In the Great Green Room

by Amy Gary

  Close friends teased Margaret about how much time she and Michael spent together. Bill Gaston told Margaret that he thought Michael had had her fill of men and had turned to a girl and that from there she would likely go on to goats. Margaret let them believe what they wished—that Michael was a substitute mother, a friend, or a lover. Many of her closest friends knew she loved Michael, but she confessed to only a few that she and Michael were more than friends.

  * * *

  In August, they went to Michael’s new country home in Milford, Connecticut. The house was near Michael’s son Robin’s home. By all accounts, Michael was a distant mother, far more concerned with herself and her own happiness than her children’s, but she was obsessed with Robin. She told her other children that he was her favorite while also openly and constantly criticizing him for his lack of ambition and failed career as an actor.

  She had always been jealous of Robin’s lovers, often seeing them as a threat to her relationship with him. Michael was always looking for ways to get them out of Robin’s life. When he inherited a portion of his father’s vast estate, he bought a quaint farm in Connecticut, just far enough away from his mother for comfort. His parties seemed to never end. He lived the life of an English squire and entertained friends on long drink-filled weekends, serving champagne and caviar for breakfast and gourmet meals for dinner. He was quite creative and took up a variety of hobbies. He grew an abundance of flowers and an assortment of vegetables in his quaint gardens. He liked his life the way it was and was not pleased his mother had bought a house nearby.

  Before leaving New York, Michael met with her accountant, who told her she had to find a way to make an income. Her divorce settlement and savings would not support her for long. She was terrified she couldn’t support herself. Her recent autobiography hadn’t sold well, and none of her poetry had been published in years. Her agent was trying to sell a collection of letters between her and John Barrymore, but there was little interest. Barrymore had died in May, and the stardust that once surrounded the couple was fading. Worse, the legacy he built was being dismantled by Diana’s bad behavior. The only headlines the young starlet made were for throwing punches at Hollywood parties or producers. Always mercurial, Michael was now even more sensitive and irritable.

  When Margaret made a seemingly innocuous comment that she liked lightning and thunder as she watched a storm turn the sky black, Michael raged at her. How could she be so insensitive? Margaret knew she had a terrible fear of storms, and her remark was inconsiderate. Michael retreated to her bedroom, and Margaret slept on the couch that night. She was angry with herself that she’d ruined Michael’s first day in her new house. She reflected on the shifting sands that were Michael’s moods and on her own desire to please. What did Michael really want—a friend with her own thoughts and opinions, or a statue standing silent? She was tyrannical with Margaret, then wanted her to stand as an independent person. The situation was impossible!

  As she lay there, she wondered if the relationship she hoped for could ever be. She slept fitfully and was awakened by Michael making coffee downstairs. Margaret waited quietly as she wondered what this day would hold. Michael asked Margaret to join her for breakfast, and everything seemed to be back to normal. They chattered to their dogs and talked about where to place a vegetable garden. When Michael rose to go write in her studio, Margaret flippantly told Michael to work hard, and Michael responded with a torrent of complaints. Michael criticized Margaret for mispronouncing her words; she said her remarks weren’t clear in their connotations or meanings; she wanted everything brought to her lower level of understanding; she intentionally found ways to aggravate others—just to get a reaction from them. She said Margaret’s inability to write anything except children’s nonsense was because she had no deep emotions. Her writing could only become more serious if she, too, became more serious. Margaret needed to grow up, Michael raged.

  Michael’s words stung, but Margaret knew some of her accusations were valid. There was, indeed, something within her that wrecked relationships. She obsessed over trying to please lovers and then found ways to undermine and irritate them. She recognized that quality in her own mother and was afraid it was an inherited curse. Her habit of using the wrong word and losing her train of thought when she spoke was embarrassing. She struggled with self-confidence and knew Michael did, as well, but the face Michael was able to show the world was one of confidence, courage, and intelligence. Margaret wanted that for herself. She wished she could cut the damaged part of her psyche out of her brain and heart, but she would take this bitter medicine from Michael in the hope of sweet things to come. She told herself that Michael was not lecturing her out of cruelty but out of a loving desire to fix her. She, too, wanted their relationship to be one between equals. Michael had no desire to be with a childlike version of herself, skipping along. If she was to keep Michael’s love, she had to come forth as herself, pure and relaxed, uncompromising and ruthless. She apologized to Michael.

