by Amy Gary
As Margaret distanced herself from Bill, she was needier of Michael’s attention and affection. In letters, Michael professed her love and devotion to Margaret. Once home though, Michael quickly grew tired of Margaret’s neediness and sought to escape their claustrophobic apartments. Diana’s career was in a tailspin, so Michael often traipsed after her daughter from set to set between her own performances. Margaret sometimes followed, if Michael asked her to come along and she could spare the time. Margaret’s world seemed to revolve around the telephone these days. She was working on books for six different publishers, and everyone needed answers or approvals.
* * *
On a cold day in October, Philippe Halsman, a photographer from Life magazine, posed Margaret in the hammock that hung in a window of Cobble Court. Her longtime friend Bruce Bliven sat beside her in a chair with a pad on his lap, suggesting that the photographer was capturing the interview Bruce had completed for an article in the magazine. In actuality, the interview had occurred two months earlier when Bruce came to the Only House. Bruce was still regular contributor to The New Yorker, but also was a prolific freelance writer. Over chuckles and wine, he penned a whimsical piece about Margaret that would appear in the December issue of Life. The short feature highlighted her colorful career and declared her to be not only the most prolific children’s book writer but the prettiest. It declared that anyone who met her would find her exceedingly sophisticated and claimed that she fooled her city friends into thinking she had a green thumb by tying cherries or oranges to the green bay tree she kept in her apartment. Margaret was elated by the article and being photographed for one of the world’s most famous magazines thrilled her beyond even her own vivid imagination.
Halsman wanted to capture the little house where she wrote, so he stood on a ladder outside of Cobble Court. To include the house and courtyard, he needed a higher vantage point and found it through a window in the tenement building owned by Margaret’s landlord. He photographed Margaret being served tea by an elegantly attired Pietro and opening the door for Crispian to enter.
Inside the tiny house, he positioned Margaret at her desk with a blue heron quill pen and then on the floor with copies of her books surrounding her. In another photograph, she was in repose on her zebra-skin couch as she tried to look pensive in an awkward pose.
She felt completely comfortable, though, when Halsman photographed her sitting in her rocking chair and lighting a fire.
Michael continued to perform her Great Words with Great Music recitals around the country, and the pace was grinding, so she was frequently tired and irritable. While Michael traveled, Margaret cared for the apartment and the house in Connecticut. She watched over their dogs and Diana’s, too. The pets had become Margaret’s own little fur family, and each of her letters to Michael included updates on their dogs. The letters Margaret received from Michael as she traveled were mostly tender, but with both Margaret and Diana, Michael was alternately supportive and dismissive of their accomplishments. The two women knew Michael was jealous of their successes. Diana’s career had eclipsed Michael’s, and newspapers usually referred to Michael only as Diana’s mother; Michael’s own poetry and performances were secondary tidbits of information. As Michael’s audience declined, her producer had to move most of her shows to churches. Those were easier to fill.
Diana had asked Michael to come see her in the road-show production of Joan of Lorraine and was thrilled when she came to see her in Atlanta. Diana’s performance that night as Joan was so moving that members of the cast watching from the wings were in tears. She received numerous curtain calls and was ebullient as she waited backstage for her mother to congratulate her. But Michael left the theater without a word. Michael had always hoped to play the role of her heroine, Joan of Arc. Well practiced at wounding her daughter, Michael knew that ignoring her after such a marvelous turn was the cruelest thing she could do.
Likewise, Michael had continued criticizing Margaret and her books. Many of Margaret’s longtime friends and collaborators inched away. They couldn’t bear to watch how cruelly Michael treated Margaret, who tried so desperately to please her.
The Life article became a high point in Margaret’s career. The issue’s cover featured Ingrid Bergman in the Broadway production Joan of Lorraine, which must have felt like a double blow to Michael. Margaret said little about the article in her letters but carefully pasted the cover and article into her scrapbook. It was an affirmation of her talent; she might never be a serious writer of adult literature, but she was one of the best writers of children’s books. That, for now, was enough.
