In the Great Green Room

by Amy Gary

  Michael was everything Margaret wished she could be. She was outspoken, sophisticated, and sure of herself. Michael ran in the highest literary and social circles. She was welcomed at the Algonquin Round Table and was a courtesy niece of the Astors and Vanderbilts. She disdained everything about Hollywood, but actors and movie directors flooded to her doorstep. Even her perfume was seductive. It smelled of lemon verbena and reminded Margaret of tiger lilies. Margaret kept it to herself that the next day she smelled that perfume on one of Bill’s pillows.

  * * *

  The owner of the café reappeared with the scrapbook. Page after page of articles had been meticulously preserved. Rosamond’s early career, film promotions, marital discord, and suicide were all there. How touching and sad it was that this woman still clung tightly to an occasional friendship that had ended so long ago.

  When Margaret and Leonard left the café, she admitted to him she had been the anonymous source for the article about Bill and Lucy’s divorce. Making the split public reduced the chance of Lucy Gaston returning to the island. It was a calculated move, but she hadn’t counted on it luring other women like Michael Strange to Bill’s side.

  Tomorrow, she and Leonard would return to the city, where radio and newspapers made the horrors of the world more real. Margaret told Leonard that it was going to be a long, cold walk home—he should button his coat.

  Ten

  1940

  The sound of the wind

  Is a wild sound

  It bristles the hairs on my back

  The sound of the wind

  Is the deep sound

  Of all that I long for and lack

  UNPUBLISHED

  Lucy Mitchell sat on the green couch in the Writers Laboratory surrounded by her editors and teachers. Most held black-and-white composition books containing their notes from the week. Some, including Margaret, held manuscripts.

  Smoke usually accompanied Margaret to these meetings. He was a fixture at the school and was well behaved around the children, but he was known to nip at other dogs and to piddle on people standing at bus stops. Here, he was relaxed and rested at Margaret’s feet, going mostly unnoticed until a writer’s story dragged on—then he would issue a soft groan, one that had perhaps been prompted by a nudge of Margaret’s foot.

  Margaret brought some of the material she was working on for a textbook that D. C. Heath Books contracted with the school to produce. They wanted six social studies books based on the school’s teachings and progressive philosophies. Instead of chapter after chapter of fact-filled information, Lucy envisioned the series as fictional stories in which characters learned about the world around them.

  Margaret was writing and editing the textbooks for the three younger grades. More than once she had to ask the lead editor what, exactly, social studies were. Each time she was reminded, she would dive right back into her research to align her stories and poems with the theme of the textbooks.

  While writing for Bank Street, she kept her manuscripts in the Here-and-Now style, but her own writing was often tinged with fantasy. In Writers Laboratory review sessions, Lucy gently chastised her protégé for straying away from the real world, but her words had little impact. Margaret remembered spending her childhood days in the world of imagination. It was, she believed, an important and natural part of growing up. Lucy had been ill as a child and was not as active as Margaret. Perhaps that shaped her disdain for weaving fantasy into stories. Lucy believed it made more sense to have anthropomorphized animals performing tasks true to their own nature than it did to place them into a human world. Why, she wondered, did Margaret think the real world would be less interesting to a child?

  Margaret’s work with Disney and editing fables had taught her that children, regardless of their race or gender, connected with stories with animals as main characters. The public seemed to agree with her, judging from the success of the Disney books. She took on more book projects for the studio, including a manners book. She joked that Donald Duck was going to say, “Hell, that ain’t polite!” but in reality she believed in the importance of social graces and was proud of all her work. She was also too polite to directly challenge her former mentor. She no longer shared those types of stories in the Writers Laboratory. Instead, she borrowed her friends’ children and read her stories to them.

  Margaret’s career was zooming along. She was part of Bank Street’s seminars on how to write for children and was quite proud that the Museum of Modern Art in New York displayed her book The Little Fireman in an exhibition of contemporary American art. She was writing for Bank Street, Scott, Harper, and a magazine geared toward children called Story Parade. She earned more than most authors, but she usually spent every penny before the next royalty payment arrived. She was an impulsive spender and a poor record keeper, so it wasn’t unusual to receive notice her bank account was overdrawn. She took that in stride, rarely worrying about her cash flow. Her father would always loan her what she needed to get by, or she could turn a manuscript into quick cash by selling it to a magazine. As a last resort, she could always sell a book for a flat fee in lieu of royalties. She rarely took that course, but one time she saw a gray fox coat in a store window. She didn’t have the money to buy it, but it was gorgeous—worth selling off all the rights to a manuscript. She knew Bennett Cerf at Random House was looking for children’s books. Even though at a party long ago she had dumped a drink in his lap for making fun of her “baby” books, they were friends. She called him up and that day walked out of his office with a check.

  What Margaret was completely incapable of writing was anything of interest for adults. She submitted short stories, feature articles, and books to editors and publishers she knew, but only one of her articles was picked up. The finished piece was published as a photo essay, so she wasn’t even credited.

