The Power of Pink
The Power of Pink
1957
After another long day, Ruth pulls out of the Mattel parking lot in her new pink Thunderbird convertible, a present from Elliot for their nineteenth wedding anniversary in June. He had it custom-painted for her in the shade she selected. And it’s not that pink is Ruth’s favorite color—it’s that her sister taught her early on that a woman in business has to be tough as nails inside while still appearing feminine on the outside. “If you come across too hard,” Sarah said, “you’re a ballbuster, and no one wants to work with a woman like that. But if you’re too soft, they’ll roll right over you. This way, you keep them guessing. They don’t know what to make of you. Striking that balance between the two will be your secret weapon.” Ruth took her sister’s words to heart and watched her in action, noting the way Sarah would always let the men hold the door for her, lift boxes and crates and anything they deemed too heavy for a woman. Sarah could smoothly haggle with a vendor—a firm tone under a laughing voice. She dressed neatly and modestly but was never without her bright red lipstick. Even up until the very end. A pang hits Ruth in the chest—even after a decade she still misses her big sister. Sarah is the reason why Ruth wears her pearls every day, why, no matter how busy she is, she makes time for her weekly manicure.
Forty-five minutes later, she pulls into the long drive of their Beverlywood home on Duxbury Circle. It’s a big house on the cusp of Beverly Hills. They bought it in 1955 after their first big success, the Burp Gun, which sold more than a million units the year it launched. It was the first time they felt rich . The floodgates had opened and, admittedly, they went a little overboard. They were suddenly in the big leagues. They had a financial advisor, life insurance policies—they felt like grown-ups. The freedom of seeing something in a store window and saying I’ll take it was irresistible. Ruth went from buying off the rack at the May Company to shopping the exclusive Los Angeles boutiques and owning half a dozen Chanel suits. Elliot got the Mercedes-Benz he’d always wanted. They started traveling first-class and took family vacations to London and Paris. They hired a driver to take the children to and from school, partly because they were too busy to do it themselves, and partly because Elliot worried about kidnappers, given their newfound wealth. And then, of course, they bought the house, which they promptly tore down to the studs and rebuilt. Elliot designed the entire place with floor-to-ceiling windows and custom millwork throughout. Better Homes and Gardens called it a modern marvel . Architectural Digest said it was fanciful , with its spiral staircase encircling an actual two-story-high oak tree with toy birds perched on the branches. There isn’t another house like it anywhere. It’s certainly nothing like the home Ruth grew up in back in Denver, a one-story, two-bedroom clapboard with a tiny front porch and three wooden steps in varying degrees of rot.
The sun is about to set, streaking the sky red and orange, casting a warm glow above the rooftop. The sprawling lawn is flanked with palm trees, fig and pomegranate trees, too, and there’s a swimming pool out back, which Ruth rarely gets to enjoy these days because the doll is taking up so much of her time.
They’ve been working on it for over a year now, and Ruth has long since given up on the hope of launching it at this year’s Toy Fair. They’re nowhere near ready. Jack’s having problems with the arm sockets. Plus, they still don’t have a name for it: Molly Model , Make-Believe Belinda —each one is worse than the next. But despite the hiccups, there is something magical and all-consuming about creating this doll. Each tiny victory is hard-won, the result of so many previous attempts that didn’t work. When Jack finally got the hip joint to move right, when they got the hairline rooted correctly, when they figured out the perfect arch of the doll’s foot, high enough to support the mules Charlotte was constructing, they celebrated like they’d won the World Series. On more than one occasion, they’ve broken out champagne and toasted with paper cups and coffee mugs.
But then there are days like today. The reason she’s so late getting home is because that afternoon they received their first shipment of prototypes. They were so excited and couldn’t wait to get the boxes open. But when Jack uncrated the first doll, they were speechless. What did the translator tell KBK? The doll looked Japanese, and her epicanthal folds were only part of the problem. They used the wrong plastic, and lo and behold, they gave the doll nipples. Jack nearly sawed off one of the doll’s arms while trying to file away the areolae with his Swiss Army knife. Ruth would have been home over an hour ago had they not been on an overseas call with their translator and KBK, trying to sort out the whole mess.
