In the Great Green Room

by Amy Gary

  Margaret helped care for the very sick Michael and cheered her on as Michael wrote a series of children’s stories about the adventures of two bunnies living together—“The Rabbit M.D.” and “The Bunny No Good.” Margaret served as Michael’s editor for the stories, and Ursula had agreed to publish them. There were many flaws in the stories, but Margaret wanted to give Michael something to look forward to as she wasted away. She replaced her characteristically snarky comments with exclamatory remarks about how funny the stories were. It wasn’t long, though, before Michael was back in the hospital, this time in Boston at a clinic that specialized in the latest treatments for leukemia.

  * * *

  By fall, Michael was the size of a child, and her skin had turned a sickly yellow. It was obvious she was close to death, so Margaret rented a hotel suite close to the Boston hospital to be near Michael. She did her best to keep up with her work by mail, phone, and telegram, but for the first time in her career, she was behind schedule and wrote very little. She was at the hospital most of the day and often into the night.

  Sleep would give Michael a reprieve from the unending pain, but nothing the doctor ordered allowed her to rest. At the end of October, she writhed in pain day and night for almost a week. Morphine eased the pain, but her heart could only take so much. Her body went through crisis after crisis—internal bleeding, bedsores, and fluid-filled lungs that had to be drained through punctures in her back. It seemed the only things that kept death at bay were transfusions.

  After watching Michael suffer day after day, Margaret asked the doctor to try something other than anesthetics to help Michael sleep. Maybe hypnosis would help. The suggestion brought a sneer to his handsome, professional face, but he went into Michael’s room and came out with a smile. With a laugh, he announced that Michael’s pulse was still strong as an ox. The only thing keeping her awake was hysteria.

  Margaret was incensed. How dare he laugh at her friend’s suffering and dismiss it so easily. The doctor’s face drew pinched. He snapped that he would order a new painkiller and a transfusion for his patient. Margaret walked past him into Michael’s room and closed the door.

  Michael was hunched over in a chair. Her breathing was labored, and in the corners of her mouth there was blood. Margaret knew it was time for Michael to stop fighting. She took Michael’s hands into her own and told her not to be afraid to die. Her mother and son, all the people she loved the most, were already there. Life here was just a promise, just a beginning. Somewhere there was the completeness, the continuation of what started here. Michael grew calmer and quiet. This was what she needed. She lapsed into rest.

  Margaret held her hand through the transfusion. Afterward, the doctor ordered that Michael was to receive no more visitors. She was not to contact anyone except through him. Michael was too weak to protest loudly but scrawled a note to Margaret. The doctor snatched it away before Margaret could read it and declared that she was to do as he said—“or else.”

  Margaret knew what the “or else” was. Two weeks before, a psychiatrist had told Michael that there was a ward for people who cracked. These treatments were torture enough. Margaret didn’t want Michael to lose the special care of her private nurse or the kindly head nurse she had befriended.

  Margaret returned to the hospital that afternoon with a small bouquet of primroses—Michael’s favorite flower. She sat in the hall outside Michael’s door until nightfall. Before leaving, she gave the bouquet to a nurse to put by Michael’s bed.

  At one o’clock in the morning, Michael called Margaret, begging her to come to the hospital. Michael believed these were her last two days on earth and wanted Margaret by her side. Margaret rose and started to dress, then thought about the threat Michael’s doctor had made the day before and paused. She didn’t want to offend the doctor further for fear of what he might do to Michael, so she called the nurse on duty to ask permission to come. The nurse refused.

  By sunrise, though, Michael’s private nurse called and told her to come as quickly as she could. The doctor couldn’t be reached and had left no standing order for any painkillers. Michael was in agony.

  When Margaret arrived, she saw the primroses by Michael’s bed. The sick woman summoned her strength and declared that from now on her friends were to take orders from her, not her doctor. The head nurse agreed and promised to take responsibility for letting Michael’s friends into her room. The nurse also found another doctor who agreed to give Michael morphine to ease her pain.

