Mildred Pierce Part 4

"I didn't know you had a heart."

"Neither did I."

The cold logic of Miss Turner's harangue reached Mildred's bowels, where the tramping, waiting, and hoping of the last few weeks hadn't. She went home, collapsed, and wept for an hour. But next day she doggedly registered at three more agencies. She took to doing desperate things, like turning suddenly into business places, as she was pa.s.sing them on the -street, and asking for an opening. One day she entered an office building and, beginning at the top floor, called on every finn, in only two places getting past the gate. All the time the thought of July 1 haunted her, and she got weaker, paler, and tackier-looking. The print dress was pressed so many times that she searched the seams anxiously every time she put the iron on it. She lived on oatmeal and bread, reserving for the children such eggs, chicken, and milk as she could buy.

One morning, to her surprise, there came a card from Miss Turner, asking her to call. She dressed in about four minutes, caught the nine o'clock bus, and was in the familiar little office by nine thirty. Miss Turner waved her to a seat. "Something's come up, so I dropped you that card."

"What is it?"

"Housekeeper."

". . . Oh."

"It's not what you think, so don't employ that tone of voice. I mean, there's no sleeping in it, so far as I know. And it means nothing to me. I don't handle domestic help, so I won't collect a dime. But I was over in Beverly the other night, and got talking with a lady that's going to marry a director, and he doesn't know it yet, but his house is due for a big shake-up. So she wants a housekeeper. So, on account of all that fine domestic efficiency you were telling me about, I told her about you, and I think it's yours if you want it. Children O.K. You'll have your own quarters and I think you can nick her for one fifty if you get tough, but you'd better ask for two hundred and come down. That's over and above all your uniforms, food, laundry, heat, light, and quarters, and quite a lot more than most of my talented stable are making."

"I hardly know what to say."

"Make up your mind. I've got to let her know."

"Why did you think of me, for this?"

"Didn't I tell you? You broke my G.o.ddam heart."

"Yes but—it's the second time lately I've had an offer of this kind. Not long ago a lady offered me a job as—a waitress."

"And you turned it down? down?"

"I had to."

"Why?"

"I can't go home and face my children if they know I've been working all day at taking tips, and wearing a uniform, and mopping up crumbs."

"But you can face them with nothing for them to eat?"

"-I'd rather not -talk about that."

"Listen, this is just one woman's opinion, and it may be all wrong. I've got my own little business, and it's all shot, and I'm just about holding my own if I eat in the tea rooms instead of the Biltmore. But if that goes, and I have to choose between my belly and my pride, I'm telling right now, I'm picking my belly every time. I mean, if I had to wear a uniform, I'd do it."

"I'll go over there, as a courtesy to you."

For the first time, Miss Turner departed from her hardboiled manner, and showed some sign of annoyance. "What have I got to do with it? Either you want this place or you don't. If you don't just say so and all I've got to do is call up and tell her, and that lets me out. But if you do want it, for G.o.d's sake get over there -and act like you mean it."

"I'll go, as a courtesy to you."

Miss Turner got out a card and savagely wrote a note on it, her eyes snapping as she handed it over to Mildred. "All right, you wanted to know why that lady offered you a job as waitress, and why I recommended you for this. It's because you've let half your life slip by without learning anything but sleeping, cooking, and setting the table, and that's all you're good for. So get over there. It's what you've got to do, so you may as well start doing it."

Shaken, Mildred got on the Sunset bus, but the address was unfamiliar to her, and she had to ask the conductor where to get off. At Coldwater Caon Drive, where he set her down, -there was no sign of the street, and she started wandering around an unfamiliar neighborhood, trying to get her bearings. The houses were big and forbidding, with driveways in front of them and clipped gra.s.s all around, and she couldn't find the courage to approach one. Of pedestrians there were none, and she plodded around for the better part of an hour, peering at each street sign, losing all sense of direction in the winding streets. She got into a hysteria of rage at Bert, for taking the car, since if she had that, she would not only be saved walking, but could slip into a filling station and inquire in a self-respecting way, having the attendant produce maps. But here there were no filling stations, n.o.body she could ask, nothing but miles of deserted pavements, shaded by frowning trees. Finally a laundry truck pulled up, and she got the driver to straighten her out. She found the house, a big mansion with a low hedge around it, went up to the door and rang. A white-coated house man appeared. When she asked for Mrs. Forrester he bowed and stepped aside for her to enter. Then he noticed she had no car, and froze. "Housekeeper?"

