Chapter 26 Truth-Telling #2
“Where is that damned waitress? I need another drink.”
The defeatism in Charlotte’s speech, her retreat into resignation, bitterness, and liquor took Margaret’s irritation from
simmer to boil.
“What a bullshit artist you are. What a fake.”
Charlotte’s head snapped toward Margaret, as if absorbing the shock of an invisible blow.
“What did you say?”
Margaret leaned in. “I said you’re a fake. And a coward. All this bull you’ve been shoveling about women breaking free from societal roles, about confronting
the myth of the mystique, about rights and equality and demanding the freedom to choose our destiny. It was just a bunch of
talk, wasn’t it? Your latest obsession, something for you to play at whenever the whim hits you, the same way you play at
painting.”
Charlotte ground out her cigarette, snatched the pack from the table, pulled out a fresh one with shaking hands.
“Knock it off, Maggie. If you value our friendship, stop right there.” Charlotte clicked open her lighter.
When it failed to ignite, she threw it onto the table.
“Who the hell do you think you are anyway, Margaret Ryan? A housewife. A nobody from Ohio! What do you know about my painting, about art?”
“Next to nothing,” Margaret said. “But enough to know you’re not taking it seriously. You’re always whining about the art
world being a boys’ club, about what a bad painter you are and how you’ve never produced anything really original. If that’s
true, then why don’t you do something about it? Why don’t you study or go back to school or do whatever it is real artists
do to develop their own style? But I don’t think you ever will, and you know why?” Margaret gripped the table edge. “Because
you’re a coward. Because deep down you’re afraid you’re not good enough—”
“I’m not good enough!”
“But how do you know that? How do you know if you don’t try? If you’d put half as much effort into painting as you do into
complaining, maybe you’d get better. And if not, at least you’d know the truth. At least you’d have the honor of hard work
and honest effort.”
“Oh, spare me,” Charlotte said. “You sound like a Girl Scout. You can’t change the way things are, Margaret.”
Margaret shifted back in her seat. “You don’t believe that. If you did, you wouldn’t have started the book club. The Bettys
wouldn’t exist.”
“If you’ll recall,” Charlotte countered, “I didn’t start it. You banged on my door with your cookies and earnest eyes and
said we should start a book club, to read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, of all things. If it’d been up to you, the Bettys would’ve been named for Betty Smith. I joined for two reasons: because
I was bored and because I felt sorry for you.”
Charlotte’s barb struck its intended target, but only barely. Margaret had known her long enough to recognize the tactic for what it was: an attempt to mask her own insecurities by pricking at the insecurities of others. When Margaret failed to take the bait, Charlotte sighed.
“Let’s just go, all right? I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It doesn’t matter anyway.”
“It does matter. It matters because you want it, Charlotte. So much that you went up to that hotel room, knowing what was
waiting for you. And you came that close to doing it,” she said, pinching two fingers together. “That close to compromising your morals by giving yourself to
a man you don’t love, trading on your sexuality instead of your talent. In exchange for what? The off chance that he might
deign to introduce you to some ‘somebody’? What does that have to do with getting what you really want, with becoming a good
artist? Nothing. You know it, and so does Lawrence.”
Margaret’s voice was pleading. “Stop and think for a minute, Charlotte. How can you expect him or anybody else to take you
seriously if you won’t take yourself seriously?”
“Oh, that’s rich! You lecturing me about taking myself seriously.” Charlotte tipped her head back, barked out a single, sharp-edged
laugh. “Did you plan this speech ahead of time, Maggie? Or are you making it up as you go? If so, you ought to give up that
pathetic column and try for a career in fiction. Really, it’s the best story you’ve ever come up with and probably ever will,
the way you’ve been heading.”
Charlotte laughed again and kept laughing. The barb worked its way in a little deeper. Margaret set her jaw and shoved her
chair backward.
“It’s late. We should get going.”
Charlotte didn’t move.
“As long as we’re truth-telling, I’m not the only coward around here, am I, Margaret? You say you want to be a serious writer.
But you never write anything serious, do you? Just mindless pabulum. Horseshit for housewives. And why is that? Because you’re
afraid to try anything else. Because it might prove, once and for all, that pabulum is all you can write.”
“That’s not fair,” Margaret said. “You know I’ve tried to write other kinds of pieces, slip some meaning into my columns. My editor keeps rejecting them. That’s not my fault.”
“Slipping in some meaning,” Charlotte deadpanned. “Not quite the same as actually writing something meaningful, is it? But
you know, let’s leave that aside for right now. Let’s assume you do have the capability and courage to write something worthwhile,
and that your editor really is what’s standing in your way. What makes your roadblocks any different from mine? Why is it
failure to get past the gatekeepers ‘complaining and whining’ when it comes to me but simply ‘not your fault’ when it comes
to you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Charlotte gave her a hard stare. “Yes, you did. And who knows? Maybe you’re right. But if you are, then you’re right about
both of us. So before you start tossing out words like fake and coward, I suggest you look in the mirror. In the meantime . . .”
Charlotte stuffed her cigarettes into her purse and got to her feet.
“Where are you going?”
“To get another drink and call a cab.”
Charlotte started toward the stairs. Margaret rose quickly and followed her.
“I’m sorry. I was out of line, and I apologize. Let’s just drive home and forget about it, okay? Charlotte, stop. No cabdriver
is going to take you all the way to Concordia at this hour.”
Charlotte spun around to face her.
“I’d rather walk every step of the way than spend one more minute with you.”