Sixteen
1947
Who does your heart return to?
Who do you really love?
In that blue hour of evening
Who are you thinking of?
Who does your wild young heart turn to
In those dark dreams of night?
Whose is the face before you
When you turn out the light?
“WHO DOES YOUR HEART RETURN TO?”
White Freesias
Margaret’s mother passed away in January of 1947. Margaret and Roberta traveled to Ann Arbor for the funeral. Margaret took a circuitous route home, going to her mother’s interment in Kirkwood, Missouri, and then to Connecticut to see Dot’s newborn daughter, Laurel. Margaret was Laurel’s godmother, and the christening took place at the same picturesque church where Dot and Louis had been married. Margaret heaped attention and gifts on the little girl, on whom she bestowed the nickname Pookie.
Dot and Margaret still hunted with the Buckram Beagles. They were at work on a collection of horse stories and poems but had not yet found a publisher. Two years earlier, they wrote and illustrated a book about the circus under the pseudonyms Timothy Hay (Margaret) and Wag (Dot). On a trip to the circus at Madison Square Garden in Manhattan, they had watched as the dazzling white Liberty horses began their intricate stepping routine. They turned to each other with the same idea—this could be a book! Horses, about a little horse who goes to his first circus, was on the shelves the following year. The art featured pops of red throughout, and the eye-catching cover showcased a red-and-white striped tent. A small circle on each spread displayed a fact about horses. Two years later, Margaret was revising and writing a voluminous horse story collection that she wanted Dot to illustrate. It would include facts, folktales, stories, and songs—almost two hundred works in total.
Margaret wanted to sell this collection to Golden because her collections with them earned her twice the royalty rate of a storybook. The publisher also was producing some of her books in an oversized format that Margaret adored. A larger size allowed more action to transpire across a double-page spread. Margaret had written a story of a bunny who rolled an egg from one page to the next, and she felt her text had really been brought to life on the book’s large pages by Leonard’s blended art. There was so much room on each spread that they decided to fill the expansive backgrounds with lush wildflowers. Margaret had picked as many different flowers as she could find for Leonard to use as models. They hadn’t known he was allergic. The next morning, he woke with eyes so swollen he couldn’t open them.
Margaret had been sending more and more manuscripts to Golden Books. Their line of Little Golden Books was exceedingly popular and was being sold in department stores around the country. Those huge print runs made their books affordable for families who once considered children’s books a luxury. The low cost, rugged cardboard binding, and eye-catching designs encouraged parents to buy more than one book at a time, too. The sales of the pretty little books with the signature bright gold spine were skyrocketing—and so did Margaret’s royalties. She was stunned by the first Golden royalty check she received and celebrated by hopping on a plane to Florida to buy a car. She returned in a yellow Town & Country convertible that matched her golden hair.
Margaret also encouraged many of her friends to submit books to Golden. She and Posey Hurd had cowritten a book called The Man in
the Manhole and the Fix-it Men, which featured characters in the workaday world. Margaret had written the book for Scott, and she had more ideas for those sorts of stories, but her allegiance to the publisher was waning. Advance payments were often calculated on potential earnings, so based on her book sales, Margaret had been negotiating higher advances with Golden and Harper. Scott refused to grant Margaret an increase on her advances or royalty percentages. They also continued to use outdated printing techniques, even though Margaret had successfully negotiated affordable printing on new presses in Sweden.
Margaret and Leonard had been working with Scott for over a year on another book with an appealing word pattern. This one engaged children by describing something in their world—a daisy, a shoe, rain—and then deciding what was the most important thing about that subject. She called it The Important Book and wanted it printed in four colors as Golden and Harper were doing. Bill Scott refused, so Margaret decided to sell the book to Harper. Royalty negotiations and Margaret’s demand for higher-quality printing had stalled the final contract, so she was within her legal rights to give the book to Harper. Margaret knew pulling the book would be a financial blow to Scott, but she was certain that any manuscripts she gave to the small publisher had little chance of success against the more attractive books on store shelves.
