Chapter 17 Simple Requests #2
small town would be better for Mom’s nerves and because Howard is opening the DC office, but that’s an excuse. He spends most
of his time in New York. If these were medieval times, he’d have shipped her off to a nunnery or locked her up in a tower.
If he was king, maybe he’d just chop off her head. Thankfully, the world is somewhat more civilized now. But not much.”
For all the angst that existed between them, Denise was clearly Charlotte’s champion. That was wonderful. But teenage girls
aren’t always the best judges of what is really going on in the adult world, and Margaret was having a hard time accepting
Denise’s accusations at face value.
“I know you’re angry. But is it possible that Howard really was trying to act in your mom’s best interests? I mean, why would
he do that?” Margaret asked, turning out her hands.
Denise put down her fork and coughed out a sarcastic laugh. “Why do you think? Because he wanted to get her out of the way.
Because he’s got a girlfriend in New York. And in Vermont. And another in Connecticut, for all I know. He’s got a lot of girlfriends.
Always has.”
This time Margaret had no problem believing the girl. It made such sense and explained so much. Poor Charlotte.
“Does she know?”
“Sure. But there’s knowing and there’s knowing. I guess looking away makes it sting a little less. I do think Mom tried to make it work, at least early on. But he’s despised
her for years, and by now the feeling is mutual.” Denise turned her fork backward and smashed the cake with the tines. “He’s
a bastard.”
Though she understood the impulse, Margaret chided the girl gently, saying she shouldn’t talk that way.
“You’re right,” Denise said. “I shouldn’t. Anyway, he’s not the bastard. I am.” When Margaret frowned, Denise’s eyebrows arched
with surprise. “Wow. She hasn’t told you much, has she?”
“About?”
“About why she married Howard? About me?”
“Charlotte told me they met on a blind date and married two weeks later, but nothing else.”
Denise’s lips twisted into a cynical smile. “Technically, that’s true. But there’s more to it. I assume she’s told you about
what a hell-raiser she was as a girl, right?”
Margaret nodded.
“All evidence to the contrary, I don’t think Mom is quite as unconventional as she claims. I’m convinced that a lot of her
behavior was an attempt to get the attention of my grandfather, who never forgave her for not being a boy. Whatever the reason,
she took up with a country club caddy when she was twenty-one and ended up pregnant.
“After she refused to ‘take care of the problem,’” Denise said, making air quotes with her fingers, “the problem being me,
Grandfather got involved. He reached down into the firm, found an ambitious and unscrupulous but socially acceptable lower-level
manager, Howard Gustafson, who was willing to marry his pregnant daughter and keep the secret in exchange for a promotion
to director with the promise of more to come. An elopement was arranged, an announcement was placed in the Times, face was saved, and the problem was solved.”
Denise squashed more crumbs.
“As far as Grandfather was concerned, things couldn’t have turned out better. Though he ignores Mom, he’s crazy about Howard, says he’s the son he never had, a chip off the old block.” She shrugged. “Makes sense. Grandfather has always had a lot going on the side too.”
Margaret sat there for a moment, trying to absorb all she’d heard. It seemed unbelievable, and yet she did believe it. No
girl Denise’s age could make up a story like that, especially about herself.
“Denise, I’m so sorry.”
Denise stared at the plate of crumbs. “Not your fault.”
“Or yours,” Margaret said. “I’m still sorry. But there’s something I don’t understand. Your mother is obviously unhappy. From
what you say, your father—” Denise gave her a pointed look, and Margaret amended her statement. “Sorry. I mean, Howard is
too. Why don’t they just get a divorce?”
Denise laughed. “Money, of course! Howard won’t ask for a divorce because he’s afraid that if he did, my grandfather might
oust him from the company and the will. Mom will never seek a divorce because she’s afraid she’d be on the outs but that Howard
would keep his job and everything that goes with it, that my grandfather would choose him over her—again.”
“Over his own daughter? Would he really do that?”
Denise lowered her chin and looked directly into Margaret’s eyes.
“In a heartbeat. You don’t know these people like I do, Mrs. Ryan. When I was informed that the family was moving to Concordia,
my grandparents said I could stay in New York and live with them to finish out my senior year. I said no for two reasons.
First, because people who live with barracudas get devoured eventually. Second, somebody needed to look out for Mom. Nobody
else was going to do it.
