"Drive? Where to?"
"Why—isn't the Biltmore where we're going?"
"Mildred—we're not going anywhere."
"Well we certainly are."
"Listen—"
Be stepped over and snapped on a small radio. An excited announcer was telling of bridges down between Glendale and Burbank, of a wrecked automobile on the San Fernando Road, of the fear that a whole family had been lost with the car. She tossed her head petulantly. "Well, my goodness, the Biltmore's not in Burbank."
"Wherever it is, and however we go to get to it, we have to cross the Los Angeles River, and by last report it's a raging torrent, with half the bridges out and three feet of water boiling over the rest. We're not going. The New Year's party is here."
He filled her glass and she began to sulk. In spite of the liquor, the main idea of the evening was still clear in her mind, and this turn of events was badly interfering with it. When he put his arm around her, she didn't respond. Amiably, he said she was a very problematical drunk. On two drinks she'd argue with Jesus Christ, on three she'd agree with Judas Iscariot. Now would she kindly tilt over No. 3, so she'd be in a frame of mind to welcome the New Year the way it deserved? When she didn't touch the drink, he asked for her key, so he could put her car in the garage. When she made no move to give it to him, he went downstairs.
Somewhere in the house, water began to drip. She shivered, for' the first time really becoming aware of the rain that was cascading down the windows, roaring on the roof. She began to blame him for that too. When he came back, and took a sharp look at her face, he seemed a little bored. "Well, if you still feel like that, I suppose there's nothing to do but go to bed. . . . I pulled that cloth clear over your car, so it'll probably be all right. I have green pajamas and red. Which do you prefer?"
"I'm not going to bed."
"You're not very amusing here."
"I'm going home."
"Then good night. But in case you change your mind, I'll put out the green pajamas, and—"
"I haven't gone yet."
"Of course you haven't. I'm inviting—"
"Why did you tell her that?"
What with the liquor, the rain, and his manner, her grievances had heavy compression behind them now, and she exploded with a snarl that left her without the least recollection of all the stuffy little things she had intended to say. He looked at her in astonishment. "Tell whom what? If you don't mind my asking."
"You know perfectly well what I'm talking about. How could you say such things to that child? And who gave you the right to talk about my legs anyhow?"
"Everybody else does. Why not me?"
"What?"
"Oh come, come, come. Your legs are the passion of your life. They all but get a cheer when you appear with them in that Pie Wagon, and if you don't want them talked about, you ought' to wear your skirts longer. But you do want them talked about, and looked at, and generally envied, so why this howling fit? And after all, they are damned good-looking."
"We're talking about my child."
"Oh for God's sake, what do you mean, child? If she's a child, she's forgotten more about such things than you'll ever know. You ought to keep up with the times. I don't know how it was once—maybe the sweet young things were told by their mothers at the age of seventeen and were greatly surprised, you can't prove it by me. But now—they know all there is to know before they've even been told about Santa Claus. Anyway, she knows. What am I supposed to do? Act like a zany when I drive off with you at night and don't bring you back until the next morning? Do you think she doesn't know where you've been? Hell she even asks me how many times."
"And you tell her?"
"Sure. She greatly admires my capacity—and yours. Yours she simply can't get over. 'Who'd think the poor mope had it in her?'"
As Monty mimicked Veda, Mildred knew this was nothing he had invented, as a sort of counter-offensive. Her rage mounted still higher. She said "I see," then said it over again, three or four times. Then, getting up and going over to him, she asked: "And how about the best legs being found in kitchens, not in the drawing room?"
"What in the hell are you talking about?"
"You know what I'm talking about."
Monty stared, touched his brow, as though in a great effort of recollection. Then, snapping his fingers briskly, he said: "Oh, I knew there was something familiar about that. Yes, I did give a little dissertation along those lines one afternoon. We passed a girl—she had on a uniform of some sort, and an apron—quite a pretty little thing, especially around the ankles. And I got that off—what you've just quoted. Nothing 'original, I assure you. I had almost forgotten it. . . . How does that concern us?"
