by Amy Gary
Margaret had become good friends with Bruce Bliven and his roommate, E.J. (Ely) Kahn Jr., who wrote for The New Yorker. Margaret convinced them to join her and Dot on a beagling excursion, and the jaunt was detailed by Kahn in the magazine. Both Margaret and Dot came away with scratched knees, but Dot declared the wounds added only a healthy glow to her appearance. On that day, the hares were uncooperative, and more than once the hounds bounded off in the opposite direction of their prey. Margaret assured the men this was not the way the hunt usually transpired, but the day’s events and Ely’s humor made for delightful company. The fourteen-mile run over hills and through trees and brambles wore the two men out. On the ride home, Margaret told Bruce he had never looked better; Bruce said he had never felt worse.
While Margaret admitted to still being in love with Bill Gaston, their relationship was not exclusive. She dated another writer at The New Yorker for a brief time and rarely had trouble finding male companionship in the city for dinners or plays. One dinner date turned into a long weekend when her date insisted that Margaret and Monty Hare see the ski slope he recently designed. They drove late into the night to reach Greylock Mountain in Massachusetts.
The next day, Margaret trudged up the slope behind the two men. She wasn’t out of shape, but Monty was long-legged, and her date was an Olympic skier. She simply couldn’t keep up. They were headed to the top of Thunderbolt Run, considered one of the best wooded ski slopes ever designed. Skiing was just becoming popular in America, and unlike the slopes in Canada and Switzerland, conditions in the United States were primitive. There was no welcoming lodge with a roaring fire at the bottom of this slope, just a little shack that sold admission tickets. A tiny woodstove offered the only bit of warmth.
Margaret hoped to impress Monty with her skiing. He was a member of the Birdbrain Club, known for his impeccable grammar and biting sarcasm. He was one of the funniest people she knew; he was exceedingly charming and reliably cheerful. The same couldn’t be said about her date that evening. By the time they arrived at the ski slope, she had already grown tired of him. He was quite handsome but had little to talk about except all the work he had done on this mountain and the races he had won or was going to win.
Marching up this mountain was too much work. They were going to need a chairlift there if this resort was going to attract anyone but daring young men. Most skiers, like Margaret, preferred a comfortable ride up the hill, bundled in furs and blankets of possum, raccoon, and fox layered on by lift attendants. When she vacationed at other resorts, she loved watching the piles of discarded furs riding past her down the hill on the lift as she rode up. Another set of attendants would remove the pelts and hang them along the fence to be retrieved after the run so skiers were never exposed to the extreme cold for very long.
Halfway up, Margaret had had enough, and besides, she wanted to write down a story that had come to her before she forgot it. She decided to turn back and told the men she would wait for them in the little lodge down the hill.
Margaret had heard a haunting French ballad with a word pattern that she knew would make a good children’s story. In the song, a woman attempts to leave her lover by changing into different animals. With each metamorphosis she dreams up, he threatens to transform into something that will keep her close to him. The lyrics were adult and dark, but that “if you, then I” dynamic was something she was certain she could use. She knew that children loved a catchy word pattern simply because they loved language. She once read a story in French to a group of three-year-olds who didn’t understand the story but enjoyed it nonetheless simply because of the rhythm of the words.
This idea had been forming in the back of her mind for a while. Four months earlier, she had offered the word pattern to Lucy Mitchell to use in the textbook series but warned her that if it wasn’t put to good use, she was going to turn it into one of her own picture books. Lucy was busy with textbooks for older children, so Margaret decided to make a go of it. She knew from her psychology classes at Hollins that at around the age of two, children began seeing themselves as separate human beings, rather than as part of their parents. That push and pull of wanting to be independent but the fear of leaving the nest is a fraught but necessary stage of development for children. Margaret was convinced it could become the perfect substitute for the obsessive love song in the ballad.
