Chapter 6 A Woman’s Place
A Woman’s Place
For the first few miles of the journey from Washington to New York, the Pennsylvania Railroad Legislator snaked through squalid
swaths of urbanity, past warehouses with rusty roofs and dirt-filmed windows, and sooty brick row houses with listing back
porches overlooking stingy yards that sprouted little but weeds, rocks, and corroded oil drums.
Charlotte, who had taken the seat opposite Margaret, was in a buoyant mood, animated and talkative. But when human habitation
gave way to farms and fields and the train picked up speed, she popped a pill from the small brown bottle she carried in her
purse, draped her mink coat over her body, and fell asleep.
The stylish ensemble Charlotte wore under her fur, a purple Dior day dress with chocolate-brown buttons, a silk taffeta bow,
and kid gloves of the same shade, had caused Margaret some consternation. Though Margaret was wearing her best, a green bouclé
knit suit with a pencil skirt, asymmetrical collar, and oversized buttons aligned on the left side, she felt like a country
cousin by comparison. If everybody in New York dressed like Charlotte . . .
Staring sightlessly out the grimy train window, Margaret reminded herself that she was going to a business meeting, not a society luncheon, and that looking capable was more important than looking stylish. Besides, the lack of a designer wardrobe was the least of her worries.
When Mr. Clement said he was calling with a job offer, Margaret’s heart leapt with the kind of joy that marked life’s pinnacle
moments—finding her name on the college honor roll, seeing Walt pull an engagement ring with a twinkling chip of a diamond
from his pocket, learning she was pregnant with Beth, getting the keys to the house, driving home from the stationery store
with a rented typewriter stowed in the trunk.
But Margaret had lived long enough to know that pinnacle moments are exactly that: pulses of joy that usually don’t last and
are frequently accompanied by unforeseen complications. Leonard Clement’s call was no exception.
Still, things could be worse. At least the kids were all right with it.
After Margaret explained that dinner would be ready at six like always, that she’d continue to drive Bobby to scouts, Suzy
to ballet, and Beth to confirmation classes, and that she’d write her columns at home while they were at school, the children
had taken the idea of her working in stride. Beth seemed genuinely impressed.
“You’ll be a girl reporter like Brenda Starr,” she said, referring to the heroine of her favorite cartoon.
“Not quite. It’s a funny, slice-of-life column for housewives, not actual news.”
“But they’re paying you actual money, right?”
“Twenty-five dollars an issue. Assuming they like my work,” Margaret added, giving herself an out.
“They will,” Beth said with a forgone-conclusion confidence that Margaret wished she shared. “Hey, when they pay you, can
I get a new bike?”
“Let’s not count our chickens just yet, okay?”
During the call with Mr. Clement, Margaret learned that her essay had been a top pick among the panelists charged with choosing the winner but was eliminated due to its topic.
The winning essays would be published in the Easter issue, and a Christmas-themed story didn’t fit.
However, someone higher up on the editorial food chain loved Margaret’s piece and had ordered Mr. Clement to hire her as a columnist. As he’d said, it wasn’t his idea.
“I don’t care if it is only a women’s magazine. Writing should be done by writers.”
Winning Clement over wasn’t going to be easy. That’s why Charlotte had urged Margaret to make this quick trip to New York
and the magazine’s offices.
“It’s a lot harder to dismiss someone once you’ve met them face-to-face,” Charlotte advised her the next day, when she’d invited
the Bettys over to see her paintings. The oversized abstract canvases were bursting with color and chaos, a description that
could just as easily have been applied to her house. The cavernous rooms were cluttered with books, projects abandoned midstream,
and scores of cardboard boxes that, a month after the Gustafsons’ move to Concordia, had yet to be unpacked.
“I mean, just look at us,” Charlotte said, smirking as she dug mismatched coffee cups from a box. “I assumed you three would
be as thick as gravy and as provincial as my mother’s bridge club. But after meeting you in person, it seems possible that
I might end up liking you. Who’d have guessed?”
“Well, the jury’s still out on you,” Viv said, giving Charlotte a wink, then turning to Margaret. “But she has a point. And why would you pass up a trip to
New York? I can pick your crew up after school and watch them until Walt gets home from work, if that’s what you’re worried
about.”
“And I’ll come over and help babysit just as soon as I get home from the stables,” Bitsy offered. “King’s working late these
days. He won’t mind.”
“See?” Charlotte said. “Everything’s covered. Leave your husband a bowl of kibble or a meat loaf or something, and you’ll
barely be missed.”
