“I’m sorry, darling. But I have to talk to you. Something has happened.”
“Well — at least let me take off my hat.”
Mildred went to the den, relieved that she had smelled no liquor. In a minute or two Veda came in, sat down, lit a cigarette, yawned. “Personally, I find pictures a bore, don’t you? At least Nelson Eddy pictures. Still, I suppose it’s not his fault, for it isn’t how he sings but what he sings. And I suppose he has nothing to do with how dreadfully long they are.”
Miserably, Mildred tried to think how to begin. In a low, timid voice, she said: “A Mrs. Lenhardt was in to see me today. A Mrs. John Lenhardt?”
“Oh, really?”
“She says you’re engaged to marry her son, or have some idea you want to marry him, or — something.”
“She’s quite talkative. What else?”
“She opposes it.”
In spite of her effort, Mildred had been unable to get started. Now she blurted out: “Darling, what was she talking about? What does it all mean?”
Veda smoked reflectively a few moments, then said, in her clear, suave way: “Well, it would be going too far to say it was my idea that Sam and I get married. After the big rush they gave me, with Pa breaking his neck to get me a screen test and Ma having me over morning, noon and night, and Sonny boy phoning me, and writing me, and wiring me that if I didn’t marry him he’d end his young life — you might say it was a conspiracy. Certainly I said nothing about it, or even thought about it, until it seemed advisable.”
“What do you mean, advisable?”
“Well, Mother, he was certainly very sweet, or seemed so at any rate, and they were most encouraging, and I hadn’t exactly been happy since — Hannen died. And Elaine did have a nice little apartment. And I was certainly most indiscreet. And then, after the big whoop-de-do, their whole attitude changed, alas. And here I am, holding the bag. One might almost say I was a bit of a sap.”
If there was any pain, any tragic overtone, to this recital, it was not audible to the ordinary ear. It betrayed regret over folly, perhaps a little self-pity, but all of a casual kind. Mildred, however, wasn’t interested in such subtleties. She had reached a point where she had to know one stark, basic fact. Sitting beside Veda, clutching her hand, she said: “Darling, I have to ask you something. I have to, I have to. Are you — going to have a baby?”
“Yes, Mother, I’m afraid I am.”
For a second the jealousy was so overwhelming that Mildred actually was afraid she would vomit. But then Veda looked at her in a pretty, contrite way, as one who had sinned but is sure of forgiveness, and dropped her head on Mildred’s shoulder. At this the sick feeling left, and a tingle went through Mildred. She gathered Veda to her bosom, held her tight, patted her, cried a little. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was afraid.”
“Of me? Of Mother?”
“No, no! Of the suffering it would bring you. Darling Mother, don’t you know I can’t bear to see you unhappy?”
Mildred closed her eyes for a moment, to savor this sweet blandishment. Then, remembering, she asked: “What did she mean about officers?”
“You mean police?”
“I guess so. At her door.”
“My, that is funny.”
Veda sat up, lit another cigarette, and laughed in a silvery, ironical way. “From what I’ve learned of the young man since this happened, I’d say that any girl from Central Casting, perhaps all eight thousand of them for that matter, could have sent officers to his door. He has a very inclusive taste. Well, that’s really funny, when you stop to think about it, isn’t it?”
Hoping for more saccharine remarks, Mildred asked Veda if she’d like to sleep with her, “just for tonight,” but Veda said it was something she’d have to face alone, and went to her room. All through the night, Mildred kept waking with the jealousy gnawing at her. In the morning, she went to the Glendale restaurant and called Bert. Dispensing with Tommy, she went down to Mrs. Biederhof’s corner and picked him up. Then, starting for the hills, she started to talk. She put in everything that seemed relevant, beginning with Mr. Hannen’s hemorrhage, and emphasizing Veda’s forebodings about it. When she got to Mr. Treviso, Bert’s face darkened, and he exclaimed at the “rottenness” of a dirty wop that would treat a young girl that way. Then, finding the going more difficult, Mildred told about Elaine, the drinking, and Ida’s harrowing tales. Then, disconnectedly, hardly able to speak anymore, or to drive, she told about Mrs. Lenhardt. Then, trying to tell about her talk with Veda, she broke down completely, and blurted: “Bert! She’s going to have a baby! She’s in a family way!”
Bert’s grip tightened on her arm. “Hold it! Stop this goddam car. I got to — get someplace where I can move around.”
She stopped, and pulled to one side, on Foothill Boulevard. He got out, began tramping up and down beside the car. Then he began to curse. He said goddam it, he was going to kill that son of a bitch if it was the last thing he did on earth. He said he was going to kill him if they hung him for it and his soul rotted in hell. With still more frightful oaths, he went into full particulars as to where he was going to buy the gun, the way he would lay for the boy, what he would say when he had him face to face, and how he would let him have it. Mildred watched the preposterous little figure striding up and down, and a fierce, glowing pride in him began to warm her. Even his curses gave her a queer, morbid satisfaction. But after a while she said: “Get in, Bert.”
He climbed in beside her, held his face in his hands, and for a moment she thought he was going to weep. When he didn’t, she started the car and said: “I know you’d kill him, Bert. I know you would, and I glory in you for it. I love you for it.” She took his hand, and gripped it, and tears came to her eyes, for he had reached her own great pain, somehow, and by his ferocity, eased it. “But — that wouldn’t do Veda any good. If he’d dead, that’s not getting her anywhere.”
“That’s right.”
“What are we going to do?”
Gagging over her words, Mildred presently broached the subject of an operation. It was something she knew little about, and hated, not only on account of its physical aspect, but because it went counter to every instinct in her wholly feminine nature. Bert cut her off with a gesture. “Mildred, girls die in that operation. They die. And we’re not going to let her die. We lost one, and that’s enough. By God, I’ll say she’s not going to have any operation, not to make it easy for a dirty little rat that took advantage of her and now wants to do a run-out.”
Bert now turned toward Mildred, his eyes flashing. “He’s going to marry her, that’s what he’s going to do. After he’s given her child a name, then he can do his run-out. He better do a run-out, and do it fast, before I catch up with him. He can go to hell, for all I give a damn, but before he does, he’ll march up beside her and say ‘I do.’ I’ll see to that.”
“It’s the only thing, Bert.”
Mildred drove along, and presently had a hollow feeling they were right back where they started. It was all very well to say the boy had to marry Veda, but how could they make him do it? Suddenly she burst out: “Bert, I’m going to get a lawyer.”
“It’s just what I’ve been thinking.”
“You and I, we can’t do a thing. Precious time is going by, and something has to be done. And the first thing is to get that lawyer.”
“O.K. And get him quick.”
When Mildred got home, Veda was just getting up. Closing the door, she addressed the tousled girl in the green kimono. “I told your father. We had a talk. He agrees that we need a lawyer. I’m going to call up Wally Burgan.”