In the Great Green Room

by Amy Gary

  Margaret was delighted that Bill liked her idea to contact established writers. She longed to meet Stein. How marvelous it would be to work with her literary hero and tell her how instrumental her words had been in shaping Margaret’s style. Bill, though, tasked John with approaching each of the authors. If the writers responded, then Bill himself would work directly with the authors. Margaret was crushed, but she agreed to help craft the letters.

  John told Margaret this was a fruitless venture. He bet her a set of box seats at the Metropolitan Opera that none of the authors would respond. Margaret felt certain they would at least hear from Stein; she took him up on his bet.

  * * *

  Margaret also spent part of the summer off the coast of Camden, Maine, with fellow Bank Street staff members Jessica Gamble and Tony McCormick. Tony brought her two sons and piano along to the spacious old house on Vinalhaven Island. The rambling cabin, Sunshine Cottage, was rustic, but that didn’t bother the merry band from Lucy Mitchell’s ranks. Even the bats that occasionally made their way into the upstairs bedroom and bath couldn’t spoil the mood. A rowboat and a sailboat came with the rental of the house, and Margaret and her friends explored the series of islands dotting the shoreline off Long Cove, the slough where the house was situated. They had a marvelous time getting to know the locals, exploring the forests and islands, and picnicking anywhere that struck their fancy.

  Margaret’s book The Fish with the Deep Sea Smile had been published earlier that year by Dutton, and dozens of glowing reviews were sent her way. The Streamlined Pig was about to be published by Harper & Brothers, who asked her to think of a suitable nom de plume for her books with them. She was already published by Dutton and had been contracted by her friend Al Leventhal at Simon & Schuster to write a series of Disney books. It was suggested she use a different pen name with each publisher, and Margaret liked the idea of having unique names for her different writing styles or age-specific works. She hoped to come up with pen names that had hidden meanings, like Mark Twain, and was considering Darnel as a last name because it was one of the grasses used by Shakespeare’s King Lear to create his own worthless crown when he went mad. Like timothy grass, it also turned gold at harvest time—the same shade of gold as Margaret’s hair.

  One afternoon, the trio found themselves in a predicament. Jessica had experienced a panic attack as they were rowing back to their rented house and insisted they pull the boat to shore. She hopped out and peered back at Tony and Margaret from behind a spruce tree, convinced that if she got back into the little rowboat she would die of a heart attack. The situation was growing dire because the sun was setting, and walking through the thick forest back to their rented house would be treacherous over land dotted with granite quarries. Margaret and Tony tried to appease their terrified friend, saying that they would row along the shoreline, but to no avail.

  Fortunately, a large boat was cruising by and came to their rescue. At the helm was Big Bill Gaston, a handsome man with a ruddy face. He looked at the women. He felt no urgency to speak, and Margaret was suddenly self-conscious about her appearance. She was wearing a torn sweater and blue jeans. She typically took pride in her worn clothes and even had a name for them—boops—but under this man’s gaze, she found herself wishing that she had worn something more attractive for the day’s adventures.

  Bill introduced himself, although Margaret already knew who he was. The tragic suicide of his wife, Rosamond Pinchot, earlier that year had made front-page news. Many of the reporters placed the blame on Bill, whom they described as a womanizer.

  Bill offered to give Margaret and her friends a lift and to tow their boat. It took a great deal of persuading to get Jessica off dry land, but they boarded the boat, and Bill fixed them rum and Coca-Colas. Margaret watched him as he moved about the boat and talked with her friends. He appeared gracious and amiable, not at all the callous philanderer that the reporters had made him out to be. She liked his directness. She desperately wanted to make an impression on him, and when they discovered they had a friend in common, Margaret nervously chatted on about the fellow. She immediately regretted placing more importance on that friendship than it warranted. But there was something in Bill’s eyes that excited and aroused her; she wanted him to like her.

