Mom said nothing, but the swing continued to squeak. Mr. Pierce said the Depression had certainly hit a lot of people hard. Mildred waited a minute or two, so her departure wouldn’t seem quite so pointed, then said she had to be getting the children home. Mr. Pierce saw her to the door, but didn’t offer a ride. Falteringly, he said: “You need anything right now, Mildred?”
“Not yet a while, thanks.”
“I sure am sorry.”
“What had to come had to come.”
“Good night, Mildred.”
Shooing the children along, Mildred felt a hot resentment against the pair she had just left, not only for their complete failure to get the point, but also for their stingy ignoring of the plight she was in, and the possibility that their grandchildren, for all they knew, might not have anything to eat. As she turned into Pierce Drive the night chill settled down, and she felt cold, and swallowed quickly to get rid of a forlorn feeling in her throat.
After putting the children to bed she went to the living room, pulled a chair to the window, and sat there in the dark looking out at the familiar scene, trying to shake off the melancholy that was creeping over her. Then she went to the bedroom and turned on the light. It was the first time she had slept here since Bert started his attentions to Mrs. Biederhof; for several months, now, she had been sleeping in the children’s room, where she had moved one of the twin beds. She tiptoed in there, got her pajamas, came back, took off her dress. Then she sat down in front of the dressing table and started combing her hair. Then she stopped and began looking at herself, grimly, reflectively.
She was a shade under medium height, and her small size, mousy-blond hair, and watery blue eyes made her look considerably younger than she actually was, which was twenty-eight. About her face there was no distinction whatever. She was what is described as “nice-looking,” rather than pretty; her own appraisal she sometimes gave in the phrase, “pass in a crowd.” But this didn’t quite do her justice. Into her eyes, if she were provoked, or made fun of, or puzzled, there came a squint that was anything but alluring, that betrayed a rather appalling literal-mindedness, or matter-of-factness, or whatever it might be called, but that hinted, nevertheless, at something more than complete vacuity inside. It was the squint, Bert confessed afterwards, that first caught his fancy, and convinced him there was “something to her.” They met just after her father died, when she was in her third year at high school. After the garage business had been sold and the insurance collected, her mother had toyed with the idea of buying a Pierce Home, using her small capital as a down payment, and taking in roomers to pay the rest. So Bert came around, and Mildred was excited by him, mainly on account of his dashing ways.
But when the day of the grand tour of Pierce Homes arrived, Mrs. Ridgely was unable to go, and Bert took Mildred. They drove in his sports roadster, and the wind was in her hair, and she felt a-tingle and grown-up. As a grand climax they stopped at the Pierce Model Home, which was really the main office of Pierce Homes, Inc., but was built like a home, to stimulate the imaginations of customers. The secretaries had gone by then, but Mildred inspected everything from the great “living room” in front to the cozy “bedrooms” at the rear, lingering longer in these than was perhaps exactly advisable. Bert was very solemn on the way home, as befitted one who had just seduced a minor, but gallantly suggested a re-inspection next day. A month later they were married, she quitting school two days before the ceremony, and Veda arriving slightly sooner than the law allowed. Bert persuaded Mrs. Ridgely to give up the idea of a Pierce Home for boardinghouse purposes, possibly fearing deficits, and she went to live with Mildred’s sister, whose husband had a ship chandler’s business in San Diego. The small capital, at Bert’s suggestion, was invested in A. T. & T.
And Mildred’s figure got her attention in any crowd and all crowds. She had a soft, childish neck that perked her head up at a pretty angle; her shoulders drooped, but gracefully; her brassiere ballooned a little, with an extremely seductive burden. Her hips were small, like Veda’s, and suggested a girl, rather than a woman who had borne two children. Her legs were really beautiful, and she was quite vain of them. Only one thing about them bothered her, but it bothered her constantly, and it had bothered her ever since she could remember. In the mirror they were flawlessly slim and straight, but as she looked down on them direct, something about their contours made them seem bowed. So she had taught herself to bend one knee when she stood, and to take short steps when she moved, bending the rear knee quickly, so that the deformity, if it actually existed couldn’t be noticed. This gave her a mincing, feminine walk, like the ponies in a Broadway chorus; she didn’t know it, but her bottom switched in a wholly provocative way.
Or possibly she did know it.
The hair finished, she got up, put her hands on her hips, and surveyed herself in the mirror. For a moment the squint appeared in her eyes, as though she knew this was no ordinary night in her life, and that she must take stock, see what she had to offer against what lay ahead. Leaning close, she bared her teeth, which were large and white, and looked for cavities. She found none. She stood back again, cocked her head to one side, struck an attitude. Almost at once she amended it by bending one knee. Then she sighed, took off the rest of her clothes, slipped into her pajamas. As she turned off the light, from force of long habit she looked over to the Gesslers’, to see if they were still up. Then she remembered they were away. Then she remembered what Mrs. Gessler had said: “... the great American institution that never gets mentioned on Fourth of July, a grass widow with two small children to support” — and snickered sourly as she got into bed. Then she caught her breath as Bert’s smell enveloped her.
In a moment the door opened, and little Ray trotted in, weeping. Mildred held up the covers, folded the little thing in, snuggled her against her stomach, whispered and crooned to her until the weeping stopped. Then, after staring at the ceiling for a time, she fell asleep.
Chapter 2
For a day or two after Bert left, Mildred lived in a sort of fool’s paradise, meaning she got two orders for cakes and three orders for pies. They kept her bustlingly busy, and she kept thinking what she would say to Bert, when he dropped around to see the children: “Oh, we’re getting along all right — no need for you to worry. I’ve got all the work I can do, and more. Just goes to show that when a person’s willing to work there still seems to be work to be done.” Also, she conned over a slightly different version, for Mr. Pierce and Mom: “Me? I’m doing fine. I’ve got more orders now than I can fill — but thank you for your kind offers, just the same.” Mr. Pierce’s fainthearted inquiries still rankled with her, and it pleased her that she could give the pair of them a good waspish sting, and then sit back and watch their faces. She was a little given to rehearsing things in her mind, and having imaginary triumphs over people who had upset her in one way and another.
But soon she began to get frightened. Several days went by, and there were no orders. Then there came a letter from her mother, mainly about the A. T. & T., which she had bought outright and still held, and which had fallen to some absurd figure. She was quite explicit about blaming this all on Bert, and seemed to feel there was something he could do about it, and should do. And such part of the letter as wasn’t about the A. T. & T. was about Mr. Engel’s ship-chandler-business. At the moment it seemed that the only cash customers were bootleggers, but they all used light boats, and Mr. Engel was stocked with heavy gear, for steamers. So Mildred was directed to drive down to Wilmington and see if any of the chandlers there would take this stuff off his hands, in exchange for the lighter articles used by speedboats. Mildred broke into a hysterical laugh as she read this, for the idea of going around, trying to get rid of a truckload of anchors, struck her as indescribably comic. And in the same mail was a brief communication from the gas company, headed “Third Notice,” and informing her that unless her bill was paid in five days service would be discontinued.