In the Great Green Room

by Amy Gary

  The next day, Margaret intervened and helped Michael negotiate a shrewd deal for Diana with the producer at Universal Pictures. Diana was only required to make three pictures per year, and if she was contracted for a part in a play, she could spend up to six months in New York. She would earn up to $2,500 a week, making her one of the top-earning film actresses—even before her first film. Michael insisted Diana have a female chaperone and that she live away from her father because things went on at his house that his daughter shouldn’t see.

  After Michael’s farewell cocktail party for Diana at the Gracie Square apartment, Margaret stayed on after the other guests left. She sat with Michael on her bed. They were tired and inebriated. Over the past months, the two women had engaged in a slow dance of mutual seduction. Michael was sometimes wearing her negligee when Margaret arrived and asked her to come sit by her bed for a morning chat. She read poetry to Margaret in her lovely low voice. It was beautiful, lulling.

  Michael crooned her complaints about Tweed to Margaret. He treated her like a child instead of like the artist she was. He embarrassed her in front of the household staff. She suspected he was having an affair, but the final blow was when she asked him what he thought of her poetry. He admitted he had no opinion on her poetry because he never read it.

  Michael said that she was beginning to feel very close to Margaret. She would never be that close or love anyone like she did Margaret. She promised to love her until the day she died. Then she called her a son of a bitch. She said they should write something together full of tenderness and poetry. They needed to do it for humanity. Michael insisted, though, that Margaret had to stop writing the fairy stories and get to work.

  Margaret couldn’t be sure how much of what Michael had said was true and how much of it had been infused by alcohol. She knew Michael’s passions were fleeting; her sentiments might easily blow away. But until they did, Margaret decided, she would be by Michael’s side. Michael had promised her that she meant it when she said she’d love her until the day she died. She would call forth the best in Margaret—she knew she would.

  * * *

  Margaret was trying to leave the fairy stories behind, but writing anything for adults was still a struggle. She tried to capture the story of Michael surprising her at the zoo in an adult love story. What came out was a children’s story about a dog who wants to go to the zoo, but the guard won’t let him in. He dresses in a straw hat, sunglasses, a floral dress, and white gloves to slip past the unsuspecting guard.

  Fortunately for Margaret, her editor at Harper & Brothers, Ursula Nordstrom, was pragmatic. Margaret might one day succeed at writing serious literature, but until then, Harper would publish and heavily promote her children’s books. Ursula had a knack for spotting talented writers and illustrators. She paired Margaret’s zoo story with the illustrator H. A. Rey. The book, Don’t Frighten the Lion!, came with a paper cutout of the story’s main character that could be dressed in the same disguise the dog used to fool the guard.

  Ursula believed in Margaret’s ability, and that year, her faith paid off. In its review of Don’t Frighten the Lion!, the Boston Herald crowned Margaret the premier juvenile author in the country and praised her for consistently turning out good stories. At the same time, Harper was promoting Margaret’s book The Runaway Bunny very heavily. They mailed prepublication press packets to newspapers and librarians, containing oversized, unbound pages of the colorful book to be read to large groups of children in libraries or schools.

  Reviewers raved about Clem Hurd’s illustrations. The story Margaret had first thought up while on the ski slope—about a child who tries to run away from his mother and a mother who changes herself into a dozen different animals and things in order to stay with her child—had transformed into a playful back and forth about the same shape-shifting between a mother and a baby bunny. Library Journal’s reviewer predicted this would become an enduring work and hailed the rhythm and beauty of the dialogue as authentic poetry.

  Instead of merely promoting this book in trade publications, Harper took its marketing campaign directly to parents and grandparents. It placed ads in consumer magazines, promoting it as the perfect Easter gift. It sent toy stores and bookstores stacks of postcards to mail to customers or slip in bags at the cash register. The campaign worked exceedingly well. Stores stocked and sold the book in huge numbers.