"Yes, I was sent by—"

"Back way."

His eyes glistening with suddenly secreted venom, he closed the door, and she savagely trudged around to the back. Here he admitted her, and told her to wait. She was in a sort of service foyer, and in the kitchen, which was only a few steps away, she could see a cook and a waitress eyeing her. He returned, led her through dark, cool halls to a library, and left her. She sat down, glad to rest her aching feet. In a few minutes Mrs. Forrester came in. She was a tall woman in flowing negligee, who wafted graciousness all around her, putting the world at its ease. Mildred got up, handed over Miss Turner's note, and sat down while Mrs. Forrester read it. Evidently it was flattering, for it evoked one or two nods and clucks. Then Mrs. Forrester smilingly looked up. "It's customary, Mildred, for the servant to sit on the Mistress's Mistress's invitation, not on her own invitation, not on her own initiative initiative."

Mildred was so startled at hearing herself addressed by her first name that it was a second or two before the sense of this made its way to her mind. Then she shot up as though her legs were made of springs, her face hot, her mouth dry. "Oh. I beg your pardon."

"It's perfectly all right, but on little things, especially with an inexperienced woman, I find it well to begin at the beginning. Do sit down. We've many things to talk about, and it'll make me quite uncomfortable to have you standing there."

"This is all right."

"Mildred, I invited invited you to sit you to sit down down."

Her throat throbbing, tears of rage swimming into her eyes, Mildred sat down, while Mrs. Forrester spoke grandly of her plans for reorganizing the house. Apparently it was her intended husband's house, though what she was doing in it, in negligee, a full month before the wedding, she didn't bother to explain. Mildred, it appeared, would have her own quarters, above the garage. She herself had two children by a former marriage, and of course no fraternization between children could be permitted, though there need be no trouble about that, as Mildred would have her own entrance on the lane, and "all such questions can be worked out." Mildred listened, or tried to, but suddenly a vision leaped in front of her eyes. She saw Veda, haughty, sn.o.bbish Veda, being told that she had to come in the back way, and that she couldn't fraternize with Forrester offspring. Then Mildred knew that if she took this place she would lose Veda. Veda would go to her father, her grandfather, the police, or a park bench, but not even whips could make her stay with Mildred, in the Forrester garage. A surge of pride in the cold child swept over her, and she stood up. "I don't think I'm quite the person you want here, Mrs. Forrester."

"The Mistress terminates terminates the the interview interview, Mildred."

"Mrs. Pierce, if you don't mind. And I'm terminating it."

It was Mrs. Forrester's turn to shoot up as though her legs were made of springs, but if she contemplated further instruction in the relation of the servant to the Mistress, she thought better of it. She found herself looking into Mildred's squint, and it flickered somewhat ominously. Pressing a b.u.t.ton, she announced coldly: "I'll have Harris show you out."

"I'll find my way, thank you."

Picking up her handbag, Mildred left the library, but instead of turning toward the kitchen, she rn-arched straight for the front door, closing it calmly behind her. She floated to the bus stop on air, rode into Hollywood without seeing what she was pa.s.sing. But when she found she had got off too soon, and had to walk two blocks for the Glendale connection, she wilted and moved on trembling legs. At Hollywood Boulevard, the bench was full, and she had to stand. Then everything began spinning around, and the suns.h.i.+ne seemed unnaturally bright. She knew she had to sit down, or topple over, right there on the sidewalk. Two or three doors away was a restaurant, and she lurched into it. It was crowded with people eating lunch, but she found a small table against the wall, and s-at down.

After picking up the menu, and dropping it quickly so the girl wouldn't notice her trembling hands, she asked for a ham sandwich, with lettuce, a gla.s.s of milk, and a gla.s.s of water, but she was an interminable time getting served. The girl puttered about, complained of the service that was demanded of her, and -the little that she got for it, and Mildred had a vague suspicion that she was being accused of stealing a tip. She was too near collapse for argument, however, and beyond repeating that she wanted the water right away, said nothing. Presently her order arrived, and she sat apathetically munching it down. The water cleared her head, and the food revived her, but there was still a quivering in her bowels that didn't seem to have anything to do with the walking, fretting, and quarreling she had done all morning. She felt gloomy indeed, and when she heard a resounding slap, a few inches from her ear, she barely turned her head. The girl who had served her was facing another girl, and even as Mildred looked, proceeded to deal out a second loud slap. "I caught you, you dirty little crook! I caught you red-handed, right in the act!"