  She was soon calm. She asked to see her son, Leonard Thomas. Margaret knew Leonard refused to come visit his mother but didn’t want Michael to know. She said Leonard had a cold and the doctor was keeping him away. It seemed the kindest thing to do.

  * * *

  The next day, Margaret maintained a vigil outside Michael’s hospital room. She heard Michael crying for her, begging Margaret to be with her, but the doctor forbade it. She had promised Michael she would hold her hand as she faced her last moments, and this last act by the doctor was sadistic, not compassionate. Michael should have someone by her side who loved her.

  Margaret stood by the door, listening to Michael’s calls grow faint. Before long, a nurse stepped outside the room and said Margaret could go in. Michael had died.

  Margaret longed to lift Michael out of the bed and hold her in her arms, but nurses still bustled about the room. They brusquely came between her and Michael, like adults keeping children at bay, then suddenly, they were through. They told Margaret she could wait until the doctor returned and swept out of the room. Michael was no longer their patient. She was someone else’s responsibility now.

  Margaret stepped to the bedside and closed Michael’s eyes. She kissed them quietly, tenderly. She took Michael’s hand in hers and felt it curve into her own. Michael’s hand answered her touch, and Margaret knew that the nurses had been wrong; death had not yet come.

  Margaret took the pearls from Michael’s neck to give to Michael’s son, as she had requested. She draped the strand around her own neck and then crossed the room to retrieve Michael’s large gray robe she always slept under. In some maternal way, she wanted to keep Michael warm. She removed the towel that propped Michael’s head up at an odd angle and held Michael’s head close to her own. Margaret wondered what thoughts Michael had at these last moments. What part of her consciousness would live on after she died?

  These last few days, Margaret and Michael talked about what happened to the soul after death. Margaret still held to some of the tenets of the Theosophical Society and was inspired to write a book for Michael, The Dark Wood of the Golden Birds. In it, beautiful birds disappear each night into the forest. People who try to follow them never return, until the day when a boy has to enter the woods to save a friend. He comes back but is forever changed by the beautiful world he saw on the other side of the forest. Michael was going into the forest, on a journey that would leave Margaret behind. Having been witness to the séances and readings by mediums for so many years, Margaret believed that some souls could come back and communicate from the other side. She hoped this book would be a guide for Michael to do the same. It was a vanity project, too obscure to sell very well, but Ursula and Leonard helped their grieving friend with the book. Leonard illustrated the book quickly, and Ursula rushed it to press so Margaret could give a copy to Michael before she died.

  In addition to talks about life after death, Margaret and Michael talked about Margaret’s life alone to come. For the first time, Margaret confessed to Michael that when they first met she kept a diary about their days together. Even then, she had hoped to write about a life they would share. She promised to finish that book and to read from Michael’s collection of poetry each morning. Michael’s memory and spirit would be with Margaret always because she loved her most of all. Their bond was unrefined, Margaret thought, and stronger than love. They got lost in each other. Separation from each other was no longer possible. Michael would take a part of Margaret with her, but part of her would live
on in Margaret.

  Michael’s death was noted in papers around the world. Numerous obituaries described her as the former Mrs. John Barrymore and as a poet. They reported that her son Leonard Thomas had been at her side when she passed.

  Twenty

  1951

  When I fly away which way is best

  North, East, South or West?

  North, East, South, West

  In Michael’s absence, friends who had once distanced themselves began to reenter Margaret’s life. Some may have disapproved of her relationship with Michael; others had just hated to see Michael’s condescension of Margaret and her career. Rosie Bliven urged Lucy Mitchell to invite Margaret back to the Writers Laboratory. Rosie had told Lucy that their friend was still up to madcap adventures. As she saw it, Margaret had been entranced by Michael because she needed a mother figure in her life. Margaret filled her time with crazy, amusing activities because she was a lonely soul. She was, though, loveable—still the old imaginative person they knew.