  Three of Margaret’s books were published that spring, and another three were to be published that fall. It was customary for reviewers to forward a copy of their final reviews to the publisher. Then an editorial assistant would type a letter containing the most important part of each review to send to the author. But Margaret wanted her own copy of every review for her scrapbook. She hired a clipping service to read through hundreds of newspapers and magazines and cut out each mention of her name. The service tagged and dated the clippings, forwarding them along to Margaret, who dutifully glued each into her ever-expanding scrapbook.

  * * *

  Margaret was eager to introduce her friends to Michael, so the women planned a dinner at Michael’s apartment. The small group included Bruce Bliven, who was now a regular contributor to The New Yorker; Monty Hare, who was producing a play off Broadway; and Clem and Posey Hurd. Michael promised to help Margaret prepare the meal, but when guests arrived, she was nowhere to be found. Bill Gaston took over cohosting duties. He mixed martinis as the group waited for Michael to show up. She flew in the door almost an hour late in full evening attire and carrying a huge basket of gourmet delicacies to serve for dinner. Margaret wasn’t perturbed; she had grown used to Michael’s dramatic entrances. Whenever Michael finally did appear, Margaret felt the room come alive. She assumed everyone else felt that way, too.

  After introductions, Margaret proudly showed off hers and Clem’s new book. Michael flipped through it and guffawed at its last line, “Have a carrot!” It was so like Margaret, she said, to treat someone who loved her with such disregard. Margaret was bruised by the comment but laughed it off to keep the dinner party light. She placed Michael between Bruce and Clem at the table. As they ate, she kept an eye on their conversation. Bruce and Michael chatted effortlessly while Clem sat almost silent.

  Monty and Clem knew more about Michael than Margaret was aware. They had been college friends with Michael’s second son, Leonard, and had heard his stories of how terribly his mother treated him and his siblings. As they ate, Michael constantly picked at Margaret. She corrected her grammar and dismissed her children’s books as silly endeavors. It made the guests uncomfortable.

  At the end of the night, Margaret declared the dinner a success with the exception of Clem’s silence. Margaret assumed Clem hadn’t talked because he couldn’t find anything in common with Michael. Margaret was oblivious that her friends resented Michael’s cruel remarks. They wondered what redeeming qualities Margaret saw in this vainglorious semi-celebrity with her swallowtail eyebrows.

  * * *

  In June, Margaret joined Michael at a rented house on Long Island Sound. They were alone for a week and spent the time writing and reading together. They took long swims and longer walks in the rain. They talked about what they wanted in a relationship and how the men in their lives had failed them. That week, they became lovers, and for the first time in her life, Margaret understood why men went to war for women they loved. To Margaret, Michael was a goddess.

  That Friday evening, Tweed and his guests arrived for the weekend. Tweed must have noticed the change in the women’s relationship. He most likely knew of Michael’s prior infidelities and saw Margaret as another passing fancy. At dinner that night, the tension among Margaret, Michael, and Tweed was palpable.

  Michael’s frustration with her husband was laid out as plainly as the ham on the table. She talked of the life she was planning without him. She raised her voice so that even with his slight hearing impairment he could hear what she said. She described the house where she was going to live and write. She planned to live there alone, she announ
ced loudly.

  Tweed had grown used to Michael’s ways. He calmly stood and offered second helpings of the ham to their guests. Putting more ham on Margaret’s plate than she could ever possibly eat, he taunted her for drinking wine instead of scotch. She responded with biting sarcasm. She knew she could hold her own with Tweed. At the end of dinner, everyone rose to retire to the porch, but Tweed bade them good night and went straight to bed.

  Until the early hours of the morning, Michael kept the conversation on the porch lively. All the guests watched her, entranced—especially Margaret. Entertaining was where Michael truly shined. She found other people’s lives enthralling and could elicit secrets they never planned on sharing. She studied politics and formed resolute opinions and relished debate. At her table, bishops, actors, and royalty might find themselves engaged in a discussion on the war, predestination, or the history of the theater.