"Girls! Girls! Girls!"

"I caught her! She's been doing it right along, stealing tips off my tables! She stole tea cents off eighteen, before that lady sat down, and now she stole fifteen out of a forty-cent tip right here—and I seen her do it!"

In a moment the place was like a beehive, with other girls shouting their accusations, the hostess trying to restore order, and the manager flying out of the kitchen. He was a rotund little Greek, with flas.h.i.+ng black eyes, and he summarily fired both girls and apologized profusely to the customers. When the two of them suddenly paraded out, in their street clothes, a few minutes later, Mildred was so lost in her reflections that she didn't even give her girl a nod. It was not until the hostess appeared in an ap.r.o.n, and began serving orders, that she woke up to the fact that she was face to face with one of the major decisions of her life. They needed help, that was plain, and needed it now. She stared at the water gla.s.s, twisted her mouth into a final, irrevocable decision. She would not do this kind of work, if she starved first. She put a dime on the table. She got up. She went to the cas.h.i.+er's desk, and paid her check. Then, as though walking to the electric chair, she turned around, headed for the kitchen.

CHAPTER IV.

THE NEXT TWO HOURS, to Mildred, were a waking nightmare. She didn't get the job quite as easily as she had supposed she would. The proprietor, whose name was apparently Makadoulis, but whom everybody addressed as Mr. Chris, was willing enough, especially as the hostess kept shrilling in his ear: "You've got to put somebody on! It's a mess out there! It's a mess!" But when the girls saw Mildred, and divined what she was there for, they gathered around, and pa.s.sionately vetoed her application, unless- Anna was taken back. Anna, she gathered, was the girl who had waited on her, and the aggressor in the fight, but as all of them apparently had been victims of the thefts, they seemed to regard her as their representative in a sense, and didn't propose to have her made a goat. They argued their case in quite noisy fas.h.i.+on, letting the counters pile up with orders while they screamed, and making appropriate gestures. One of these gestures wiped a plate into s.p.a.ce, with a club sandwich on it. Mildred caught it as it fell. The sandwich was wholly wrecked, but she put it together again, with deft fingers, and restored it to its place on the counter. The Chef, a gigantic man addressed as Archie, watched her exhibition of juggling with impa.s.sive stolidity, but when the reconstructed sandwich was back on the counter he gave her a curt nod. Then he began banging on the steam table with the palm of his hand. This restored quiet as nothing else had been able to do. Mr. Chris turned to the girls. "Hokay, hokay."

The question of Anna being thus settled, the hostess hustled Mildred back to the lockers, where she unlocked a door and held out a menu. "Take off your dress and while I'm finding a uniform to fit, study this menu, so you can be some use. What size do you wear?"

"Ten."

"You worked in a restaurant before?"

"No."

"Study it, specially prices."

Mildred took off her dress, hung it in the locker, and stared at the menu. There were fifty-five- and sixty-five-cent lunches on it, as well as appetizers, steaks, chops, desserts, and fountain drinks, most of these bearing fancy names that were unintelligible to her. In spite of her best concentration most of it was a jumble. In a minute or two the hostess was back with her uniform, a pale blue affair, with white collar, cuffs, and pockets. She slipped into it. "And here's your ap.r.o.n. You furnish your uniform; it comes off your first check, three ninety-five; you get it at cost, and you keep it laundered. And if you don't suit us, we charge you twenty-five cents' rent on the uniform; that comes out of your check too, but you don't have the whole uniform to pay for unless we really take you on. The pay is twenty-five cents an hour, and you keep your own tips."

"And what's your name, Miss?"

"Ida. What's yours?"

"Mildred."

They started for the dining room, but going through the kitchen Ida kept talking into her ear. "I'm giving you a light station, see? Three, four, five, and six, all them little booths against the wall. That's so you don't get no fours. Singles and twos are easier. All them that's just come in, you take them, and them that's already started on their lunches, I'll take care of them myself. That's so you don't get mixed up on them other girls' books."

