"Oh Mother, do you think it would be right?"

"Ray wouldn't mind."

Veda trotted out of the house, and Bert looked a little shocked. "She's a child, Bert. They don't feel things the way we feel them. It's better that she not be here while— arrangements are being made."

Bert nodded, wandered about the room. A match in the fireplace caught his attention, and he stooped to pick it up. So doing, he b.u.mped his head. If he had been hit with an axe he couldn't have collapsed more completely. Instinctively, Mildred knew why: poking into the fireplace had brought it all back, the game he used to play with Ray, all the gay nonsense between the elephant and the monk. Mildred led him to the sofa, took him in her arms. Then together, in the darkened room, they mourned their child. When he could speak, he babbled of Ray's sweet, perfect character. He said if ever a kid deserved to be in heaven she did, and that's where she was all right. G.o.ddam G.o.ddam it, that's where she was. Mildred knew this was a solace from a pain too great for him to bear: that he was taking refuge in the belief she wasn't really dead. Too realistic, too literalminded, to be stirred much by the idea of heaven, she nevertheless craved relief from this aching void inside of her, and little heat lightnings began to shoot through it. They had an implication that terrified her, and she fought them off. it, that's where she was. Mildred knew this was a solace from a pain too great for him to bear: that he was taking refuge in the belief she wasn't really dead. Too realistic, too literalminded, to be stirred much by the idea of heaven, she nevertheless craved relief from this aching void inside of her, and little heat lightnings began to shoot through it. They had an implication that terrified her, and she fought them off.

The phone rang. Bert answered, and sternly said there had been a death in the family, and that Mrs. Pierce couldn't possibly talk business today. Mildred barely heard him. The restaurant seemed remote, unreal, part of a world that no longer concerned her.

Around three thirty, Mr. Murock arrived. He was a rolypoly little man, and after seven seconds of purring condolences, he got down to bra.s.s tacks. Everything in connection with the body had been taken care of. In addition, notices had been placed in the afternoon papers, though the morning notices would have to wait until Mildred decided when she wanted the funeral, so perhaps that should be the first thing to consider. Mildred tried to get her mind on this, but couldn't. She was grateful to Bert when he patted her hand and said he would attend to all that. "Fact of the matter, Pop wants to stand the expense, anyhow. He and Mom, they both wanted to come over when I came, but I told them to wait a little while."

"I'm glad you came alone."

"But Pop, he wants to stand the expense."

"Then you attend to it."

So Bert talked to Mr. Murock, apparently knowing instinctively what she wanted. He set the time of the funeral at noon the next day. "No use stringing it out," a point to which Mr. Murock instantly agreed. The grave could be dug in the Pierce family plot in Forest Lawn Cemetery, which had been acquired on the death of the uncle who left Bert the ranch. Services were to be conducted at the house, by the Rev. Dr. Aldous, whom Mr. Murock said he knew very well, and would call at once. Dr. Aldous was Bert's rector, and for a miserable moment Mildred felt ashamed that she could claim no rector as her own. As a child she had gone to the Methodist Sunday school, but then her mother had begun to shop around, and finally wound up with the astrologers who had named Veda and Ray. Astrologers, she reflected unhappily, didn't quite seem to fill the bill at this particular time.

On the choice of a casket, Bert haggled bravely, bringing all his business judgment to bear, and presently settled on a white enamelled one, with silver handles and satin lining, which would be furnished complete for $200, with two limousines and the usual bearers. Mr. Murock got up. The body, he said, would be delivered at five, and they took him to the door, on which two a.s.sistants had already fastened a white crepe. Mr. Murock paused a moment to inspect the wire frames they were erecting in the living room, for flowers. Then he started. "Oh—I almost forgot. The burial clothes."

Mildred and Bert went back to the children's room. They decided on the white dress Ray had worn at the school pageant, and with the little pants, socks and shoes, they packed it in one of the children's little valises. It was the gilt crown and fairy wand that broke Bert up again, and Mildred once more had to pat him back to normal. "She's in heaven, she's got got to be." to be."

"Of course she is, Bert."

"I know G.o.ddam well she's not anywhere else."