He was plausible, circumstantial, casual, but a little flicker around the eyes betrayed him. Mildred didn't answer his question. She came over close, and there was something snakelike about her as she said: "That's a lie. You weren't talking about any girl you saw on the street. You were talking about me."
Monty shrugged and Mildred went back to her chair and sat down. Then she began to talk slowly, but with rising stridency. She said he had deliberately tried to set Veda against her, to hold her up to ridicule, to make the child think of her as an inferior, somebody to be ashamed of. "I see it all now. I always thought it was funny she never invited any of these people over here in Pasadena to see her once in a while. Not that I don't give her the opportunity. Not that I don't remind her that you can't accept invitations all the time without giving any in return. Not that I didn't do my part. But no. Because you were ifiling her up with all this foolishness, she's been ashamed to ask these people over. She actually believes Glendale is not good enough for them. She thinks I'm not good enough. She—"
"Oh for God's sake shut up."
Monty's eyes were black now, and had little hard points of light in them. "In the first place, what invitations did she accept? My mother's, right here in this house. Well, we went all over that once, and we're not going over it again. And to the Hannens'. And so far as I know the only invitation Charlie and Roberta ever got out of you was an invitation to go over and buy their dinner in that Pie Wagon, and they did go over, and—"
"No check was ever presented to them."
"O.K., then you're square. For the rest, who the hell would expect a kid of fourteen to be doing something about every cocktail party I dragged her to? She asked about it, and I said it would be silly. Come on. What else?"
"That may be all right, for older people. But there have been plenty of others she's met, girls her own age—"
"No, there haven't. And right there's where I suggest you get better acquainted with your own daughter. She's a strange child. Girls her own age don't interest her. She likes older women—"
"If they're rich."
"Anyway, she's damned nice to them. And it's unusual as hell. And you can't blame them for liking it. And liking her. But as for her trying to throw some kind of a shindig for them, what are you trying to do, make me laugh?"
In some elusive, quicksilver way that she couldn't get her finger on, Mildred felt the argument slipping away from her, and like Veda, she abandoned logic and began to scream: "You've set her against me! I don't care a bit for your fine talk—you've set her against me!"
Monty lit a cigarette, smoked sullenly a few moments without speaking. Then he looked up. "Ah! So this is why you came. Stupid of me not to have thought of it sooner."
"I came because I was invited."
"On a night like this?"
"It's as good a time as any other."
"What a nice little pal you turned out to be. . . . Funny—I had something to say, too."
He looked with a little self-pitying smile into the fire, evidently decided to keep his intentions to himself, then changed his mind. " . . . I was going to say you'd make a fine wife for somebody—if you didn't live in Glendale."
She had been feeling outpointed, but at this all her selfri
ghteousness came back. Leaning forward, she stared at him. "Monty, you can still say that? After what I've said to you? Just to have somebody take care of you, you'd ask me to marry you? Haven't you any more self-respect than that?"
"Ah, but that's what I was going to say."
"Monty, don't make it any worse than it is. If I got excited about it, you were going to let it stay said. If I didn't, you were going to pretend that was what you were going to say. Gee, Monty, but you're some man, aren't you?"
"Now suppose you listen to what I am going to say."
"No, I'm going home."
She got up, but he leaped at her, seized her by both arms, and flung her back in her chair. The little glittering points of light in his eyes were dancing now, and his face was drawn and hard. "Do you know why Veda never invites anybody to that house of yours? Do you know why nobody, except that stringbean that lives next door, ever goes there?"
"Yes—because you set her against me and—"
"Because you are a goddam varlet, and you're afraid to have people come there, because you wouldn't know what to do about them—you just haven't got the nerve."