They reached the dining room, and Ida pointed out the station. Three of the tables were occupied by people who had given their orders before the fight started, the fourth by a pair of women who had just come in. All were getting annoyed at the delay in service. But still Mildred wasn't permitted to start. Ida led her to the cas.h.i.+er, a fish-faced blonde who began savagely telling Ida of the complaints she had received, and of the five people who had already walked out. Ida cut her off, had her issue Mildred a new book. "You've got to account for every check, see? In here you mark your number, you're No. 9. Here you mark the number of the table, here the number of customers on the check. Down here, put down everything they order, and the first thing you got to learn: don't make no mistake on a check. It's all booked against you, and if you make a mistake, it's deducted, and you got to pay for it and you got to pay for it."

With this ominous warning in her ears, Mildred at last approached the two women who were waiting to have their orders taken, handed them their menus, and inquired what they were going to have. They replied they weren't sure they were going to have anything, and wanted to know what kind of place this was anyway, to let people sit around without even asking them if they minded waiting. - Mildred, almost in hysteria by now with what she had been through- that day, felt a hot impulse to take them down a few notches, as she had taken Mrs. Forrester. However, she managed a smile, said there had been a little trouble, and that if they could just be patient a minute or two, she would see they were served at once. Then, taking a quick lunge at the only thing she remembered about the menu, she added: "The roast chicken is awfully good today."

Slightly mollified, they chose chicken on the sixty-five-cent lunch, but one of them said loudly: "See there's no gravy on mine in any way, shape, or form. I hate brown gravy."

"Yes, Miss. I'll remember."

Mildred started for the kitchen, barely missing a girl who appeared at the out out door. Swerving in time, she dived through the door. Swerving in time, she dived through the in in door and called to Archie: "Two roast chicken. One without gravy." door and called to Archie: "Two roast chicken. One without gravy."

But the ubiquitous Ida was at her elbow, calling frantically to Archie: "Hold one gravy, hold it!" Then she yanked Mildred aside, and half screamed at her: "You got to call it right! You can't work nowhere without you're in good with the Chef, and you got to call it right for him. Get this: If there's any tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs they don't want, you don't call it without without 'em, you call it 'em, you call it hold 'em! hold 'em!"

"Yes, Miss."

"You got to be in good with the Chef!"

Dimly Mildred began to understand why that great paw, banging on -the steam table, had restored order when Mr. Chris had been mobbed like a Junebug in a flock of angry hens. She had observed that the waitresses dipped their own soup, so she now got bowls and filled them with the cream of tomato that her customers had ordered. But there was no surcease from Ida. "Pick up your starters! Pick up your starters!" At Mildred's blank look, Ida grabbed two plates of salad from the sandwich counter, whipped two pats of b.u.t.ter into two small plates, and motioned Mildred to get the four plates in there, quick. "Have they got water?"

"Not yet."

"For crying out loud."

Ida made a dive for the lift spigot, drew two gla.s.ses of water, slid them expertly so they fetched up beside the four plates. Then she pitched two napkins up against the water gla.s.ses. "Get in there with them—if they haven't walked out on you."

Mildred blinked helplessly at this formidable array. "Well—can I have a tray?"

In despair, Ida picked up plates, gla.s.ses, and napkins, so they were spread across her fingers like playing cards, and balanced halfway up her arm. "Get the soup, and come on." She was gone before Mildred could recover from the speed of her legerdemain. The soup Mildred picked up gingerly, kicking the out out door open as she saw the others doing. Taking care not to spill any of it, she eventually reached the table. Ida was smoothing the two women down, and from their glances Mildred knew it had been fully explained to them that she was a new girl, and that allowances had to be made for her. At once they began amusing themselves by calling her January and Slewfoot. Lest she show resentment, she started for the kitchen, but it seemed impossible to get away from Ida. "Pick up something! Don't never make a trip, in or out, without something in your hand. You'll trot all day and you'll never get done! Get them dirty dishes over there, on No. 3. Pick up something!" door open as she saw the others doing. Taking care not to spill any of it, she eventually reached the table. Ida was smoothing the two women down, and from their glances Mildred knew it had been fully explained to them that she was a new girl, and that allowances had to be made for her. At once they began amusing themselves by calling her January and Slewfoot. Lest she show resentment, she started for the kitchen, but it seemed impossible to get away from Ida. "Pick up something! Don't never make a trip, in or out, without something in your hand. You'll trot all day and you'll never get done! Get them dirty dishes over there, on No. 3. Pick up something!"

