All that Mrs. Boole had said, all that Miss Turner had said, all that her bowels had told her, after that trip to Beverly Hills, came sweeping over Mildred, and suddenly she dived for the bathroom. The milk, the sandwich, the tea, all came up, while moaning sobs racked her. Then Mrs. Gessler was beside her, holding her head, wiping her mouth, giving her water, leading her gently to bed. Here she collapsed in a paroxysm of hysteria, sobbing, shaking, writhing. Mrs. Gessler took her clothes off, massaged her back, patted her, told her to let it come, not to try to hold back. She relaxed, and cried until tears gushed down her face, and let Mrs. Gessler wipe them away as they came. After a long time she was quiet, but it was a glum, hopeless quiet. Then: “I can’t do it, Lucy! I — just — can’t — do — it.”
“Baby! Do what?”
“Wear a uniform. And take their tips. And face those awful people. They called me names. And one of them grabbed my leg. Ooh... I can feel it yet. He put his hand clear up to—”
“What do they pay you?”
“Twenty-five cents an hour.”
“And tips extra?”
“Yes.”
“Baby, you’re nuts. Those tips will bring in a couple of dollars a day, and you’ll be making — why, at least twenty dollars a week, more money than you’ve seen since Pierce Homes blew up. You’ve got to do it, for your own sake. Nobody pays any attention to that uniform stuff any more. I bet you look cute in one. And besides, people have to do what they can do—”
“Lucy, stop! I’ll go mad! I’ll-”
At Mrs. Gessler’s look, Mildred pulled herself together, at least tried to make intelligible her violent outburst. “That’s what they’ve been telling me, the employment people, everybody, that all I’m good for is putting on a uniform and waiting on other people, and—”
“And maybe they’re right, just at the present moment. Because maybe what they’re trying to tell you is exactly what I’m trying to tell you. You’re in a spot. It’s all right to be proud, and I love you for it. But you’re starving to death, baby. Don’t you suppose my heart’s been heavy for you? Don’t you know I’d have sent roast beef in here, or ham, or whatever I had, every night, except that I knew you’d hate me for it? You’ve just got to take this job—”
“I know it. I can’t, and yet I’ve got to.”
“Then if you’ve got to, you’ve got to, so quit bawling.”
“Promise me one thing, Lucy.”
“Anything.”
“Don’t tell anybody.”
“I wouldn’t even tell Ike.”
“I don’t care about Ike, or any of these people, what they think. It’s on account of the children, and I don’t want anybody at all to know it, for fear somebody’ll say something to them. They mustn’t know it — and specially not Veda.”
“That Veda, if you ask me, has some funny ideas.”
“I respect her ideas.”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t understand her. She has something in her that I thought I had, and now I find I haven’t. Pride, or whatever it is. Nothing on earth could make Veda do what I’m going to do.”
“That pride, I wouldn’t give a snap of my finger for it. You’re quite right about her. Veda wouldn’t do it herself, but she’s perfectly willing to let you do it and eat the cake.”
“I want her to have it. Cake — not just bread.”
During the six weeks Mildred had been looking for work, she had seen quite a little of Wally. He had dropped around one night, after the children had gone to bed, and was quite apologetic about what he had said, and penitently asserted he had made a sap of himself. She said there were no hard feelings, and brought him into the den, though she didn’t bother to light a fire or serve a drink. But when he sat down beside her and put his arm around her, she got up and made one of her little speeches. She said she would be glad to see him any time, she wanted him as a friend. However, it must be distinctly understood that what was past was past, not to be brought up again under any circumstances. If he wanted to see her on that basis, she would try to make him welcome, and she really wanted him to come. He said gee that was swell of her, and if she really meant it, it was okey-doke by him.
Thereafter he dropped by rather often, arriving usually around nine, for she didn’t want the children to know quite how much she was seeing him. Once, when they were spending a weekend at the Pierces’, he came on Saturday evening and “took her out.” She expressed a preference for a quiet place, for she was afraid the print dress wouldn’t pass muster anywhere else, so they took a drive and ate in a roadside inn near Ventura. But one night, when her affairs were beginning to get desperate, he happened to sit beside her on the sofa again, and she didn’t move. When he put his arm around her, in a casual, friendly kind of way, she didn’t resist, and when he pulled her head on his shoulder she let it stay there. They sat a long time without speaking. So, with the door tightly locked, the shades pulled down, and the keyhole stuffed up, they resumed their romance, there in the den. Romance, perhaps, wasn’t quite the word, for of that emotion she felt not the slightest flicker. Whatever it was, it afforded two hours of relief, of forgetfulness.
This evening, she found herself hoping that Wally might come, so she wouldn’t have to think about the uniform she would have to buy in the morning, or the sentence she would begin serving. But when the bell rang she was a little surprised, for it was only a few minutes after seven. She went to the door, and instead of Wally standing there, it was Bert. “Oh. Why — hello, stranger.”
“Mildred, how are you?”
“Can’t complain. How’s yourself?”
“O.K. Just thought I’d drop around for a little visit, and maybe pick up a couple of things I left in the desk, while I’m about it.”
“Well come in.”
But suddenly there were such whoops from the back of the house that any further discussion of his business had to be postponed indefinitely. Both children came running, and were swept into his arms, and solemnly measured, to determine how much they had grown since he saw them. His verdict was “at least two inches, maybe three.” As Mildred suspected he had seen them both the previous weekend, this seemed a rapid rate of growth indeed, but if this was supposed to be a secret, she didn’t care to unmask it, and so acquiesced in three inches, and it became official. She brought them all back to the den, and Bert took a seat on the sofa, and both children snuggled up beside him. Mildred told him the main news about them: how they had good report cards from school, how Veda was doing splendidly with her piano practice, how Ray had a new tooth. It was forthwith exhibited, and as it was a molar, required a deal of cheek-stretching before it came clearly into view. But Bert admired it profusely, and found a penny to contribute, in commemoration thereof.
Both children showed him their new possessions: dolls, brought by Mrs. Gessler from San Pedro a few days before; the gold crowns they were to wear at the pageant that would mark the closing of school in two weeks; some balls, translucent dice, and perfume bottles they had obtained in trades with other children. Then Bert asked Mildred about various acquaintances, and she answered in friendly fashion. But as this took the spotlight off the children, they quickly became bored. After a spell of ball-bouncing, which Mildred stopped, and a spell of recitations from the school pageant, which wound up in a quarrel over textual accuracy, Ray began a stubborn campaign to show Daddy the new sand bucket her grandfather had given her. As the bucket was in the garage, and Mildred didn’t feel like going out there, Ray began to pout. Then Veda, with an air of saving a difficult situation, said: “Aren’t you terribly thirsty, Father? Mother, would you like me to open the Scotch?”