  Condolences from Margaret’s friends poured forth. Dot encouraged Margaret to remember the good days and happy hours. Though this chapter of her life with Michael was closed, the vibrancy of their life together would linger. There was much to look forward to in life, Dot promised her grieving friend. She had a host of people who loved her, and though that wouldn’t take away the sorrow, she should know she was much loved. She encouraged Margaret to come visit whenever she wished. Other friends also invited her to spend time with them—in Virginia, Connecticut, and France. One friend in Key West urged Margaret to throw Crispian in her jalopy and head south.

  Posey Hurd’s note was one of pure sympathy, even though she and Clem had not liked the way Michael had treated Margaret. They loved Margaret and grieved for her loss. Bruce Bliven urged Margaret to remember that Michael would be the one snorting at her sad solitude. She knew the line between sorrow and self-pity, and, as Michael would have wanted, Margaret should remember the happy moments of their time together.

  Lucy Mitchell did invite Margaret to come back to the Writers Laboratory for a visit. Both were aware that their writing styles had landed on opposite ends of realism. Lucy was working on a geography book, and Margaret was writing a tale about fairies in the woods. Lucy knew full well the grief of losing the person closest to you because her husband had died two years earlier. She had just recently completed a biography on their life together. Margaret was honored when her old mentor and friend asked her to edit her biography of her late husband.

  The majority of Michael’s estate had been left to her children, who were considerate of Margaret’s relationship with their mother. They gave Margaret the use of Michael’s furniture and deeded the house in Maine Margaret had built for Michael back to her. Michael had appointed Margaret as her literary executor, which made Margaret consider her own publishing legacy. Too many of Margaret’s own manuscripts were lying fallow at publishing houses as editors delayed their decisions to accept or reject them. When Margaret reviewed the status of her projects still awaiting approval, she was livid. Golden had over a dozen manuscripts pending for more than a year, as did Harper. She wanted them to commit to the works or let her sell them elsewhere. Margaret accused both Ursula and Georges of trying to control her output by slowing down their decisions to commit to a manuscript.

  She had agreed to Golden’s paltry monthly advance only because Georges said he would publish four of her books per year, not accept and then hold on to the manuscripts. If he didn’t publish her manuscripts, there was no way for her to earn anything past the advance. She would have no more of it. If Golden wasn’t going to publish the manuscripts they were holding on to, then she wanted a kill fee and demanded those works be returned. She refused to sign the new deal with Golden and demanded a quick review of her projects with Harper.

  Ursula responded quickly. She told Margaret that she had always appreciated the informality of their working relationship, and she assumed Margaret did, too. She didn’t want to lose the good things about their closeness but was eager to settle the messier aspects that casualness wrought. She promised to give Margaret concrete decisions on submissions quickly and to schedule the publication of accepted manuscripts promptly. She was certain they could find a happy medium of friendship and professionalism. She told Margaret how much it meant to work with her as an editor but also as someone who appreciated Margaret’s talent, then she joked that they should now sing a hymn together.

  Margaret did value Ursula as an editor and a friend, so she quickly backed down. She didn’t feel quite the same way about Georges. She gave him a set of dueling pistols and joked that this might be the better way to settle their contract negotiations. She also complained about a small underpayment on a recent royalty statement. Georges sarcastically feigned shock at the company’s gross negligence. He promised to have their accountant shot by firing squad at dawn.

  * * *

  In October, Margaret and her valet, Pietro, were in her apartment when her ancient refrigerator’s icebox exploded, leaking ammonia gas throughout the rooms. There was no way to escape the long, narrow apartment without going back through the smoke and gas. They were able to grab Crispian and make it to Margaret’s bedroom at the far end of the apartment. Gasping for air, they flung open the window and breathed in the clean air. There was no fire escape, ladder, or rope. They screamed for help and kept their heads out the window. Margaret held the wriggling dog so that his nose, too, would not take in the toxic fumes.

