"Mother, I needed a handkerchief, and went to see if any of mine had been put with your things by mistake."
"In the closet?"
"I had looked everywhere else, and—"
"All your handkerchiefs were in. your own top drawer, and they still are, and you weren't looking for any handkerchief at all. Once more you were snooping into my things to see what you could find, weren't you?"
"Mother, how can you insinuate such—"
"Weren't you?"
"I was not, and I resent the question."
Veda looked Mildred in the eye with haughty, offended dignity. Mildred waited a moment, and then went on: "And how did you happen to give one of those uniforms to Letty?"
"I merely assumed, Mother, that you had forgotten to tell her to wear them. Evidently they had been bought for her. If she was going to take my things to the pool, I naturally wanted her decently dressed."
"To the pool? What things?"
"My swimming things, Mother."
Little Ray laughed loudly, and Mildred stared bewildered. School being over, she had left a book of bus tickets, so the children could go down and swim in the plunge at Griffith Park. But that Letty was included in the excursion she had no idea. It quickly developed, however, that Veda's notion of a swim in the pool was for herself and Ray to go parading to the bus stop, with Letty following two paces behind, all dressed up in uniform, apron, and cap, and carrying the swimming bags. She even produced the cap, which Mildred identified as the collar of one of her own dresses. It had been neatly sewed, so as to make a plausible white corona, embroidered around the edges.
"I never heard of such goings-on in my life."
"Well, Mother, it seems to me wholly proper."
"Does Letty go in swimming?"
"Certainly not."
"What does she do?"
"She sits by the pool and waits, as she should."
"For Miss Veda, I suppose?"
"She knows her place, I hope."
"Well hereafter, there'll be no more Miss Veda. And if she goes with you to the pool, she goes in her own clothes, and she has a swim. If she hasn't a suit, I'll get her one."
"Mother, it shall be as you say."
Little Ray, who had been listening to all this with vast delight, now rolled on the floor, screaming with laughter, and kicking her heels in the air. "She can't swim! She can't swim, and she'll get drownded! And Red will have to pull her out! He's the life guard, and he's stuck on her!"
At this, Mildred began to understand Letty's strange conduct, and had to laugh in spite of herself. Veda thereupon elected to regard the inquest as closed. "Really, Mother, it seems to me you made a great fuss over nothing. If you bought the uniforms for her, and certainly I can't imagine who else you could have bought them for—then why shouldn't she wear them?"
But Veda had slightly overdone it. In a flash, from the special innocence with which she couldn't imagine who else the uniforms could have been bought for, Mildred divined that she knew the truth, and that meant the whole thing had to be dealt with fundamentally. For Veda's purpose, in giving Letty the uniform, might be nothing more sinister than a desire to make a peafowl's progress to the pool, but it might be considerably more devious. So Mildred didn't act at once. She sat looking at Veda, the squint hardening in her eye; then she scooped up Ray in her arms, and announced it was time to go to bed. Undressing her, she played with her as she always did, blowing into the buttonholes of the little sleeping suit, rolling her into bed with a loud whoosh and a final blow down the back of her neck. But all the time she was thinking of Veda, who never took part in these frivolities. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her, camped in front of the dressing table for a period of primping, whose main object seemed to be the spreading of as many combs, brushes, and bottles in front of her as the table would hold. She was none too agreeable about it when Mildred finished with Ray, and ordered her to the den for more talk. She got up angrily and threw down a brush. "Yee gods—what now?"
When they -got to the den, Mildred closed the door, sat down in the armchair, and stood Veda in front of her. "Why did you give Letty that uniform?"
"For heaven's sake,. Mother, haven't I told you once? How often do I have to tell you? I won't have you questioning methis way. Good night—I'm going to bed."
Mildred caught her arm, pulled her back. "You knew, when you gave it to Letty, that that was my uniform, didn't you?" -
"Your uniform?"
Veda's simulation of surprise was so cool, so calculated, so insolent, that Mildred waited longer than she usually did, when angered. Then she went on: "I've taken a job as a waitress in a restaurant in Hollywood."
"As a—what?"
"As a waitress, as you very well know."
"Yee gods! Yee—"
Mildred clipped her on the cheek, but she gave a short laugh, and brazenly finished: —"gods and little fishes!"
At this, Mildred clipped her a terrific wallop on the other cheek, that toppled her to the floor. As she lay there, Mildred began to talk. "So you and your sister can eat, and have a place to sleep, and a few clothes on your backs. I've taken the only kind of a job I could get, and if you think I'm going to listen to a lot of silly nonsense from you about it, you're mistaken. And if you think your nonsense is going to make me give up the job, you're mistaken about that, too. How you found out what I was doing I don't know—"
"From the uniform, stupid. You think I'm dumb?"
Mildred clipped her again, and went on: "You may not realize it, but everything you have costs money, from the maid that you ordered to go traipsing with you to the pooi, to your food, and everything else that you have. And as I don't see anybody else doing anything about it—"
Veda had got up now, her eyes, hard, and cut in: "Aren't the pies bad enough? Did you have to degrade us by—"
Mildred caught her by both arms, threw her over one knee, whipped the kimono up with one motion, the pants down with another, and brought her bare hand down on Veda's bottom with all the force her fury could give her. Veda screamed and bit her leg. Mildred pulled loose, then beat the rapidly reddening bottom until she was exhausted, and Veda screamed as though demons were inside of her. Then Mildred let Veda slide to the floor, and sat there panting and fighting the nausea that was swelling in her stomach.