Bill Scott’s books looked dated. Margaret’s last book with him had been a huge disappointment. The colors weren’t at all close to Phyra’s original illustrations, and the printer haphazardly altered the featureless faces she gave her characters. The results gave the book a comical look. Margaret sent him a telegram at 2:43 in the morning registering a “full protest” and demanding that Bill print the book as Phyra had illustrated it.
Margaret wrote Bill a letter officially terminating their publishing relationship. She would no longer send Scott new manuscripts. Scott editor John McCullough dug in his heels, too. He canceled Margaret’s other books that were scheduled to be published. Without explanation, he told Phyra to return a manuscript she was illustrating, The Little Farmer, to Margaret. Phyra was bewildered but nonetheless did as she was instructed.
* * *
In July, Leonard won the Caldecott Medal for his illustration of The Little Island. He had captured the island in front of the Only House so beautifully. Margaret was happy that the critics had recognized his talent with the highest award in the industry, so in commemoration of the award, she gave Leonard a wafer-thin Gubelin watch. In return, he gave her a box of gold Caldecott Award stickers. He couldn’t have given her a more delightful gift. She stuck them to the dummy books and manuscripts she submitted to publishers—and even some copies of her finished books on her shelves.
Margaret was asked to write a piece about Leonard for Publishers Weekly. In it, she ticked off his many artistic accomplishments, behind-the-scenes stories of their collaborations, and his one publishing failure. This, she noted, was no fault of his as the illustrator, nor was it hers as the author; she laid the blame squarely at the feet of the publisher who had refused to print with the additional colors she and Leonard had been promised.
Bill Scott knew this was a jab at his dated printing techniques. Ethel Scott, too, must have taken offense at Margaret’s claim in the article to be the one who wrote Cottontails, even though Ethel was listed as the author. Whether or not Margaret intentionally used this piece to distance herself from her old employer didn’t matter. Bill Scott saw it as a declaration of war.
* * *
For a long time, Margaret had longed to return to Ireland to see the place where her ancestors lived. To her, everything about Ireland was more charming than America, and when she finally made her way there, she stayed much longer than originally planned. A month there did nothing to diminish her appetite for her family’s homeland.
She stayed first in Liston, then traveled on to Dingle, where her ancestors had boarded boats bound for America centuries before. She bicycled to scenic spots and ancient churches, stopping to talk to almost anyone she met along the way. The beauty of the dramatic cliff-lined beaches, with shawled women walking enormous gray wolfhounds on long leather leashes, struck a chord of primeval longing Margaret felt in her blood.
Everywhere was the smell of peat moss burning. That aroma was so specific to this land and evoked visions of cozy rooms with warm fireplaces. She understood why that scent brought tears to the eyes of her transplanted Irish friends in New York—to them, it smelled of home. She mailed swaths of it back to her apartment. She would share most of it, but she wanted to keep some for herself to burn when she wanted to remember this beautiful land.
She found that the humblest things, like bread and butter, were far more delicious in Ireland than at home. The people took great pleasure in their unpretentious lives; the land, rock walls, and roads had character. She loved hearing the hooves of donkeys on the stone streets and the tinkling bells on the carts they pulled. Margaret adored how these villagers accepted people as they were—you could sit down and have a conversation with anyone.
She spent her last week at a little house that belonged to a welcoming couple. She stayed at their inn for several nights, and they were so charmed with Margaret they insisted she stay at their private retreat on a tiny island. It was only a short row away, and the house overlooked a sandy beach with an ocean of crystal-clear water in front. Behind were the cliffs and shores of Dingle. It was clean as a whistle and positively enchanting. At low tide, she gathered shells to add to her collection inside the little cottage that sat alone on a tiny island.
