Mildred Pierce (11 page)

‘Guess it didn’t.’

‘Good night, Bert. And I have a couple of old brassieres at the house, tell her. They’re clean and fresh and she can have them any time she drops around.’

‘Listen, goddam it, you got the car. Now kindly shut up.’

‘Anything you say.’

She pulled away and drove home. When she got there the light was still on, and everything was as she had left it. Glancing at the gas, she saw there were two gallons in the tank, and kept on straight ahead. At Colorado Avenue she turned. It was the first through boulevard she had been on, and the traffic signals
were off, with yellow blinkers showing. She gave the car the gun, excitedly watching the needle swing past 30, 40, and 50. At 60, on a slight upgrade, she detected the gravelly sound of ping, made a mental note to have the carbon removed. Then she eased off a little on the gas, breathed a long, tremulous sigh. The car was pumping something into her veins, something of pride, of arrogance, of regained self-respect, that no talk, no liquor, no love, could possibly give. Once more she felt like herself, and began thinking about the job with cool detachment, instead of shame. Its problems, from balancing the dishes to picking up starters, flitted through her mind one after another, and she almost laughed that a few hours ago they had seemed formidable.

When she put the car in the garage, she inspected the tyres with a flashlight, to see how they looked. She was pleased to find that there was considerable rubber left, so that new ones wouldn’t be needed at once. Then she ran humming into the house, turned out the light, and undressed in the dark. Then she went to the children’s room, put her arms around Veda, and kissed her. As Veda stirred sleepily, she said: ‘Something very nice happened tonight, and you were the cause of it all, and I take everything back that I said. Now go to sleep and don’t think about it any more.’

‘I’m so glad, Mother.’

‘Good night.’

‘Good night.’

W
ithin a few days, Mildred’s financial troubles had eased a little, for she quickly became the best waitress in the place, not only at giving service, but at bagging tips. The trick of balancing dishes she learned by practising after the children had gone to bed. She used tin plates, weighting them with stones from the garden, and got so that she could spread three on the fingers of her left hand, lay two more on her arm, remember not to stick her tongue out, and go sailing around the kitchen table without dropping any.

Tips, she knew instinctively, were a matter of regular customers who left dimes instead of nickels. She cultivated men, as all the girls did, as they were better tippers than women. She thought up little schemes to find out their names, remembered all their little likes, dislikes, and crotchets, and saw that Archie gave them exactly what they wanted. She had a talent for quiet flirtation, but found that this didn’t pay. Serving a man food, apparently, was in itself an ancient intimacy; going beyond it made him uncomfortable, and sounded a trivial note in what was essentially a solemn relationship. Simple friendliness, coupled with exact attention to his wants, seemed to please him most, and on that basis she had frequent invitations to take a ride, have dinner, or see a show. At first she didn’t quite know what to do about them, but soon invented a refusal that wasn’t a rebuff. She would say she wanted him to ‘keep on liking her’, that he ‘might feel differently if he saw her when she wasn’t in uniform’. This had the effect of arousing a good lively fear that perhaps she
wasn’t so hot in her street clothes, and at the same time of leaving enough pity for the poor working girl to keep him coming back, so she could serve his lunch. Having her leg felt, it turned out, was practically a daily hazard, and this she found best not to notice. Even a leg feeler, if properly handled, could be nursed into a regular who left good tips, no doubt to prove he really had a heart of gold.

She held aloof from the restaurant itself, and the people connected with it. This wasn’t entirely due to her ideas of social superiority. In her own mind, she was highly critical of the kitchen, and was afraid to get drawn into talk, for fear she would say what she thought, and lose her job. So she confined her observations to Mrs Gessler, and every night gave a savage account of the way things were done. Her special grievance was the pies. They were bought from the Handy Baking Company, and Mrs Gessler often laughed loudly at Mildred’s description of their uninviting appearance, their sticky, tasteless filling, and their hard, indigestible crusts. But in the restaurant she held her peace, until one day she heard Ida bawling out Mr Chris. ‘I’m that ashamed to put it on the table! I’m that ashamed to ask a customer to eat it! It’s just awful, the pie you put out here, and expect people to pay for it.’ Mr Chris, who took all bawlings-out with a martyred shrug, merely said: ‘Maybe a pie is lousy, but what you expect, times like these now? If he no eat, see me, I hokay a new check.’ Mildred opened her mouth to take Ida’s side, and hotly proclaim that a new check wouldn’t make the pie taste any better. But at that moment it flashed through her mind that perhaps the real remedy was to get the pie contract herself. With the chance to make these precious dollars, her whole attitude changed. She knew she had to capture Ida, and not only Ida, but everybody else in the place.