  * * *

  Bill came by the next day to take Jessica and Margaret sailing. He moored his boat, and they swam to a small island with a white pebbled shore. Lying near the great expanse of sea, they talked openly about their lives. The pretenses of adulthood were wiped away, and it felt like they were teenagers again. They played a game of telling secrets, pretending they were talking of someone else, but really sharing stories about their own lives, hopes, and dreams. Jessica confessed that she had dated a New Yorker once who was so wealthy that policemen stopped traffic when he drove her downtown; they had been able to speed straight through all the red lights. Margaret told them about a man who threatened to shoot himself if she didn’t marry him, but then didn’t. Bill wished life was just one long prom, with boys in tuxedos and girls who never grew older.

  As the days passed, Bill served as their local guide. Maine had long been his family’s summer residence. After the death of his wife, it served as a haven for himself and his boys and their nanny. He had a comfortable home situated prominently above the water on a private island in the middle of the slough where Margaret and her friends were staying. For years, a steady stream of celebrities, politicians, and friends flocked there to swim in the calm waters around his island and dance under the stars on his outdoor ballroom floor. That summer, only a few of his friends came to visit, so he often sought time with Margaret alone. He made dinner for her at his home and took her for cruises on his luxurious boat to gaze at the stars.

  Tony was not fond of Bill. Once Bill invited the three of them over for lunch and had promised to pick them up at their dock at one o’clock. They dressed and sat waiting for over an hour, but he never showed. Tony said Bill drank too much and was wrong for Margaret. But it didn’t matter what she said because Margaret was already too much in love to listen.

  * * *

  When Margaret returned to New York, Bill called her every day, begging her to come back to Maine. At the end of the summer, she hopped on a train to Rockport to go see him, but when she arrived, he was nowhere to be found. On the platform, there were groups of people kissing hellos or directing their chauffeurs to their luggage, but Margaret stood waiting, unsure of what to do. A cab driver saw her anxiety and offered to help with her bags. She declined. Bill would be there soon, she hoped.

  She thought she saw Bill slouching her way but was mistaken. Had she gotten the day or time wrong? She looked up and down the platform again. The cab driver was waiting to see this final desperate sweep of her eyes. He sidled in, gripping one of her bags firmly, and asked where she needed to go. She told him to take her to the docks.

  As the cab crested the hill, Margaret saw Bill tying off the stern of his boat. Relief washed over her. He hadn’t forgotten, after all. The cab driver unloaded her bags and walked them to the boat. Margaret barely noticed. When she faced Bill, the rest of the world disappeared. It was as if they were the only two people on an island. She loved how he looked in his casual summer clothes with his sun-browned skin. She could tell he was excited to see her, too, by the way he smiled up at her every so often as he tied ropes and placed bumpers around the boat.

  They walked from the docks toward town and into a store that sold canned goods, meats, and an assortment of homegrown vegetables. It smelled of stale crackers. Old women from town shuffled around the store, and over Margaret’s head hung flypaper strips, too full to be of any more use. The place charmed her.

  As they walked back to the boat, Margaret felt the gaze of the small town’s gossips upon them, but she didn’t care. She breathed in the mingled scent of kelp and salt water. She loved that smell. She and Bill untied the boat and set out to sea.

  Margaret stood on the boat, watching the water and land aroun
d her. A bell buoy clanged on a distant wave, and a fish hawk wheeled above her. She saw its nest of sticks nearby in the top of an old dead tree. Moss hung from the tree’s branches, reminding her of the trees on Cumberland Island. She told Bill it looked like a tropical island. He promised to take her to a place with green moss, giant skunk cabbages, and blue irises all around. She would think she was in the jungle.

  The ride was choppy, and Bill had to steer the boat into the waves to keep the spray from the whitecaps away. Margaret wanted to sit next to him on the captain’s seat, so he gave her a hand up. They held on to each other as the boat was lifted high by one big wave and then dropped back into the sea. Bill promised it would be smoother sailing once they turned the point.

