Thereafter, she hardly saw Veda. In the morning, when she went out, Veda was still asleep, and at night, when she came in, Veda wasn't home yet, and usually didn't arrive until two or three in the morning. One night, when Veda's car backed and started several times before making the garage, and the footsteps sounded heavy in the hall, Mildred knew that Veda was drunk. But when she went to Veda's door, it was locked, and there was no answer to her knock. Then one afternoon, when she came home for her rest, Veda's car was there, and so was a dreadful girl, named Elaine. Her place of residence, it turned out, was Beverly, her occupation actress, though when Mildred asked what pictures she had acted in, the answer was merely, "character parts." She was tall, pretty, and cheap, and Mildred instinctively disliked her. But as this was the first girl Veda had ever chosen as a friend, she tried to "be nice to her." Then Mildred began to hear things. Ida cornered her one night, and began a long, whispered harangue. "Mildred, it may be none of my business, but it's time you knew what was going on with Veda. She's been in here a dozen times, with that awful girl she goes around with and not only here but at Eddie's across the street, and at other places. And all they're up to is picking up men. And the men they pick up! They're driving all around in that car of Veda's, and somethings they've got one man with them and sometimes it's five. Five, Mildred. One day there was three inside, sitting all over the girls' laps, and two more outside, one on each running board. And at Eddie's they drink . . ."
Mildred felt she had to talk to Veda about this, and one Sunday nTorning screwed up her courage to start. But Veda elected to be hurt. "After all, Mother, it was you that said I couldn't lie around here all the time. And just because that prissy -Ida—-oh well, let's not get on that subject. There's nothing to be alarmed at, Mother. I may go into pictures, that's all. And Elaine may be a bum—well there's no use being silly about it. I grant at once that she's nothing but a tramp. But she knows directors. Lots of them. All of them. And you have to know directors to get a test."
Mildred tried conscientiously to accept this version, reminded herself that the picture career had been her own idea, too. But she remained profoundly miserable, almost physically sick.
One afternoon, at the Glendale restaurant, Mildred was checking inventory with Mrs. Kramer when Arline came into the -kitchen and said a Mrs. Lenhardt was there to see her. Then, lowering her voice, Arline added excitedly: "I think it's the director's wife." -
Mildred quickly scrubbed up her hands, dried them, and went out. Then she felt her face get prickly. Arline had said Mrs. Lenhardt, but the woman near the door was the very Mrs. Forrester to whom she had apphed, years before, for the job as housekeeper. She had just time to recall that Mrs. Porrester had expected to be married again when the lady turned, then came over beaming, with outstretched glove and alarming graciousness. "Mrs. Pierce? I've been looking forward so much to meeting you. I'm Mrs. Lenhardt, Mrs. John Lenhardt, and I'm sure we're going to work out our little problem splendidly."
This greeting left Mildred badly crossed up, and as she led Mrs. Lenhardt to a table she speculated wildly as to what it might mean. She had a panicky fear that it had something to do with that visit years before, that Veda, would find out she had once actually applied for a servant's job, that the consequences would be horrible. As she faced her visitor, she suddenly made up her mind that whatever this was about, she was going to deny everything; deny that she had ever seen Mrs. Forrester before, or been to her house, or even considered a position as housekeeper. She had no sooner made this decision than she saw Mrs. Forrester eyeing her sharply. "But haven't we met before, Mrs. Pierce."
"Possibly in one of my restaurants."
"But I don't go to restaurants, Mrs. Pierce."
"I have a branch in Beverly. You may have dropped in for a cup of chocolate some time, many people do. You probably saw me there. Of course, if I'd seen you I'd remember it."
"No doubt that's it."
As Mrs. Lenhardt continued to stare, Arline appeared and began dusting tables. It seemed to Mildred that Arline's ears looked bigger than usual, so she called her over, and asked Mrs. Lenhardt if she could offer her something. When Mrs. Lenhardt declined, she pointedly told Arline she could let the tables go until later. Mrs. Lenihardt settled into her coat like a hen occupying a nest, and gushed: "I've come to talk about our children, Mrs. Pierce—our babies, I'm almost tempted to say, because that's the way I really feel about them."
