Mildred Pierce - James M. Cain [87]
"Why not?"
"They live on the other side of Huntington Avenue, and it's three feet deep in water, and—how in the hell did you get here? Haven't you heard there's a storm going on? I think you were hiding two blocks up the street, and just pretended to drive over from Glendale."
"I didn't see any storm."
Following him into the bedroom, to see if she could be of help with the drink, she got a shock. It was a tiny cubicle, with one window and a hummocksy bed, on which were her trench coat and a cocktail service, consisting of a great silver shaker, a big B on its side, and beautiful crystal glasses. But not seven feet away, in the smallest, meanest bathroom she had ever seen, he was chopping away at a piece of ice he had evidently procured earlier in the day. Near him, on a small table, she could see a little two-burner gas fixture, a box of eggs, a package of bacon, and a can of coffee. Wishing she hadn't come, she went back and resumed her seat by the fire.
He served the drinks presently, and she had two. When he reached for the shaker to pour her a third, she stopped him. "If I'm going to drive, I think I've had enough."
"Drive? Where to?"
"Why—isn't the Biltmore where we're going?"
"Mildred—we're not going anywhere."
"Well we certainly are."
"Listen—"
Be stepped over and snapped on a small radio. An excited announcer was telling of bridges down between Glendale and Burbank, of a wrecked automobile on the San Fernando Road, of the fear that a whole family had been lost with the car. She tossed her head petulantly. "Well, my goodness, the Biltmore's not in Burbank."
"Wherever it is, and however we go to get to it, we have to cross the Los Angeles River, and by last report it's a raging torrent, with half the bridges out and three feet of water boiling over the rest. We're not going. The New Year's party is here."
He filled her glass and she began to sulk. In spite of the liquor, the main idea of the evening was still clear in her mind, and this turn of events was badly interfering with it. When he put his arm around her, she didn't respond. Amiably, he said she was a very problematical drunk. On two drinks she'd argue with Jesus Christ, on three she'd agree with Judas Iscariot. Now would she kindly tilt over No. 3, so she'd be in a frame of mind to welcome the New Year the way it deserved? When she didn't touch the drink, he asked for her key, so he could put her car in the garage. When she made no move to give it to him, he went downstairs.
Somewhere in the house, water began to drip. She shivered, for' the first time really becoming aware of the rain that was cascading down the windows, roaring on the roof. She began to blame him for that too. When he came back, and took a sharp look at her face, he seemed a little bored. "Well, if you still feel like that, I suppose there's nothing to do but go to bed. . . . I pulled that cloth clear over your car, so it'll probably be all right. I have green pajamas and red. Which do you prefer?"
"I'm not going to bed."
"You're not very amusing here."
"I'm going home."
"Then good night. But in case you change your mind, I'll put out the green pajamas, and—"
"I haven't gone yet."
"Of course you haven't. I'm inviting—"
"Why did you tell her that?"
What with the liquor, the rain, and his manner, her grievances had heavy compression behind them now, and she exploded with a snarl that left her without the least recollection of all the stuffy little things she had intended to say. He looked at her in astonishment. "Tell whom what? If you don't mind my asking."
"You know perfectly well what I'm talking about. How could you say such things to that child? And who gave you the right to talk about my legs anyhow?"
"Everybody else does. Why not me?"
"What?"
"Oh come, come, come. Your legs are the passion of your life. They all but get a cheer when you appear with them in that Pie Wagon, and if you don't want them talked about, you ought' to wear your skirts longer. But you do want them talked about, and looked at, and generally