The afternoon dragged on. Mildred felt stupid, heavy, slow, and clumsy. Try as she would to "pick up something," dirty dishes piled on her tables, and unserved orders in the kitchen, until she thought she would go insane from the confusion. Her trouble, she discovered, was that she hadn't the skill to carry more than two dishes at a time. Trays were prohibited here, Ida informed her, because the aisles were so narrow they would lead to crashes, and this meant that everything had to be carried by hand. But the trick of balancing half a dozen dishes at a time was beyond her. She tried it once, but her hand crumpled under the weight, and a hot fudge sundae almost went on the floor. The climax came around three o'clock. The place was empty by then and the fish-faced cas.h.i.+er came back to inform her she had lost a check. The subsequent figuring showed that the check was for fifty-five cents, which meant that her whole hourly wage was lost. She wanted to throw everything in the place at the cas.h.i.+er's head, but didn't. She said she was sorry, gathered up the last of her dirty dishes, and went back with them.

In the kitchen, Mr. Chris and Ida were in a huddle, evidently talking about her. From their expressions as they started toward her, she sensed that the verdict was unfavorable, and she waited miserably for them to get it over with, so she could get away from Ida, and the Filipino dish washers, and the smell, and the noise, and drearily wonder what she was going to do next. But as they pa.s.sed Archie, he looked up and made a gesture such as an umpire makes in calling a man safe at the plate. They looked surprised, but that seemed to settle it. Mr. Chirs said "hokay, hokay," and went into the dining room. Ida came over to Mildred. "Well, personally, Mikired, I don't think you're suited to the work at all, and Mr. Chris, he wasn't a bit impressed either but the Chef thinks you'll do, so against our better judgmen we're going to give you a trial."

Mildred remembered the reconstructed club sandwich an the little nod she had received from Archie, realized that i was indeed important to be in good with the Chef. Bu by now her dislike of Ida was intense, and she made n effort to keep the acid out of her voice as she said: "Wel please thank Archie for me and tell him I hope I won' disappoint him." She spoke loud enough for Archie to hear and was rewarded with a loud, ursine cackle.

Ida went on: "Your hours are from eleven in the morning ten thirty if you want breakfast, to three in the afternoon and if you want lunch then, you can have it. We don't d a big dinner business here, so we only keep three girls or at night, but they take turns. You're on call twice a weel from five to nine, same wages as in the daytime. Sundays we're closed. You'll need white shoes. Ask for nurses' regulation at any of the stores, two ninety-five. Well what's the matter, Mildred, don't you want the job?"

"I'm a little tired, that's all."

"I don't wonder, the way you trot."

When she got home, the children had just arrived from school. She gave them milk and cookies and shooed then out to play. Then she changed her dress and put slippers or her aching feet. She was about to -lie down, when she heard a yoo-hoo, and Mrs. Gessler joined her, in a somewhat dark humor. Ike, it appeared, hadn't come home last night. He had phoned around nine, telling her of a hurry call that would prevent his arrival until next morning. It was all in his line of work, he had appeared at ten as he said he would, and yet The extent to which Mrs. Gessler trusted Ike, or anybody was evidently very slight.

Mildred presently asked: "Lucy, can you lend me three dollars?"

"More if you want it."

"No, thanks. I've taken a job, and need some things."

"Right away?"

"In the morning."

Mrs. Gessler went out, and Mildred went back to the kitchen to make her some tea. When she came back she sat down gratefully to the smoking cup, and flipped Mildred a bill. "I didn't have three, but here's five."

"Thanks. I'll pay it back."

"What kind of a job?"

"Oh—just a job."

"I'm sorry. . . . But if it's that kind of a job, I hope you picked a five-dollar house. You're too young for the twodollar trade, and personally I wouldn't like sailors."

"I'm a waitress. In a hash-house."

"It rhymes up the same way."

"Just about."

"That's funny, though. It was none of my business, but all the time you were answering those ads, and trying to get hired on as a saleswoman, or whatever it was—I kept wondering to myself why you didn't try something like this."

"Why, Lucy?"