Six of Margaret’s books had been published in the last two years, and all the while, she had been rewriting fables into storybooks for the Walt Disney studio and rewriting Brer Rabbit stories for W. R. Scott. It dawned on her that the common threads in those ancient stories was human nature—its failings and triumphs. Such stories had been told for centuries because every culture at every time understood the themes. The characters and way in which the stories were told changed, but the essence of the stories remained the same. Those stories were recounted around campfires, then by troubadours and, eventually, shared in amphitheaters and much later on televisions. Now, she was transforming them into picture books for Disney to animate and show on thirty-foot movie screens. Donald Duck, Mickey Mouse, and their friends replaced those ancient characters, but at the heart, the stories were the same—they were simply being told for a new audience in a new way. Margaret realized that if she could write about the common threads of childhood in her own books, then maybe they, like fables, would last.
As she sped down the slope, the book crystalized in her mind. She settled into the warm, tiny shack and dashed off a story about a child who tells his mother that he is going to run away. He threatens to turn into a variety of things to escape, but she counters each of his metamorphoses by changing into something that will bring him safely back to her. At the end of the story, he decides he might as well stay home. By the time Margaret’s date and Monty returned, she had completed the story on the only available piece of paper she had: her ski receipt.
* * *
At the beginning of December, Margaret was in Saks Fifth Avenue and stopped at the perfume counter. She asked to sample the perfume she knew Michael wore. It was completely unique and far out of Margaret’s price range, but it smelled divine. How smart of Michael to choose an expensive and memorable scent instead of flitting from one perfume to another like most women, Margaret thought. The aroma lingered in Margaret’s memory long after she left the store. It triggered a desire to be with the alluring woman, so Margaret invited her for cocktails.
They met in the Village and took a walk after drinks. It was a warm night for that time of the year. A foggy mist blew in from the river and laced the air as they wandered aimlessly down the empty streets. Dark forms scuttled into doorways as they drew close, vanishing by the time the women walked by. Michael threw her arm over Margaret’s shoulder and spoke of days in Paris and of walking with school friends through sinister, mysterious streets that felt like this.
At one corner, they saw taxi drivers across the intersection. The drivers stood outside their cabs, smoking cigarettes. Michael shouted out to them, asking if they could tell her where the Grand Theatre was. One shouted back that it had been gone for years but he could take them by the place where it used to be.
Michael waved her thanks. She wanted to walk. She took Margaret’s arm and led her down the street. The driver yelled after them that it wasn’t safe for them to walk alone—there were wolves on the way. Michael leaned into Margaret and asked what he had meant by wolves. Bad men, Margaret explained, men lurking in doorways.
Michael howled the word wolves over and over, in her low, sensuous voice. As they walked on in the low-hanging fog, danger shrouded the air. It made Margaret feel alive.
* * *
That week, Margaret received her first disparaging book review in The New York Times for Polite Little Penguin. The reviewer found it well-meaning but confusing—the story didn’t really make sense. Most likely little attention was paid to the book reviews in that day’s paper. It was December 7, 1941—the day the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor.
Three days later, Michae
l recorded her last broadcast for the America First Committee and then held a cocktail party. Bill and Margaret went, even though there were rumors there was to be a blackout across Manhattan that night amid fears that the city might be attacked. Margaret and Michael were amused that they both wore black dresses with bright red belts.
Michael offered to let Margaret use one of the spare rooms in her apartment as a writing studio. That way they could read each other’s work at the end of the day. Bill warned Margaret to be careful or she would wind up being Michael’s Boswell—a reference to the eighteenth-century biographer James Boswell, who kept meticulously detailed notes on the life of his friend and subject Dr. Samuel Johnson. Margaret protested but knew he wasn’t too far off the mark—Michael confessed she collected biographers and journalists as friends in the hope they would write about her.