"Our—?"
"Your little one, Veda—she's such a lovely girl, Mrs. Pierce. I don't know when I've taken a child to my heart as I have Veda. And. . . my boy."
Mildred, nervous and frightened, stared for a moment and said: "Mrs. Lenhardt, I haven't any idea what you're talking about."
"Oh come, come, Mrs. Pierce."
"I don't know what you mean."
Mildred's tone was sharp, and Mrs. Lenhardt looked at her steadily, her lips smiling, her eyes not believing. Then she broke into a high, shrill laugh. "Oh of course you don't! How stupid of me, Mrs. Pierce. I should have explained that my boy, my baby, is Sam Forrester."
As Mildred still stared, Mrs. Lenhardt saw at last that this might not be pretense. Her manner changing, she leaned forward and asked eagerly: "You mean Veda hasn't told you anything?"
"Not a word."
"Ah!"
Mrs. Forrester was excited now, obviously aware of her advantage in being able to give Mildred her own version of this situation, whatever it was, first. She stripped off her gloves and shot appraising glances at Mildred for some time before proceeding. Then: "Shall I begin at the beginning, Mrs. Pierce?"
"Please."
"They met—well it seems only yesterday, actually it was several weeks ago, at my house. My husband, no doubt you've heard of him—he's a director, and he was considering Veda for a part. And as he so often does with these kids, when we have a little party going on, he asked her over—Veda and her little friend Elaine, another lovely child, Mrs. Pierce. My husband has known her for years, and—"
"Yes, I've met her."
"So it was at my own house, Mrs. Pierce, that Veda and Sam met. And it was simply love at first sight. It must have been, because that boy of mine, Mrs. Pierce, is so sincere, so—,'
"You mean they're engaged?"
"I was coming to that. No, I wouldn't say they were engaged. In fact I know that Sammy had no such thing in mind. But Veda has somehow got the idea that—well, I understand it, of course. Any girl wants to get married, but Sam had no such thing in mind. I want that made clear."
Mrs. Lenhardt's voice was becoming a little high, a little strident, and she waggled a stiff forefinger at Mildred as she went on. "And I'm quite sure you'll agree with me, Mrs. Pierce, that any discussion of marriage between them would be most undesirable."
"Why?"
So far as Mildred was concerned, marriage for Veda would have been a major calamity, but at Mrs. Lenhardt's manner she bristled with hot partisanship. Mrs. Lerthardt snapped: "Because they're nothing but children! Veda can't be over nineteen—"
"She's seventeen."
"And my boy is twenty. That's too young. Mrs. Pierce, it's entirely too young. Furthermore, they move in two different worlds—"
"What different worlds?"
Mildred's eyes blazed, and Mrs. Lenhardt hastily backed off. "That isn't quite what I mean, Mrs. Pierce, of course. Let us say different communities. They have different backgrounds, different ideals, different friends. And of course, Sam has always been used to a great deal of money—"
"Do you think Veda hasn't?"
"I'm sure she has everything you can give her—"
"You may find she's been used to just as much as your boy has, and more. I'm not exactly on relief, I can tell you."
"But you didn't let me finish, Mrs. Pierce. If Veda's accustomed to wealth and position, so much the more reason that this thing should not for a second be considered. I want to make this clear: If Sammy gets married, he'
ll be completely on his own, and it will certainly be hard for two young people, both born with silver spoons in their mouths, to live on what he can earn."
Having made this clear, Mrs. Lenhardt tried to calm down, and Mildred tried to calm down. She said this was the first she had heard of it, and she would have to talk to Veda before she could say what she thought. But as Mrs. Lenhardt politely agreed that this was an excellent idea, Mildred began to have a suspicion that the whole truth had not been told. Suddenly and sharply she asked: "Why should Veda feel this way about it, and your boy not?"
"Mrs. Pierce, I'm not a mind reader."
