“Why not?”
“Don’t you know? After she’s been Mr. Hannen’s candy kid? The one that was going to New York and play the pyanner so they’d all be hollering for her? You think she’s going to see them people now, and just be Veda? Not her. She’s the queen, or she don’t play. She ain’t giving no party, and you ain’t either.”
“I’ve simply got to do something.”
“Can’t you leave her alone?”
Letty, a devoted worshipper of Veda’s by now, spoke sharply, and Mildred left the kitchen, lest she lose her temper. Leaving Veda alone was something that hadn’t entered her mind, but after she cooled off she thought about it. However, she was incapable of leaving Veda alone. In the first place, she had an honest concern about her. In the second place, she had become so accustomed to domineering over the many lives that depended on her, that patience, wisdom, and tolerance had almost ceased to be a part of her. And in the third place, there was this feeling she had about Veda, that by now permeated every part of her, and colored everything she did. To have Veda play the piece about rainbows, just for her, was delicious. To have her scream at her was painful, but bearable, for at least it was she that was being screamed at. To have her lying there on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and not even thinking about her, was an agony too great to be borne. Even as she was trying to be detached, to weigh Letty’s remark fairly, she was deciding that where Veda really belonged was in pictures, and meditating a way whereby a director, one of Ida’s customers, could be induced to take an interest. This brilliant scheme, however, was never put to the test. Veda snapped out of it. Appearing at Laguna one night, she blithely ordered a cocktail, downed a $3.50 steak, and mingled sociably with everybody in the place. Casually, before she left, she asked Mildred if she could order some new clothes, explaining she had been embarrassed to go anywhere “in these rags.” Mildred, delighted at any sign of reviving interest, overlooked the cocktail and told her to order anything she wanted.
She was a little stunned when the bills began to come in, and they footed up to more than $1,300. And she was disturbed when she saw the clothes. Up to now, Veda had worn the quiet, well-made, somewhat sexless toggery sanctioned by Pasadena, as suitable to girls of her age. Now, in big, expensive hats and smart, striking dresses, with powder, rouge, and lipstick thick on her face, she hardly looked like the same girl. She was, by any standard, extraordinarily good-looking. Her hair, still a soft, coppery red, was cut and waved to flow over her shoulders. Her freckles were all gone, leaving the upper part of her face, which so much resembled Bert’s, even handsomer than it had been before: the shadows under her eyes gave her true beauty, and if the light blue of the eyes themselves, as well as the set of the resolute mouth, were a little hard, they were also suggestive of the modern world, of boulevards, theatres, and streamlined cars. She had grown but little these last three years. Though her carriage enhanced her height, she was actually but a shade taller than Mildred. And her figure had filled out, or taken on form, or undergone some elusive change, so the Dairy was no longer the bulging asymmetry it had been in the days when Monty complained about it. It melted pleasantly, even excitingly, into the rest of her. But what shook up Mildred, when this new finery arrived, was the perception that this child was no longer a child. At seventeen she was a woman, and an uncommonly wise one at that. Mildred tried to like the clothes, couldn’t. Unable to indict them, she harped on the three-quarter mink coat, the exact model she had picked out for herself, years before, and never yet bought. Querulously, she said such a purchase should never have been made “without consulting her.” But when Veda slipped it on, and called her “darling Mother,” and kissed her, and begged to be allowed to keep it, she gave in.
Thereafter, she hardly saw Veda. In the morning, when she went out, Veda was still asleep, and at night, when she came in, Veda wasn’t home yet, and usually didn’t arrive until two or three in the morning. One night, when Veda’s car backed and started several times before making the garage, and the footsteps sounded heavy in the hall, Mildred knew that Veda was drunk. But when she went to Veda’s door, it was locked, and there was no answer to her knock. Then one afternoon, when she came home for her rest, Veda’s car was there, and so was a dreadful girl, named Elaine. Her place of residence, it turned out, was Beverly, her occupation actress, though when Mildred asked what pictures she had acted in, the answer was merely, “character parts.” She was tall, pretty, and cheap, and Mildred instinctively disliked her. But as this was the first girl Veda had ever chosen as a friend, she tried to “be nice to her.” Then Mildred began to hear things. Ida cornered her one night, and began a long, whispered harangue. “Mildred, it may be none of my business, but it’s time you knew what was going on with Veda. She’s been in here a dozen times, with that awful girl she goes around with and not only here but at Eddie’s across the street, and at other places. And all they’re up to is picking up men. And the men they pick up! They’re driving all around in that car of Veda’s, and sometimes they’ve got one man with them and sometimes it’s five. Five, Mildred. One day there was three inside, sitting all over the girls’ laps, and two more outside, one on each running board. And at Eddie’s they drink...”
Mildred felt she had to talk to Veda about this, and one Sunday morning screwed up her courage to start. But Veda elected to be hurt. “After all, Mother, it was you that said I couldn’t lie around here all the time. And just because that prissy Ida — oh well, let’s not get on that subject. There’s nothing to be alarmed at, Mother. I may go into pictures, that’s all. And Elaine may be a bum — well there’s no use being silly about it. I grant at once that she’s nothing but a tramp. But she knows directors. Lots of them. All of them. And you have to know directors to get a test.”
Mildred tried conscientiously to accept this version, reminded herself that the picture career had been her own idea, too. But she remained profoundly miserable, almost physically sick.
One afternoon, at the Glendale restaurant, Mildred was checking inventory with Mrs. Kramer when Arline came into the kitchen and said a Mrs. Lenhardt was there to see her. Then, lowering her voice, Arline added excitedly: “I think it’s the director’s wife.”
Mildred quickly scrubbed up her hands, dried them, and went out. Then she felt her face get prickly. Arline had said Mrs. Lenhardt, but the woman near the door was the very Mrs. Forrester to whom she had applied, years before, for the job as housekeeper. She had just time to recall that Mrs. Forrester had expected to be married again when the lady turned, then came over beaming, with outstretched glove and alarming graciousness. “Mrs. Pierce? I’ve been looking forward so much to meeting you. I’m Mrs. Lenhardt, Mrs. John Lenhardt, and I’m sure we’re going to work out our little problem splendidly.”
This greeting left Mildred badly crossed up, and as she led Mrs. Lenhardt to a table she speculated wildly as to what it might mean. She had a panicky fear that it had something to do with that visit years before, that Veda would find out she had once actually applied for a servant’s job, that the consequences would be horrible. As she faced her visitor, she suddenly made up her mind that whatever this was about, she was going to deny everything; deny that she had ever seen Mrs. Forrester before, or been to her house, or even considered a position as housekeeper. She had no sooner made this decision than she saw Mrs. Forrester eyeing her sharply. “But haven’t we met before, Mrs. Pierce.”