A minute or two after Mr. Murock left, Mrs. Gessler came over and joined them in the den. She slipped in without greeting, sat down beside Mildred, and began patting her hand with the infinite tact that seemed to be the main characteristic of her outwardly bawdy nature. It was a minute or two before she spoke. Then: "You want a drink, Bert?'

"Not right now, Lucy."

"It's right there, and I'm right here."

"Thanks, Fd rather not."

Then to Mildred: "Baby, Mamma's listening."

"There's a couple of things, Lucy."

Mildred took her to the bedroom, wrote a number on a piece of paper. "Will you call my mother for me, and tell her? Say I'm all right, and the funeral is tomorrow at twelve, and—be nice to her."

"I'll do it on my phone. Anything else?"

"I have no black dress."

"I'll get one for you. Size twelve?"

"Ten."

"Veil?"

"Do you think I should?'

"I wouldn't."

"Then no veil. And no hat. I have one that's all right. And no shoes. I have them too. But—gloves. Size six. And I think I ought to have a mourning handkerchief."

"I'll have everything. And—"

"What is it, Lucy?"

"They'll be dropping in now. People, I mean. And—I'll probably pull something. I just thought I'd tell you, so you'll know I had a reason."

So a little while later, Mrs. Gessler was back, and certainly pulled something. By then, quite a few people were there: Mrs. Floyd, Mrs. Harbaugh, Mrs. Whitley, Wally, and to Mildred's surprise, Mr. Otis, the federal meat inspector, who had seen the notice in one of the afternoon papers. Letty's contribution was tea and sandwiches, which she had just begun to pa.s.s when Mrs. Gessler came in, hatted, gloved, and carrying a gigantic set of lilies. With a wave of the hand she dismissed the florist's driver, and finding the card, read: "Mr. and Mrs. Otto Hildegarde—oh, aren't they beautiful, just beautiful! beautiful!" Then, to everybody in the room: "You know, the couple Mildred visited over the weekend, up at the lake. Lovely people. I'm just crazy about them."

Then Mildred knew that there had indeed been talk, serious talk. But she also knew, from the look that went around, that now it was squelched, once and for all. She felt a throb of grat.i.tude to Mrs. Gessler, for dealing with something she would have been helpless to deal with herself. Bert took the lilies outside, where he spread them on the lawn. Then, coupling up the hose, he attached the revolving nozzle, so they were gently refreshed by the edge of the whirling spray. Other flowers came, and he set them out too, until there was a canopy of blossoms on the gra.s.s, all glistening with tiny drops. There was a basket of gladioluses from the Drop Inn, which touched Mildred, but the one that made her swallow hardest was a mat of white gardenias, to which was attached a bluebird card, reading:

Ida Anna Chris Makadoulis Ernestine Maybelle Archie Ethel Laura Sam Florence Shirley X (Fuji)

As she was fingering this a hush fell over the room, and she turned to see Mr. Murock's a.s.sistants carrying Ray in the door. Under Bert's direction, they set up trusses near the window, arranged the casket, and stepped back to permit the guests to pa.s.s by. Mildred couldn't look. But then Mrs. Gessler caught her arm, and she was looking in spite of herself. In the setting sun, a rainbow was shimmering over the spray, framing Ray's head. This broke Bert up again, and most of the guests tip-toed silently out. But it left Mildred unstirred. There was something unreal about Ray's appearance. The hot flush of the last few minutes was gone, also the animation of life, also the deadly pimple. All that remained was a waxy pallor that suggested nothing but heaven, which Bert was now babbling about for the fourth or fifth time.