  Finally, her upstairs neighbor who had lived through the London Blitz came to their rescue. He brought wet towels to shield them from the gas as they fled the apartment. The gas was so noxious that it peeled the paint off her walls, removed the varnish on her furniture, and killed all her plants. Pietro remained sick for months afterward, and Margaret developed a bronchial condition that lasted into the following year. She became exceedingly frustrated in her dealings with her landlord, Captain Vincent Astor, whose often-unresponsive company had finally replaced the damaged refrigerator with one that was similar in age and just as hazardous. She eventually turned the whole matter over to Harriet, commenting that her landlord’s lackadaisical ways were irritating—who did he think he was? A writer?

  * * *

  The lawsuit with Scott about The Noisy Book series was settled at the beginning of the year, although there were too many personal affronts for Margaret and Bill Scott to ever again be close. However, he did want Margaret back on board as a Scott author. He asked her to write a companion for A Child’s Goodnight Book they had published years before.

  Michael’s death and the exploding icebox gave Margaret a new perspective on the preciousness of life. She wrote letters to three of her illustrators, praising the work they did on their recent books with her. When she realized that a manuscript she had sent to Phyra Slobodkina to illustrate was too similar to Harper’s Goodnight Moon, she asked Golden to nix the project. She didn’t want to end up in another legal battle because she had stepped on another publisher’s rights. She reestablished a friendship with John McCullough, her old Scott colleague. She let him know that she appreciated his thoughtful comments on her manuscripts and respected his editorial talent.

  Ursula, too, was once again a trusted friend. They went together to the Book Week ceremony at the New York Public Library, but when they arrived, Margaret realized she had left her invitation behind. The librarian standing guard at the door knew Margaret and her books well but refused to let her enter until all other guests arrived. There were plenty of empty seats, but the librarian wasn’t going to bend the rules for her.

  Ursula stood with Margaret in the hall, chatting as their colleagues were ushered in. Margaret felt spurned once again by this group of self-important librarians. She grew more agitated as the time for the ceremony drew closer and the room was still far from full. These librarians enjoyed looking down on her. They would never accept her as a serious writer.

  Angry tears formed in Margaret’s eyes, and she told
Ursula she was leaving. Ursula didn’t want to abandon her friend and sometimes-favorite author, especially when it was obvious how upset she was. So the two women parked themselves on the front steps of the library, next to the lions. There, they held their own awards for Book Week and celebrated privately.

  * * *

  Margaret spent much of 1951 traveling to see friends, including a trip to upstate New York to be with Monty Hare for opening night of his tent road show of The Tempest. He had been director of the Barter Theatre in Abingdon, Virginia, for the last five years, and whenever possible, Margaret had driven to see his new shows and then on to Hollins for reunions or visits.

  Monty had faced great difficulty getting the road show production off the ground. The union for stagehands struck the show, and costly delays set in. When opening night finally arrived, thunderstorms ripped away part of the large performance tent, and Monty was convinced their first show would be their last. Just then, Margaret arrived on the scene with a hot dog cart in the back of her convertible. She sang silly made-up songs about hot dogs and dispensed her wares to the arriving audience with good cheer. Monty was, as ever, grateful to his Birdbrain friend. Before Margaret returned to Manhattan, she had a draft for a song-filled story about a street vendor and his shiny hot dog wagon.

  * * *

  As promised, Margaret read from Michael’s poetry collection each morning. She longed to have Michael to explain obscure passages or to relish the beauty of some lines. Margaret was, though, learning to live for herself for the first time. Michael was gone, and Bill was no more than an old friend. This newfound independence spurred a story about a dog who was free to do as he wished, Mister Dog. It was the story of her and Crispian living together, but alone, both doing as they wished in their hidden world of Cobble Court. She was comfortable in her solitude. She belonged to herself and only herself.