Chapter 12 Perfectly Normal
Perfectly Normal
“Here you go,” Charlotte chirped, handing Margaret a sugar-rimmed cocktail glass.
If Charlotte felt the least bit upset about their conversation, nothing in her demeanor gave her away. She was the same Charlotte
as always, breezy and bright, ready to laugh at anything, including herself.
When Viv tried to go into the kitchen to find a knife to cut the cake, Charlotte had thrown herself dramatically in front
of the doorway, blocking her entrance.
“No! You can’t! I’ll die of humiliation if you even think of going in there. It’s an absolute horror, Vivian! An utter disaster.
Everything was until about an hour ago. If Margaret hadn’t come over to help stash the debris, I’d have had to cancel the
meeting for fear that you and Bitsy would take one look at the house and call the health department.”
That was the funny thing about Charlotte; she was unabashed and surprisingly transparent, owning up to flaws that might have
made Margaret blush.
Well, to a point.
When Charlotte jumped up to get the door, Margaret knew she’d never get an answer to her question.
It was just as well. She didn’t want to cast a pall over the evening, and she shouldn’t have asked in the first place.
Charlotte’s glib reference to Ahlgren’s open marriage, as if such things were commonplace, took her so by surprise that the words simply popped out of her mouth.
But knowing Charlotte, that’s probably what she’d intended all along.
She loved shocking people and ribbing Margaret for being “sweet, earnest, and provincial.”
Anyway, it was over and done. Margaret accepted the drink.
“Cheers,” she said, taking a sip and then setting it down on the table. Like the vodka stingers from the first meeting, sidecars
were tasty but potent, and Margaret wanted to pace herself. Charlotte took the tray around, offering drinks to the others.
“No, thanks,” Viv said, pushing the glass away. “I still don’t like the idea of drinking when I’m pregnant.”
“I made yours a virgin,” Charlotte said. “It’s just apple cider, lemon juice, sugar, and bitters. But I have to say, you don’t
look pregnant. A little bloated maybe, but not pregnant.”
“Well, believe me, I am. I’ve started locking the bathroom door so Tony won’t see me getting dressed. But I’m pretty good
at camouflaging it, and since I was chubby to start with, he probably won’t notice for a few more weeks.” Viv sipped her drink.
“Ooh, this is good!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Charlotte said. “You’re not chubby. You’re zaftig.”
“What’s zaftig?” Bitsy asked.
“It means round, full-figured.”
“So . . . chubby,” Viv replied.
Charlotte shook her head. “No. It means sexy, succulent, sumptuous. It’s Yiddish.”
“Huh. Sounds like it ought to be Italian. Either way, I’ll take it. Sexy and succulent sounds good to me. And obviously,”
she said, glancing at her waistline, “it hasn’t hurt my love life. Tony loves a woman with a little meat on her bones.”
Bitsy took a long drink of her sidecar, then looked up to Viv as if she’d just remembered something. “Hey, how was the dentist?
Was it just a filling? Or did he end up pulling the tooth?”
“Ah, well . . . about that,” Viv said, then cleared her throat and set down her glass. “I have an announcement. In fact, I have two. First, against all odds, I finished The Feminine Mystique. It was a struggle, but I did it.”
She dipped her head, acknowledging the smattering of applause.
“Furthermore, I have taken its message to heart. Starting next week, I will be finding fulfillment both in and outside of the home. In short,” she said, sitting taller, “I got a job.”
The applause became louder as the Bettys voiced congratulations and questions. Where would Viv work? When would she start?
Full-time or part-time? Viv flattened her hands and pressed them down on empty air, laughing.
“One at a time, people. One at a time. I will work three days a week, from ten to three, as a clinical nurse for Dr. Francesca
Giordano. Her office is in DC.”
“Where in DC?” Margaret asked.
“Brookland, near Catholic University. It’s a hike, I know. And I never imagined I’d be working for a woman. But this doctor . . .”
Viv tilted to one side, a thoughtful expression coming over her face. “She’s something special, incredibly dedicated. Honestly,
I’m so excited about working with her that I’d probably do it for lunch and gas money.”
Charlotte rose from her green armchair to refill her drink.
“What did your husband say?”
“He was thrilled. But that’s my Tony. If I’m happy, he’s happy. The kids were happy too. Well, Nick just wanted to know if
my working meant we could buy a color TV. But do you know what? Andrea gave me a hug and said she was proud of me. She even
offered to get dinner started on the days I’m working. Isn’t that sweet?”
