Chapter 34 The Group
The Group
When Margaret phoned Viv to tell her she’d been fired, doing her best to swallow the catch in her voice, Viv cut her off.
“Don’t say another word, Maggie. Just hang tight, okay? I’ll be right over.”
Twenty minutes later, Viv was standing on Margaret’s doorstep, flanked by Charlotte and Bitsy and holding a cake plate in
her hands. Judging from the beads of moisture still clinging to the Saran wrap covering, it was still warm.
“You baked a Bundt?”
“Cherry chocolate chip,” Viv told her. “It was just about done, so I figured I’d bring it along and call the others, save
you from having to tell the story three times.” She looked down at the platter and shrugged. “I’ve got more time for baking
now that I’m not working.”
“Well, looks like I’ll be dusting off my oven mitts and joining you.” Margaret sighed, waving the group inside. They ended
up in the kitchen. Margaret sliced the cake and poured iced tea. Charlotte accepted the glass and the ice but filled hers
with Dubonnet.
“Yes, it’s early,” she said, responding to Margaret’s raised eyebrows, “but Dubonnet practically is tea, infused with herbs
and all that.”
Bitsy picked up the bottle and looked at the label.
“And alcohol. Nineteen percent by volume.”
“Oh, don’t be a spoilsport,” Charlotte said. “Independence Day came late this year, and I’m still celebrating.”
“Come to think of it,” Bitsy said, her countenance brightening, “so am I.”
Bitsy poured her untasted tea back into the pitcher, filled the glass with the last of the Dubonnet, and clinked her rim on
Charlotte’s. Margaret tossed the empty bottle in the trash.
“Looks like I’ll have to make a run to the liquor store.”
“Later,” Viv said. “Right now, tell us the rest of the story.”
“What’s to tell? Clement fired me. My brief, ignominious writing career is over.” Margaret shrugged. “Anyway, I really don’t
want to talk about it.”
Viv clucked her tongue. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you do.”
Viv had a point. Though it didn’t alter the circumstances, relating the story to her friends after the gathering moved into
the living room—watching their heads nod in support or wag with indignation—made Margaret feel a little better.
But the best part, and also the most heartbreaking, was their response after she gave in to their demands and read the column
aloud—not the watered-down version she’d submitted to Mr. Clement, but a well-polished rendering that featured all her original
points, even the bits that blasted the magazine by name. When she finished, the Bettys were silent.
But not for long.
“Margaret, that’s . . . well, it’s just brilliant.”
“Brilliant. I mean, I always knew you were a good writer. But . . . wow.”
“It’s as if you put my thoughts into words, even before I knew I was thinking them. How do you do that?”
In short, they loved it. Not just because she was their friend, Margaret could tell, but because her words rang true for them.
Margaret felt certain that other women would have had a similar reaction and that her essay could help them know they weren’t alone, perhaps even given them courage to band together to assert some influence.
But since nobody besides Walt and the Bettys would ever get to read it . . .
“It’s insane,” Charlotte said, exhaling an indignant column of cigarette smoke. “Absolutely insane! I understand that you
failed to follow your editor’s orders, but how could he fire you? Can’t he see how talented you are? This column is ten times
better than the rest of that drivel you wrote.”
“Well, gee,” Margaret said, cracking a half smile. “Thanks. I think.”
Charlotte flapped her hand. “Oh, you know what I meant. None of it was bad, and some of it was really funny. But at the end
of the day, it was just . . . fluff.”
Margaret nodded. “And now I don’t even get to write fluff. I really blew it, didn’t I?”
She reached toward the cigarette pack Charlotte had left on the coffee table, arching her eyebrows in a silent request. Charlotte
nodded to let her know she could help herself. Margaret smoked only rarely, and never enough to bother buying cigarettes for
herself. But she was in such a rotten mood, and the Dubonnet was gone.
“What about Walt’s idea of publishing it yourself as an advertisement?” Bitsy asked.
“Too expensive,” Margaret replied after lighting up. “We’d need at least two-thirds of a page. A full page would be better.
But the price for an ad that large is . . .” Margaret took a drag from her cigarette, shaking her head as she exhaled. “Well,
let’s put it this way. If I’d known how much the magazine made on advertising, I’d have asked for more money.”