Margaret envisioned herself writing in Michael’s lavish apartment. One of Tweed’s relatives had been the architect and another the owner of the development, so he and Michael had one of the best apartments in the building. It had a dramatic view of the East River, and whenever Margaret entered it, she felt like she had stepped into a home on the coast of France. Floor-length Venetian mirrors hung on the walls. At each turn, large vases of flowers the size of bushes were strategically placed. Over the huge Renaissance fireplace, a mantel was lined with tiny glass animals, and above it hung a sketch of Michael by a famous French artist. In those pencil lines, Margaret saw Michael’s exceptional beauty in her youth.
When Margaret first walked into Michael’s bedroom, she wondered if she had stepped into her daughter Diana’s bedroom by mistake. Stuffed animals were stacked high on the bed. It turned out they were all Michael’s; she confessed that she’d collected them her whole life. The room itself was sophisticated, decorated in blue velvet baroque fabrics. Heavy blue drapes framed the window. From there, the river looked like a silver ribbon winding its way around the city. At night, the lights along the shore lined the river as it faded from sight.
* * *
Although Michael and Tweed appeared to be a happy couple while they entertained in their magnificent home, Margaret knew it was a façade. Michael was miserable in her marriage. She confessed that she was incapable of being faithful to her husband, or any man, and had learned the art of discreet affairs when she visited Spain during her boarding school days. She had asked someone why Spanish women were so close to their maids, why they always rushed off to the movies together in the afternoon. She was told that the women weren’t really going to the movies. The minute they turned the corner, the women walked off to meet their lovers while the maids went on to the movies. American women, Michael said, want to talk about their affairs. If they had the good sense to keep quiet, there would be far less trouble.
Twelve
1942
For having felt well loved by you
For having felt no shyness that you should watch my face
For the joyous meeting of eyes in laughter
The fling of your head
And the dark bright look of you
The warm flowing laughter
From a hundred hidden springs in other years
And for the constant uncertainty
Of when you would laugh
“IN GREATER AMICUS”
White Freesias
Margaret walked along the Central Park Zoo’s gray concrete path to the seal pen, straining to see Michael through the crowds of people and pink balloons. It was chilly. Men and women were dressed in dark overcoats. What would Michael be wearing? she wondered. Her hair would be wild and free to catch the wind, as always, not hidden beneath a dull, dark hat. She remembered that Michael was tall and statuesque because she had to lift her eyes up to meet Michael’s. Margaret looked over the top of the crowd but didn’t see her anywhere.
She waited for a long time and wondered if she was mistaken about where they were supposed to meet. She remembered that, as a child, Michael had run away from her nanny to the zoo. They had found her at her favorite place in the zoo, the polar bear pen. Margaret walked to the bear’s cage but didn’t see Michael. The polar bear, too, was nowhere to be seen, submerged somewhere in the water. She returned to the seal’s pool and looked through the crowd again; no Michael.
She must have changed her mind about coming, Margaret thought and turned to leave. Then she heard a familiar “Yoo-hoo!” behind her. She looked around, and there was Michael dressed in a dark coat, and on her head was a springy blue straw hat accented by a white grosgrain ribbon. A little white veil covered her face, and in her white gloved hands she held a bouquet of white flowers. Michael laughed, delighted she had fooled Margaret. Tweed had said Margaret would never recognize her in those clothes, and he was right. Michael had been following Margaret around the whole time.
It still felt like winter, so they walked briskly around the zoo arm in arm, gossiping about the writers they knew. Michael complained about the intellectual crowd. They were humorless; they wore the clothes of artists, but were, at heart, without creativity. Michael told Margaret that she and Margaret weren’t like those boring intellectuals; they were poets at heart.
As the two women continued their tour through the zoo, Margaret thought about her deepening relationship with the entrancing Michael. Michael frequently invited Margaret to the Colony Club, the most exclusive women’s club in the city, for lunches and dinners. The luxurious club had every comfort of the grand resorts, including bedrooms, servants’ quarters, a gymnasium, and a rooftop garden, but it was only a cab ride away on Park Avenue. For Michael, it was a second home and frequent getaway after arguments with her husband.
