Mildred Pierce Part 16

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: "G.o.d, 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 were expecting." expecting."

"All that was before I turned on the radio and heard what it's really like out there. How in the h.e.l.l h.e.l.l 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." 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 s.h.i.+vered 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 pa.s.sed; 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 furnis.h.i.+ngs 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 b.u.t.terfly from her very drab coc.o.o.n, and he turned her around, examining every detail of her costume. Then 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 G.o.d, 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 h.e.l.l h.e.l.l 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." 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." 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 c.o.c.ktail service, consisting of a great silver shaker, a big B on its side, and beautiful crystal gla.s.ses. 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. Wis.h.i.+ng 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."

"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 gla.s.s 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 s.h.i.+vered, 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 pa.s.sion 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 do want them talked about, and looked at, and generally envied, so why this howling fit? And after all, they want them talked about, and looked at, and generally envied, so why this howling fit? And after all, they are are d.a.m.ned good-looking." d.a.m.ned good-looking."

"We're talking about my child."

"Oh for G.o.d'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? h.e.l.l 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 h.e.l.l 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 pa.s.sed a girl—she had on a uniform of some sort, and an ap.r.o.n—quite a pretty little thing, especially around the ankles. And I got that off—what you've just quoted. Nothing 'original, I a.s.sure you. I had almost forgotten it. . . . How does that concern us?"

He was plausible, circ.u.mstantial, 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 G.o.d'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 h.e.l.l would expect a kid of fourteen to be doing something about every c.o.c.ktail 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 d.a.m.ned nice to them. And it's unusual as h.e.l.l. And you can't blame them for liking it. And liking her. But as for her trying to throw some kind of a s.h.i.+ndig 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 selfrighteousness 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 were going to say. Gee, Monty, but you're some man, aren't you?" going to say. Gee, Monty, but you're some man, aren't you?"

"Now suppose you listen to what I am am going to say." 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 n.o.body, except that stringbean that lives next door, ever goes there?"

"Yes—because you set her against me and—"

"Because you are are a G.o.ddam 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." a G.o.ddam 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, pa.s.sionate 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. n.o.body ever gets invited to your house, n.o.body—"

"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 d.a.m.ned little kitchen scullion, you'd tell me me who's setting your child against you? who's setting your child against you? Me? Me? Listen, Mildred. n.o.body 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." Listen, Mildred. n.o.body 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 d.a.m.ned 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. G.o.d knows what it is, some sense of humor that only an aristocrat ever has, and asked 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 G.o.d willing, before my sun goes down, I'll pay you back. Why you sc.u.m, 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." 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 G.o.d willing, before my sun goes down, I'll pay you back. Why you sc.u.m, 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 gla.s.s. 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: "d.a.m.n 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 bra.s.s 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 pa.s.sion 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 b.u.t.toned 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? d.a.m.n 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 s.h.i.+fted 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 s.h.i.+ning road lay ahead. She stepped on the gas. It was the check of the car that told her the black s.h.i.+ning road was black s.h.i.+ning 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 gla.s.s 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, s.h.i.+vering, 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.

She pa.s.sed many cars stalled as hers was stalled, some deserted, some full of people. One car, caught between vast lakes of water, was standing near a curb, its top lights on, filled with people in evening clothes, helpless to do anything but sit. She slogged on, up the long bill to Glendale, down block after block of rubble, torrents, seas of water. Her galoshes filled repeatedly, and periodically she stopped, holding first one foot high behind her, then the other, to let the water run out. But she couldn't let the sand and pebbles out, and they cut her feet cruelly. She was in a hysteria of weakness, cold, and pain when she finally reached Pierce Drive, and half ran, half limped, the rest of the way to the house.

Veda and Letty, like two frightened kittens, hadn't slept very well that night, and when lights began to snap on in the house, and a sobbing, mud-spattered, staggering apparition appeared at their door, they screamed in terror. When they realized it was Mildred, they dutifully followed her to her room, but it was seconds before they got readjusted to the point of helping her out of her clothes and getting her into bed. But suddenly Letty recovered from her fright, and was soon running around frantically, getting Mildred what she needed, especially whiskey, coffee, and a hot-water bottle. Veda sat on the bed, chafing Mildred's hands, spooning the scalding coffee into her mouth, pus.h.i.+ng the covers close around her. Presently she shook her head. "But Mother, I simply can't understand it. Why didn't you stay with him? After all, it wouldn't have been much of a novelty."