“Quit being so coy,” Viv said, pushing the heel of her hand against her very prominent belly, as if urging the baby to shift
to a more comfortable spot. “How much are we talking?”
Margaret named the figure. Viv let out a low whistle.
“Sheesh. You could buy a car for that. A used one, but still . . . I had no idea.”
“Neither did we,” Margaret said. “I used some of the money I made from the column to pay for my typewriter. But even if I’d saved every dime, it wouldn’t come close to what we’d need to buy a full-page ad in A Woman’s Place, or any national magazine.
For about ten seconds, Walt made some noise about tapping our savings to pay for it—though that
wouldn’t have done it either—or even taking out a loan. Thankfully, I was able to talk sense to him. The way his boss has
been acting, we shouldn’t be taking any financial risks.”
“But it’s sweet that he wanted to,” Bitsy said, breaking a piece of Viv’s Bundt cake off with her fingers before popping it
into her mouth. “If I ever get married again, I’d want it to be to somebody like Walt. Or Tony. A knight in shining armor
type.”
Margaret smiled to herself, thinking about Walt. In terms of knighthood, he might be more Don Quixote than Sir Lancelot, tilting
at windmills in a nobly fruitless attempt to defend her honor. But Bitsy was right; it was sweet that he’d tried. Margaret
loved that about him.
However, despite the rocky patch they’d endured over the last months—no, come to think of it, because of that rocky patch—what she’d come to love most about Walt were the things she’d written in the column. Not many men were
brave enough to admit their mistakes; fewer still had the strength of character to change their ways. Jerry hadn’t been strong
enough to do that. But Walt was a better man than his father. Not a perfect man, but a good one.
Viv leaned forward to cut herself another slice of cake, bumping Margaret’s arm as she did and nudging her from her reverie.
“Oh, you’ll marry again,” Viv said, nodding sagely in Bitsy’s direction. “You’re only twenty-three, and biology is a powerful
thing. For about three days every month, Tony Buschetti looks like Rock Hudson.”
Margaret sputtered out a laugh along with her cigarette smoke. “But Tony does look like Rock Hudson. Always.”
“I know.” Viv sighed heavily. “I’m doomed.”
Charlotte, who had been leaning back against the sofa, legs stretched out, slim ankles extending from the cuffs of her black stirrup pants, smoking steadily and listening to the conversation with uncharacteristic silence and lidded eyes, abruptly changed the subject.
“Who’s started reading the book?”
The other three exchanged curious glances. They weren’t due to start discussing Mary McCarthy’s novel The Group until the official Bettys meeting, which was still more than two weeks off. Margaret lifted her hand tentatively, like a
student who thinks she might know the answer to the teacher’s question but isn’t entirely sure.
“I’m about six or seven chapters in,” she said. “It’s good so far.”
“I’ve read about half,” Bitsy said. “With King gone, I can read as late as I want now.”
“I’ve only read the first chapter,” Viv admitted. “The wedding. Interesting characters. But I already have a feeling that
things aren’t going to end well for them.”
“They don’t.” Charlotte pulled her legs in and sat up. “I won’t go into detail because I don’t want to give the plot away,
but I’ve read the whole thing, and nearly all of them end up suffering. It’s really been bothering me.”
Charlotte stubbed her cigarette butt out in the ashtray, then reached for the pack.
“I mean, here they are, eight smart, attractive, well-educated women from good families, promising in every possible respect.
Yet not a one of them ends up fulfilling their promise. Not even close,” she said, sliding a fresh smoke from the pack. “If
women like that can’t manage it, what hope is there for the rest of us?”
Charlotte stopped talking long enough to light her cigarette, leaving her question hanging. Viv drew her brows together, frowning.
“Well, how are we supposed to know? You’re the one who finished the book, not us.”
Bitsy turned to Viv. “I think she’s speaking rhetorically.”
“I’ve been giving this a lot of thought,” Charlotte said, “and I think I’ve figured it out.
The reason the girls in the group end up failing—not only to live up to their potential, but failing in almost every sense of the word—is that they stopped being the group.
Once they graduated and it was every woman for herself, things started to go horribly downhill. ”
“And you think things would have gone better for them if they’d stayed together?” Margaret asked.
