Mildred Pierce - James M. Cain [73]
Mildred sighed happily. This was the kind of talk she wanted, 'at last. He went on, then, flatteringly reminding her that she had always said Veda was "artistic," gallantly conceding that he himself had had his doubts. Not that he didn't appreciate Veda, he added hastily, hell no. It was only that he didn't know of any music on Mildred's side or his, and he always understood this kind of thing ran in families. Well, it just went to show how any of us can be wrong, and goddam it, he was glad it had turned out this way. Goddam it he was. Then, having polished off the past, he looked at the future. The fingers, he assured Mildred, were nothing to worry about. Because suppose she didn't become a great pianist? From all he had heard, that market was shot anyhow. But if it was like this guy said, and she had talent in her head, and began to write music, that was where the real dough was, and it didn't make a bit of difference whether you could play the piano or not. Because, he said dramatically, look at Irving Berlin. He had it straight that the guy couldn't play a note, but with a million bucks in the bank and more coming in every day, he should worry whether he could tickle the keys or not. Oh no, Mildred needn't worry about Veda now. The way it looked to him, the kid was all set, and before very long she'd be pulling off something big.
Having Veda turn into Irving Berlin, with or without a million bucks in the bank, wasn't exactly what Mildred had in mind for her. In her imagination she could see Veda already, wearing a pale green dress to set off her coppery hair, seated at a big piano before a thousand people, grandly crossing her right hand over her left, haughtily bowing to thunderous applause—but no matter. The spirit was what counted. Bert spun her dreams for her, while she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, and Arline poured him more coffee, from a percolator, the way he liked it. It was the middle of the afternoon before Mildred returned to earth, and said suddenly: "Bert, can I ask a favor?"
"Anything, Mildred."
"It's not why I asked you here. I just wanted to tell you about it. I knew you'd want to hear."
"I know why you asked me. Now what is it?"
"I want that piano, at Mom's."
"Nothing to it. They'll be only too glad—"
"No, wait a minute. I don't want it as a gift, nothing like that at all. I just want to borrow it until I can get Veda a piano that—"
"It's all right. They'll—"
"No, but wait a minute. I'm going to get her a piano. But the kind of piano that she ought to have, I mean a real grand, costs eleven hundred dollars. And they'll give me terms, but I just don't dare take on any more debt. What I'm going to do, I'm going to open a special account, down at the bank, and keep putting in, and I know by next Christmas, I mean a year from now, I can manage it. But just now—"
"I only wish I could contribute a little."
"Nobody's asking you to."
Quickly she put her hand over his and patted it. "You've done plenty. Maybe you've forgotten how you gave me the house outright, and everything that went before, but I haven't. You've done your share. Now i't's my turn. I don't mind about that, but I do want them to know, Mom and Mr. Pierce I mean, 'that I'm not trying to get anything from them. I just want to borrow the piano, so Veda can practice at home, and—"
"Mildred."
"Yes?"
"Will you just kindly shut up?"
"All right."
"Everything's under control. Just leave it to me."
So presently, the piano was carted down, and on January 2, Mildred went to the bank and deposited $21, after multiplying carefully, and making sure that $21 a week, at the end of a year, would almost exactly equal $1,100.
Mildred was in such a panic over the bank holiday,