Chapter 3 What the Neighbors Think #2
had herself served during the war, Viv had a plainspoken quality that Margaret appreciated. “An ounce of pretension is worth
a pound of manure,” she often said. And who could argue with that? Next-door neighbors were kind of a lottery; you got who
you got. When it came to Viv, Margaret felt like she’d won the jackpot.
Viv was sitting in one of two crimson wingback chairs that flanked Barb’s fireplace, pinching a smoldering cigarette between
her fingers and balancing a plate of cookies on her knees. The second chair was vacant, but that was where Barb always sat.
Bitsy Cobb, so nicknamed because she’d been a petite child before an adolescent growth spurt shot her up to a willowy five feet nine, sat near the window in a velvet barrel chair that was too small for her frame.
Bitsy was the youngest and quietest member of the group, so Margaret knew her even less well than the others.
But it occurred to her that Bitsy always sat with limbs pulled in tight, as if she wanted to take up as little space as possible.
Margaret walked to the crimson-and-cream-plaid sofa.
Iris stubbed her Pall Mall out in the ashtray and shifted to make space for her.
“Are you comfortable?” Iris asked. “I can scooch down a little more.”
“I’m fine. Plenty of room.”
Barb handed Margaret a cup, then gestured toward a three-tiered tray of cookies on the coffee table, saying she should help
herself.
“Let’s get you caught up. Iris’s dining room table is backordered. Tom told Dorothy that he wants his mother to move in with
them. And Ellen’s baby still isn’t sleeping through the night.” Barb clucked sympathetically. “Seriously, Ellen, try feeding her some rice cereal at bedtime.
It worked on all three of mine.”
“I will,” Ellen said, yawning. “If the pediatrician doesn’t approve, then he can come over and do the three o’clock feeding.”
Barb carried her cup to the wingback chair and took a seat. “Viv volunteered to head up the cookie sale for Andrea’s Girl
Scout troop and says we all have to buy at least four boxes.”
“I’m not kidding,” Viv said, holding up a handful of forms when the women laughed. “Nobody leaves without placing an order.”
Margaret grinned and took a lemon bar from the tray. Viv leaned forward to tap cigarette ash into the ashtray and gave her
a wink.
“Your turn, Margaret.” Barb paused to take a sip of coffee. “Anything new?”
Half of Margaret’s brain was jumping up and down like a six-year-old with a secret, shouting, Yes, yes, yes! I wrote an essay for a contest! If I win, then thousands and thousands of people will read it! The older and wiser half of her held her tongue.
“Not really. I tried a new meat loaf recipe—you replace half the hamburger with ground lamb.” She shrugged. “Walt didn’t like
it.”
“Give it to me later, will you? Jim loves lamb.” Barb turned her eyes toward the chair near the window. “Bitsy? How was the tennis tournament? Did you make it to the finals?”
“Oh . . . um, I didn’t go after all.”
Barb tsked. “Don’t tell me: King decided that tennis is too much for you?”
Kingsley Cobb, nicknamed King and nineteen years Bitsy’s senior, was an equine veterinarian building clientele among Virginia’s
horsey set. Bitsy had met him in Lexington and married him only weeks after her father’s death. King, perhaps understandably
considering his age, was anxious to start a family. During a recent equestrian weekend in Loudoun County, he had forbidden
Bitsy to gallop, illogically afraid that it might keep her from conceiving.
“Bitsy,” Barb said in a flat, authoritative tone, “you’re young and healthy. A little tennis won’t stand in the way of your
getting pregnant. King should know that, being a medical man.”
Bitsy, looking adorable in a Mary Quant dress with big white daisies on a black background, fiddled with her hem. “No, I know.
I mean, he does. But that’s not—”
“Men. Always overthinking,” Viv interrupted, waving her cigarette in Bitsy’s direction. “You and King just need to buy a cheap
bottle of Chianti, put on some Sinatra, and let nature take its course. Works every time, whether you want it to or not. After
six kids, I should know.”
Ellen shook her head. “Not always, Viv. Stan and I tried for three years before Debbie came along. Honey and cinnamon,” she
said confidentially, leaning toward Bitsy. “Two tablespoons right before bed. That did the trick for us.”
“And don’t get up right away,” Iris advised. “Hold your knees to your chest for thirty minutes after. I read that somewhere,”
she said when Viv shot her a look. “Can’t hurt to try.”
Like Viv, Margaret thought Bitsy and King just needed to calm down, but she didn’t say so.
Instead, she turned her gaze toward the willowy figure in the too-small chair, who was twisting her napkin between her palms with the same motion one would use to wring a chicken’s neck.