Everyone agreed that it was.
“Did you tell Tony about the baby yet?” Bitsy asked. “Does the doctor know?”
“Yes, and she’s fine with it. She has a family too. I’ll wait awhile before telling Tony and the kids. No point in muddying the water, right? If I break the news after I’m settled into the job, he’ll see it’s no big deal and that I’m managing everything just fine.”
Margaret doubted that Viv felt as comfortable about keeping Tony in the dark as her words indicated. But Bitsy, who normally
nursed her drinks until they turned lukewarm, nodded with apparent approval as she poured another sidecar. And Charlotte clenched
her cigarette between her teeth, freeing her hands to give a round of applause.
“Brava, Viv! Aunt Betty would be proud of you, of all of you! Everyone is now gainfully employed. The only dilettante left
in the group is me.”
“Oh, stop,” Margaret said, frowning. “Charlotte, you know that’s not true. You might not be getting paid, but that doesn’t
mean you’re not working. No one can question your dedication to your art, or your talent. I mean, just look at this,” she
said, gesturing toward a large, paint-spattered canvas on the opposite side of the room.
As Margaret was putting the paintings away, she realized that the biggest canvas was still wet. Rather than risk smearing
it, she’d carefully slid the easel off the carpet to a spot near the bookcase where everyone could admire it. Now she crossed
the room to stand in front of it.
“It’s wonderful!”
“It’s not,” Charlotte said, then tossed back the dregs of her drink.
Margaret turned around to face the others. “It is,” she said. “It’s vibrant and alive and full of energy. I realize that I
still don’t know much about modern art, but I know what I—”
“No, Margaret. You don’t know much about modern art. If you did, you’d realize that there is nothing vibrant, alive, or the
least bit original about this painting. It’s a bad imitation of Pollock, nothing more.”
There was a moment of shock, then awkward silence. Charlotte turned her head and pressed a fist against her mouth. The others looked at one another with wide eyes, not sure how to respond. Then Charlotte shook her head, turning back to Margaret.
“I’m sorry. That was inexcusably rude. It’s just that . . . I want to be so, so good,” she said, wincing and squeezing her eyes shut. “And I’m afraid I never will be.”
Margaret’s heart ached with a pang of recognition. She understood exactly what Charlotte meant.
Margaret’s first column would be published in the next issue. She’d turned in her second column, about the faux from-scratch
cake, and was working on the third. She’d lost count of the hours she’d invested in it and the number of drafts she’d gone
through. Even so, after reading the pages that afternoon, she had decided they were rubbish and started over. Again.
It was a magazine column, not literature. But she desperately wanted it to be a good magazine column. Leonard Clement had made himself clear; her job was to write words that made women smile. She had no objection
to that.
If she could help other women smile or laugh, let them know they weren’t the only ones who got it wrong or cut corners, who
used cake mix from a box, who secretly wolfed down candy bars in the closet, who forgot to pick her son up from Little League
practice, who loathed defrosting freezers and waxing floors and engaging with her in-laws, who felt like screaming as she
faced five o’clock and her ten thousandth frozen chicken . . .
Well, that wasn’t nothing.
Because if Margaret had learned anything in the last few months, it was that most women were desperately in need of a laugh.
But, if at all possible, she also wanted to write columns that made them pause or think or even change. She wanted it more
than anything.
Nothing she’d written so far even came close. Would it ever?
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” Margaret said, walking back to the sofa and taking a seat near Charlotte. “For what
it’s worth, I wasn’t just trying to be nice. I really do think it’s wonderful.”
“Thank you. Now, can we please talk about something else?” Charlotte laughed, then smiled just as brightly as before. Margaret was struck by how genuine that smile was, as if she’d somehow tripped a wire into a completely different frame of mind and mood. Was it real? It looked real.
“How’s the writing going? And when will we finally get to see your name in print?”
“Any day now.”
“Well, I cannot wait to read it,” Bitsy said, her drawl a little more pronounced than usual. “We’ll all be able to say we
knew you when.” Bitsy took another slurp from her glass, then leaned toward the table and picked up a bowl filled with lumpy,
dirt-brown spheres. “Anybody want to try a pinto bean mushroom ball? They taste better than they look.”
Margaret doubted that but put one on her plate anyway, just to be polite. Apparently Bitsy was serious about becoming a vegetarian.
She’d been very excited when Margaret passed on Helen’s recipe book.
Charlotte declined, saying she was still feeling a little full from the cake, then reached past Viv’s crudités and onion soup