  That evening, Michael received a phone call from a reporter at a major New York newspaper, the New York Journal-American, asking about her divorce. He told her that Tweed had flown to Reno and filed for divorce. Margaret listened to Michael’s laugh and her flippant responses. How easy it was for her to shape editorial policy. How wise of her to be charming and cheerful instead of defensive. Michael called her lawyer and had him countersue Tweed for divorce on the grounds of mental cruelty.

  The two women spent the next few days reading and gardening. Margaret planted tomato vines along the fence, and Michael planted chrysanthemums in beds near the house. They dug a winter garden and talked about the soups they would make from their carrots and beets. When they wore their dirty clothes and muddy boots into town, Margaret teased Michael that she would need to hide if she saw any of her social club friends. They surely wouldn’t allow someone who tromped around in filthy clothes like hers as a member.

  When they returned to New York, the article on Michael’s divorce was published. Michael’s charm on the phone with the reporter had counted for nothing. Tweed had tipped off the reporter to Michael’s affair with Margaret. Tweed had obviously worked closely with the reporter to craft the vicious exposé, which dismissed Michael’s stage career and poetry as insignificant. To make certain she knew he was the source, Tweed provided the sketch that hung above their fireplace for the article. The article branded Michael as the “Sappho of Long Island.”

  Michael was shattered. Being an avant-garde, somewhat androgynous poet was considered eccentric and was tolerated in her circle of society friends like the Vanderbilts and Astors, but being called a lesbian in the paper of record almost certainly meant social banishment.

  Michael hid away at the Colony Club worried that she might lose friends, family, and her inheritance after the scathing article. She told Margaret to stay away. It was better for both of them if they weren’t seen together until Michael’s lawyers settled the financial details of her divorce.

  Michael refused Margaret’s calls, but a month after the article ran, she invited her to lunch at the Plaza Hotel. Margaret arrived first and took a table at the back of the room so she could watch for Michael. She didn’t recognize her until a strange woman sat down at her table in the seat opposite her. Michael had hidden her bushy brown hair by a veil tied close to her head and under her chin. She told Margaret she was incognito—she’d grown tired of hearing the whispers of “There goes Michael Strange” as she walked by.

  Her voice was strident, not at all like her usual calm, musical tone. She had been very busy trying to settle the whole mess with Tweed. Their plans to live together at Gracie Square were out. Tweed would be keeping the apartment. Michael had to find a new place to live. She wouldn’t be able to see or call Margaret for a long time. Margaret needed to stop asking where Michael had been and what she had been doing with her days. She already had enough to worry about.

  Michael worked hard to maintain her androgynous, mysterious allure; she would no
t put that at risk for a relationship with Margaret. Neither would she give up her social standing for anyone. After her pronouncement, Michael was happy and light again. Margaret’s mind raced with responses she kept to herself. She mourned for the lost closeness with Michael but knew there was nothing else they could do.

  Michael had never been alone in her life, and Margaret doubted it was really what she wanted, either. They both longed for something beyond love and friendship—a relationship so deep they could call on that other person any time of the day or night. People learned to live without that, but Margaret didn’t want to.

  After lunch, they stepped outside to watch the Navy Day Parade. The military men marching past the Plaza wore uniforms, but to Margaret, they didn’t look like soldiers yet. Most still wore the demeanor of their civilian trades. Only the sportsmen and officers wore their uniforms with any martial bearing.