  Margaret felt secure in Bill’s closeness on their perch above the ocean. He turned the boat into the channel of islands. It occurred to Margaret that those patches of land and trees looked disconnected on the surface, but far below, they were the same land. The trees, rocks, and ocean valleys were all one, standing together against the endless waves. People were like these islands, she thought. They live separate lives, but underneath they are all connected. They seek comfort and support through others. No one really stands alone. Margaret nestled in closer to Bill, thrilled to be in his arms in the fresh air and on the exciting seas of her beloved Maine.

  * * *

  By fall, Margaret had won her bet with John McCullough. Gertrude Stein was already at work on The World Is Round, a children’s manuscript. She promptly finished it for Scott to review. On the evening it arrived, Margaret invited John and Bill Scott to come to her apartment to read through their prize. As was her style, Stein added little punctuation. This didn’t surprise Margaret, but John was flummoxed. It was unreadable. Margaret still had hopes of meeting her literary hero, so she wasn’t going to cave easily, nor would she second-guess Stein’s methods.

  For over an hour, they debated whether what Stein had sent was publishable. Margaret defended Stein’s view that children naturally knew where pauses in stories fell. John was certain that children would get lost in Stein’s train-of-thought style. Scott listened thoughtfully to both of his staff members: he knew that publishing this text would be a financial risk, but he wanted the laurels of having such a famous author on his small company’s list. Like Margaret, he believed in challenging the status quo in favor of moving children’s literature forward.

  Suddenly, the lights went out. This wasn’t the first time Margaret had forgotten to pay her bill, but it was an unfortunate time for it to happen. She knew what to do. She found her stash of candles and placed them strategically around the living room. Before long, everyone grew hungry, but the only thing edible in Margaret’s apartment was a boat-shaped cake she had ordered for a bon voyage party she was hosting the next day. It was important to keep Scott there until she could convince him to accept Stein’s manuscript, so she placed the cake on the coffee table. Between bites, the conversation continued.

  Both sides grew more entrenched in their positions, and the discussion turned heated. At its crescendo, Basil stepped inside the apartment to return Margaret’s vacuum cleaner. He had heard loud voices on the other side of the door and had come in, unsure of what he might be walking into. When he saw the partially eaten cake, candles burning on every available ledge, and the startled faces gazing up at him, it was more than the shy professor could bear. He dropped the vacuum and scurried down the hall, away from the drama unfolding in Margaret’s apartment.

  Margaret’s laughter broke the tension, and the three editors soon reached a resolution. Margaret felt victorious. They would publish the book. She would edit the manuscript and present her suggested changes to John and Scott. It would be John’s responsibility to convince Stein to accept them.

  * * *

  Margaret had arranged to meet Bill Gaston for lunch at the Bear & Bull, part of the Waldorf Astoria hotel. Coming in from the bright day, she had to pause at the entrance for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the cloaked darkness of the room. She didn’t see him. This room was rarely empty, but Margaret had never been there for lunch; evenings were always brisk and crowded.

  Margaret took a few steps toward the bar and caught the bartender’s eyes. He lifted his head toward the back of the room, and she saw Bill sitting at a table in the corner. He wasn’t alone. Margaret nodded a quick thanks to the bartender and saw a sympathetic look in his eyes. She took a deep breath and made sure there was a smile on her face before she headed to Bill’s table.

  The woman sitting with him had on a black silk dress that was totally inappropriate for the early afternoon hour. Her body language indicated that if she hadn’t already slept with Bill, it wasn’t out of the question. Margaret’s name for women like this one was Slitch. These women were always slinking around cocktail parties in low-cut dresses with an air of superiority founded only on their sexuality. Margaret knew that once those Slitches had to carry on a conversation, she could always trump them. Wit was her domain.

  Bill said the woman knew how to read palms, and the Slitch offered to read Margaret’s. She declined, saying that she would let her foot be read, but never her palm—that she kept a secret. Even the Slitch laughed, but it sounded as forced as the smile on Margaret’s face.

