Mildred Pierce - James M. Cain [96]
Through all the work, however, the endless driving, the worry, the feeling there were not enough hours in the day for all she had to do, one luxury she permitted herself. No matter how the day broke, she was home at three o'clock in the afternoon, for what she called her "rest." It was a rest, to be sure, but that wasn't the main idea. Primarily it was a concert, with herself the sole auditor. When Veda turned sixteen, she persuaded Mildred to let her quit high school, so
she could devote her whole time to music. In the morning she did harmony, and what she called "paper work." In the afternoon she practiced For two hours she practiced exercises, but at three she began to practice pieces, and it was then that Mildred arrived. Tiptoeing in the back way, she would slip into the hail, and for a moment stand looking into the living room, where Veda was seated at the satiny black grand. It was a picture that never failed to thrill her: the beautiful instrument that she had worked for and paid for, the no less beautiful child she had brought into the world; a picture moreover, that she could really call her own. Then, after a soft "I'm home, darling," she would tiptoe to her bedroom, lie down, and listen. She didn't know the names of many of the pieces, but she had her favorites, and Veda usually played one. There was one in particular, something by Chopin, that she liked best of all, "because it reminds me of that song about rainbows." Veda, somewhat ironically, said: "Well Mother, there's a reason"; but she played it, nevertheless. Mildred was delighted at the way the child was coming along; warm, shy intimacy continued, and Mildred laughed to think she had once supposed that Monty had something to do with it. This, she told herself, was what made everything worth while.
One afternoon the concert was interrupted by a phone call. Veda answered, and from the tone of her voice, Mildred knew something was wrong. She came in and sat on the bed, but to Mildred's "What is it darling?" returned no answer at once. Then, after a few moments of gloomy siLence, she said: "Hannen's had a hemorrhage."
"Oh my, isn't that awful!"
"He knew it was coming on. He had two or three little ones. This one caught him on the street, while he was walking home from the postoffice. The ambulance doctor made a mess of it—had him lifted by the shoulders or something— and it's a lot worse than it might have been. Mrs. Hannen's almost in hysterics about it."
"You have to go over there. At once."
"Not today. He's all packed in icebags, and they give him some kind of gas to inhale. It's just hell."
"Is there something I could do? I mean, if there are any special dishes he needs, I can send anything that's wanted, hot, all ready to serve—"
"I can find out."
Veda stared at the Gessler house, now for rent. Then: "God, but I'm going to miss that damned he-bear."
"Well my goodness, he's not gone yet."
Mildred said this sharply. She had the true California tradition of optimism in such matters; to her it was almost blasphemous not to hope for the best. But Veda got up heavily and spoke quietly. "Mother, it's bad. I know from the way he's been acting lately that he's known it would be bad, when it came. I can tell from the way she was wailing over that phone that it's bad. . . . And what I'm going to do I don't know."
Special dishes, it turned out, were needed desperately, on the chance that the stricken man could be tempted to eat, and in that way build up his strength. So daily, for a week, a big hamper was delivered by Tommy, full of chicken cooked by Mildred herself, tiny sandwiches prepared by Ida, cracked crab nested in ice by Archie, sherries selected by Mrs. Gessler. Mildred Pierce, Inc., spit on its hands to show what it could do. Then one day Mildred and Veda took the hamper over in person, together with a great bunch of red roses. When they arrived at the house, the morning paper was still on the grass, a market circular was stuffed under the door. They rang, and there was no answer. Veda looked at