Letty served the rest of the sandwiches for supper, and Bert and Mildred ate tremulously, silently, hardly tasting what was put in front of them. Then Mr. Pierce and Mom arrived, with Veda, and after viewing Ray, came back to the den. Then Dr. Aldous arrived, a tall, gray, kindly man who sat near Mildred, and didn't put her on the defensive at all for not being a member of his church. Then Mom and Dr. Aldous were in an argument, or rather Mom was, with Dr. Aldous having little to say, and Mr. Pierce correcting Mom on a number of points of ritual. The trouble was that Mom, who had been originally a Methodist, only joining the Episcopal Church after marrying Mr. Pierce, was somewhat confused as to the service that was to be used tomorrow. As Mr. Pierce told her, she had the burial service, the communion service, the psalms, and perhaps even the wedding service, so thoroughly mixed up that it was rather difficult to disentangle them. Mom said she didn't care, she wanted the twenty-third psalm, it was only right they should have it when the child was dead, and also there was no use telling her there would be no praying for the child's soul. What were they doing there, anyway? Mr. Pierce sharply reminded her that the burial service had nothing to do with a soul. The whole point was that the soul had already gone, and the burial was nothing but the commitment of a body. As Bert listened unhappily, Mr. Pierce kept calling on Dr. Aldous, as a sort of referee. That gentleman, listening with bowed head, presently said: "As the child wasn't baptized, certain changes will have to be made in the service anyway. Small omissions, but I'm required to make them. Now, in that case, there's no reason why the Twenty-third Psalm, and the little pa.s.sage in the Communion Service that Mrs. Pierce evidently has in mind, and whatever else we want, can't be included. At the end of the service, special prayers can be, and often are, offered, and I'll be very glad to include these pa.s.sages—that is, if the mother feels the need of them too."

He looked at Mildred, who nodded. At first, she had resented Mom's taking charge in this high-handed way, and felt mean remarks rising within her. Just in time, she had remembered that the Pierces were paying for everything, and kept her reflections to herself. Now she went to the children's room and packed Veda's things, so the Pierces could have her back in the morning, properly dressed. When she came out with the little suitcase, the Pierces decided it was time to go. Dr. Aldous, however, stayed a few minutes longer. Taking Mildred's hand, he said: "I've often thought the burial service could be a little more intimate, a little more satisfying to the emotions, than it is. It's quite true, as Mr. Pierce said, that it is the commitment of a body, not the consecration of a soul. Just the same, most people find it hard to make the distinction, and—to them, what they see isn't a body. It's a person, no longer alive, but still the same person, loved and terribly mourned. . . . Well, I hope I can arrange a little service that will be satisfactory to the old lady, and the mother, and father, and—everybody."

After Dr. Aldous left, Bert and Mildred were able to talk a little more naturally. She still had to make the inexorable pies, and as he kept her company in the kitchen, and even helped her where he could, he gave details of what had happened at the beach, and she reciprocated with a final version of what happened at the lake, making it correspond with Mrs. Gessler's version, though not feeling any particular desire to deceive. She merely wanted to be friendly. Bert nodded when she got to the part about Mrs. Floyd. "One h.e.l.l of an end to a nice vacation."

"I didn't care what she thought. But about Ray, I could feel it, even before I got to the hospital. I knew it, even then."

When the pies were made, they sat with Ray for a time, then went back to the den. She said: "You don't have to worry about me, Bert. If Mrs. Biederhof is waiting up for you, why don't you run along?"

"She's not waiting up."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

". . . She was awfully nice."

"Mildred, can I tell you something? About what really happened Sat.u.r.day?"

"Certainly."

"Mom, she was just scared, that was all. Mom was never any good in a spot like that. And me, maybe I take after her, because I was scared too. That's why, when Doc Gale began talking hospital I fell for it so quick. But Maggie, she wasn't scared. We had to stop there, on our way to the hospital, because I was stifi in my beach shorts, and I had to put on some pants. And Maggie, she raised h.e.l.l about taking Ray to the hospital. She wanted to bring her right in, then and there. That's what I wanted too. It seemed a h.e.l.l of a note, a poor little kid, and n.o.body even had a place for her. But—I didn't know how you'd feel about it."

"If that's what happened, it does her credit."

"She's a G.o.ddam good friend."

"If that's what she did, I want you to thank her for me, and tell her I would have been only too glad. It was better that she was brought to the hospital, but if she had been put in Mrs. Biederhof's care, I wouldn't have had any objection at all. And I know she'd have been properly taken care of, well well taken care of." taken care of."

"She's as broken up as if it was her own child."

"I want you to tell her."

"And will she be glad to hear it."

Bert got wood, and made a fire, and lit it. The next Mildred knew, it was daylight, and one arm was asleep, and her head was on Bert's shoulder. He was staring into the embers of the fire. "Bert! I must have been asleep."

