Chapter 2 Consequential Christmas #3
for a copy of the Atlantic Monthly. For a moment, Margaret considered plucking the same issue from the rack and sparking a conversation. But Margaret got the
feeling this wasn’t the sort of woman who was in the habit of chatting with strangers.
She chose a copy of the Saturday Evening Post instead, flipping past ads for Longines watches (The World’s Most Honored!), the Famous Artists School (boasting a faculty
who “DREW Their Way from Rags to Riches”), and a purportedly in-depth study of the American woman. Margaret started reading
a profile of Eleanor Courter, a housewife who, in many ways, could have been her doppelg?nger.
Eleanor was thirty-four to Margaret’s thirty-three, and also had three children.
Eleanor, too, lived in a middle-class suburb near Washington, DC, but Maryland instead of Virginia.
They shared similar attitudes toward religion; Eleanor said faith was important to her, and Margaret felt the same.
Walt slept in on Sundays, but Margaret and the children went to church every week.
Eleanor Courter was blond and Margaret brunette, but both had athletic, slightly boyish figures, blue eyes, and snub noses sprinkled with freckles.
That was where the similarities ended.
Eleanor was happy and fulfilled, satisfied with days spent cleaning, cooking, and driving kids to scouts, declaring herself
to feel useful and “proud of her role.” According to the Saturday Evening Post, she wasn’t alone. In a survey of eighteen hundred married women, thirty-nine percent reported themselves as being “fairly
happy” in their marriages. Fifty-seven percent said they were “extremely happy.” Adding up the figures and realizing she was
part of a very small minority, Margaret felt a hole open up inside her.
What was wrong with her?
There had to be something, didn’t there? Some flaw in her character, biology, or background? If ninety-six percent of women
in the survey were contented and fulfilled and normal, it could only mean she was—
Feeling a catch in her throat, Margaret blinked quickly and reshelved the magazine, then grabbed the one next to it, which
happened to be A Woman’s Place. The copy Walt brought home from the dentist’s office was months out of date. This latest issue sported a glossy photo of
Mrs. Rose Kennedy, the president’s mother, wearing pearls and a beatific smile. Margaret had to admit it looked like an interesting
magazine. But until she started reading, she never could have guessed how interesting.
Between a recipe for hula chicken and the interview with Mrs. Kennedy, Margaret saw an announcement for an essay contest with
a top prize of one hundred dollars.
One hundred dollars? Just for writing an essay?
Though she’d barely picked up a pen in years, Margaret had done quite a lot of writing in college.
More than one of her professors had complimented her work, said she had talent.
A hundred-dollar prize would attract countless entries, but the third-place prize—a pair of brass lamps that were just as nice, if not nicer, than the set she’d been saving her stamps for .
. . That might be possible, mightn’t it?
“Don’t you think it might be a mistake, getting yourself worked up like this?”
Just as Margaret was about to agree, the echo of Walt’s voice in her mind was interrupted by another voice, very sharp and
very real, a voice that eschewed caution and authority.
“What do you mean? I’ve been taking it for years.”
Margaret looked up, surprised to find herself at the front of the line. The woman in the mink was standing at the counter,
impatiently puffing a cigarette and talking to Mr. Mayer in a New York accent that sounded more uptown than down.
The druggist pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Yes, but perhaps you shouldn’t. There’s been concern about addiction.
Some studies suggest that meprobamate—”
“Oh, please.” The woman puffed, tilting her chin and blowing smoke upward. “Are you trying to impress me with your mastery
of pseudo-Latin names made up by drug marketing teams? Miltown,” she said flatly. “Call it Miltown. Everybody else does. Everybody
else takes it, too—Lauren Bacall, Milton Berle, Lucille Ball for heaven’s sake! If there was something wrong with it, you think they’d let Lucy take it? People love Lucy! They made a
whole damn show about it. Everybody loves Lucy!
“Well, everybody but me—I thought her character was an idiot,” the woman said, puffing and tilting and blowing again. “But
that’s beside the point. My doctor, Alvin Gould, prescribes Miltown all the time. He has an office on Fifth Avenue, a medical degree from Columbia, and
privileges at New York Presbyterian. That’s the man who wrote my prescription. Now. Are you going to fill it or not?”