Mrs. Lenhardt spoke angrily, the color appearing in her cheeks. Then she added: "But let me tell you one thing. If you, or that girl, or anybody, employ any more tricks, trying to blackmail my boy into—"
"Trying to—what?"
Mildred's voice cracked like a whip, and for a few moments Mrs. Lenhardt didn't speak. Apparently she knew she had said too much, and was trying to be discreet. Her effort was unsuccessful. When her nostrils had dilated and closed several times, she exploded: "You may as well understand here and now, Mrs. Pierce, that I shall prevent this marriage. I shall prevent it in any way that I can, and by legal means, if necessary." The way she said "necess'ry" had a very ominous sound to it.
By now the reality behind this visit was beginning to dawn on Mildred, and she became calm, cold, calculating. Looking up, she saw Arline at her dusting again, her ears bigger than ever. Calling her, she told her to straighten the chairs at the next table, and as she approached, turned pleasantly to Mrs. Lenhardt. "I beg your pardon. For a moment I wasn't listening."
Mrs. Lenhardt's voice rose to a scream. "I say if there are any more threats, any more officers at my door, any more of these tricks she's been playing—I shall have her arrested, I shall have her prosecuted for blackmail, I shall not hesitate for one moment, for I've quite reached the limit of my patience!"
Mrs. Lenhardt, after panting a moment, got up and swept out. Mildred looked at Arline. "Did you hear what she said?"
"I wasn't listening, Mrs. Pierce."
"I asked if you heard what she said?"
Arline studied Mildred for a cue. Then: "She said Veda was trying to blackmail her boy into marrying her and if she kept it up she'd have the law on her."
"Remember that, in case I need you."
"Yes'm."
That night Mildred didn't go to Laguna or to Beverly. She stayed home, tramping around, tortured by the fear that Arline had probably told everybody in the restaurant by now, by uncertainty as to what dreadful mess Veda had got herself into, by a sick, nauseating, physical jealousy that she couldn't fight down. At eleven, she went to her room and lay down, pulling a blanket over her but not taking off her clothes. Around one, when Veda's car zipped up the drive, she took no chances on a locked door, but jumped up and met Veda in the kitchen. "Mother! . . . My, how you startled me!"
"I'm sorry, darling. But I have to talk to you. Something has happened."
"Well—at least let me take off my hat."
Mildred went to the den, relieved that she had smelled no liquor. In a minute or two Veda came in, sat down, lit a cigarette, yawned. "Personally, I find pictures a bore, don't you? At least Nelson Eddy pictures. Still, I suppose it's not his fault, for it isn't how he sings but what he sings. And I suppose he has nothing to do with how dreadfully long they are."
Miserably, Mildred tried to think how to begin. In a low, timid voice, she said: "A Mrs. Lenhardt was in to see me today. A Mrs. John Lenhardt?"
"Oh, really?"
"She says you're engaged to marry her son, or have some idea you want to marry him, or—something."
"She's quite talkative. What else?"
"She opposes it."
In spite of her effort, Mildred had been unable to get started. Now she blurted out: "Darling, what was she talking about? What does it all mean?"
Veda smoked reflectively a few moments, then said, in her clear, suave way: "Well, it would be going too far to say it was my idea that Sam and I get married. After the big rush they gave me, with Pa breaking his neck to get me a screen test and Ma having me over morning, noon and night, and Sonny Boy phoning me, and writing me, and wiring me that if I didn't marry him he'd end his young life—you might say it was a conspiracy. Certainly I said nothing about it, or even thought about it, until it seemed advisable."
"What do you mean, advisable?"
"Well, Mother, he was certainly very sweet, or seemed so at any rate, and they were most encouraging, and I hadn't exactly been happy since—Hannen died. And Elaine did have a nice little apartment. And I was certainly most indiscreet. And then, after the big whoop-de-do, their whole attitude changed, alas. And here I am, holding the bag. One might almost say I was a bit of a sap."