Couldn’t everyone see how embarrassing this was for her?
Knowing it would end any discussion of Bitsy’s sex life, Margaret considered spilling the beans about the essay contest. But
then Bitsy blurted out an announcement of her own.
“I got a job!”
The awkward pause that followed Bitsy’s exclamation threatened to douse the spark of enthusiasm in her bourbon-brown eyes.
Margaret was first to break the silence.
“That’s great, Bitsy! Congratulations! What kind of job?”
Barb interrupted before Bitsy could answer.
“Why would you start working? Are things not going well with King’s practice?”
Bitsy seemed a little confused by the question. “No, it’s nothing like that. But since I don’t have anything to do during
the day, I might as well work.”
“Oh, well, that makes sense,” Dorothy said. “I had a part-time job as a bank teller after Brian and I married. Of course I
quit as soon as I got pregnant. But as long as you don’t have kids to chase after, no reason not to bring in some extra money.”
Iris bobbed her head. “I worked full-time at the phone company for a while. We wanted to get a little nest egg going before
we started a family. It was supposed to be two years. That was the plan. But you know how that goes,” she said, giggling. “Sarah made her appearance eighteen
months to the day after the wedding.”
“Where will you be working?” Ellen asked, lighting another cigarette. “Part- or full-time?”
“Part-time. At the Rock Creek Park stables. I’ll be grooming and feeding the horses, cleaning out stalls, and even doing a
little training.”
Barb’s frown was bewildered and disapproving. “You’re taking a job as a stable hand?”
“Yes,” Bitsy said. “The same work I did back in Kentucky when I was helping my dad. I’ve always been good with horses. In fact,” she said, lifting her chin and locking eyes with Barb, “sometimes I prefer them to people.”
Barb blushed. Margaret clamped her lips to keep from laughing. When Viv caught her gaze, she knew they were thinking the same
thing. Bitsy had a spine! Who knew?
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Barb said, recovering her composure. “I was just surprised, that’s all. What does King have
to say about all this?”
“He’s all for it.”
“Well, why wouldn’t he be?” Viv said, dunking a piece of shortbread into her coffee. “Bitsy will be rubbing elbows with some
of the richest folks in the area. If their horses need a vet, she’ll know just who to recommend, right?”
“Exactly,” Bitsy said.
“Smart plan,” Margaret said, smiling at Bitsy before changing the subject. “Barb, we haven’t heard from you yet. Anything
new? Did Jim get that new Florida route?”
Barb’s husband, Jim, was a pilot based out of the recently opened Dulles airport.
Barb sighed. “Still waiting. But I do have news. Someone moved into the new Oxford.”
There were only twelve models of homes in Concordia, all named after English villages—York, Rye, Exeter, and the like—so the
women knew exactly what house she meant. Oxfords were by far the largest available, even bigger than Barb’s Cambridge model.
“Odd that they’d move in the middle of the school year,” Ellen said, frowning. “Do they have kids? With that big place, I
suppose they must. Six bedrooms, isn’t it?”
“Well, if they don’t,” Viv said, lighting another cigarette, “I’d be glad to lend them a couple of my kids. Not a thing wrong
with any of them that being an only child wouldn’t cure. Will you invite her to join the coffee klatch?”
“Don’t think so,” Barb said primly. “I’ve heard things about her.”
“Such as?” Margaret asked.
“Such as she’s spent time in the loony bin. And I believe it, too, after seeing her.” Barb leaned in, scanning the eyes of
her rapt audience before going on. “When I drove past, she was standing in the driveway, directing the movers, wearing a full-length
mink coat. Mink! In the middle of the day!”
Barb’s eyes went wide.
“I mean, honestly! Did you ever?”
* * *
Less than two hours later, Margaret was trotting down the street holding a plate of warm cookies. What she’d meant to be snickerdoodles
had turned into sugar cookies because, in her excitement to meet the new neighbor, she’d left out the cream of tartar.
It had to be the same woman! How many daytime-mink-wearing women could there be in Concordia?
There had been a moment, while she slipped cookies from the baking sheet, when the words loony bin echoed in Margaret’s mind. She knew for a fact the woman was taking Miltown, so Barb could be right about her purportedly
shaky mental state. But she also might be passing on unfounded rumors. It wouldn’t have been the first time.
Besides, Margaret’s college psych professor had posited that nearly everyone suffered from some type of maladjustment, with
women especially being susceptible to all sorts of neuroses and nervous disorders. It wasn’t something people talked about,
but Margaret wouldn’t have been a bit surprised to find out that some of her friends took tranquilizers.
