Chapter 35 Fan Mail
Fan Mail
Summer was over. But what a consequential summer it had been—a season all four Bettys would remember as among the most pivotal
in their lives.
And it wasn’t just them.
Across the globe, the tides of change were bringing tumult and transformation that would push and eliminate boundaries, altering
the landscape of society in ways that wouldn’t be fully apparent for years, decades, or even generations to come. August alone
had been replete with events that would shake the world with the passage of time.
In that month, the United States, United Kingdom, and Soviet Union signed the first Nuclear Test Ban Treaty.
Lee Harvey Oswald got into a scuffle with three men while distributing flyers for the Fair Play for Cuba Committee. He was
arrested in New Orleans but released the next day.
Vietnamese President Ng? ?ình Diem declared martial law, then ordered armed government forces to raid Buddhist pagodas and arrest fourteen hundred monks.
Washington Post publisher Philip Graham took his life, making Katharine Graham a widow at forty-seven and the twentieth century’s first female
publisher of a major newspaper.
And on August 28, at least 250,000 people gathered to attend the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom, and to hear the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. speak from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.
Like millions of people, the Buschettis watched Dr. King’s speech live on television.
Viv sat rapt as King spoke, finding his words profoundly moving but also profoundly commonsensical. Because if America really
was the land of the free, surely freedom should extend to everyone. Almost as thrilling as the speech was the moment when
the television cameras panned the crowd and Viv caught a glimpse of Earlene standing in the audience, not thirty feet from
the stage. She squealed and rocked forward, pointing to the television screen.
“Look! There she is!” Viv pressed her hand to her chest, beaming. “Isn’t that something? It’s history in the making, and Earlene
is right there in the middle of it. She said she was going to go, and she did. Good for her!”
Later that day, after finishing her work at the stables, Bitsy drove to the post office to mail a condolence letter to Mrs.
Graham and then to the campus of American University to register for classes. The deadline for fall semester admissions had
come and gone, but after Alice Brennan placed a phone call to a former colleague who worked at American, Bitsy was informed
they’d make room for one more student.
The next day, Margaret stopped into Mayer’s Drugstore and bought six copies of the latest issue of A Woman’s Place—two to keep, one for each of the Bettys, and one for Helen and Edwin Babcock, who had also insisted on contributing to the
cause.
“There it is!” Helen said, beaming and tapping her fingers on page 46, where Margaret’s column appeared opposite a recipe
for deviled lettuce. “Right there in black-and-white! It’s wonderful, Margaret! I’m so proud!”
“Thank you. But you know, I couldn’t have done it without you. From the very first day, even when I was just writing fluff,
you couldn’t have been more encouraging.”
“And what did I tell you?” Helen said, the half dozen bangles on her wrist jangling as she wagged her finger at Margaret. “What did I say on the day you published your ‘silly little column in a silly little women’s magazine’?”
Margaret smiled. “That it was a start.”
“That’s right,” Helen said, nodding sagely. “Starting is the hardest part. Today you’re making another start, and not just
for you. Mark my words, Margaret. This piece will start a conversation. Good things will come from it. Big things! Wait and
see if I’m not right.”
* * *
Two weeks later, it did seem Helen’s prediction was coming true.
Margaret had been amazed by the number of women from the neighborhood who’d told her they’d read her essay and planned to
read The Feminine Mystique because of it. Helen reported quite an uptick in orders for the book, so it seemed they were serious. Iris Rasmussen and
Dorothy Fisher, her old friends from coffee klatch, had even knocked on Margaret’s door holding a copy of the magazine and
asked for her autograph, an experience she’d found simultaneously embarrassing and flattering.
Of course, not everyone was pleased by what she’d written.
Barb Fredericks deliberately snubbed her in the grocery store, steering her shopping cart right past when Margaret greeted
her in the produce aisle. And two women she encountered when dropping Bobby and Suzy off at school, the same two who’d talked
behind her back at the pool, felt no compunction about criticizing her once again, this time to her face.
