Chapter 33 Choices and Consequences
Choices and Consequences
One day, when Margaret was thirteen going on fourteen, basically a selfish bundle of raging hormones and contradictions encased
in a sack of skin, she had deliberately goaded her mother into action, purposely crossing the line—curious, perhaps, to see
if there truly was a line, wondering just how far she could go.
The war was still on, and her mother was working long days and frequent overtime shifts at the factory. Margaret wanted to
have a big sleepover for her birthday, inviting fourteen of her “closest” girlfriends, not one of whom she was in contact
with anymore. Even if her mother hadn’t been working all the hours God gave her or struggling to stretch ration points to
keep the family fed, it was a big and, quite frankly, unreasonable request. Her mother countered with permission for two girls
to stay over, finally upping the number to three, saying that was as much as she could cope with, and the negotiations were
closed.
Margaret would not be deterred. She broached the subject again when Mom was chatting with other women in the vestibule after
church, hoping the presence of an audience would make it harder to deny her request. But her mother’s response was emphatic.
Still, Margaret asked again and again and again, until her mother lost patience and spun toward her. “That is enough, Margaret Ruth. I’m warning you. One more word and I’ll—”
Margaret didn’t listen. The word came. So did the slap.
It shouldn’t have been a surprise. She’d been warned. Had Margaret been in her mother’s shoes, she might have done the same
thing. But young Margaret couldn’t make herself believe her mother would make good on the threat, not in such a public setting.
When the blow fell, Margaret was shocked, embarrassed, and chastised. She wished she could take it back, but it was too late.
The deed was done, the promised consequence delivered.
Hanging up the phone after Mr. Clement fired her, Margaret felt the same way. Humiliated and shocked. She shouldn’t have been;
he’d warned her. But, as with her mother’s threats so many years before, Margaret hadn’t truly believed he’d follow through.
After softening her criticism of advertisers and polishing the piece until her points rang clear as a bell and the writing
was as tight as possible, Margaret had convinced herself that the column had at least a fifty-fifty chance of being published.
Because even Clement would be forced to acknowledge how well it had turned out. Worst-case scenario, she figured, was that
Clement would yell at her again, kill the piece, and, as punishment, force her to write a column about daytime soap operas,
visiting mothers-in-law, floor wax, or some equally mind-numbing topic—basically a return to status quo.
But she could not convince herself that he’d really fire her, just for the sin of writing something that was actually good. Yet he had.
Margaret buried her head in her hands and sank down on the sofa, so upset she forgot where she was and sat on the cushion
with the sprung coil, taking a sharp poke in her bottom as a rebuke. A few more months of writing and she’d have saved up
enough for a new couch. But now . . .
She’d poured everything she had into crafting a piece she felt proud of, a column readers might actually think about, act upon. To what end? If nobody got to read it, or anything else she might have written in the future, what did it matter?
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she said, murmuring into the mask of her hands.
But if Margaret was angry with herself, Walt—who had wandered into the kitchen in search of a snack, seen the distressed look
on Margaret’s face, and ended up eavesdropping on her phone call—was furious. Not with Margaret, but with Leonard Clement.
“How could he just fire you? For writing something good? Isn’t that your job? That was the best column you’ve ever written,
Margaret. By far.”
“And if you were my editor instead of him, things would be different. As it is . . .” Margaret closed her eyes and sighed.
“What an idiot I am. A first-class idiot. It’s one thing for Betty Friedan to climb up on her soapbox, but I’m just a housewife.
What made me think I could pull this off?”
Walt, who had been pacing like a captive lion in a small enclosure, stopped and stabbed a finger in Margaret’s direction.
“You are not just a housewife. You’re my wife. And one of the smartest, most talented people I’ve ever met!” He growled with frustration and smacked his fist into
his palm. “That man calls himself an editor? Clement wouldn’t know good writing if it walked in the door and bit him in the
ass. If he was here, I’d—”
Margaret moaned. Walt turned toward the sound, scowling.
“You’re not going to take this lying down, are you, Maggie?”
“What else can I do? Writers write, but editors decide if people get to read it.” She turned out her hands. “That’s just the
way things are.”
“Well, that’s stupid. And wrong.” Walt snatched a battered issue of A Woman’s Place from the coffee table, the same copy he had filched from the dentist’s office and passed off as Margaret’s Christmas gift
all those months ago, rolled it up, and whacked it against his leg. “It’s worse than wrong. It’s censorship. It’s un-American!”
“It’s really not,” Margaret said, shaking her head. “Not if you’re getting paid. Magazine publishing is a business. And as far as publishers are concerned, writing is a product like any other. If they don’t think they can sell it, they don’t want to print it.”
He stared at her. “So you’re saying it’s all about dollars and cents with these people?”
“Well . . . yes.” Margaret let out a sardonic laugh, surprised he even had to ask. “The only thing they really care about
is selling magazines and advertising space.”
Walt narrowed his eyes and made a sucking sound with his teeth. Margaret tilted her head to the side; she could practically
see the wheels turning inside his head.
“Walt? What is it?”
Instead of answering her question, he unrolled the magazine and started flipping furiously through the pages of ads, editorials,
columns, and articles. “There it is!” he cried, stabbing his finger against one of the pages as he started toward the hallway.
Margaret popped up from the couch and followed him.
“There what is? Walt? Where are you going? What are you doing?”
He looked over his shoulder. “To call the advertising department!”