Looking into his contorted face, she suddenly had the same paralyzed, shrunken feeling she had had the morning Miss Turner told her off, and sent her over to, the housekeeper's job, because there was nothing else she could do. And she kept shrinking, as Monty went on, pouring a torrent of bitter, passionate invective at her. "It's not her. It's not me. It's you. Doesn't that strike you as funny? That Veda has a hundred friends, here, there, everywhere she goes, and that you haven't any? No, I'm wrong—you have one. That bartender. And that's all. Nobody ever gets invited to your house, nobody—"
"What are you talking about? How can I give parties, or invite people, with a living to make? Why you—"
"Living, my eye! That's the alibi, not the reason. You damned little kitchen scullion, you'd tell me who's setting your child against you? Me? Listen, Mildred. Nobody but a varlet would give a second's thought to what you've been talking about tonight. Because that's the difference. A lady doesn't care. A varlet does."
He walked around, panting, then turned on her again. "And I like a fool, like a damned idiot, I once thought maybe I'd been mistaken, that you were a lady, and not a varlet. That was when you handed me the $20 bill that night, and I took it. And then I took more. I even gave you credit for something. God knows what it is, some sense of humor that only an aristocrat ever has, and asked you for money. And then what? Could you go through with it? The very thing that you yourself started? A lady would have cut her heart out before she let me know the money meant anything. But you, before I had even fifty bucks out of you, you had to make a chauffeur out of me, didn't you? To get your money's worth? A lackey, a poodle dog. You had to rub it in. Well no more. I've taken my last dime off you, and God willing, before my sun goes down, I'll pay you back. Why you scum, you—waitress. I guess that's one reason I love Veda. She wouldn't pick up a tip. That's one thing she wouldn't do—and neither would I."
"Except from me."
White with rage, she opened her evening bag, took out a crisp $10 bill, threw it at his feet. He took the fire tongs, picked it up, dropped it on the fire. When the flame flared up he took out a handkerchief and mopped his face.
For a time, nothing was said by either of them, and when their panting had died down, Mildred began to feel ashamed, defeated, and miserable. She had said it all, had goaded him to say it all too, those things that she knew he felt, and that left her crumpled and unable to answer. Yet nothing had been settled: there he was and there she was. As she looked at him, she saw for the first time that he was tired, worn, and haggard, with just a touch of middle age dragging at what she had always thought of as a youthful face. Then a gush of terrible affection for him swept over her, compounded of pity, contempt, and something motherly. She wanted to cry, and suddenly reached over and rubbed his bald spot. For a long time, it had been a little joke between them. He made no move, but he didn't repulse her either, and when she leaned back she felt better. Then again she heard the rain, and for the first time was afraid of it. She drew the coat around her. Then she picked up Manhattan No. 3, drank half of it, set it down again. Without looking at her, he filled her glass. They sat a long time, neither of them looking at the other.
Then abruptly, as though he had solved a very difficult problem, he banged his fist on the arm of his chair, and said: "Damn it, what this needs is the crime of rape!"
He came' over, put one arm around her, slipped the other under her legs, and carried her into the bedroom. A little moaning laugh escaped her as he dumped her down on the hummocksy bed. She felt weak and drugged. In a moment, the brocaded coat was off, was sliding to the floor. She thought of her dress, and didn't care: she wanted him to rip it off her, to tear it away in shreds, if he had to, so he got her out of it. But he wasn't ripping it off. He was fumbling with the zipper, and for a moment her fingers were over his, trying to help. Then something stirred inside of her, an unhappy recollection of what she had come for, of what had been piling up between them these last few months. She fought it off, tried to make it sink under the overwhelming blend of liquor, man, and rain. It wouldn't sink. If she had lifted a mountain, it couldn't have been harder than it was to put both palms in Monty's face, push him away, squirm off the bed, and lurch to her feet. She grabbed both coats, ran into the other room. He was after her, trying to drag her back, but she fought him off as she snatched up the galoshes and dashed into the dark hail.
