Mildred Pierce - James M. Cain [5]
"Oh Bert's all right."
"He's all right, but he's a dirty bastard and they're all dirty bastards."
"We're not so perfect."
"We wouldn't pull what they pull."
The front door slammed and Mildred held up a warning finger. Mrs. Gessler nodded and asked if there was anything she could do, today. Mildred wanted desperately to say she could give her a lift with the cake, but there had been one or two impatient taps on an automobile horn from across the yard, and she didn't have the nerve. "Not right now."
"I'll be seeing you."
"Thanks again for the chicken."
The child who now entered the kitchen didn't scamper in, as little Ray had a short time before. She stepped in primly, sniffed contemptuously at the scent left by Mrs. Gessler, and put her schoolbooks on the table before she kissed her mother. Though she was only eleven she was something to look at twice. In the jaunty way she wore her clothes, as well as the handsome look around the upper part of her face, she resembled her father more than her mother: it was commonly said that "Veda's a Pierce." But around her mouth the resemblance vanished, for Bert's mouth had a slanting weakness that hers didn't have. Her hair, which was a coppery red, and her eyes, which were light blue like her mother's, were all the more vivid by contrast with the scramble of freckles and sunburn which formed her complexion. But the most arresting thing about her was her walk. Possibly because of her high, arching chest, possibly because of the slim hips and legs below it, she moved with an erect, arrogant haughtiness that seemed comic in one so young.
She took the cake her mother gave her, a chocolate muffin with a white V iced upon it, counted the remaining ones, and calmly gave an account of her piano practice. Through all the horrors of the last year and a half, Mildred had managed fifty cents a week for the lessons, since she had a deep, almost religious conviction that Veda was "talented," and although she didn't exactly know at what, piano seemed indicated, as a sound, useful preliminary to almost anything. Veda was a satisfactory pupil, for she practiced faithfully and showed lively interest. Her piano, picked out when Mildred picked out her coat, never actually arrived, so she practiced at her Grandfather Pierce's, where there was an ancient upright, and on this account always arrived home from school somewhat later than Ray.
She told of her progress with the Chopin Grand Valse Brillante, repeating the title of the piece a number of times, somewhat to Mildred's amusement, for she employed the full French pronunciation, and obviously enjoyed the elegant effect. She spoke in the clear, affected voice that one associates with stage children, and indeed everything she said had the effect of having been learned by heart, and recited in the manner prescribed by some stiff book of etiquette. The waltz disposed of, she walked over to have a look at the cake. "Who's it for, Mother?"
"Bob Whitley."
"Oh, the paper boy."
Young Whitley's sideline, which was soliciting subscriptions after school hours, Veda regarded as a gross social error, and Mildred smiled. "He'll be a paper boy without a birthday cake if I don't find some way to get it over there. Eat your cake now, and then run over to Grandfather's and see if he minds taking me up to Mrs. Whitley's in his car."
"Can't we use our car?"
"Your father's out with it, and—he may be late. Run along now. Take Ray with you, and Grandfather'll ride you both back."
Veda stalked unhurriedly out, and Mildred heard her call Ray in from the street. But in a minute or two she was back. She closed the door carefully and spoke with even more than her usual precision. "Mother, where's Father?"
"He—had to go somewhere."
"Why did he take his clothes?"
When Mildred promised Bert to "take care of it," she had pictured a vague scene, which would end up with "Mother'll tell you more about it some day." But she had forgoiten Veda's