Ruth’s always been a hard worker, but everything’s intensified since she began working on the doll. It used to be that by five, maybe six o’clock at the latest, she was done for the day, and she left her work at the office. They always made a point of having dinner together as a family. She played tennis at the club and met friends for lunch once, sometimes twice a week. She has no idea what happened to their mixed doubles game. It seems to have evaporated over the past few months, like most of their social life. She’s been so busy, she missed Barbara’s parent-teacher conference last week. It just completely slipped her mind. Ruth had her secretary send the teacher flowers and a note of apology. She probably should have sent them instead to Barbara, who claimed to be so embarrassed she didn’t want to go to school the next day. She also missed one of Ken’s piano recitals, but it couldn’t be helped—she and Charlotte were sourcing fabrics. Admittedly there’s not much balance in Ruth’s life now, but it’s temporary, just until she gets this doll launched.
Ruth enters through the front door, slings her pocketbook onto the marble table in the foyer and shuffles through the mail. Slipping off her heels, she pads on her aching feet through the living room, where the last traces of sunlight glint off the lid of the grand piano, Ken’s fingerprints visible on the fallboard. Just beyond that, in the dining room, Elliot and the kids are finishing up dinner.
“Sorry I’m late,” she calls out. “We had another crisis.”
“We waited as long as we could,” says Elliot with an apologetic shrug. “I didn’t know when you’d get home. I had Edna keep a plate warm for you.”
Ruth nods and plops down at her place at the table. It’s heaped with schoolbooks and homework, as if they knew better than to expect she’d be home in time to eat with them.
“How was school?” she asks collectively as she pushes the books aside and rests her elbows on the table.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” says Ken, chasing a pea around his plate.
“Didn’t you have tryouts today?” she asks.
“I said I don’t want to talk about it.” Ken drops his fork with a clank.
He is rarely gruff like this. Ken is a studious twelve-year-old with a crew cut, thick glasses and occasional clusters of acne. Ruth worries about him. He’s a loner. More introverted than his older sister and thankfully less moody, too. Usually.
“And what about you?” She turns to Barbara, who has hardly looked up from her plate. “How did rehearsal go?”
“May I be excused?” Her request is directed at Elliot.
“Something wrong with the steak?” asks Ruth. “It’s your favorite.”
“I’m full,” she says, scooting away from the table and heading out of the dining room, her feet falling hard, stopping just shy of an outright stomp.
“What’s wrong with her?” asks Ruth, picking at some mashed potatoes left on Barbara’s plate.
Elliot shrugs and cocks his head toward Ken, meaning Not in front of him.
Ken asks if he can be excused, too, and once he’s out of earshot, Elliot says, “He didn’t make the team, in case you didn’t figure that out.”
“I assumed as much.” She props her forehead against her hand, massaging her throbbing temples.
“He’ll be all right,” says Elliot. “I talked him into joining the chess team instead.”
She nods and realizes she’s hungry, starving actually. She can’t remember if she ate lunch that day. She takes a bite of Barbara’s Salisbury steak.
“The kids miss you, Ruthie.”
“I know.” There’s a stab of guilt just below her rib cage that makes her breath catch.
“You’re never home anymore. You’re not available when they need you—”
“Oh, c’mon, that’s not true.” But her defense is weak because they both know he’s right.
“You’re always working. Or preoccupied with work. It’s taking a toll on them.”
She drops her fork and pushes the plate away. “Don’t you think I see how unhappy my children are? Jesus, Elliot, I feel guilty enough as it is. I don’t need you to make me feel any worse than I already do.”
“I don’t want to fight about this, Ruthie.”
She doesn’t want to fight, either, but she does want to point out that coming home on time won’t make Ken more athletic. It won’t clear up his acne or cure his farsightedness. It won’t make him more popular at school. Slowing down at work won’t make Barbara more tolerant of the other cast members or of the classmates who she says copy her outfits even though they all wear the same poodle skirts and saddle shoes. Even if Ruth quit working altogether, she couldn’t set things right for her children.
It’s such a contrast to how she is at the office. There, she is a force. Decisive and sure-footed, she can make a $200,000 decision to switch shipping companies just like that. She can stand up in front of a roomful of men and tell them what to do. She can hire and fire people and change their financial futures with the stroke of a pen. At Mattel she’s able to make an impact, whereas at home, she is ineffective. And nothing else makes her feel more worthless than that. Is it any wonder why she works as much as she does? At least she’s not emotionally vulnerable at work, not looking to her staff to love and accept her.