That afternoon she was rather more helpful to the other girls than strict ethics demanded, and later, at lunch, sat down with them and got sociable. Meanwhile, she reflected what she was going to do about Ida. She was working that evening, and after the place closed, noticed Ida hurrying out with a glance at the clock, as though she might be catching a bus. Holding the door
open, she asked: ‘Which way do you go, Ida? Maybe I could give you a lift.’

‘
You
got a car?’

‘Anyway, it goes.’

‘Me, I live on Vermont. Up near Franklin.’

‘Why it’s right on my way. I live in Glendale.’

The iciness was gone by the time they climbed in the car. As they parted, Mildred asked Ida if she’d like her to stop by and pick her up, on the way over in the morning. From then on Ida had a ride, and Mildred had a better station, and more importantly, she had Ida’s ear, with no possible interruptions, for a considerable time every day. They became bosom friends, and somehow the talk always got around to pies. Ida was bitter indeed at the product Mr Chris offered his customers, and Mildred listened sympathetically. And then one night she innocently inquired: ‘What does he pay for those pies, Ida?’

‘If he pays two bits, he’s being swindled.’

‘Yes, but
how
much?’

‘I don’t know . . . Why?’

‘I make pies. And if he pays anything at all, I’d meet the price and make him some that people would really want to eat. I’d make him some that would be a feature.’

‘Could you do it, honest?’

‘I sell them all the time.’

‘Then I’ll find out what he pays.’

From then on, pies became a feverish conspiracy between Mildred and Ida, and one Sunday Mildred drove over to Ida’s with a fine, wet, beautifully-made huckleberry pie. Ida was married, to a former plasterer not working at the moment, and Mildred suspected that a pie might help with the Sunday night supper. Next day, during the luncheon rush, while Mr Chris had stepped over to the bank to get more change, Ida stopped Mildred in the aisle, and said in a hoarse stage whisper: ‘He pays a straight thirty-five cents for them and takes three dozen a week.’

‘Thanks.’

That night, Ida was full of the information she had filched from the file, and on Mildred’s calculation that she could furnish
pies at thirty-five cents, she became masterful. ‘You leave it to me, Mildred. Just leave it to me. You won’t have to say one word, I’ve been knowing it all along I had to have a showdown about them pies, and now it’s coming. Just leave it all to me.’

The showdown, next morning, was a little noisier than Mildred had expected. Mr Chris said he had dealt with the Handy Baking Company for years, and wasn’t going to change, and Ida said he’d been losing customers for years too, and didn’t have sense enough to know it. And besides, Ida went on, here’s a girl that makes grand pies, and what was the matter, didn’t he want customers? Mr Chris said not to bother him, he was busy. Ida said look at the variety she’s got, cherry, huckleberry, strawberry—

‘No chilly, no hooklabilly, no strawbilly!’ Mr Chris fairly shouted his emphasis. ‘All a pieces fall down in a juice, waste half a pie, no good! Appliss, poomkin, limmon – no other kind, won’t have’m.’

At this Ida went into the dining-room, beckoning Mildred after her. When they were alone she whispered excitedly: ‘You heard what he said? Apple, pumpkin, lemon – no other kind. That means he wants to switch, but he’s too bullheaded to say so. Now, listen, Mildred. Tomorrow you bring three pies, one apple, one pumpkin, one lemon. Just three, no more. And I’ll see that they’re served. They’re sample, but you’ve got to remember one thing: It’s got to be his idea.’

Ida put her head through the door and beckoned, and Anna came out. Anna, the girl with the sock, had been reinstated some time before. Ida pulled her into the huddle. ‘Listen, Anna, you heard what I said to him in there?’