"You slept three or four hours."

"Did you sleep?"

"I'm all right."

They went in with Ray for a few minutes, and then Bert went out to look at the flowers. The spray was still whirling, and he reported they were "as fresh as when they were cut." She got a dustcloth and began moving about the house, cleaning, dusting, putting things in order. Presently she got breakfast, and they ate it in the kitchen. Then he took his departure, to dress.

Around ten, Mrs. Gessler came over, with the black dress, and took the pies, for delivery. Then the Pierces arrived, with Bert, in a dark suit, and Veda, in white. Then Letty arrived, in a Sunday dress of garnet silk. Before her clean ap.r.o.n could be issued, Mildred saw the Engels drive up with her mother, and sent her out to let them in. When Mildred heard them in the den, she sent Veda to say she would be there in a minute. Then she tried on the dress, noted with relief that it was a fair fit. Quickly she got into the rest of her costume. Carrying the black gloves, she went to the den.

Her mother, a small, worried-looking woman, got up and kissed her, as did her sister Blanche. Blanche was several years older than Mildred, and had a house-wifey look, with some touch about her of the ineffectuality that seemed to be the main characteristic of the mother. Neither of them had the least trace of the resolute squint that was the most noticeable thing about Mildred's face, nor did they share her voluptuous figure. Harry Engel, the unfortunate possessor of the anchor inventory, got up and shook hands, awkwardly and self-consciously. He was a big, raw-boned man, with a heavy coat of sunburn and a hint of the sea in his large blue eyes. Then Mildred saw William, a boy of twelve, in what was evidently his first long-pants suit. She shook hands with him, then remembered she should kiss him, which she did to his acute embarra.s.sment. He sat down, and resumed his unwinking stare at Veda. To Veda, the Engeis were the sc.u.m of the earth, and Wiffiam was even sc.u.mmier than his parents, if that was possible. Under his stare she became haughtily indifferent, crossing one 'bored leg over the other, and fingering the tiny cross which hung from a gold chain around her neck. Mildred sat down, and Mr. Pierce resumed his account of the catastrophe, giving a fair version this time, with full faith and credence to Mildred's visit to the Hildegardes, at Lake Arrowhead. Mildred closed her eyes and hoped he would make it long and complete, so she wouldn't have to talk herself. Bert tiptoed over and took the receiver off the hook, so there would be no jangling phone bell.

But when Letty, now ap.r.o.ned, came in to ask if anybody wanted coffee, the Engels stiffened, and Mildred knew something had gone wrong. As soon as the girl had gone, it developed that when she had let them in, they had all shaken hands, taking her for "a friend." Mildred tried to shrug it off, but Blanche was quite bitter about it, obviously feeling that Letty had compromised her social position in front of the Pierces. Mildred began getting annoyed, but it was Veda who put an end to the discussion. With an airy wave of her hand, she said: "Well personally, I don't see why you you should object to shaking hands with should object to shaking hands with Letty Letty. She's really a very very nice nice girl girl."

While all of Veda's delicately shaded accents were soaking in, the sound of the hose stopped. When Mildred went to look, Mr. Murock was carrying flowers in the front door, to place them on the wire racks, and his a.s.sistants were carrying in chairs.

I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.