  The short stories she wrote still mirrored her life. In one, she lashed out against her staid brother-in-law, Basil, for criticizing her flitting, uncertain career and romantic life. In another, she recounted meeting the now-married Morrie for a drink in the hope of understanding why he had left her years before. These stories were useful for purging her frustrations and rewriting unsatisfactory endings of relationships and arguments to her own liking, but they were little more than diary entries.

  She still yearned to write something of literary merit for adults but couldn’t seem to leave the children’s book business behind. She assigned days of the week to focus only on serious writing, but found she couldn’t schedule what flowed out of her. When she put her pencil to paper to write something for adults, another children’s story, poem, or song poured out. She couldn’t stop them even when she tried. It felt like automatic writing, as if she was only the medium through which the stories came.

  She decided that the only way to jump from juvenile to grown-up writing was to leave children’s publishing altogether. Maybe that would turn the spigot of juvenile notions into something she could sell to an adult audience. She had resigned from Scott at the beginning of the year but continued to write books for the small publishing house. She made the rounds of her regular publishers and told them that she would accept no more writing assignments. She turned over most of her Bank Street editorial duties to another editor and, perhaps to convince herself, listed herself as a writer of juvenile books and of a play and stories not intended for children in the annual publication of Who’s Who in America.

  She soon knew that a complete break wasn’t possible. There were projects in the works she was contracted to finish. She also wanted to continue some series, like the Noisy books, for the sake of her illustrators. Her books were selling, and children’s publishing divisions were springing up in almost every publishing house. Many of them called, hoping she would write something for them. She told them she was too busy. Earlier that year, Al Leventhal, the publisher who first hired her to write for Disney, suggested she join a guild of writers and artists that was producing books for a variety of publishers. He was a good friend
, and she liked working with him, so it had been tempting. She had initially declined, but after she pared down her schedule to commit herself to writing more for an adult audience, she realized she couldn’t support herself if she wasn’t writing for children.

  * * *

  Margaret was surprised when Michael Strange called to invite her to lunch. She wondered what spurred this invitation but was excited to see Michael again. At Margaret’s suggestion, they planned to meet at the Lafayette, Margaret’s favorite restaurant. She chose a seat that gave her a view of the entrance. She wanted to see how the staff reacted to a celebrity coming to their restaurant. People like Michael seldom ventured into the Village.

  She ordered a vermouth cassis and tried to shake off the hurriedness that enveloped her. She lived close by but had barely arrived on time. She didn’t want to be late—even though Bill had said it was unlikely Michael would show; he had reported to Margaret that Michael rarely did anything she promised.

  Michael arrived only a little late. She swirled into the doorway in a huge fur coat topped by a fur hat. She looked like a member of the Russian royal family. The maître d’ greeted her with a flourish and showed her to Margaret’s table. The waiter, who had been entirely indifferent to Margaret’s drink order, praised Michael’s choice of sherry effusively. Margaret smiled, happy to see the typically subdued staff in a fluster.

  Michael also needed a moment to settle. She had gotten on the wrong subway, and when she emerged at street level, she’d been lost in the angular maze of streets and buildings of the Village. Over drinks, they chatted, and Margaret contemplated why exactly Michael had asked her to lunch. There was a current flowing under this meeting, Margaret could feel it. Michael’s eyes danced with anticipation, which told Margaret there was more going on in Michael’s mind than her polite conversation let on.

  After their first drink, Michael asked Margaret how her love life was faring. Margaret tried to laugh it off, but Michael pressed her. Was she living with a wild musician? Maybe two of them? If so, was the sex good?

  Margaret was momentarily stunned by Michael’s bold questions but didn’t want to dampen the mood of the lunch. She drew in a breath and confessed that her love life was not at all good. She said she was waiting on an old buzzard and then giggled anxiously and lapsed into nervous chatter. It dawned on her as she rambled on that her love life was entirely uncertain. Bill was legally separated but far from getting a divorce. Margaret waited on his calls, waited for him to show up at her door, waited for him to propose.

  She brightened, though, as she told Michael that her work life was going very well. Almost everything she wrote for children was snapped up. Her social life, too, was shaping up. She was still active with the Buckram Beagle Club and had made some new, interesting friends through Rosie Bliven’s son, Bruce. Bruce was an erudite writer who was freelance writing for half a dozen major magazines. Basil and Roberta had moved to teach at Vassar, so she was now hosting her own dinner parties. She told Michael that she was no longer seeing people she didn’t want to see. Michael sniffed. She never saw people she didn’t want to see.

  She asked Margaret how Bill Gaston was. Margaret considered her response before speaking. Michael had just come from visiting Bill in Maine, so Margaret knew that Michael had a very clear sense of how Bill was doing. Why was she asking? Margaret replied that she and Bill had mostly a telephone relationship these days. Michael chirped that Bill called her, too. In fact, she supposed he sat in his house overlooking the sea, calling women all morning long. She loved him dearly, Michael confessed, but he was such a rascal. She wished she could be a fly on the ceiling of his bedroom, watching him squirm to get away from women after he slept with them. They cling to him, then he never calls them again, she reported to Margaret.