Margaret delighted in watching Michael move through the club’s elegant dining room. Michael designed her own suits in an androgynous style that mixed tight pants cropped above the ankle, fitted vests, and V-neck blouses topped with a long-tailed blazer. She sometimes added gold epaulets to the shoulders of the jacket or pinned on the stunning diamond brooch John Barrymore had designed for her. Her flamboyant attire stood out against the backdrop of society ladies dressed in lace and long gloves. Margaret heard the hushed comments some of the women made as Michael walked by. Michael assured her she’d grown used to the comments and jealousy. She was living the dream they secretly desired. She was beautiful and wealthy. She had been married to a Hollywood star; she was an actress and an author. She had made the fairy tale come true, and they could never forgive her.
Margaret and Michael called each other at any hour of the night, chortling together about their days. They talked about the parties they’d gone to and the men who had flirted with them while they were there. Each admitted she’d had an affair with Thomas Wolfe. Margaret’s had been brief, but not Michael’s.
Now, although winter still gripped the air, holding Michael’s arm in her own, Margaret began to feel that her friendship with Michael made all her other friendships seem half-asleep. Margaret still loved Bill, and the time she spent with him was comfortable, but when she was with Michael, she felt clever, young, and beautiful. Times with her were an adventure. They walked to the amphitheater, where a chamber orchestra was performing, and took seats. Margaret wondered how the musicians could play in this cold weather. She and Michael snuggled close for warmth and listened to the music.
* * *
Over the last few months, Margaret had also formed a bond with Michael’s daughter, Diana. They learned that intervening on each other’s behalf when Michael became unduly stubborn could aid all concerned. When a movie studio had offered Diana a contract and wanted her in Hollywood right away, her mother refused to let her go. Michael knew enough about the business to know the studio only wanted the Barrymore name on a marquee; she worried that Diana’s acting fell short of the public’s expectations of a Barrymore and that the press would take pleasure in tearing the girl apart. Michael wanted Diana to use her real last name, Blythe, until she gained more experience, but the deal was contingent on using the Barrymore name.
Diana wa
s only nineteen, and Michael still held guardianship over her career. The studio couldn’t hire Diana without her mother’s signature, so the girl pleaded to Margaret for help. She and Diana waited for Michael to join them for dinner at the Algonquin Hotel. The hotel had aged along with its clientele, but it held firmly to its literary cachet and reputation. Diana was early, as usual, and her mother was late, as usual. Michael had finally arrived with Tweed in tow, looking mischievous. More telling were the smudges of Michael’s lipstick on the side of Tweed’s face. They seemed terribly pleased with themselves as he ordered a scotch and soda. When Michael ordered nothing, Margaret and Diana exchanged quizzical glances. For an uncomfortable period, the four sat in silence.
To Margaret, the scene had been surreal: waiters with trays of old-fashioneds moved around the crowded tables; eccentric old ladies shuffled off to their rooms; people arriving for dinner in formal evening clothes filled the restaurant. All the while, Margaret watched Diana succumb to nervousness. Michael was right; Diana would be destroyed. She didn’t have her mother’s calm, Margaret thought. If she went to Hollywood, she would never overcome her insecurities.
Once the drinks arrived and the waiter had stepped away, Michael launched a verbal attack on her daughter. She knew Diana had just given an interview to a Hollywood reporter about her movie deal. Michael said that if the article mentioned her in any way without her approval, she would sue the magazine without hesitation. The year before, Diana gave an interview to Life magazine which depicted Michael as a controlling stage mother, and she was clearly still angry about it.
Diana, though, believed that Michael had blinders on when it came to film. Diana would never be able to earn the same kind of money on Broadway. Her brothers had inherited millions from their father, but Diana’s only inheritance was the Barrymore name, and she intended to use it.