It wasn't the words, it was the voice, that crumpled Mildred as though something had struck her. Sitting there in the bedroom with Bert and Veda, the door open so they could hear, she had expected something different, something warm, something soothing, particularly after Dr. Aldous's remarks of last night. And then this fiat, far-away whine, with a dreadful note of cold finality in it, began intoning the service. Not naturally religious, she bowed her head as if from some ancient instinct, began shuddering from the oppression that closed over her. Then Veda said something. Somewhere she had dug up a prayer book, and it was a mement before Mildred realized she was reading responses: "For they shall see G.o.d. . . . Henceforth, world without end. And let our cry come unto thee . . ." To the critical ear, Veda's enunciation might have seemed a bit too loud, a shade too clear, as though intended for the company in the living room, rather than G.o.d. But to Mildred, it was the purest of childish trebles, and once more the heat lightnings began to flicker within her, and once more she fought them down. After a long time, when she thought she would scream if she didn't get some relief from her woe, the far-away voice stopped, and Mr. Murock appeared at the door. She wondered if she could walk to the curb. But Bert took her arm and Veda her hand, and she went slowly through the living room. Quite a few people were there, half-remembered faces from her youth, grotesquely marked by time. . . ." To the critical ear, Veda's enunciation might have seemed a bit too loud, a shade too clear, as though intended for the company in the living room, rather than G.o.d. But to Mildred, it was the purest of childish trebles, and once more the heat lightnings began to flicker within her, and once more she fought them down. After a long time, when she thought she would scream if she didn't get some relief from her woe, the far-away voice stopped, and Mr. Murock appeared at the door. She wondered if she could walk to the curb. But Bert took her arm and Veda her hand, and she went slowly through the living room. Quite a few people were there, half-remembered faces from her youth, grotesquely marked by time.

Jesus saith to his disciples, Ye now therefore have sorrow.

It was the same cold, far-away voice, and looking across the open grave, with the casket over it, Mildred saw it indeed came from Dr. Aldous, though he looked old and frail in his white robes. In a moment, however, he dropped his voice, adopted a softer more sympathetic tone, and as she caught the familiar words, "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want," Mildred knew that the moment had come for the special prayers made necessary by Mom's stipulations, and for intimate solace. They murmured on, and her lips began to twitch as she realized they were mainly for her benefit, to ease her pain. They only made her feel worse. Then, after an interminable time, she heard: "O G.o.d, whose mercies cannot be numbered; Accept our prayers on behalf of the soul of Moire, thy servant departed, and grant her an entrance into the land of light and joy, in the fellowship of the saints, through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen."

And as the child sank down, on Mr. Murock's patent pulleys, Mildred realized, with bitter shame, that now for the first time, in death, it heard itself correctly addressed, that it had lived its brief life without even knowing its name.

The worst came that evening, when she was left alone, with n.o.body to console, n.o.body to be brave in front of, n.o.body to face but herself. The Pierces left in the afternoon, taking Bert with them, and the Engels shortly after, taking her mother, so as to reach San Diego before dark. Then, after an early supper, she had Letty take Veda to a moving picture show. Then she found herself in a house from which all flowers, all chairs, all wire racks had been removed, which was exactly as it had been before. Desolation swept over her. She tramped around, then changed into her smock and began making pies. Around eleven she drove to the theatre, took Letty home, and held tight to Veda's hand on the way back to the house. Veda had a gla.s.s of milk, and talked gaily about the picture. It was called The Yellow Ticket The Yellow Ticket, and Mildred winced at the circ.u.mstantial account of how Miss Elissa Landi had pulled out the gun and shot Mr. Lionel Barrymore in the stomach. When Veda went to bed, Mildred helped her undress, and couldn't bring herself to leave. Then: "Would you like to sleep with me tonight, darling?"

"But Mother, of course! course!"

Mildred was pretending to herself that she was doing Veda a kindness, but Veda wasn't one to let such a spot go to somebody else. She immediately began to give give comfort, in large, clearly articulated, perfectly grammatical gobs. "Why you poor, dear Mother! You comfort, in large, clearly articulated, perfectly grammatical gobs. "Why you poor, dear Mother! You lamb lamb. Think of all she's been through today, and the beautiful way she's looked after everybody, without giving one thought to herself! Why of course course I'll sleep with you, Mother! You poor darling!" I'll sleep with you, Mother! You poor darling!"

To Mildred it was fragrant, soothing oil in a gaping wound. They went to her bedroom, and she undressed, and got into bed, and took Veda into her arms. For a few minutes she breathed tremulous, teary sighs. But when Veda nestled her head down, and blew into her pajamas, the way she used to blow into Rays,'s the heat lightnings flickered once, then drove into her sorrow with a blinding flash. There came torrential shaking sobs, as at last she gave way to this thing she had been fighting off: a guilty, leaping joy that it had been the other child who was taken from her, and not Veda.

CHAPTER IX.