‘Ida, them pies are a disgrace, and—’

‘OK, then you do just like I say, and we’ll get Mildred’s pies in here, ’stead of them cow pies we got now. Anna, they’re just wonderful. But you know how he is, so tomorrow, when I put out the samples Mildred’s going to bring, you put the bee on him and say that’s what he’s been up to all along. Then he thought it up, and we break through his bullheadedness.’

‘Just leave it to Little Orphan Annie.’

‘And put it on thick.’

‘I’ll take that Greek like Grant took Richmond. Don’t worry, Mildred. We’ll sell your pies for you.’

Mildred had a warm, wet-eyed feeling toward them both, and decided that Anna rated a free pie now and then, too. That afternoon she made the samples, and next morning Ida took charge of them herself, hurrying back to the kitchen with them like a spy carrying bombs. Changing into her uniform, Mildred was as nervous as an actress on opening night, and when she went into the kitchen there was expectancy in the air. Mr Chris was at his desk, in the corner, and presently got up and went over to the
out
door. Here he posted, with a thumbtack, a piece of cardboard on which was written, in his Mediterranean handwriting, the special order for the day:

All gathered around and looked at it. Ida went over to the desk, picked up the blue pencil, came back to the door and added

One by one, the girls filed in the dining-room.

Lunch had barely started when Mildred managed to sell two pieces of pie. Mr Rand, one of her regular customers, came in early with another man, and when she handed him the menu to pick out his dessert, she asked innocently, ‘Would you care for a piece of pie, Mr Rand? The lemon is very good today.’

Mr Rand looked at his companion. ‘That just shows how much principle she’s got. The pie stinks, she knows it stinks, and yet she says the lemon is very good today. Lay off the pie – unless you’re really tired of this life, and prefer to be dead.’

‘We have a new line of pie today, Mr Rand.’

‘Well – is it any
good
?’

‘You try a piece. I think you’ll like it.’

The other man chose chocolate ice cream, and Mildred hurried to the kitchen to get the orders. As she came back with both desserts and the coffee, her heart gave a leap as she heard a customer say: ‘That pie looks good.’ when she set it in front of
Mr Rand the other man didn’t even let her put the ice cream down. ‘Say, I want some of that! Can I switch?’

‘Why certainly!’

‘Principle? She’s got principle plus. Say, that meringue looks two inches thick.’

By noon, the lemon pie was a few smears of filling in an empty plate, and by one o’clock, all three pies were gone. By three, Ida had opened up on Mr Chris, with everybody standing around, to watch the result. She said just look how them pies went. She said the lemon was gone before she could even turn around, and one customer wanted a second cut, and she didn’t have it to give him. She said it was just terrible what the people said, when Mildred’s pies ran out and she had to serve the bakery pies. To all of this, Mr Chris made no reply whatever, merely hunching over his desk, and acting as though he was deaf. Ida ploughed on, louder and louder. She said there was one lady, in a party of four, that wanted to know where they got such wonderful pies, and when she pointed out Mildred, she was that amazed. Mr Chris twisted uneasily, and said not to bother him, he was busy, and—

‘
So that’s what you was up to
!’

He jumped up, and found Anna’s finger not six inches from his nose, levelled at him as though it were a six-shooter. Giving him no time to recover, she went on: ‘So that’s why you been asking all them questions about Mildred! That’s why you been foxing around! And who told you she made pies, I’d like to know? Well, can you beat that? Every time you take your eye off him he’s up to something!’

To this not unflattering harangue Mr Chris at first returned a blank stare. Then he burst into loud laughter, and pointed a derisive finger at Ida, as though it was a great joke on her. Ida professed to be highly indignant, that he should ‘let her go on like that’ when he knew about Mildred’s pies all the time, and had already made up his mind to take them. The more she talked the louder he laughed, and then, after he had wiped his streaming eyes, the bargain was struck. There was a little difficulty about price, he trying to beat Mildred down to thirty cents, but she held out for thirty-five, and presently he agreed. That night
Mildred stood treat to Ida and Anna in a speako Wally had taken her to, and helped Anna pick up a man at a nearby table. Still with her first half dozen pies to make, she drove home very late, full of a gulpy love of the whole human race.