard what it's really like out there. How in the hell did you get here anyway? For the last hour it's been nothing but a story of bridges out, roads blocked, whole towns under water, and yet—here you are."
"Don't believe everything you hear."
Inside, Mildred saw the reason for th& tarpaulin he had produced so unexpectedly, quite as though he kept such things around in case they were needed. The whole place was under gray, ghostly cloths that covered rugs, furniture, even paintings. She shivered as she looked into the great dark drawing room, and he laughed. "Pretty gloomy, hey? Not quite so bad upstairs." He led the way up the big staircase, snapping on lights and then snapping them off when she had passed; through several big bedrooms, all under cloths as the drawing room was, to a long narrow hall, at the end of which was the tiny apartment where he lived. "This is my humble abode. How do you like it?"
"Why it's—quite nice."
"Really servants' quarters, but I moved into them because I could have a little fire—and they seemed cozier, somehow."
The furnishings had the small, battered, hand-me-down look of servants' quarters, but the fire was friendly. Mildred sat down in front of it and slipped off the galoshes. Then she took off the kerchief and trench coat, and unpinned her dress. His face lit up as she emerged like a butterfly from her very drab cocoon, and he turned her around, examining every detail of her costume. Th
en he kissed her. For a moment he had the old sunny look, and she had to concentrate 'hard to remember her grievances. Then he said such grandeur deserved a drink. She was afraid that with a drink she couldn't remember any grievances at all, and asked if they hadn't better wait until the Ewings got there. "The—who did you say?"
"Isn't that their name?"
"Good God, they can't get here."
"Why not?"
"They live on the other side of Huntington Avenue, and it's three feet deep in water, and—how in the hell did you get here? Haven't you heard there's a storm going on? I think you were hiding two blocks up the street, and just pretended to drive over from Glendale."
"I didn't see any storm."
Following him into the bedroom, to see if she could be of help with the drink, she got a shock. It was a tiny cubicle, with one window and a hummocksy bed, on which were her trench coat and a cocktail service, consisting of a great silver shaker, a big B on its side, and beautiful crystal glasses. But not seven feet away, in the smallest, meanest bathroom she had ever seen, he was chopping away at a piece of ice he had evidently procured earlier in the day. Near him, on a small table, she could see a little two-burner gas fixture, a box of eggs, a package of bacon, and a can of coffee. Wishing she hadn't come, she went back and resumed her seat by the fire.
He served the drinks presently, and she had two. When he reached for the shaker to pour her a third, she stopped him. "If I'm going to drive, I think I've had enough."