Pushing the magnificent mink aside, the woman planted a fist on one hip and an elbow on the other, with her arm bent at an angle and her cigarette clamped firmly between her fingers, striking a pose that said she was willing to stand there for as long as it took.
The beleaguered druggist glanced toward the line, which was getting longer, then shoved a white paper bag across the counter.
The woman tossed a few crumpled bills onto the counter and pivoted toward the door, clutching the paper sack in her hand.
“Keep the change.”
Margaret’s eyes followed as the woman flounced down the aisle, the scent of cigarette smoke and Chanel No. 5 hanging in the
air as she passed. Approaching the exit, she stuck her arm straight in front of her, flattened her hand, and gave the door
a mighty shove, as if intent on leaving a palm print on the glass to mark her departure.
“Mrs. Ryan? Mrs. Ryan, can I help you?”
“Hmm? Oh, sorry.” Margaret stepped forward. “Bobby woke up with an ear infection. Dr. Babcock said he’d call in the prescription?”
“Yes, yes, I remember. Just give me a minute to find it.”
While the harried druggist searched the shelves, Margaret turned toward the front of the store and the door the woman had
disappeared through. A sunbeam shone through the glass, illuminating a faint but visible handprint. Though they hadn’t exchanged
a word, Margaret was certain she wasn’t part of the ninety-six percent either. But there was something admirable in the way
she refused to be cowed, how she stood her ground till she got what she wanted. What must it feel like to be like that, a
woman who wasn’t afraid to make demands or stir up trouble? Margaret found it hard to imagine herself doing something similar,
but in the fleeting moment when she did imagine it, her pulse picked up and her skin tingled.
Mr. Mayer returned with the pills. Margaret fished money from her purse to pay for the prescription. The druggist nodded toward
the magazine she’d abandoned on the counter.
“Are you taking that too?”
* * *
Fat, wet snowflakes were falling, drifting to the bare pavement and melting, or landing on the slushy piles shopkeepers had
shoveled earlier. With the folded copy of A Woman’s Place peeking from her purse, Margaret hurried through the town center, trotting past shops still decked out in holiday finery,
while thinking about the woman in the drugstore. Though it would have been a shame to interrupt such a triumphant exit, she
wished she’d stopped her as she swept past, asked her name, and confessed that she’d never loved Lucy either.
The wind picked up. Margaret shivered and clutched her coat closer around her body. An icy gust whistled down the alley. Margaret
whipped her head to the left to avoid the blast. That’s when she noticed the typewriter in the shop window and a placard shouting,
“Sale!”
“What is it?” Margaret asked the salesman. “I’ve never seen a typewriter like it.”
He grinned, rubbing his hands together. “That is an IBM Selectric, best electric typewriter on the market. It has a type ball instead of individual keys, which you can
easily change out if you want a different font.” He went on a little longer, explaining the machine’s many advantages. Margaret
was less interested in the details than one crucial question.
“How much?”
“Regular price is $350, but the sale price is $299.”
That was more than their mortgage payment.
“Oh. I see. Thank you.”
Margaret buttoned up her coat, hearing Walt’s voice chiding her for getting herself worked up, yet again, over things that
were unattainable. But as she approached the door, the image of the fur-clad woman who wouldn’t take no for an answer popped
into Margaret’s mind. Margaret turned around.
“I don’t suppose you have any other models on sale? Something more affordable?”
The salesman nodded. “Everybody wants electric now, so we’re phasing out some of the manual models. I can sell you a nice portable Royal for $140. That includes the case.”
“Oh well. Thank you anyway.”
“You can rent by the month, you know. And after two years, it’s yours to keep.”
“How much?”
“Eight dollars a month.”
Margaret’s purse held seventeen dollars and change, earmarked for groceries and household expenses. It had to last until Walt
replenished her allowance. Was it right to feed her family tuna casserole for the next week just to rent a typewriter and
peck out an essay that would probably end up unread on a pile of entries from hundreds of other hopeful housewives? What would
Walt say if he found out?
Of course, if he never did . . .
“Can I take it home today?”
The salesman beamed. “I’ll carry it to your car.”