Like the woman had said, everybody was taking Miltown.
And why should wearing a fur during the day make someone a social pariah? Was it so terrible to be different, even eccentric?
In Margaret’s book, that was a plus. She was tired of stale conversations, the company of generic women who made her feel
like she had to swallow her opinions and camouflage her personality.
Turning the corner, Margaret saw a three-story house that looked almost baronial, with dark faux Tudor beams and mullioned windows.
She jogged up the sidewalk, smoothed a hand over her hair, and rang the bell.
After a long delay, the door opened to reveal a tall woman with a head of unsprayed red curls.
It was her.
The cigarette was still in her hand, but she was minus the fur, dressed in a black turtleneck that clung tightly to her large
breasts, and black cigarette pants that made her slim hips look even slimmer. The look was a little bohemian for Concordia
but not completely out of the ordinary. Since Breakfast at Tiffany’s had come to the big screen, more than a few women were taking their fashion cues from Audrey Hepburn—but there was more to
it than that.
Her whole outfit, and even her hair, was spattered with dozens of colors of paint, as if she’d been showered with confetti
like the grand marshal in a ticker-tape parade. Even her feet, which were bare, were splattered with blobs of blue, orange,
apricot, and ocher.
Margaret was more intrigued than ever. Was she an artist? Or had she decided to repaint the interior of every room in the
house, each in a different color?
“Yes?” the woman said, breaking the silence and Margaret’s wide-eyed stare.
“Oh . . . hi! I’m Margaret Ryan. I live down at the far end of Laurel, the white Stratford with the green shutters. I just
wanted to drop by and welcome you to the neighborhood.”
Margaret held out the plate. The woman stared at it for a few seconds, then looked Margaret up and down. She took a quick
puff of her cigarette before accepting the offering and setting the plate down on a nearby box.
“I’m Charlotte Gustafson.”
“Like the Bronte sister!” Margaret chirped, inexplicably delighted to know her name. “Welcome to Concordia, Charlotte. Do
you have children?”
Charlotte narrowed her eyes and put her cigarette to her lips. “Two girls and two boys.”
“Is that right? How old are—”
Charlotte blew out a column of smoke. “Thanks for the cookies. I’m sure the kids will love them. But if you’ll excuse me,
I’ve got boxes to unpack.”
“Oh, right. Of course. Moving is such a nightmare, isn’t it? Once you’re settled, I hope you’ll join our weekly—”
Margaret had been about to say “coffee klatch” but interrupted herself before the words got out. Charlotte Gustafson didn’t
seem like the coffee klatch sort.
“Our weekly . . . ?” Charlotte prompted, twirling her cigarette in the air.
Margaret chewed her lip.
“Book club!” she said at last. “I’ve decided to start a book club.”
“Have you now?”
Charlotte wrapped one arm across her body and propped her elbow up on her fist, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
“What’s the book?”
Margaret still set aside time to read, making it her goal to finish one new book every month. So this should have been an
easy question. But something in Charlotte’s tone made Margaret’s brain seize up for an agonizingly long moment. Finally, a
title popped into her head, and she blurted out the name of one of her all-time favorites.
“A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. It’s a wonderful book about a young girl coming of age in New York before the First World War. Have you read it?”
“Yes. Back in high school. Everybody read it in high school and loved it. But . . .” Charlotte shrugged. “That was a thousand years ago. What would be the point
of reading it again?”
“Oh. Well, I just thought it might be—”
Charlotte lifted her hand. “Listen, Margaret. That’s your name, right? Margaret? Listen, Margaret. It was nice of you to drop
by. But the thing is, I’ve never been much of a joiner, and I can’t see—”
She stopped short, gave Margaret a considering sort of look, and sniffed.
“Hang on a second, would you? I’ll be right back.”
She was gone more than a second and even more than a minute, leaving Margaret with ample time to stand awkwardly on the stoop,
shuffling her feet and feeling foolish. Finally, Charlotte returned carrying a book with a red cover that she thrust into
Margaret’s hands.
“The Feminine Mystique,” Margaret murmured, reading the title. “Is it good?”
“It is brilliant,” Charlotte declared. “Groundbreakingly, earth-shatteringly brilliant. At least so far. It was just released, so I’ve only read the first few chapters, but . . .” She waved her cigarette over
her head, wreathing her curls in a coronet of smoke. “If your little book club wants to read something important, something
like this, then okay. I might be interested.”
Charlotte took the book from Margaret’s hands and stepped back from the doorway.
“Otherwise, what’s the point?”