“Absolutely. No question. Viv, you know exactly what I mean. You’re always talking about the war and how all the nurses pulled
together in unimaginably tough circumstances.”
Viv nodded. “The worse things got, the closer we got. The only way we were able to get through it and do the job was as a
team. But war is different. You can’t expect women to act like that in regular life. You can’t stay in the barracks forever,
or the dorm.”
“True. But you can always be part of the group.”
Charlotte swiveled her head in Margaret’s direction. “Maggie, how much did you say the ad would cost? And how much do you
have left from your savings?”
Margaret ground her cigarette into the ashtray, shaking her head. “No, Charlotte. No. I appreciate the thought, but no. You
can’t buy that ad for me.”
“Of course I can!” Charlotte cried, throwing her arms wide. “Weren’t you listening when I told you about the showdown with
my father? As of this week, I am a woman of independent means. And I can spend those means on any damned thing I want. Now . . .
how much?”
Margaret clamped her lips shut. Charlotte gave her an impatient look.
“You really are the most exasperating woman, Margaret Ryan. Either you tell me how much the ad costs or I will phone the magazine
and find out for myself. What’s it going to be?”
Realizing Charlotte wouldn’t be swayed, Margaret reluctantly repeated the figure. After further prodding from Charlotte, she
also revealed how much she had in her savings account.
“There, was that so hard?” Charlotte asked. “Now look, I don’t have my checkbook with me, but I can drop a check off tomorrow. When is the deadline for placing the ad?”
“The end of the week,” Margaret replied. “But I can’t let you do this. It’s too much.”
“You’re not letting me do it,” Charlotte countered. “I am doing it. Period. End of story. Because I want to. Because you’d do the same for me. Because you’re my group.”
“Charlotte’s right,” Viv said, setting her iced tea down with a decisive thump. “A lot of my nursing money went to pay for
gas and pizza on the nights I didn’t have energy to cook. But there’s a good chunk left, and you’re welcome to all of it.”
“No!” Margaret said. “Viv, you can’t. You need money for the baby.”
Viv threw out her hands. “To buy what? I’ve got six kids’ worth of hand-me-downs and a crib in the attic.”
“I want to help too,” Bitsy said. “King’s trying to absolve his guilt through generosity, so I’m doing fine financially. Plus,
I’m still working at the barn. Whatever Viv puts in, I’ll match.”
Margaret got to her feet, held her hands out flat, and screwed her eyes shut.
“Stop! Everybody, just stop!”
When she opened her eyes again, all three Bettys were staring at her.
“Sorry,” she said, taking a breath. “But there’s no way I’m taking your money, especially not to fix a problem that can’t
be fixed and that I created myself. It’s a crazy idea. Crazy!”
Charlotte stood.
“It’s not. It’s smart. It’s what men do. Why do you think they join all those clubs—the Elks? The VFW? The Masons? Congress!” she cried. “To support
one another, that’s why. Why do you think they call them booster clubs? Because they’re trying to boost each other over the
wall or bend the rules in their favor, help the group. If women stuck up for one another the way men do, this would be a very
different world.”
She crossed her arms, as if daring Margaret to find fault in this argument. She couldn’t.
“Ask Aunt Betty if you don’t believe me,” Charlotte said. “I can’t tell you what chapter, but I’m sure she wrote about it
somewhere.”
When Margaret smiled, Charlotte smiled back.
“Accepting help is hard. I understand that. But talent like yours is a gift that’s meant to be shared. You’re in church every
Sunday, Maggie. In all those visits, didn’t you ever hear the one about not hiding your light under a bushel? Even I know
that one.”
Viv bobbed her head. “She’s got a point, Margaret.”
“She does,” Bitsy agreed.
“I think you’re taking that verse out of context,” Margaret said. “But even if you weren’t, what would be the point? One little
column isn’t going to change the world or convince Leonard to give me my job back. And for all that money—”
“True,” Charlotte said. “One column won’t change the world. But it might change somebody’s world, the way Betty’s book changed
ours. And you never know; someone who reads it might like it and decide to offer you a new job, a better job.”
Charlotte stepped closer. “Think of it this way, Maggie. If you let us give you a boost today, then someday maybe you’ll be
in a position to do the same for someone else. We’ve got to start someplace. If we don’t, how is anything ever going to change?”