Somehow, she got through the ghostly rooms, down the stairs, and to the front door. It was locked. She twisted the big brass key, and at last was on the portico, in the cold wet air. She pulled on both coats, stepped into the galoshes. Then suddenly the light came on, and he was beside her, reaching for her, trying to pull her back. She dashed out into the rain, yanked the cloth off the car, let it fall in the mud, and jumped in. As she snapped on the lights and started the motor, she could see him under the light, gesticulating at her, expostulating with her. There was nothing of passion in his face now. He was angrily telling her not to be a fool, not to go out in that storm.
She started out. On Orange Grove Avenue more tree limbs were down, and it didn't look so sleek and harmless. She pulled in to the curb, found the kerchief in the trench coat pocket, tied it around her head. Then, cautiously, feeling a throb of fright every time the car bucked in the wind, she went on. As she turned at the traffic circle, she caught the lights of another car, behind.
There were no men with lanterns now, nothing but the black, wild, and terrible night. She got over the bridge without trouble, but when she came to the detour, she was afraid, and waited until the other car caught up a little. Then she went on, noting with relief that the other car turned into the detour too. She had no trouble for a mile or so, and then she came to the washout. To her dismay it had spread: the road was completely blocked. All resolution having deserted her, she stopped and waited, to see what the other car was going to do. It stopped, and she watched. A door slammed, and she strained her eyes to see. Then Monty's face was at the window, not six inches from her own. Water was pouring off an old felt hat,, and off the slicker that was buttoned to his ears. Furiously he pointed at the washout. "Look at that! It never occurred to you there'd be some like that, did it? Damn it, the trouble you're putting flie to!"
For a moment or two, as he savagely ordered her to lock the car, get out, and come back with him, she had a happy, contented feeling, as though he were her father, she a bad little girl that would be taken care of, anyway. Then once more her fixed resolve rose in her. She shifted into reverse and backed. She backed past his car, came to a corner, headed into it. When she had followed the new road a few feet, she saw it led down into Eagle Rock. It was full of rubble, and she proceeded by inches, rolling and braking, then rolling on again. Then ahead of her she saw that the rubble stopped, that a black shining road lay ahead. She stepped on the gas. It was the check of the car that
told her the black shining road was black shining water. When she stepped on the brake the car slid right on. The lights went out. The motor stopped. The car stopped. She was alone in a pool that extended as far as she could see. When she took her foot off the brake she felt it splash into a puddle. She screamed.
The rain was driving against her, and she wound up the window. Outside, she could hear the purling of the torrent against the wheels, and in a moment or two the car began to move. She guided it to the right, and when she felt it catch the curb, pulled up the hand brake. Then she sat there. In a few minutes, her breath had misted the glass so she could see nothing. Then the door beside her was jerked open, and once more Monty was standing there. He has evidently gone back to his car to take off his trousers, for as the slicker floated on the pool she could see he was in his shorts. He braced his right arm against the door jamb. "All right, now throw your legs over my arm, and put your arm around my neck. Hold on tight, and I think I can get you to the top of the hill."
She lifted her feet to the seat, took off the gold shoes and stockings, put them in the dashboard compartment. Then she put on the galoshes, over her bare feet. Then she wriggled out of both coats and the dress. The dress and the brocaded coat she stuffed over the shoes, closed the compartment and locked it. Then, shivering, she got into the trench coat. Then she motioned to Monty to move his hand. When he did, she pulled the door shut and snapped the catch. Then she slipped out the opposite door, locking it. A yelp came out of her as she stepped off the running board and felt the water around her thighs, and th'e current almost swept 'her off her feet. But she held on to the door handle and steadied herself. Above her was a high bank, evidently with some sort of sidewalk on top of it. Paying no attention to Monty and his barely audible shouts, she scrambled up, and then slipped, slid, and staggered home through the worst storm in the annals of the Los Angeles weather bureau, or of any weather bureau.