“Guess it didn’t.”
“Good night, Bert. And I have a couple of old brassieres at the house, tell her. They’re clean and fresh and she can have them any time she drops around.”
“Listen, goddam it, you got the car. Now kindly shut up.”
“Anything you say.”
She pulled away and drove home. When she got there the light was still on, and everything was as she had left it. Glancing at the gas, she saw there were two gallons in the tank, and kept on straight ahead. At Colorado Avenue she turned. It was the first through boulevard she had been on, and the traffic signals were off, with yellow blinkers showing. She gave the car the gun, excitedly watching the needle swing past 30, 40, and 50. At 60, on a slight upgrade, she detected the gravelly sound of ping, made a mental note to have the carbon removed. Then she eased off a little on the gas, breathed a long, tremulous sigh. The car was pumping something into her veins, something of pride, of arrogance, of regained self-respect, that no talk, no liquor, no love, could possibly give. Once more she felt like herself, and began thinking about the job with cool detachment, instead of shame. Its problems, from balancing the dishes to picking up starters, flitted through her mind one after another, and she almost laughed that a few hours ago they had seemed formidable.
When she put the car in the garage, she inspected the tires with a flashlight, to see how they looked. She was pleased to find that there was considerable rubber left, so that new ones wouldn’t be needed at once. Then she ran humming into the house, turned out the light, and undressed, in the dark. Then she went to the children’s room, put her arms around Veda, and kissed her. As Veda stirred sleepily, she said: “Something very nice happened tonight, and you were the cause of it all, and I take everything back that I said. Now go to sleep and don’t think about it any more.”
“I’m so glad, Mother.”
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
Chapter 5
Within a few days, Mildred’s financial troubles had eased a little, for she quickly became the best waitress in the place, not only at giving service, but at bagging tips. The trick of balancing dishes she learned by practicing after the children had gone to bed. She used tin plates, weighting them with stones from the garden, and got so that she could spread three on the fingers of her left hand, lay two more on her arm, remember not to stick her tongue out, and go sailing around the kitchen table without dropping any.
Tips, she knew instinctively, were a matter of regular customers who left dimes instead of nickels. She cultivated men, as all the girls did, as they were better tippers than women. She thought up little schemes to find out their names, remembered all their little likes, dislikes, and crotchets, and saw that Archie gave them exactly what they wanted. She had a talent for quiet flirtation, but found that this didn’t pay. Serving a man food, apparently, was in itself an ancient intimacy; going beyond it made him uncomfortable, and sounded a trivial note in what was essentially a solemn relationship. Simple friendliness, coupled with exact attention to his wants, seemed to please him most, and on that basis she had frequent invitations to take a ride, have dinner, or see a show. At first she didn’t quite know what to do about them, but soon invented a refusal that wasn’t a rebuff. She would say she wanted him to “keep on liking her,” that he “might feel differently if he saw her when she wasn’t in uniform.” This had the effect of arousing a good lively fear that perhaps she wasn’t so hot in her street clothes, and at the same time of leaving enough pity for the poor working girl to keep him coming back, so she could serve his lunch. Having her leg felt, it turned out, was practically a daily hazard, and this she found best not to notice. Even a leg feeler, if properly handled, could be nursed into a regular who left good tips, no doubt to prove he really had a heart of gold.
She held aloof from the restaurant itself, and the people connected with it. This wasn’t entirely due to her ideas of social superiority. In her own mind, she was highly critical of the kitchen, and was afraid to get drawn into talk, for fear she would say what she thought, and lose her job. So she confined her observations to Mrs. Gessler, and every night gave a savage account of the way things were done. Her special grievance was the pies. They were bought from the Handy Baking Company, and Mrs. Gessler often laughed loudly at Mildred’s description of their uninviting appearance, their sticky, tasteless filling, and their hard, indigestible crusts. But in the restaurant she held her peace, until one day she heard Ida bawling out Mr. Chris. “I’m that ashamed to put it on the table! I’m that ashamed to ask a customer to eat it! It’s just awful, the pie you put out here, and expect people to pay for it.” Mr. Chris, who took all bawlings-out with a martyred shrug, merely said: “Maybe a pie is lousy, but what you expect, times like these now? If he no eat, see me, I hokay a new check.” Mildred opened her mouth to take Ida’s side, and hotly proclaim that a new check wouldn’t make the pie taste any better. But at that moment it flashed through her mind that perhaps the real remedy was to get the pie contract herself. With the chance to make these precious dollars, her whole attitude changed. She knew she had to capture Ida, and not only Ida, but everybody else in the place.
That afternoon she was rather more helpful to the other girls than strict ethics demanded, and later, at lunch, sat down with them and got sociable. Meanwhile, she reflected what she was going to do about Ida. She was working that evening, and after the place closed, noticed Ida hurrying out with a glance at the clock, as though she might be catching a bus. Holding the door open, she asked: “Which way do you go, Ida? Maybe I could give you a lift.”
“You got a car?”
“Anyway, it goes.”
“Me, I live on Vermont. Up near Franklin.”
“Why it’s right on my way. I live in Glendale.”
The iciness was gone by the time they climbed in the car. As they parted, Mildred asked Ida if she’d like her to stop by and pick her up, on the way over in the morning. From then on Ida had a ride, and Mildred had a better station, and more importantly, she had Ida’s ear, with no possible interruptions, for a considerable time every day. They became bosom friends, and somehow the talk always got around to pies. Ida was bitter indeed at the product Mr. Chris offered his customers, and Mildred listened sympathetically. And then one night she innocently inquired: “What does he pay for those pies?”
“If he pays two bits, he’s being swindled.”
“Yes, but how much.”
“I don’t know... Why?”
“I make pies. And if he pays anything at all, I’d meet the price and make him some that people would really want to eat. I’d make him some that would be a feature.”
“Could you do it, honest?”
“I sell them all the time.”
“Then I’ll find out what he pays.”
From then on, pies became a feverish conspiracy between Mildred and Ida, and one Sunday Mildred drove over to Ida’s with a fine, wet, beautifully made huckleberry pie. Ida was married, to a former plasterer not working at the moment, and Mildred suspected that a pie might help with the Sunday night supper. Next day, during the luncheon rush, while Mr. Chris had stepped over to the bank to get more change, Ida stopped Mildred in the aisle, and said in a hoarse stage whisper: “He pays a straight thirty-five cents for them and takes three dozen a week.”
“Thanks.”
That night, Ida was full of the information she had filched from the file, and on Mildred’s calculation that she could furnish pies at thirty-five cents, she became masterful. “You leave it to me, Mildred. Just leave it to me. You won’t have to say one word. I’ve been knowing it all along I had to have a showdown about them pies, and now it’s coming. Just leave it all to me.”