Chapter 25 Not Paid to Think
Not Paid to Think
Nothing had really changed in the weeks since Walt had returned from his father’s funeral, at least not in practical terms.
Margaret was still taking care of the kids and the house, getting up oh-so-early to squeeze in time for her writing. She read
her book club picks before bed or in the car as she waited to pick Bobby up from Little League practice or the girls from
swim lessons, feeling as if there was never as much time for any of it as she’d have wished. Walt was busy too, even more
than before.
Although Walt was using his vacation time, his boss, Mr. Ackerman, had made it clear that he wasn’t happy that Walt had gone
to Ohio and was going back again to help his mom. Walt was getting up with Margaret and heading to the office earlier than
ever to compensate, hoping to get back on Ackerman’s good side. Walt and Edwin still met at the VFW to talk books every other
Thursday evening—two more men had joined their book club—and now Walt was going to the bookstore on Saturday mornings to help
Edwin with his bookkeeping. “Edwin’s ledgers are as boring as anybody else’s, but he pays better,” Walt told her one Saturday,
grinning and holding up a copy of Ice Station Zebra by Alistair MacLean.
So, yes, on the face of it, not much had changed. But the Walt who had dashed off to his father’s deathbed was different from the Walt who’d returned from it.
He was drinking less but talking more, asking Margaret about her day when he got home, then telling her about his or sometimes
sharing a highlight from the book he was reading. There was never any earth-shattering news to relate, but it was nice just
to be talking again. The kids benefited from Walt’s new leaf as well. Now, instead of plopping down in front of the TV when
he came home from work, he often took them to the park or joined in a game of Go Fish. When Walt did watch television, he
and Margaret watched together, sitting on the sofa after the kids were asleep, tuning in to Bonanza or The Dick Van Dyke Show, with his arm draped over her shoulders.
And when they went upstairs to bed and turned out the lights . . . That was nice too.
This week, however, Walt was back in Ohio, trying to help Bernice deal with probate, paperwork, home maintenance, and everything
else. Walt had phoned Margaret the day before, speaking more frankly than usual because Bernice was at the beauty parlor.
“It’s ridiculous, Maggie. Mom isn’t stupid, but Dad kept her in the dark about so many things. She never knew how much money
he made or how much they owed, or what bills were due and when. She didn’t even know how to write a check until I showed her
how to do it! Dad made so much noise about protecting her, but he’s left her completely vulnerable. Did it never cross his
mind that she might outlive him? Or she might have to take care of herself someday?”
“Poor Bernice,” Margaret murmured, shifting the telephone receiver to her other ear. “She must feel so frightened about the
future.”
“Yes, and she’s right to be,” Walt said, sounding disgusted.
“She’ll get about seventy dollars a month from Social Security, and there’s a little life insurance too, but they’ve still got a mortgage.
If Mom could get a job, it might be enough.
But she doesn’t have any real skills, and every time I bring it up, she starts to cry.
” He sighed. “She’s going to have to sell the house. ”
“Oh, Walt,” Margaret said, feeling a pang for her mother-in-law. “Are you sure?”
“I just can’t see another way,” he said, sighing again. “I’ll tell you something, Maggie. I know I wasn’t too thrilled when
you started working for the magazine—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Ryan, are you referring to my ‘jobette’?”
Walt chuckled, taking her teasing with good grace.
“Okay, okay. I deserved that. But seriously, this situation with Mom has opened my eyes to a lot of things. Even if it’s only
part-time, you’re getting some real work experience. I hope you never have to work full-time unless you want to. But it makes
me feel better to know you could take care of yourself if the worst did happen.
“You’re smart,” he said. “And capable. I guess what I’m trying to say is . . . I’m proud of you, honey.”
Margaret thought it might be one of the nicest things he’d ever said to her. However, on this hot July day and with Walt still
out of town, she wasn’t feeling very capable. She’d come down to make breakfast and found a puddle of water on the kitchen
floor. The freezer had gone on the fritz, and everything inside was defrosting.
This had happened once before. Walt had done something to fix it, but Margaret didn’t know what to do, and the repairman couldn’t
come until Friday. She let the kids have chocolate ice cream for breakfast—they were thrilled—tossed a worryingly soft package
of bacon into the trash can, made soup from once-frozen packages of peas and carrots and a pound of hamburger, and put two
more pounds plus a box of fish sticks into the refrigerator to be cooked in the next couple of days. Later that day, when
she drove the kids to the pool, the car made a funny rattling noise she’d never heard before. Or had she? Either way, she
found herself mentally rehearsing what she should do if the station wagon suddenly broke down.
Thankfully, nothing of the kind had happened, because the thought of being stranded on the side of the road with three cranky kids on a hot, humid summer day in Virginia was almost too terrible to contemplate.
They’d been bickering and picking on one another all week, and Margaret had finally run out of patience.
When threats of docked allowances and the consequences that might ensue when Walt came home had no effect on their behavior, she sent all three to their rooms.
She could still hear them, even from the kitchen. Bobby was up there playing with his plastic popgun, which emitted an irritating
pop-click every time he fired a round. Beth and Suzy, who shared a room, were arguing over troll dolls. No matter that they had a whole
set of the ugly little things, both of them wanted to be the bride. As long as no blood was drawn, Margaret planned to stay
out of it. She was tired of playing referee.
Margaret had just poured herself a glass of iced tea when the phone rang. Leonard Clement was calling to discuss the column
she’d just sent in—the piece she’d written after realizing that Walt felt as hemmed in by societal mores and boundaries as
she did.
