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By Root 937 0

Mildred eased into the street and they drove to the cemetery. Mildred threaded her way slowly along the drive, so as not to disturb the hundreds of others who were out there too. When they came to the Pierce plot she stopped and they got out. Taking the flowers, they walked over to the little marker that had been placed there by the Pierces a short time before. It was a plain white stone, with the name, and under it the dates of the brief little life. Bert mumbled: "They wanted to put a quotation on it, 'Suffer the little children,' whatever it is, but I remembered you like things plain."

"I like it just like it is."

"And another thing they wanted to put on it was: 'Erected by her loving grandparents Adrian and Sarah,' but I told them 'Hey, keep your shirt on. You'll get your names in this marble orchard soon enough without trying to beat the gun in any way.'"

This struck Mildred as funny, and she started to titter, but somewhere down the drive a child began to laugh. Then a great lump rose in her throat and Bert quickly walked away. As she stood there she could hear him behind her, walking back and forth. She stood a long time. Then she put the flowers on the grave, paused for one last look, turned, and took his arm. He laced his fingers through hers, squeezed hard.

When Mildred got home, she found Veda exactly where she had left her: in the chair near the Christmas tree, the boots still on, staring malevolently at the Pierce upright. Mildred sat down and opened a package Bert had brought with him when he came, a jar of preserved strawberries from Mrs. Biederhof. For a few moments, except for the crackle of paper, there was silence. Then, in her clearest, most affected drawl, Veda said: "Christ, but I hate this dump."

"Is there anything in particular that you object to?'

"Oh, no, Mother, not at all, not at all—and I do hope you don't begin changing things around, just to please me. No, there's nothing in particular. I just hate every lousy, stinking part of it, and if it were to burn down tomorrow I wouldn't shed a furtive tear from the Elixir of Love, by Gaetano Donizetti, seventeen ninety-eight-eighteen fortyeight."

"I see."

Veda picked up a package of the cigarettes Mildred kept on hand for Monty, lit one, and threw the match on the floor. Mildred's face tightened. "You'll put out that cigarette and pick up that match."

"I will like hell."

Mildred got up, took careful aim, and slapped Veda hard, on the cheek. The next thing she knew, she was dizzy from her head to her heels, and it seemed seconds before she realized, from the report that was ringing in her ears, that Veda had slapped her back. Blowing smoke into Mildred's face, Veda went on, in her cool, insolent tone: "Glendale, California, Land where the Orange Tree Blows, from Mignon, by Ambroise Thomas, eighteen eleven-eighteen ninety-six. Forty square miles of nothing whatever. A high-class, positively-restricted development for discriminating people that run filling stations, and furniture factories, and markets, and pie wagons. The garden spot of the world—rn the pig's eye. A wormhole, for grubs!"

"Where did you hear that?"

Mildred had sat down, but at these last words she looked up. She was wholly familiar with Veda's vocabulary, and she knew that this phrase was not part of it. At her question, Veda came over, leaned down close. "Why the poor goddam sap—do you think he'd marry you?"

"If I were willing, yes."

"Oh! Yee gods and little fishes hear my cynical laughter, from Pagliacci, by Ruggiero Leoncavallo, eighteen fifty-eightnineteen nineteen. If you were willing—! Pardon me while I regain my shattered composure. Stupid, don't you know what he sees in you?"

"About what you see, I think."

"No—it's your legs."

"He—told you—that?"

"Why certainly."

Veda's manner showed that she relished Mildred's consternation. "Of course he told me. We're very good friends, and I hope I have a mature point of view on these matters. Really, he speaks very nicely about your legs. He has a theory about them. He says a gingham