Presently Veda got up, staggered to the sofa, and flung herself down in tragic despair. Then she gave a soft laugh, and whispered, in sorrow rather than anger: "A waitress."
Mildred now began to cry. She rarely struck Veda, telling Mrs. Gessler that "the child didn't need it," and that she "didn't believe in beating children for every little thing." But this wasn't the real reason. The few times she had tried beating, she had got exactly nowhere. She couldn't break Veda, no matter how much she beat her. Veda got victory out of these struggles, she a trembling, ignoble defeat. It always came back to the same thing. She was afraid of Veda, of her snobbery, her contempt, her unbreakable spirit. And she was afraid of something that seemed -always- lurking under Veda's bland, phony toniness: a cold, cruel, coarse desire to torture her mother, to humiliate her, above everything else, to hurt her. Mildred apparently yearned for warm affection from this child, such as Bert apparently commanded. But all she ever got was a stagy, affected counterfeit. This half loaf she had to accept, trying not to see it for what it really was.
She wept, then sat with a dismal feeling creeping over her, for she was as far from settling the main point as she had ever been. Veda had to be made to accept this job she had taken, else her days would be dull misery, and in the end she would have to give it up. But how? Presently, not conscious of having hatched any idea, she began to talk. "You never give me credit for any finer feelings, do you?"
"Oh Mother, please—let's not talk about it any more. It's all right. You're working in a—in Hollywood, and I'll try not to think about it."
"As a matter of fact, I felt exactly about it as you do, and I certainly w
ould never have taken this job if it hadn't been that I—" Mildred swallowed, made a wild lunge at something, anything, and went on: "—that I had decided to open a place of my own, and I had to learn the business. I had to know all about it and—"
At least Veda did sit up at this, and show some faint sign of interest. "What kind of a place, Mother? You mean a—"
"Restaurant, of course."
Veda blinked, and for a dreadful moment Mildred felt that this didn't quite meet Veda's social requirements either. Desperately she went on: "There's money in a restaurant, if it's run right, and—"
"You mean we'll be rich?"
"Many people have got rich that way."
That did it. Even though a restaurant might not be quite the toniest thing that Veda could imagine, riches spoke to the profoundest part of her nature. She ran over, put her arms around her mother, kissed her, nuzzled her neck, insisted on being punished for the horrible way she had acted. When Mildred had given her a faltering pat on the bottom, she climbed into the chair, and babbled happily to Mildred about the limousine they would have, and the grand piano, on which she could practice her music.
Mildred gladly promised all these things, but later, when Veda was in bed and she herself was undressing, she wondered how long she could keep up the pretense, and whether she could get another job before her bluff was called. And then a hot, electric idea flashed through her mind. Why not have her own restaurant? She looked in the mirror, and saw a calculating, confident woman's face squinting back at her. Well, why not? Her breath began to come just a little bit fast as she canvassed her qualifications. She could cook, she had such a gift for it as few ever have. She was learning the business; in fact, so far as pies went, she was in business already. She was young, healthy, stronger than she looked. She had two children, all she wanted, all she could be expected to bring into the world, so there need be no more of that. She was implacably determined to get ahead, somehow. She put on her pajamas, turned out the light, but kept walking around the room, in the dark. In spite of herself, the limousine, the chauffeur, and the grand piano began to gleam before her eyes, but as real this- time, not imaginary. She started for bed, then hurried to the children's room. "Veda?"
"Yes, Mother. I'm awake."
She went over, knelt down, put her arms around the child, hugged her passionately. "You were right, darling, and I was wrong. No matter what I say, no matter what anybody says, never give up that pride, that way you have of looking at things. I wish I had it, and—never give it up!"
"I can't help it, Mother. It's how I feel."
"Something else happened tonight."
"Tell me."
"Nothing to tell. Only now I feel it, now I know it, that from now on things are going to get better for us. So we'll have what we want. Maybe we won't be rich, but—we'll have something. And it'll all be on account of you. Every good thing that happens is on account of you, if Mother only had sense enough to know it."
"Oh Mother, I love you. Truly I do."
"Say it again. . .. Say it—just once—more."
CHAPTER VI
AGAIN MILDRED'S attitude toward the restaurant changed, from critical disapproval to eager curiosity. Mr. Chris, while his cuisine might not excite her, had been in business many years, and it dawned on her now that his system was the ancient system that any restaurant must use, if it is to run at all. She began to study it hard, noting the bookkeeping, the marketing, the method of using up leftovers, particularly the tricks used by Archie, who did many things that annoyed her, but never used two motions where one would suffice, never wondered if a dish was done, but -always knew, and at that moment picked it up. Some of his principles she adopted at once in making her pies, for she was addicted to a deal of peeping into the oven, and giving them one more minute, just to make sure. Now she put them in by the clock and took them out by the clock, and saved herself much fretting, and made better pies.