“But I can’t stay here, Mrs. Ryan. I’ve got to get away and start living my life.
If I don’t . . .” Denise lifted her eyes to the ceiling, blinking.
Margaret stayed silent until she collected herself.
“When you and the other Bettys left last night, I came back downstairs and borrowed Mom’s copy of the book. I stayed up all night finishing it.”
Margaret’s eyes went wide. “What? Are you saying you read The Feminine Mystique in just one night? And that you haven’t been to bed at all?”
Denise shrugged off Margaret’s questions. “I told you, once I get interested in something, it’s hard to stop. And now I see
why Mom got so excited about it. Since the day she was born, her family, teachers, psychiatrists, the magazines she reads,
and the whole of society have been sending the message that something is wrong with her, that the things making her unique—intelligence,
stubbornness, creativity, and drive—are really neuroses that make her sick and unfeminine, even unlovable. The book made me
realize we have more in common than I thought, because I’ve been getting those same messages all my life too. Sometimes Mom
has been the messenger. She doesn’t see that, but it’s true.”
Margaret sighed to herself. She wished she could tell Denise she was wrong. But those comments about the girl’s disinterest
in clothes or making friends, calling her an odd duck . . . Why did Charlotte do that?
“It doesn’t make sense,” Denise said. “But in a twisted way, she does it because she loves me. That feeling of always being
wrong and never fitting in has caused her nothing but pain. She’d like to spare me that, even as she rails against it. Look,
I’d love to be normal too, if I could. Who wouldn’t? But it’s no use. I’m just as much of an oddball as she is.”
The flicker of Denise’s smile sputtered, replaced by a worried frown.
“Did you read Friedan’s interviews with those college girls who said they didn’t want to talk about ideas or abstract things,
only boys? And how girls who were too enthusiastic about their studies were considered peculiar and unfeminine? What about
the girl who loved bacteriology but switched her major to home economics just to fit in?”
Denise set her jaw. “I felt like giving her a good slap! But at the same time, I got it. Everybody wants to fit in, don’t they?
That’s why I have to get away,” she said, a pleading edge coming into her voice.
“Because if I end up at a school with those kinds of girls, the same thing could happen to me.”
“But what makes you think things will be different there?” Margaret asked. “There must be vapid girls in England too. They
can’t all be scholars.”
“Not all. But Dorothy Sayers went to Oxford. So did Vera Brittain and Elizabeth Anscombe. She’s a philosopher,” Denise said,
responding to Margaret’s blank look. “So there must be a few, don’t you think?”
Denise’s expression was so hopeful. Margaret felt like kissing her on the forehead.
“Yes. I’m sure you’re right.”
“I know it’s so far away, but I can’t stay here with my finger stuck in the dike forever. That’s the real reason I wanted
to talk to you, Mrs. Ryan.” Denise tensed her body and clutched the edge of the table, leaning in to make her request.
“When I go, will you keep an eye out for Mom? Be her friend? Make sure she’s okay?”
In a simple world, Margaret’s answer should have been a straightforward, resounding yes. Had Denise asked anyone else, it
probably would have been. But Denise couldn’t appreciate the magnitude of her request—couldn’t fathom the reality that no
one can ever guarantee the welfare of another.
She didn’t know what she was asking Margaret to do. She couldn’t possibly. But . . . Charlotte was her friend. And Denise
deserved her chance. Margaret took in a breath, let it out slowly.
“I’ll try,” she said at last. “I’ll do my best.”
Denise’s smile of relief seemed to spread through her whole body.
“Thank you, Mrs. Ryan! You don’t know what this means to me, really. Thank you so much. And I promise I’ll—”
Margaret interrupted, saying it was nothing and that no thanks were necessary. But she was interrupted by the ringing telephone. Bitsy was calling. Her voice sounded strange.
“Margaret, do you have a sewing machine?”
“Not anymore. I gave it to Walt’s sister when we moved. But I think Viv does.”
“Can you call her and ask if I can borrow it? Also, would you be able to go to my house later and feed the pets? I won’t be
coming home tonight, and King isn’t answering his messages. There’s a key under the flowerpot.”
Margaret frowned, shifting the phone to her other ear.
“Of course, but . . . what’s going on? And where are you?”