Margaret wanted to bring Michael to this little house when she came to Europe at the end of the month. On the trip from New York to Ireland, Margaret had reflected on her relationships with Bill and Michael. She was tired of Bill’s philandering and drinking, although she still loved him. His divorce was still dragging on, but she had adjusted to her life as it was. She no longer wanted to marry him, and her physical attraction to him was slowly dying. Before she left for Ireland, he had confessed with a laugh that he could never change his adolescent approach to romance. Maybe that’s why he was attracted to her. She, too, was unable to grow up. Each summer they would return to Maine and become a temporary family. Together they created the eternal prom he wished life could be—a place where they could dance the night away on his ballroom under the stars and relive the summers of their youths in Maine.
On her way to Ireland, Margaret realized that even if she was intellectually ready to leave adolescence behind, she had no idea how to do it. If she calmed her racing mind, then perhaps she could analyze her life. Maybe maturity was the ability to calm your mind and emotions—an ability to discard the love you have for someone like Bill simply because you knew it was going to lead nowhere. Was that what growing up was? Choosing what you didn’t want to do instead of where your heart leads you?
Margaret decided she would not invest any more of her emotional energy into a romantic relationship with Bill. She loved Michael more than anyone else. Margaret hoped she could grow up enough for Michael to feel the same. Michael would never be faithful, but Margaret knew she could count on Michael to be there if she needed her. She knew the person behind the extravagant ego and had witnessed the failings of her fragile self-confidence. It was Michael who wrote letters full of love and encouragement to her and whose phone calls she hoped for at the end of the day. Michael was the one who draped warm furs over Margaret when it was cold. When Michael came home from the road, Margaret welcomed her with a cup of peppermint tea. It was her life with Michael that was secreted into her books time and again. They had cobbled their lives together the best they could, and it was enough to make Margaret happy.
Michael would be attending the royal wedding of Princess Elizabeth and Prince Philip Mountbatten and was then scheduled to perform at Wigmore Hall in London. Margaret thought that a relaxing stay in Ireland would be beneficial to Michael, who continued to tire easily. This small cottage near Dingle would be the perfect place for Michael to come rest.
In her letters, Margaret described the place and her days of traveling through Ireland to Michael. She wrote using the coded language Michael insisted upon. At times, they attached emotions they had for each other to their dogs or had imaginary characters speak for them in their letters. Michael’s was Rabbit and Margaret, Bunny. Michael’s dog, Cricket, might speak for her, telling Margaret how much she was missed and loved. If their letters were ever discovered, they would read like nonsense, yet the two women knew the veiled meaning of every word. When Margaret wrote, she would touch the gold wishbone necklace Michael had given her. She sometimes doubted how much Michael loved her. At those times, she needed Michael to reassure her, which she often did. However, at other times, Margaret’s neediness irritated Michael. She wanted Margaret to stand on her own two feet instead of clinging to her. Those arguments could last for days. The wishbone necklace had been Michael’s way of silently reassuring Margaret. All she had to do was touch it to remember that someone did love her very much.
* * *
Over the last year, Michael had been frequently absent from their apartments, still busy touring with her show. Diana had begun using her mother’s apartment as a home base when she took on the lead role in the traveling production of The Philadelphia Story. Again, Margaret cared for their dogs while they were away, sending a stream of letters that included updates from their dogs Mocha and Cricket. Smoke had died two years earlier, but the letters invariably reported on Crispian’s bad behavior toward the smaller dogs.
Michael was to perform in London at Wigmore Hall and then travel on to Paris, returning to the United States in time for Thanksgiving. Margaret asked her to visit a bookseller who was holding French editions of The Runaway Bunny and Little Fur Family for her. Margaret had also arranged for the bookseller to bind a copy of Michael’s performance script in leather as a keepsake of the long years’ labors. Margaret was certain Michael would be completely charmed by the gift.