"Never mind. Tomorrow you get your piano."

At Veda's squeal of delight, at the warm arms around her neck, the sticky kisses that started at her eyes and ended away below her throat, Mildred relaxed, found a moment of happiness. As the gray day broke, she fell into a deep sleep.

CHAPTER XII.

FOR SOME TIME after that, Mildred was too busy to pay much attention to Veda. Relieved of Monty, she began to have money, above installments on the piano and everything else. In spite of hard times, her business grew better; the bar shook down into a profitable sideline;' most important of all, she paid off the last of the $4,000 she had owed for the property, and last of her equipment notes. Now the place was hers, and she took a step she had been considering for some time. The pies put a dreadful strain on her kitchen, so she built an annex, out back of the parking s.p.a.ce, to house them as a separate unit. There was some little trouble about it, on account of the zoning regulations. But when she submitted acceptable exterior plans, which made it look like a rather large private garage, and agreed to display no advertising except the neon sign she was already using, the difficulty was smoothed out. When it was finished, she added pastries to her list, clever items suitable for restaurant perambulators, and had little trouble selling them. Hans presently needed an a.s.sistant, and then another. She bought a new truck, a really smart one. About the same time she turned in the car, never quite recovered from the battering it took in the storm, and bought a new one, a sleek maroon Buick with white tires that Veda kissed when the dealer delivered it.

But when Ida, who was a regular visitor' now, saw the annex, she grew thoughtful, and then one night started a campaign to get Mildred to open a branch in Beverly, with herself as manager. "Mildred, I know what I'm talking about. That town is just crying for a place that will put out a real line of ready desserts. Think of the entertaining they do over there. Them movie people giving parties every night, and the dessert nothing but a headache to them women. And look how easy you can give them what they want—why you're making all that stuff right now. And look at the prices you'll get. And look at the sidelines you got. Look at the fountain trade. Look at the sandwich trade. And I can do it all with four girls, a fountain man, a short-order cook, and a dish-washer."

Mildred, not wanting to a.s.sume risk when she had a certainty, was in no hurry about it. But she drove over to Beverly and made inquiries, and began to suspect that Ida was right. Then, snooping around one afternoon, she ran into a vacant property that she knew would be right for location. When she found out she could get a lease for an absurdly small rental, she made up her mind. There followed another hectic month of furniture, fixtures, and alterations. She wanted the place done in maple, but Ida obstinately held out for light green walls and soft, upholstered booths where people would find it comfortable to sit. Mildred gave way, but on the day of the opening she almost fainted. Without consulting her, Ida had ordered a lot of preserves, cakes, health breads, and other things she knew nothing about. Ida however said she herself knew all about them, at any rate all that was necessary to know. By the end of the week, Mildred was not only convinced, but completely flabbergasted. Ida's report was ectastic: "Mildred, we're in. In the first place I got a lunch trade that's almost like the Brown Derby. People that don't want planked whitefish and special hamburgers. They want those little sandwiches I got, and the fruit salads, and you just ought to hear the comment. And I don't hardly get them cleared out before I got a college trade, wonderful refined kids on their way home from Westwood that want a chocolate soda or a malt before they start playing tennis. And when they go my tea trade starts, and on top of that I got a little dinner trade, people that want to eat light before they catch a preview or something. And then on top of that I got a late trade, people that just want a cup of chocolate and a place to talk. From twelve noon until twelve midnight I got business. And the take-out trade from those people, it's enough to take your breath away." The receipts bore her out. Ida was to get $30 a week, plus 2 per cent of the gross. She had hoped, in time, to make $50 a week. That very first Sat.u.r.day night Mildred wrote her a check for $53.71.

But it wasn't all smooth sailing. Mrs. Gessler, when she heard what Mildred was up to, flew into a rage, and wanted to know why Ida had been singled out to manage the Beverly branch, instead of herself. Mildred tried to explain that it was all Ida's idea, that some people are suited to one thing, some to another, but got nowhere. Mrs. Gessler continued bitter, and Mildred grew worried. She had come to depend on her tall, thin, profane bartender as she depended on n.o.body else, not only for shrewd business advice but also for some sort of emotional support that her nature demanded. Losing her would be a calamity, and she began to consider what could be done.