  That night, Michael and her guests argued about psychoanalysis. Margaret strongly believed in the benefits of her therapy. She felt that the one hour a week she spent dredging up emotional wounds helped her achieve clarity and settle her internal turmoil. Michael stridently disagreed. In Michael’s opinion, analysis was, at the very least, useless and indulgent. More than that, it brought up a cascade of memories that became a focus of a patient’s life. Margaret stood her ground. Focusing on her problems with her psychiatrist freed her mind the rest of the week. Neither backed down. Alone in her room, Margaret stayed up until the early hours of the morning, writing a long letter to Michael explaining her belief in psychoanalysis.

  The next day, Michael and Tweed appeared to be a loving couple once again. It was Margaret’s turn to feel bereft. Maybe Michael was punishing her for defending psychoanalysis, or maybe she didn’t really love her. Margaret knew that Michael also longed for someone who loved you completely, someone who would be by your side when you were sick and who wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Someone who believed in you as an artist and did everything they could to support you.

  Margaret went to her room to pack her things. The week had been magical when it was just the two of them, but with the intrusion of the outside world, it had become a disaster. She collapsed on the bed in tears. She tore up the letter. There was nothing she could do to stop how she felt about Michael. She wanted to be more than friends. She was desperately in love.

  * * *

  Margaret resigned herself to life without Michael and returned to Sunshine Cottage in Vinalhaven alone. She had had minor surgery to remove a small tumor on her breast and wanted to recuperate in the midst of Maine’s woods and swim in its waters. She believed in the healing properties of that shore and felt parched from having been away from its waters too long. She was not allowed to use her left arm until she was well, so rowing a boat was impossible. Lifting anything heavy was also out, so Bill and his oldest son helped her with chores. The lobsterman’s wife prepared her meals.

  As the days passed, she grew grateful for her returning health and was happy in her solitude. She loved it when the fog settled in and blanketed her little house. With the exception of her work on the Heath social studies textbook series for Bank Street, she spent her time reading. She wanted to take life more slowly. Her stay in the hospital had helped her to realize how busy she had been. She needed quiet, time to absorb the sounds around her and the words in front of her.

  The Heath series had become an unending nightmare for Lucy Mitchell. As Lucy planned, the series took fictional characters into different worlds where they learned about a subject, and it was Margaret’s idea to open each chapter with a song. But Heath thought the books strayed too far from the standard textbook model. Dozens of pages of written material were tossed aside when Heath decided the series was too liberal and the style too narrative.

  Margaret, Lucy, and scores of other writers at Bank Street had devoted countless hours to creating the readers, but after four years of struggle trying to please Heath’s editors, Lucy’s good humor ebbed. Her hope of bringing the Bank Street philosophy to a wider audience now looked unlikely. Margaret was especially disappointed when the songs she had written were rejected as too novel an addition. A compromise on that was reached when it was decided poems would replace songs—a more traditional approach to chapter openings.

  Before she had come to Maine, Margaret had promised Lucy she would forge ahead as quickly as possible. Once they got these books behind them, they decided they would get together in New York to celebrate.

  As she recuperated in Maine, Margaret wrote a poem with a memorable word pattern to introduce a story in the textbook. In the story, a little girl moves from a country home to a skyscraper in the city and is relieved to see that all her cherished items from her old room are there with her, in her new bedroom. It brought back Margaret’s memory of moving to their new house on Long Island after her boarding school years. She was so comforted to see her childhood furniture and possessions settled into her new room and easily placed herself in this little girl’s world where she found security from her familiar furniture and things. She paired those emotions with her own childhood ritual of saying good night to the things in her room and drafted a poem called “Good Night, Room.” In it, the little girl said good night to all the things in her room she found dear.