Margaret thrust her hands in front of her, as if to push away their proposal. “This is crazy. I can’t just show up at the
man’s office unannounced.”
“Why not?” Charlotte asked. “Bring him a plate of cookies. It worked on me.”
Margaret shot her a look and Charlotte smiled.
“I’m kidding! You can’t just waltz in without an appointment. Call ahead, tell him you’ll be in the city and want to drop
by for fifteen minutes to get his guidance about the column.”
“Oh, he’d never go for that.” Margaret bit her bottom lip. “Would he?”
“Trust me, he’ll eat it up with a spoon. Men love nothing as much as explaining stuff to women.” Charlotte tapped her cigarette
on a nearby ashtray. “And since it’s your first trip to New York, I’ll come along to chaperone. Show you Grant’s Tomb, flag
down taxis, that sort of thing. I’ll even pick you up and drive you to the train station. How’s that sound?”
“Like an awful lot of trouble just for one day,” Margaret said. “There won’t be time to see Grant’s Tomb or anything else.
I’d have to go right back on the afternoon train. And what would you do while I’m in my meeting?”
“Oh, I’ll keep myself occupied—drop in on my parents, see old friends, maybe pop into Bergdorf’s and wreak my revenge on Howard
for making me move. Don’t worry about me. You just focus on marching into that office and making Leonard Clement fall in love
with you.”
Margaret laughed. “Oh, is that all?”
Just getting him to tolerate her would be a tall order, forget about falling in love. And Clement wasn’t the only one who
was less than thrilled about Margaret’s new job.
“I don't understand,” she said the night after Mr. Clement called, as Margaret and Walt were getting ready for bed. “You’re
the one who’s always saying we should be saving more, complaining about our spending—”
“It’s not complaining,” he interrupted. “I’m simply stating fact. We spend every dime I earn, sometimes more.”
“That’s why I thought you’d be happy that I’ll be bringing in a little money!”
“Little is the word, all right.” Walt spit toothpaste into the sink. “How long did it take you to write the first story? The one
they aren’t publishing and aren’t paying you for?”
“About a week,” Margaret said, drastically deflating the timeline.
“An entire week? To write one essay?”
Margaret picked up her hairbrush. “Probably less. It’s hard to say for sure.”
“Okay, so do the math. Minimum wage is a buck and a quarter. If it takes you forty hours to write a column, you’d be better
off waiting tables. You’ll spend half your paycheck on train tickets and taxis in New York, plus another seven bucks a month
to rent a typewriter. At that rate, you’re practically paying them, not the other way around.”
Margaret raked the brush through her hair, wishing she’d waited for a paycheck before telling Walt about Sylvia.
“I’m sure I’ll get faster once I get into the swing of things,” she said, working to maintain a tone that was, if not pleasant,
at least neutral. After the blowup about the cake, she’d made up her mind. No more squabbles or taking the bait. But Walt
wasn’t making it easy.
“And Sylvia—I mean, the typewriter—will be mine in another year and a half. Think how handy it will be once the kids are older
and need to write term papers and such. And I’ll only be going to New York the one time, to meet my editor and hopefully get
on his good side.”
She ran the brush through her now-shining hair one last time. Then she turned toward him, smiled, and rested a hand lightly
on his forearm, hoping to get on Walt’s good side as well.
“Honey, I realize it’s a drop in the bucket compared to what you bring in. But every little bit helps, doesn’t it? And who
knows? Maybe it’ll lead to something bigger down the road, a full-time job with a real salary.”
Walt lowered his arm so that Margaret’s hand slid off.
“You have a full-time job taking care of the house, the kids, and me. If you insist on doing this writing thing . . .” He shrugged.
“As long as the kids don’t suffer, I won’t stand in your way.
You can keep your pin money too. I don’t need it.
Save it for the new furniture you’re always going on about.
Just remember it’s a hobby, Margaret, not a job. That’s all it will ever be.”
Insult flared in her like a lit match, threatening to singe her resolutions of peacekeeping. Before she could react, Walt
took a step back, looking into her eyes with an expression that was tired, resigned.
“I’m sorry. That didn’t come out how I meant it. I just can’t stand to see you getting hurt, is all. Setting your heart on
things that can never happen.”
Walt was one of those men who tended to signal his regret through his actions—complimenting Margaret’s outfit or hair to let
her know he was sorry, doing chores he’d normally avoid rather than voicing an actual apology. So the fact that he apologized