She’d worked hard to keep the tone light, using winking references to Sadie Hawkins Day—an invented holiday made famous in
the Li’l Abner comic strip, in which women were permitted to turn the tables and do the proposing—as the linchpin of the piece. Though she
knew her between-the-lines comments about masculine and feminine roles wouldn’t go unnoticed by her editor, she hoped tongue-in-cheek
humor might win him over.
Mr. Clement was not amused. Not even a little.
“I don’t care how many pictures they published of you or how great an angle it was to hire a housewife. Send in one more piece
like that, and I will fire your ass! You got that?”
“Yes, all right, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. But with all the changes going on in the world, I just thought—”
“Lady, you’re not paid to think! You’re paid to write. And to write what I tell you to write! Obviously, Mrs. Ryan, you think
you have something to say. You’re wrong! And even if you weren’t, nobody wants to hear it. So either get with the program, or I’ll find somebody who will. Am I making myself clear?”
After another apology and more groveling, Margaret hung up the phone. She felt drained, like a wet dishcloth that had been
wrung out. Margaret couldn’t remember the last time someone had talked to her like that. Nor could she believe how close she
had come to getting fired. The truth of it shook her.
Nothing drastic would have happened if Clement had fired her, not in the grand scheme of things. Yes, she liked getting a
paycheck, but the loss of it wouldn’t cause the family to go hungry or end up on the street. The real payday of writing was
less tangible but somehow more meaningful—a sense of pride in an accomplishment that was hers alone.
A memory swam into her mind. What year had it been . . . 1946? Possibly ’47? She wasn’t sure, but not too long after the end
of the war.
For years, Margaret and her mother had prayed for the day when the war would end, Dad would come home, and life would go back
to normal. During that memorable, belated Christmas, it seemed their prayers had all been answered. But it hadn’t taken long
for things to begin fraying around the edges.
Margaret remembered standing at the top of the stairs, hesitant to come down because her parents were arguing—again. She sank
down onto the top step, wrapping her arms around her knees, holding herself tight, feeling anxious and unsettled when her
father began shouting.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Ruth? The war is over, the country is getting back to normal, we’re healthy, rationing is
finally over . . . I’m making good money at the factory, and you just got a new washing machine. So why can’t you be happy?
Why is it, no matter what I do or how hard I work, it’s never enough for you?”
Her mother’s laugh was acidic. “A new washer. You think I should be happy because you bought me an appliance that makes washing underwear and getting the stains off your shirt collars easier? That’s your definition of happiness?
Bill, this isn’t about what you do or don’t do.
Why can’t you understand that? It’s about what I do.
And what I do is precisely nothing, nothing that matters. ”
While her mother was still speaking, Margaret overheard footsteps, the clink of a glass, and the glug of liquid being poured
from a bottle, and knew her father was pouring himself a drink.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Are we back to this again? You take care of the house, the kids, and me. Don’t we matter? Maybe you’d
like to go back to working ten-hour shifts with grease on your hands, me getting shot at, and leaving our kids to fend for
themselves because you’re working late at the factory. Is that what you want? For the war to keep going just so you could
feel like you do something?”
“Stop it. That’s not fair. Of course I don’t wish the war was still on. I just want—”
“What?” he shouted. “What can you possibly want that we don’t already have? What?”
There was a pause, then the sound of a sob, choked with confusion and shame.
“I don’t know. I don’t know. Just . . . more.”
Teenage Margaret was just as bewildered as her father. She leaned closer to the banister, ears straining for a retraction
or an explanation of what it would take to make her mother happy again. Instead, she heard another sob, pounding footsteps,
and a slammed door.
Though there would be similar arguments in the months to come, Margaret’s mother never did find the words to define the meaning
of more. In time she gave up trying. Gave up entirely. Discontent bloomed into depression and impenetrable silences.
Margaret had long ago ceased trying to understand why her mother decided to end her own life.
She hadn’t even left a note, only a full refrigerator.
But now Margaret thought she understood what her mother had never been able to articulate.
It was the sense that her labor made a difference, the satisfaction that came from setting herself to a hard task, something that truly challenged her, and coming to master it over time.
The work of Ruth’s hands, like those of millions of other women, had literally helped to win the war. Margaret’s work was
completely different and infinitely less consequential. Even so, when a perfect turn of phrase popped into her mind, or when
she opened the magazine and saw her name printed next to her words, or read a note from a subscriber complimenting her work, she felt important.
Or maybe alive?
Yes, that was it. More meant alive, knowing that her existence made ripples felt by others, that she was doing more than just sucking oxygen and taking up space,
that she had something unique to offer.
And it felt good. Too good to risk losing.
Tomorrow she’d get up early and write a new column. Perhaps something about a harried housewife who sent the kids to their
rooms and accidentally-on-purpose forgot to call them back down.
Yes, that could work. It was a scenario almost any mother could relate to, and one Mr. Clement would like. And since keeping
Clement happy meant keeping her job . . .
The ice in Margaret’s tea had melted while Clement was chewing her out. She poured the pale, diluted liquid down the drain,
then sat down at the kitchen table to mentally map out a new column. A loud thump, followed by an even louder crash and a
furious shriek, came from upstairs. A door opened. Two pairs of little feet pounded down the staircase, searching for retribution,
bellowing for a referee.
“Mom! Mom! Mom!”
Margaret propped her elbows on the table and covered her face with her hands.
Could this day possibly get any worse?