ONLY AN ACT of high consecration could atone for this, and some time during the night Mildred knew what it would be, and so knowing, found peace. She may have found a little more than peace. There was something unnatural, a little unhealthy, about the way she inhaled Veda's smell as she dedicated the rest of her life to this child who had been spared, as she resolved that the restaurant must open today, as advertised, and that it must not fail. She was up at daybreak carrying out this resolution, setting out pie plates, flour, utensils, cans of supplies, all sorts of things, for removal to the model home. There was a great deal of stuff and she packed it carefully into the car, but it required several trips. On the last one, she found her staff waiting for her: a waitress named Arline and a Filipino, to do double service as dish washer and vegetable peeler, named Pancho. Both had been engaged the previous week, on the recommendation of Ida. Arline, a small, half pretty girl of twentyfive, hadn't looked very promising, but Ida had recommended her highly. Pancho, it seemed, was addicted to flashy clothes, and had thus incurred the enmity of Archie, but once he was in his kitchen regimentals he was absolutely all right.

Mildred noted Pancho's cream-colored suit, but wasted no time on it. She handed out uniforms and put them both to work. They were to give the place a thorough cleaning, and as soon as the front room was done, they were to hang the percale drapes that lay in a pile on the floor. She showed how the fixtures worked, and on Pancho's a.s.surance that he was a virtuoso with the screwdriver, she drove back to the house, picked up her pies, and made the rounds of delivery.

When she got back she caught her breath at what she saw. Pancho had indeed made a fine job of the drapes: the fixtures were all up and he was hanging the last of them. Arline had put the tables around, so that what had been a dreary pile of wood, metal, and cloth in one corner was now a restaurant, warm, clean, and inviting. Mildred still had many things to do, but when the laundry service delivered her napkins and doilies, she couldn't resist setting a table to see how it looked. To her, it was beautiful. The redand-white check of the linen combined pleasantly with the maple, and with Arline's brick-red uniform, just as she had hoped it would. For a few minutes she lingered, drinking in the picture with her eyes. Then, after pointing out what was to be done in the kitchen, she got in the car again, to resume her errands.

At the bank, she drew $30, filling out the stub quickly, and trying not to think of the 7 she had to write, under "Balance Forward." She asked for $10 in change, against the requirements of the evening, dropped the rolls of coin into her handbag, and went on. At the ranch where her chickens were on order, she found twenty-six waiting for her, instead of the stipulated twenty. Mr. Gurney, the rancher, was quite voluble about it, saying them birds was in such prime condition he hated to see anybody else get them. Just the same, she was annoyed. He did raise fine chickens, honestly corn-fed, not milk-fed, and fine chickens she had to have. And yet she couldn't have him overselling her like this. After fingering them for a time, she rejected two because they weren't properly picked and took the rest, paying $8, the price being three for a dollar. Loading them into the car, she went to the U-Bet market, for vegetables, eggs, bacon, b.u.t.ter, and groceries. She spent $11, almost having to dig into her reserve of coin.

Back at the restaurant, she inspected the kitchen, found it fairly satisfactory. Arline had mopped the floor, and Pancho had washed the new dishes without breaking any. Letty arrived, and Mildred had her make lunch for Arline and Pancho, then settled down to what she really liked, which was cooking. She got out the chickens, went over them carefully for pinfeathers, found Mr. Gurney's picking a great deal better than most market picking. Then she took a small cleaver and sectioned them up. She was going to serve half a fried chicken, with vegetables or waffle, for 85c, but she hated the half chicken that was served in most places. It came on the table in one loathsome piece, and she wondered how people could possibly eat it. She was going to do it differently. First, she cut off the necks, then cut the chicken in half. Then she took off the wings and the legs. The legs she separated into second joints and drumsticks, and then she trimmed the b.r.e.a.s.t.s so there was only a sliver of breastbone backing them, without any wishbone or rib. Then, remembering Archie's system for such things, she packed b.r.e.a.s.t.s, drumsticks, second joints, and wings into four different dishes, and placed them in the icebox so she could pick up a portion with one motion. The necks and bones she pitched into a pot, for soup. The giblets she cut up and put in a pan, for gravy. She started her other soup, the cream of tomato, and put Pancho to preparing vegetables.