Mildred Pierce - James M. Cain [6]
"Where?"
"I don't know."
"Is he coming back—"
"No."
She felt wretched, wished Veda would come over to her, so she could take her in her arms and tell her about it in some way that didn't seem so shame-faced. But Veda's eyes were cold, and she didn't move. Mildred doted on her, for her looks, her promise of talent, and her snobbery, which hinted at things superior to her own commonplace nature. But Veda doted on her father, for his grand manner and fine ways, and if he disdained gainful work, she was proud of him for it. In the endless bickerings that had marked the last few months, she had invariably been on his side, and often withered her mother with lofty remarks. Now she said: "I see, Mother. I just wanted to know."
Presently Ray came in, a chubby, tow-haired little thing, four years younger than Veda, and the picture of Mildred. She began dancing around, pretending she was going to poke her finger into the cake, but Mildred stopped her, and told her what she had just told Veda. She began to cry, and Mildred gathered her into her arms, and talked to her as she had wanted to talk in the first place. She said Father thought the world of them both, that he hadn't said good-bye because he didn't want to make them feel badly, that it wasn't his fault, but the fault of a lot of things she couldn't tell about now, but would explain later on some time. All this she said to Ray, but she was really talking to Veda, who was still standing there, gravely listening. After a few minutes Veda evidently felt some obligation to be friendly, for she interrupted to say: "If you mean Mrs. Biederhof, Mother, I quite agree. I think she's distinctly middle-class."
Mildred was able to laugh at this, and she seized the chance to gather Veda to her, and kiss her. Then she sent both children off to their grandfather's. She was glad that she herself hadn't said a word about Mrs. Biederhof, and resolved that the name should never pass her lips in their presence.
Mr. Pierce arrived with the car and an invitation to supper, and after a moment's reflection, Mildred accepted. The Pierces had to be told, and if she told them now, after having supper with them, it would show there were no hard feelings, and that she wanted to continue relations as before. But after the cake had been delivered, and she had sat around with them a few minutes, she detected something in the air. Whether Bert had already stopped by, or the children had made some slip, she didn't know, but things weren't as usual. Accordingly, as soon as supper was over and the children had gone out to play, she got grimly at it. Mr. Pierce and Mom, both originally from Connecticut, lived in a smaller, though just as folksy Pierce Home, on a pension he received as a former railroad man. But they were comfortable enough, and usually took their twilight ease in a small patio back of the house. It was here that Mildred broke the news.
A silence fell on them, a glum silence that lasted a long time. Mom was in the swing. She began touching the ground with her foot and it began rocking, and as it rocked it squeaked. Then she began to talk, in a bitter, jerky way, looking neither at Mildred nor at Mr. Pierce. "It's that Biederhof woman. It's her fault, from beginning to end. It's been her fault, ever since Bert started going with her. That woman's a huzzy. I've known it ever since I first laid eyes on her. The idea, carrying on like that with a married man. And her own husband not dead a year yet. And the filthy way she keeps house. And going around like she does with her breasts wobbling every which way, so any man's got to look at her, whether he wants to or not. What did she have to pick on my boy for? Wasn't there enough men,