  For a moment, Margaret wondered if she had been wrong about Michael and Bill having had an affair; the way Michael was talking made her relationship to Bill seem more like that of an older sister or an old friend. Margaret defended Bill weakly; he made business calls, too, she supposed.

  Michael leaned across the table and spoke in hushed tones that drew Margaret in. Michael’s voice was musical, and her laugh was rich and deep. Her black eyes moved swiftly around the room every so often, then fell back on Margaret with such intensity that the rest of the room fell away. Margaret couldn’t help but feel she and Michael were alone in the restaurant. Waiters brought food, people came and went, but Margaret barely noticed.

  “Bill drinks too much,” Michael reported. “He gets sad and drinks until all he feels is the warmth of alcohol. Then he surrounds himself with women who are terrible for him, like last weekend. The most horrid woman was there, an actress with a terribly shrill voice that he couldn’t possibly be interested in. He was as virtuous as a vestryman with a jackal’s morals,” Michael said.

  Margaret kept her emotions in check. She knew better than to discuss what happened between her and Bill or Bill and other women. Michael was friends with gossip columnists, and Margaret already dreaded being named as a party to Bill’s divorce proceedings.

  Margaret changed the subject by asking Michael about her work. She told Margaret she was preparing a series of radio shows in which she would read great works of literature set to classical music. She also was working on another book of poetry. Margaret should give up writing all those silly furry stories and write something worthwhile.

  Years ago, when Michael had been married to John Barrymore, he was too drunk to go onstage one night, so Michael, an occasional actor, stepped into his role. She had relished the limelight. Reluctant to step back into her husband’s shadow, she began wearing suits that matched his. He, too, basked in the attention their attire drew. After their divorce, Michael continued to wear clothes that were considered masculine, but tailored to accentuate her feminine body. Many of her society friends were polite to her, but whispers trailed her through a room. The mavens of the Social Register never stripped Michael of her standing in their social club because she was vaguely Austrian royalty. She had always been a curiosity to her friends. Her dark eyes and thick brown hair made her exotic in that crowd. Her rapid wit, pranks, and preening intellect were not, though, considered appropriate female behavior. When she was young, her parents had sent her off to a European boarding school. At seventeen, she returned somewhat tamed and then married into a prominent Philadelphia banking family. But from the moment she met John Barrymore, propriety was forgotten. Michael’s book of poetry was a bestselling book. Every society boudoir had a copy, and the nom de plume of Michael Strange on the cover fooled no one. Her divorce from the banker, her marriage to John, and the birth of their daughter, Diana, made headlines around the world. So did their drunken brawls over the next few years, and their divorce.

  She was now married to Harrison Tweed, a respected lawyer in Manhattan. They lived in one of the most prestigious addresses in the city, 10 Gracie Square, and flitted from social events in the United States to royal parties in London. It had been years since she was famous for anything but being married to a screen legend. She wanted to write poetry again, but her literary muse had abandoned her long ago. She sat at her desk for hours yet at the end of the day had no worthy words on paper.

  They should travel across the country together in a caravan, Michael proposed to Margaret, who was immediately reminded of the rickety wagons pulled by old, bony horses in Ireland. The memory of those poor people who made a living by taking dead or dying horses to slaughter brought a look of horror to Margaret’s face. Michael sat back, and Margaret regretted diminishing the frivolous mood, but soon realized that Michael was referring to a motor home. Michael laid out a grand plan in which they would travel west like the Joad family in The Grapes of Wrath and pretend to be migrant workers for a couple of hours. They could see if people were really treated that cruelly, then confess they were really society women.

  Margaret laughed along with Michael, not quite sure what to make of this incongruous woman. She was drawn to Michael’s b
ravado and enticing androgynous looks. She understood why men like Bill were so attracted to her.

  Eleven

  1941

  If you pursue me

  I shall become a fish in the water

  And I shall escape you.

  And if you become a fish

  I shall become an eel

  And I shall eat you.

  If you become an eel

  I shall become a fox

  And I shall escape you.

  If you become a fox

  I shall become a hunter

  And I shall hunt you.

  If you hunt me

  I shall be buried deep, deep in the ground

  And you will never have my love.

  If you are dead, dead and buried

  I will be the dust on your grave

  And I will marry you, dead or alive.

  “LES MÉTAMORPHOSES”

  Provençal French ballad translated by Margaret Wise Brown

  By 1941, Margaret’s creative focus was far from children’s books, although stories and poems for that younger audience continued to pour out onto paper when she sat down to write. She was working on an essay about the life and death of Virginia Woolf and on a play about two lovers torn apart by the war, entitled I Dare Not Die. Now that she was no longer on staff at Scott, she didn’t have to worry about offending Bill Scott, so she wrote to Gertrude Stein. She explained that when she had heard Stein’s speech in Brooklyn years before, she realized Stein’s writing was perfect for a children’s book. Margaret said that she had many stories about how well children responded to the book, which she would share with Stein when she came back to America in the spring. Corresponding with her literary idol as a colleague was a personal triumph, and Gertrude’s kind but short response was carefully added to Margaret’s scrapbook. Their correspondence ended there.