  Soon the woman said her good-byes, and Margaret was left alone with Bill. He told her that the woman was quite clever at outwitting the government. Her clothes, jewelry, and apartment were all gifts from men she knew, and none of it was documented, so she never filed income taxes. Margaret knew better than to criticize another woman to a man because it always compelled him to defend her. Yes, she agreed, that was very wise of the girl.

  Smart, indeed, Margaret thought. That Slitch cut emotions out of the equation. To her, relationships were probably nothing more than business transactions. Maybe that’s what Margaret needed to do—build emotional calluses when it came to Bill. But it was too late; she was in love, and the worst part was that she knew for certain there would always be another woman with him at the bar.

  Nine

  1939

  Fog

  Like memory

  Drifts softly

  Softly over the sea

  Grey in its mystery

  And all we see

  Or do not see

  Is different

  Softened in fog

  And memory.

  UNPUBLISHED

  Margaret sat at the antique dining table that served as her desk at Scott’s new offices. Through the glass-paned door behind her, peacocks strutted around the small courtyard. At her feet rested her Kerry blue terrier, Smoke. He appeared to be nothing more than a black mass of curls until he moved or groaned. Across from her sat Leonard Weisgard, an illustrator she hoped to hire. He was gangly with a crest of thick, dark hair that reminded her of a cockatoo. His agent had sent him to meet with Margaret a few days earlier, hoping she would hire him to illustrate Gertrude Stein’s book.

  Leonard was exceedingly talented. Margaret loved his beautifully blended colors and intricate style. If she couldn’t hire him for Stein’s book, she had others in mind. Bill Scott, though, found Leonard’s art too dark and sophisticated for American children. He wanted Clement Hurd to illustrate Stein’s book and didn’t want to hire Leonard for any other projects, either. Leonard’s style might be more suited to expensive printing techniques than the color-block designs used at Scott, but Margaret was certain Bill’s opinion of Leonard’s art was based on his wallet, not his eye.

  Printing costs and quality were a critical part of publishing. It was the printer’s ability to translate the art into press plates for mass production that made or ruined a book. After the illustrator delivered the artwork, printers made pressboards that alternately masked and exposed the corresponding areas to be splashed with either cyan, magenta, yellow, or black ink. If the art was intricate or used blended colors, as Leonard’s did, printers created screens that allowed limited amounts of ink to pass from the press to the page. Extra screens dr
ove the cost of printing up. The cheapest books were printed in big blocks of two colors, which was Bill Scott’s preferred method. Even more money could be saved by printing half the book in only black ink and placing the colored illustration on the other side of the page spread.

  Some of the major publishing houses had recently launched children’s book divisions, so more and more juvenile books were making their way to the bookstore shelves. Too many of them looked the same. Margaret longed for more complex illustrations, but, if she had to stick to Bill’s preferred two-color books, at least they could be unique. Leonard was talented enough to pull that off, and she had the perfect book in mind for him, but convincing Bill would be difficult.

  Margaret wanted Leonard to illustrate a book about sound. The idea for a book that used illustrations representing sounds had first come to her while she was playing a parlor game. Each player declared a street sound to be their own—a car horn, policeman’s whistle, or a person shouting “Eyoo-hoo!” Cards were dealt, and if a player’s card matched someone else’s, they had to be the first to make the other person’s sound. It was uproariously fun. Margaret was convinced the game could become a picture book if the right artist could visually marry sound, art, and story. She was certain it would be a hit with children. They loved interacting with a story, and unexpected sounds kept their attention.

  Over lunch a few days before, she explained her idea, and Leonard had told her that he, too, believed shapes and colors suggested sounds. As a child, he would walk around London with his father, recording the sounds of the street for a phonograph record, and even then he had imagined how sounds might be drawn. He was willing to take on the challenge without a contract. If it worked, Margaret would try to sell Bill on the idea. After their lunch, Margaret had dashed off a manuscript and handed it to him.