  Michael said it reminded her of the time she carried the American flag in a suffragette march. The flag was too long, and at Forty-second Street, a policeman had stopped and helped her fix it. As Margaret and Michael watched the men march off to their uncertain fate, Michael pulled off her veil and vowed not to wear it again.

  Thirteen

  1943

  Put a he on a he

  Or a she on a she

  And it never adds up to 1 2 3.

  Put a he on a she

  Or a she on a he

  And before you can even say Jack Robinson

  You’ve made 3.

  He times she divided by he

  Then take away she

  And now what have you left?

  A he or a she.

  And what’s this strange geometry

  Within the heart of you and me?

  This place apart

  This secret heart

  When all is what it seems to be.

  “HE AND SHE”

  White Freesias

  Michael rented two apartments on East End Avenue. The flats were at the end of a hall across from each other, and she planned to live in one. The other she intended to use as a writing studio. She planned a New Year’s party at her new apartments and fretfully waited for guests to arrive. If all went well—if people came—then her reputation had survived the vicious article. She wasn’t sure if Tweed’s influence could sway the Social Register to remove her from the list, but this party would give her an indication.

  The next day, she called Margaret, ecstatic that the newspaper piece actually served to make her more attractive to the men in her circle. Among the women, it elevated her mystique. She was, without a doubt, still part of the social set that mattered so much to her. Finances, though, would be a problem. She asked Margaret if she wanted to give up her place in the Village and move into the apartment Michael was going to use as a writing studio.

  The new apartments were only two blocks from Michael’s Gracie Square apartment but were a world away from Margaret’s bohemian enclave in Greenwich Village. She would only have to pay Michael for half of the rent, the same amount she was already paying for her old apartment. Unlike her ancient building in the Village, this one had hot and cold running water. An arched marble fireplace graced the room. But a wall of windows looking out on the East River as it curved around the building was the most dramatic feature in the space. Having apartments at the end of the hall gave the women similarly spectacular views that glistened in the day and sparkled at night as the boats moved up and down the water.

  Michael’s proximity meant frequent interruptions. Michael simply couldn’t force herself to sit down and work. One day she claimed to have gotten a great deal done, but Margaret was surprised to see that the work she had done was party planning, not poetry.

  Michael’s inability to concentrate had become a problem for Margaret. Lunches at the Plaza, Diana’s latest drama, and a busy social calendar were easy distractions. If Margaret didn’t get her writing done between eight in the morning, when she woke, and ten, when Michael stirred, then it was unlikely she would write at all that day. She needed a place away from Michael’s hubbub. Deadlines were upon her.

  She remembered a book of New York architecture Tweed had that included a photo of a tiny antebellum farmhouse nestled among tall buildings somewhere on the Upper East Side. If the house still existed, it would make a fine writing studio. Its size and cobblestone courtyard reminded Margaret of the house she had rented from Stringfellow Barr while at UVA, but she couldn’t remember exactly where it was. Margaret spent a morning walking around the Upper East Side looking for the little cottage. She peered around buildings and down alleys for hours. Finally, on York Avenue, she saw a building that looked familiar. She walked through the entryway of a tenement and found it. The little clapboard house was tucked away underneath a peach tree. It was just as she remembered in the photograph. It was painted white with angles of roof betraying addition after addition. Somehow all the changes only made the home more charming. She located the landlord of the tenement building and found that she owned this little home, too. She told Margaret it had once been a goat hut, which only added to its appeal for the whimsical writer. Margaret rented it on the spot.

  The house was nestled behind the tenement, a series of brownstones, and a Greek Orthodox monastery. It had only four rooms—two upstairs and two down. The floors were connected by a stairway outside. An attached room housed the bathroom, and a tall stucco wall at the north end of the courtyard was accented by a medieval-looking wooden door that led to the monastery’s garden. There was no electricity, and two drafty fireplaces were the home’s only sources of heat. The cold seemed to radiate from the old brick floor, so Margaret filled the house with plenty of furs. In front of one small window, she hooked a hammock into a small nook. Michael decorated the little house with antique furniture, and together they planted flowers in the courtyard. A friend donated two geranium trees that had once stood at the entrance of a horse track. Their colorful flowers bloomed high on either side of the front door. Margaret christened her little hidden home Cobble Court.