  Until Margaret was better, she couldn’t use a typewriter, so she sent handwritten versions of her poems to Bank Street by way of the lobster boat that picked up outgoing mail. She told Lucy that if Heath didn’t like any of the works she submitted to just throw them away. She would start over again.

  * * *

  That summer, Margaret’s dog, Smoke, swam from Sunshine Cottage to Bill’s house and mated with Bill’s standard poodle. By the end of the summer, Bill, Margaret, and Leonard sat on Bill’s lawn, watching their four black puppies tumble and play. Leonard was scheduled to illustrate a book based on Margaret’s observations of the puppies copying the “big dog” actions of their father. She saw the way the little dogs mimicked their parents and how their little world was a mirror of the bigger dog’s world—big and little beds and bowls and bones. What was different was how the little dogs reacted to the world around them. They yapped at everything that startled them while their father stood observing silently. Smoke was unafraid of what frightened his puppies because those experiences weren’t new to him. Once the puppies saw how their brave father reacted, they followed suit.

  Margaret noticed the same pattern with Bill and his sons. They, like the puppies, often copied their father’s actions. It was human nature as much as it was a dog’s nature to want to be like its parents. Margaret loved Bill’s boys. They were kind and always willing to help her around the house, head out on an adventure to pick blueberries, and gather kelp, fish, or lobsters for their dinner.

  She continued to hold out hope that Bill would marry her after his divorce was final. She loved Michael, but wanted a family and longed for the security marriage would give her. Margaret had to settle for Bill’s companionship to plays, restaurants, and soirées in New York. Here in Maine, though, they were a couple, and when Bill’s boys were around, they were a family. Marriage to Bill was a waiting game she was sure she would win. He would never be monogamous, but she loved him madly and knew he felt the same.

  As she sat beside Bill and Leonard, looking over the glistening sea, she was content. That night, she stayed at Bill’s and sent two of the puppies back with Leonard to be used as models. It was always best when Leonard had the studio to himself. His level of messiness while he painted was more than Margaret could tolerate. He worked furiously, tossing sketches and rejected paintings to the floor.

  Like Margaret, Leonard studied the dogs to understand their behaviors. He always turned over a story in his mind for a long time before picking up a brush. Once he started painting, his visions were swiftly converted into watercolors. It wasn’t unusual for him to paint an entire book in a single day because the images were so well formed in his mind by the time he began.

  The book abou
t the big and little dogs was to be published by Doubleday under one of Margaret’s noms de plume, Golden MacDonald, a name she co-opted from Bill’s handyman. She liked that the name paid homage to her Irish heritage and her golden hair. Both Doubleday and Golden Books published her work under that name. It didn’t really matter to her because children rarely noticed the name of the person who wrote a book they liked.

  * * *

  When Margaret returned to New York, Michael called her late one night. She begged Margaret to find a taxi and to come get her. She had locked herself in her room and was packing a bag. Somehow Tweed had found proof of her affair with Margaret. Homosexuality was considered a mental illness to be treated in asylums or with drugs. Tweed’s doctor was on his way over. It was certain he would place Michael on medication and, most likely, into an institution. She had to leave their Gracie Square apartment right away.

  Margaret dashed downstairs to find a cab while Michael’s maid helped her flee through the back staircase. It was a narrow escape, and they had the driver cruise around the city as they considered Michael’s options. For the first time Margaret could remember, Michael didn’t tell the cab driver that she had a bad back so he needed to drive slow.

  Michael knew she would be safe at the Colony Club, so Margaret delivered her to that sanctuary. From there, Michael telephoned her lawyer to demand an apology from Tweed and to work out a formal separation. Within days, she had both and was allowed to move back into Gracie Square. With Tweed gone, Margaret stayed with Michael on some nights. They dined by candlelight as they looked out on the river, making plans for their future together. Margaret was going to give up her apartment and move in with Michael. They would document their lives together, a sort of biography that would write itself as their lives went along. They would be like Gauguin and Van Gogh—artists who understood each other and lived together, supporting each other in their craft.