Mildred Pierce - James M. Cain [49]
It was dark when they got up, and they drove over to the tavern for dinner. When they got back it was cold, and they decided to build a fire, of pine knots. But then they decided they hadn't had enough to eat, and got in the car, and drove down to San Bernardino, for a steak, which she offered to broil. When they got back it was late, but they gathered pine knots by the car lights, and carried them in, and started them going. When they were glowing red she laid the steak on them, to burn it, and then held it with the tongs while it cooked. Then he got plates, and they cut hungrily into it, chewing it down like a pair of wolves. Then he helped her wash up. Then he asked solemnly if she was ready to go home, and she solemnly replied that she was. Then he carried her into the bedroom, and they shivered at the unexpected cold, and in five minutes were exclaiming at how good the blankets felt.
After a while they got to talking, and she learned that he was thirty-three years old, that he had attended the University of California at Los Angeles, that he lived in Pasadena, that his family lived there too, or at any rate his mother and sister, who seemed to be all the family he had. When she asked him what he did, he said: "Oh I don't know. Fruit I guess. Oranges, grapefruit, something like that."
"You mean you work for the Exchange?"
"I should say not. That damned California Fruit Growers' Exchange is taking the bread right out of my mouth. I hate Sunkist, and Sunmaid, and every other kind of a label with that wholesome-looking girl on it."
"You mean you're an independent?"
"Damn it, what difference does it make what I am? Yes, I guess I'm an independent. I have a company. Fruit export. I don't have it. I own part of it. Land too, part of an estate I came into. Every quarter they send me a check, and it's been getting smaller since this Sunkist thing cut it, too. I don't do anything, if that's what you mean."
"You mean you just—loaf?"
"You can call it that, I suppose."
"Aren't you ever going to do something?"
"Why should I?"
He seemed quite nettled, and she stopped talking about it, but she found it disturbing. She had a complex on the subject of loafing, and hated it, but she detected there was something about this man's loafing that was different from Bert's loafing. Bert at least had plans, grandiose dreams that he thought would come true. But this loafing wasn't a weakness, it was a way of life, and it had the same effect on her that Veda's. nonsense had: her mind rejected it, and yet her heart, somehow, was impressed by it; it made her feel small, mean, and vulgar. The offhand dismissal of the subject put her on the defensive too. Most of the men she knew were quite gabby about their work, and took the mandate of accomplishment seriously. Their talk might be tiresome, but it was what she accepted and believed in. This bland assumption that the whole subject was a bore, not worth discussing, was beyond her ken. However, her uneasiness vanished with a little ear-twiddling. At daybreak she felt cold, and pushed her bottom against him. When he took her in his arms she wriggled into his belly quite possessively, and dropped off to sleep with a sigh of deep content.
Next day they ate and swam and snoozed, and when Mildred opened her eyes after one of these naps, she could hardly believe it was late afternoon and time to go home. But still they dawdled, he arguing they should stay another day, and make a weekend