  A few days after settling into Cobble Court, Margaret returned home to the apartments to find Michael in a meeting with a promoter. She seemed quite nervous, so Margaret quickly retreated to her own apartment.

  Later, Michael told Margaret the promoter had called her, hoping to hire her to perform a series of concerts around the country that, like her short-lived radio show, married great works of literature with classical music. Given Michael’s uncharacteristic jumpiness, Margaret was certain it had been the other way around. Regardless, the promoter and Michael had reached an agreement. The tour would start in small concert halls and churches and run for six months before finishing at Carnegie Hall in New York. Michael was elated. She was going to have an income that came with a spotlight.

  This was Michael’s tacit admission she was not going to succeed as a writer. The recital readings and their accompanying music would take weeks to plan, but she was at last motivated to work. Margaret was relieved. She still wrote short stories and had written a play for an adult audience, but it was clear she couldn’t soon support herself as a writer of anything besides children’s books. Those stories about furry little animals that Michael made fun of might not be serious literature, but they paid the bills.

  * * *

  When summer came, Margaret’s desire to see the wild woods and smell the sea air of Maine grew too strong to ignore. She longed to shake off the city’s dreary winter days, to leave the business side of writing behind, and to refill her well of creativity. She routinely issued invitations to her editors and friends in publishing to join her when they could, and the members of the Birdbrain Club knew they were welcome anytime. Margaret often said she went there alone to think and write, but that usually lasted about two weeks, then visitors to Sunshine Cottage arrived steadily. Her annual routine was to meet with her editors, make a list of things to do, and gather research materials. On the day of departure, she filled her car with groceries and alcohol, then headed north.


  Michael preferred to spend her summers in tony Bar Harbor. For decades, it was where her family and friends had gathered. When she was still known as Blanche and was a wealthy banker’s wife, she had lived at Le Selva, a castle-like home along the shore. She was active in the suffragette movement and was a leading hostess along that haute coastline. The superb Maine summer stock theater also was a draw for Michael. Famous actors, including Ethel Barrymore, Michael’s former sister-in-law, frequently made their way to those stages.

  Michael rarely brought Margaret into her Social Register world. Early on, Margaret realized that the women of that set whispered among themselves that she was merely another of Michael’s eccentric adornments—a quiet wallflower with no noticeable personality. It was true that Margaret was fearful of speaking around that crowd for fear of embarrassing Michael because of her poor grammar and diction. However, the idea that she was merely a satellite hovering around Michael was insulting. So while Margaret was in Maine, she spent most of her time with Bill Gaston. She loved both him and Michael deeply but knew neither would ever fully commit to her. Bill teased Margaret about Michael and their attraction to one another but didn’t question her about it. She was happy to be with each of them whenever she could.

  On this trip, Margaret stopped to pick up Dot, who was at home with her mother in Litchfield, Connecticut. The two remained close, and Dot, more than ever, looked like Margaret’s little sister. Dot continued to write and draw, contributing many works to her school’s literary journal before she graduated. She had completed her debutante season the year before and was working part-time at Abercrombie & Fitch. It was common for Margaret to spend a night with Dot and her mother on her way to and from Maine. They rode horses and let their dogs romp together.

  Smoke, Margaret’s Kerry blue, was aging rapidly by now, but he was still a terror almost anywhere he went. Monty Hare, grateful to Margaret for buying up all the unsold seats on the opening night of his off-Broadway play, gave her a calmer Kerry blue. She named him Crispin’s Crispian, in homage to Shakespeare’s King Henry V’s rousing speech. Unlike Smoke, Crispian didn’t piddle on people at bus stops or attack other dogs on sight. He was fond of chasing cats and cattle, however, and on occasion nipped at people he thought threatened his mistress.