“I’m thinking about Bert.”
Without hearing any more about it, she knew what this meant: Wally had had his fun, and now he was getting ready to get out from under. She waited a moment or two, as she often did when angered, but in spite of her effort to sound casual, her voice had a vibrant sound to it. “And what about Bert?”
“Oh — you know.”
“If Bert left me, and he’s out of my life, why do you have to do all this thinking about him, when nobody else is?”
“We’re good friends. Goddam good friends.”
“But not so goddam good that you wouldn’t block him off from a job he was entitled to have, and then go around playing all the politics you knew how, to get it for yourself.”
“Mildred, cussing’s no good, coming from you.”
“And double-crossing’s no good, coming from anybody.”
“I don’t like that.”
“I don’t care whether you like it or not.”
“They needed a lawyer.”
“After you talked to them they did. Oh yes, at least a dozen people came to Bert, and warned him what you were doing and begged him to go down and put his claim in, and he wouldn’t do it, because he didn’t think it was proper. And then he found out what was proper. And what a pal you were.”
“Mildred, I give you my word—”
“And what’s that worth?”
She jumped out of bed and began marching around the dark room, bitterly reviewing the history of Pierce Homes, Inc., the incidents of the crash, and the procedure of the receivers. He started a slow, solemn denial. “Why don’t you tell the truth? You’ve had all you wanted of me, haven’t you? A drink, a dinner, and other things I’d prefer not to mention. And now you want to duck, and you start talking about Bert. Funny you didn’t think about Bert when you came in here, wanting to pull those apron strings. You remember them, don’t you?”
“I didn’t hear you saying no.”
“No, I was a sap.”
She drew breath to say he was just like the rest of them, and then add Mrs. Gessler’s phrase, “the dirty bastards,” but somehow the words didn’t come. There was some core of honesty within her that couldn’t quite accept Mrs. Gessler’s interpretations of life, however they might amuse her at the moment. She didn’t really believe they were dirty bastards, and she had set a trap for Wally. If he was wriggling out of it the best way he could, there was no sense in blaming him for things that were rapidly becoming too much for her, but that he certainly had nothing to do with. She sat down beside him. “I’m sorry, Wally.”
“Hell, that’s all right.”
“I’ve been a little upset lately.”
“Who wouldn’t be?”
Next morning, Mildred was glumly washing the dinner dishes when Mrs. Gessler dropped over, to give an account of the party. She rather pointedly didn’t refer to Wally until she was leaving, and then, as though she had just thought of it, asked how he was. Mildred said he was all right, and listened while Mrs. Gessler added a few more details about the party, and then said abruptly: “Lucy.”
“Yes?”
“I’m on the town,”
“Well — you don’t mean he actually left the money on the bureau, do you?”
“All but.”
Mrs. Gessler sat on the corner of the table, looking at Mildred. There didn’t seem to be much to say. It had all seemed so pat, so simple, and amusing yesterday, but neither of them had allowed for prophecies that merely half came true, or for dirty bastards that were goddam liars, but not quite such clucks as they should have been. A wave of helpless rage set over Mildred. She picked up the empty wine bottle, heaved it into the pantry, laughed wildly as it smashed into a hundred pieces.
Chapter 3
From then on, Mildred knew she had to get a job. There came another little flurry of orders for cakes and pies, and she filled them, but all the time she was thinking, in a sick, frightened kind of way, or trying to think, of something she could do, some work she could get, so she could have an income, and not be put out of the house on the 1st of July, when the interest would be due on the mortgages Bert had put on the house. She studied the help-wanted advertisements, but there were hardly any. Each day there would be notices for cooks, maids, and chauffeurs, but she skipped quickly by them. The big advertisements, headed “Opportunity,” “Salesmen Wanted,” and “Men, Women, Attention,” — these she passed over entirely. They savored too much of Bert’s methods in getting rid of Pierce Homes. But occasionally something looked promising. One advertisement called for: “Woman, young, pleasing appearance and manners, for special work.” She answered, and was excited a day or two later when she got a note, signed by a man, asking her to call an address in the Los Feliz section of Hollywood. She put on the print dress, made her face up nicely, and went over there.
The man received her in sweat shirt and flannels, and said he was a writer. As to what he wrote, he was quite vague, though he said his researches were extensive, and called him to many different parts of the world, where, of course, she would be expected to travel with him. He was equally vague about her duties: it appeared she would help him “collect material,” “file documents,” and “verify citations”; also take charge of his house, get some order into it, and check his bills, on which he feared he was being cheated. When he sat down near her, and announced he felt sure she was the person he was looking for, she became suspicious. She hadn’t said a word that indicated any qualifications for the job, if indeed a job existed, and she came to the conclusion that what he wanted wasn’t a research assistant, but a sweetie. She left, feeling sullen over her wasted afternoon and wasted bus fare. It was her first experience with the sexological advertiser, though she was to find out he was fairly common. Usually he was some phony calling himself a writer, an agent, or a talent scout, who had found out that for a dollar and a half’s worth of newspaper space he could have a daylong procession of girls at his door, all desperate for work, all willing to do almost anything to get it.
She answered more ads, got repeated requests to call, and did call, until her shoes began to show the strain, and she had to take them constantly to the shoemaker’s, for heel-straightening and polishing. She began to feel a bitter resentment against Bert, for taking the car when she needed it so badly. Nothing came of the ad-answering. She would be too late, or not qualified, or disqualified, on account of the children, or unsuitable in one way and another. She made the rounds of the department stores, and became dismally familiar with the crowd of silent people in the hallway outside the personnel offices, and the tense, desperate jockeying for position when the doors opened at ten o’clock. At only one store was she permitted to fill out a card. This was at Corasi Bros., a big place in downtown Los Angeles that specialized in household furnishings. She was first through the door here, and quickly sat down at one of the little glass-topped tables reserved for interviews. But the head of the department, addressed by everybody as Mrs. Boole, kept passing her by, and she grew furious at this injustice. Mrs. Boole was rather good-looking, and seemed to know most of the applicants by name. Mildred was so resentful that they should be dealt with ahead of her that she suddenly gathered up her gloves and started to flounce out, without being interviewed at all. But Mrs. Boole held up a finger, smiled, and came over. “Don’t go. I’m sorry to keep you waiting, but most of these people are old friends, and it seems a pity not to let them know at once, so they can call at the other stores, and perhaps have a little luck. That’s why I always talk to new applicants last, when I really have a little time.”