Mildred Pierce - James M. Cain [90]
"Except from me."
White with rage, she opened her evening bag, took out a crisp $10 bill, threw it at his feet. He took the fire tongs, picked it up, dropped it on the fire. When the flame flared up he took out a handkerchief and mopped his face.
For a time, nothing was said by either of them, and when their panting had died down, Mildred began to feel ashamed, defeated, and miserable. She had said it all, had goaded him to say it all too, those things that she knew he felt, and that left her crumpled and unable to answer. Yet nothing had been settled: there he was and there she was. As she looked at him, she saw for the first time that he was tired, worn, and haggard, with just a touch of middle age dragging at what she had always thought of as a youthful face. Then a gush of terrible affection for him swept over her, compounded of pity, contempt, and something motherly. She wanted to cry, and suddenly reached over and rubbed his bald spot. For a long time, it had been a little joke between them. He made no move, but he didn't repulse her either, and when she leaned back she felt better. Then again she heard the rain, and for the first time was afraid of it. She drew the coat around her. Then she picked up Manhattan No. 3, drank half of it, set it down again. Without looking at her, he filled her glass. They sat a long time, neither of them looking at the other.
Then abruptly, as though he had solved a very difficult problem, he banged his fist on the arm of his chair, and said: "Damn it, what this needs is the crime of rape!"
He came' over, put one arm around her, slipped the other under her legs, and carried her into the bedroom. A little moaning laugh escaped her as he dumped her down on the hummocksy bed. She felt weak and drugged. In a moment, the brocaded coat was off, was sliding to the floor. She thought of her dress, and didn't care: she wanted him to rip it off her, to tear it away in shreds, if he had to, so he got her out of it. But he wasn't ripping it off. He was fumbling with the zipper, and for a moment her fingers were over his, trying to help. Then something stirred inside of her, an unhappy recollection of what she had come for, of what had been piling up between them these last few months. She fought it off, tried to make it sink under the overwhelming blend of liquor, man, and rain. It wouldn't sink. If she had lifted a mountain, it couldn't have been harder than it was to put both palms in Monty's face, push him away, squirm off the bed, and lurch to her feet. She grabbed both coats, ran into the other room. He was after her, trying to drag her back, but she fought him off as she snatched up the galoshes and dashed into the dark hail.
Somehow, she got through the ghostly rooms, down the stairs, and to the front door. It was locked. She twisted the big brass key, and at last was on the portico, in the cold wet air. She pulled on both coats, stepped into the galoshes. Then suddenly the light came on, and he was beside her, reaching for her, trying to pull her back. She dashed out into the rain, yanked the cloth off the car, let it fall in the mud, and jumped in. As she snapped on the lights and started the motor, she could see him under the light, gesticulating at her, expostulating with her. There was nothing of passion in his face now. He was angrily telling her not to be a fool, not to go out in that storm.
She started out. On Orange Grove Avenue more tree limbs were down, and it didn't look so sleek and harmless. She pulled in to the curb, found the kerchief in the trench coat pocket, tied it around her head. Then, cautiously, feeling a throb of fright every time the car bucked in the wind, she went on. As she turned at the traffic circle, she caught the lights of another car, behind.
There were no men with lanterns now, nothing but the black, wild, and