All the time her confidence was growing, her ideas clarifying as to the kind of place she meant to have. But one thing vexed her constantly. Where was she going to get the money? In the afternoons, if she had -an hour, she drove to the restaurant supply houses on Main Street, in Los Angeles, and priced, calculated, and added up. As well -as she could tell, she would need a thousand dollars' worth of equipment before she could start, even in a small way. A range, icebox, steam table, and sink were going to cost at least half that, and furniture, dishes, silver, and linen would account for the rest. To save this money, at her present income, was going to take a long time, and there was always the risk that she would lose her job, or that some shift in the pie situation would wipe her out completely, and leave her exactly where she was in the spring. She had - to get started, but on whose money she didn't know. She thought about Wally, and even about Mrs. Gessler, but she doubted if they were good for such -a sum, and some instinct told her not to ask them.
For a short time she flirted with the idea of getting it from Mr. Otis, a retired butcher turned federal meat inspector, who was a regular customer, and always left her a quarter. She worked on his romantic nature to the point where he suggested meeting her outside, and -then realized she should have her notes and memoranda in some kind of order if she was to impress him enough to make a deal. So one night, when Wally had reached the stage of yawns and a cigarette, she turned on the light and sat down at the desk. "Wally, want to help me with something?"
"Not particularly."
"I have to have it soon. Tomorrow, maybe."
"What is it?"
"I don't know what you'd call it. An estimate of costs, something like that. For a man that may back me in business. But I want it all written down, with the right words for what I mean, so it looks businesslike."
Wally, snapping his cigarette ashes into the fireplace, turned around and blinked. "What kind of business?"
"Just a restaurant."
"Hey, wait a minute, wait a minute."
He squashed his cigarette and came over to her. Then he pulled up a chair and sat down. "Start all over again. And at the beginning. Not in the middle."
Haltingly, feeling suddenly self-conscious about it, she told him her plan: a small restaurant, where she would do the cooking herself, and sell nothing but chicken. "They have ste-ak places. And fish places. And I thought—well, down where I work practically every other order is for chicken, so it looks to me as though I ought to have plenty of customers. And then I wouldn't have to fool with all those a Ia carte prices, or bookkeeping, or menus, or leftovers, or anything like that. Everybody gets a chicken-and-waffle dinner, or chicken and vegetables, if they want, but all at the same price. And then I'll have pies to take out, and keep on getting all the wholesale pie business that I can, and—well, it looks like one would help the other. I mean, the pies would help the restaurant and the restaurant would help the pies."
"And who is this guy?"
"Just an old fogy that eats lunch with me every day. But I think he's got money. And if I could show him it was a good investment he might let me have what I need."
Wally took several turns around the room, looking at her as he went. She was so accustomed to think of him as a fat blob that she occasionally forgot what a cold little eye he really had. Presently he -asked: "You really think you can put that across?"
"Well—don't you?"
"I'm asking you."
"It seems as though it ought to pay. I've worked it all out in my mind and I'm pretty sure I've thought of everything. I can certainly cook. And I've studied the business down there, every little thing I could think of. I mean, the system. And how to save money. That's the main thing, Wally, about this idea of mine. What costs in a restaurant is waste, and the extras, like printing, for the menus, and the people 'you have to have, for every little feature you put in. But this way, there wouldn't be any waste. All the leftovers would go in-to gravy and soup, and there wouldn't be any printing, or extras of any kind. I certainly think I can put it across."
"Then if you can, I might be able to put you in on a deal. One that would start you off with a bang. A deal that would leave you sitting so pretty you wouldn't even need a backer."
"Wally! If you don't look out, I'll cry."
"You do the crying later and listen to what I'm going to say to you. You know that model home we had? That dream house that Bert built, so we could take the prospects in there and show them what their place was going to look like if they spent twice as much dough as any of them had?"
"Yes, of course." She had special, rather romantic reasons for remembering the model home.
"O.K. They got to get rid of it."
"Who?"
"The receivers. For Pierce Homes, Inc. The outfit that pays me to be their attorney, and messenger boy, and thief, and anything else they can think of. They've got to get rid of it, and if you'll take it over and put this chicken place in it, it's yours. And believe me, Mildred, if that's not a natural for a restaurant, I never saw one. Why, that place even smells like chicken. Right there under the trees, with the old colonial architecture that Bert spent all that dough on—is that a place to gnaw wishbone! Dump a little gravel on one side—free parking for everybody that comes in. That big reception room—perfect for the restaurant part. The model Pierce bedroom—there's your pantry. The streamlined Pierce office—there's your kitchen. Every stick in the place complies with the fire law and the health law, even to the toilets, and there's two of them, not just one. If you really mean this, I can get it for you for four thousand bucks, house, lot, and every improvement that's on it."
"Wally, now I am going to cry."
"Was I asking if you had four thousand bucks? I know what you've got and what you haven't got, and I'm telling you, if you want it, it's yours."
He leaned down close, looked melodramatically around, as though to make sure nobody could hear. Then, in a low voice: "They've got to establish losses."