If there was any pain, any tragic overtone, to this recital, it was not audible to the ordinary ear. It betrayed regret over folly, perhaps a little self-pity, but all of a casual kind. Mildred, however, wasn't interested in such subtleties. She had reached a point where she had to know one stark, basic fact. Sitting beside Veda, clutching her hand, she said: "Darling, I have to ask you something. I have to, I have to. Are you—going to have a baby?"
"Yes, Mother, I'm afraid I am."
For a second the jealousy was so overwhelming that Mildred actually was afraid she would vomit. But then Veda looked at her in a pretty, contrite way, as one who had sinned but is sure of forgiveness, and dropped her head on Mildred's shoulder. At this the sick feeling left, and a tingle went through Mildred. She gathered Veda to her bosom, held her tight, patted her, cried a little. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I was afraid."
"Of me? Of Mother?"
"No, no! Of the suffering it would bring you. Darling Mother, don't you know I can't bear to see you unhappy?"
Mildred closed her eyes for a moment, to savor this sweet blandishment. Then, remembering, she asked: "What did she mean about officers?"
"You mean police?"
"I guess so. At her door."
"My, that is funny."
Veda sat up, lit another cigarette, and laughed in a silvery,- ironical way. "From what I've learned of the young man since this happened, I'd say that any girl from Central Casting, perhaps all eight thousand of them for that matter, could have sent officers to his door. He has a very inclusive taste. Well, that's really funny, when you stop to think about it, isn't it?"
Hoping for more saccharine remarks, Mildred asked Veda if she'd like to sleep with her, "just for tonight," but Veda said it was something she'd have to face alone, and went to her room. All through the night, Mildred kept waking with the jealousy gnawing at her. In the morning, she went to the Glendale restaurant and called Bert. Dispensing with Tommy, she went down to Mrs. Biederhof's corner and picked him up. Then, starting for the hills, she started to talk. She put in everything that seemed relevant, beginning with Mr. Hannen's hemorrhage, and emphasizing Veda's forebodings about it. When she got to Mr. Treviso, Bert's face darkened, and he exclaimed at the "rottenness" of a dirty wop that would treat a young girl that way. Then, finding the going more difficult, Mildred told about Elaine, the drinking, and Ida's harrowing tales. Then, disconnectedly, hardly able to speak any more, or to drive, she told about Mr. Lenhardt. Then, trying to tell about her talk with Veda, she broke down completely, and blurted: "Bert! She's going to have a baby! She's in a family way!"
Bert's grip tightened on her arm. "Hold it! Stop this goddam car. I got to-get some place where I can move around."
She stopped, and pulled to one side, on Foothill Boulevard. He got out, began tramping up and down beside the car. Then he began to curse. He said goddam it, he was going to kill that son of a bitch if it was the last thing he did on earth. He said he was going to kill him if they hung him for it and his soul rotted in hell. With still more frightful oaths, he went into full particulars as to where he was going to buy the gun, the way he would lay for the boy, what he wo
uld say when he had him face to face, and how he would let him have it. Mildred watched the preposterous little figure striding up and down, and a fierce, glowing pride in him began to warm her. Even his curses gave her a queer, morbid satisfaction. But after a while she said: "Get in, Bert."
He climbed in beside her, held his face in his hands, and for a moment she thought he was going to weep. When he didn't, she started the car and said: "I know you'd kill him, Bert. I know you would, and I glory in you for it. I love you for it." She took his hand, and gripped it, and tears came to her eyes, for he had reached her own great pain, somehow, and by his ferocity, eased it. "But—that wouldn't do Veda any good. If he's dead, that's not getting her anywhere."
"That's right."
"What are we going to do?"
Gagging over her words, Mildred presently broached the subject of an operation. It was something she knew little about, and hated, not only on account of its physical aspect, but because it went counter to every instinct in her wholly feminine nature. Bert cut her off with a gesture. "Mildred, girls die in that operation. They die. And we're not going to let her die. We lost one, and that's enough. By God, I'll say she's not going to have any operation, not to make it easy for a dirty little rat that took advantage of her and now wants to do a run-out."