“That book is dangerous,” the first one said. “A threat to the American way of life! If you can’t see that, you’re either
a radical, an idiot, or both!” The second, echoing the opinion because it saved her the effort of forming her own, nodded
vigorously. “Exactly!”
Though Margaret could not have cared less what they thought of her, the vehemence and personal nature of their criticism flustered her.
Why would somebody go so far out of their way to be so nasty just because somebody held a differing opinion?
Margaret doubted they’d even read the book.
Regardless, wasn’t the right to free speech and differing opinions an important part of “the American way of life”? Maybe the most important part?
But on the whole, she received much more positive feedback than negative. In fact, that very morning, the mailman had knocked
on the door and handed her a large, fat manila envelope that was too big to fit in the mailbox. Inside, Margaret found twenty-one
smaller envelopes, all addressed to her in care of A Woman’s Place magazine, and a note that read:
Dear Mrs. Ryan,
You don’t know me, but I work in the magazine mail room and noticed a lot of letters coming in addressed to you. My supervisor
said I could just mark them all “Return to Sender” because you don’t work here anymore.
But I read the magazine myself and know you took out an ad so you could get your article about your book club published, so
I figured all these letters were probably about that. Since I still remembered your address from the other times you got mail,
I decided to send them to you myself. (Don’t tell my boss.)
I’m very sorry you won’t be writing for the magazine anymore. Your columns always made me smile. I liked that you were a regular
housewife who got a chance to be a real writer.
I’ve been working in the mail room for eight years now, never missed a day of work.
But I’ve only ever gotten one raise in all that time and never a promotion, of course.
The men who work in the mail room get promoted or find better jobs and leave, but it seems like the women who start here stay here forever.
My supervisor started working here just three years ago, right after high school, just like me. I trained him, and now he’s my boss.
I hope I don’t sound like I’m complaining too much. But I just wanted you to know that I thought it was great that you had
a chance to write for the magazine, and that I always liked your column. This last one wasn’t as funny, but if you thought
so much of that book, then I figure it must be worth reading.
There’s a long list to check it out from the library, so I will have to wait my turn. I guess a lot of other people read your
article and decided they should read the book too. Next time you recommend a book, can you write me a note beforehand so I
can be first in line? Ha!
Anyway, thank you again. I hope you get this note and enjoy reading your “fan mail.”
Very truly yours,
Carla Hennessy
It was gratifying to know her columns had put a smile on the face of Carla Hennessy, but that smile couldn’t have begun to match the smile that spread over Margaret’s face when reading Carla’s note and the letters she had so kindly forwarded.
Not all of the letters could be considered fan mail. Three were similar in tone to the criticism she’d received from the pool
gossips—one letter writer called her a communist, among other less savory names. However, the remaining eighteen letters were
very positive. Five writers said they were forming Betty Friedan book clubs of their own. Five!
Those five letters filled Margaret with a tingle-all-over anticipation she hadn’t felt for a long time, like the thrill a
child gets while making a wish and blowing out the candles. Charlotte was right; you never knew what would happen.
Margaret sent letters and clippings from her column to editors at two dozen magazines and had yet to receive so much as a
“thanks but no thanks” for her trouble. She wasn’t really surprised; unsolicited letters like hers probably went into the
trash unread. But her essay about the Bettys had been read by so many and had elicited such strong reactions—was it a stretch
to think at least one of those readers might be someone of influence? Someone who could offer her a real writing job, an opportunity to write truth instead of fluff?
Margaret felt certain something was going to happen, something good. But she didn’t share that with the Bettys. Feeling certain wasn’t the same thing as being
certain. Besides, today was all about Charlotte, who apparently had big news. She’d phoned the Bettys the day before and told
them to be ready at ten thirty.
“Time for another field trip,” she’d said. “I’ve got something amazing to show you!”