Chapter 38 Women Worth Knowing
Women Worth Knowing
Margaret did not hear from Katharine Graham very soon.
In fact, she never heard from her at all.
But during the drive back to Concordia, Margaret felt like a bottle of pop that had been shaken hard and uncapped, practically
fizzing with happiness. She rolled the windows down and turned the radio up as she and Bitsy sang along with the Chiffons,
belting out the lyrics to “He’s So Fine” as they sped along the parkway, dancing in their seats and tapping the car horn every
time they got to the word fine.
Relating the story to Walt that evening, Margaret deliberately downplayed her hopes, saying that while it was gratifying to
know that Mrs. Graham liked her work, she didn’t imagine much would come of it.
In truth, she spent much of the next week imagining no end of wonderful things that might come of it, anticipation bubbling
on the back burner of her mind as she cooked, vacuumed, and did laundry, one ear continually cocked for the sound of a ringing
phone.
By the end of the week, the bubble became more of a simmer. But she didn’t lose hope, reassured by Bitsy’s reminder that Katharine Graham was one of the busiest women in DC. Viv, Charlotte, and Walt all agreed and said she should try to stay busy to keep her mind off it.
Margaret took their advice to heart and spent the second week reading Joy in the Morning by Betty Smith, making chicken cordon bleu, and sewing Halloween costumes on a machine she borrowed from Viv—a marching band
outfit for Beth, a ballerina tutu for Suzy, and an astronaut costume for Bobby, complete with a silver spray-painted, papier-maché
helmet.
Walt praised the chicken, and Bitsy said Mrs. Graham always kept her word.
During the third week, Margaret read The Girls of Slender Means by Muriel Spark, stripped and waxed the floors, penciled out menus for Thanksgiving, let down the hems on all Bobby’s pants,
reorganized the closets, cleaned the oven, and helped Viv wallpaper her kitchen.
Walt said the house looked fantastic. Bitsy said “very soon” probably meant different things to different people.
In the fourth week, Margaret made applesauce and tried to read The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, but she put it down because it was too depressing. Viv suggested they join the bridge club, and Margaret
said she’d rather put a fork in her eye. Then she drove to the drugstore, bought a sampler of Whitman’s chocolates, and ate
a third of them while sitting in the car.
Walt said that even if Mrs. Graham never called, he still thought she was a terrific writer. Margaret and Bitsy stopped talking
about it.
But then, in the middle of the fifth week, the phone rang.
“Hello, Mrs. Ryan? I’m Gloria Sizemore, Katharine Graham’s social secretary. Mrs. Graham wonders if you could join her at
home for luncheon on Thursday?”
Bitsy was right. Even if it took time, Katharine Graham was a woman who kept her word.
* * *
Georgetown, one of the oldest neighborhoods in DC, was home to a number of large, elegant, architecturally impressive houses.
But Mrs. Graham’s home was in a class all its own. Sitting on more than an acre, the white brick, three-storied structure
was an exquisite example of Federal-style architecture, surrounded by tall trees and manicured lawns. Seeing it brought words
like palatial and opulent to Margaret’s mind and made her wish she’d raided Charlotte’s closet for a nicer outfit.
Margaret climbed the stone steps to the black-painted front door with a finish so shiny it almost looked wet. After taking
a moment to screw up her courage and pick imaginary lint from her green suit jacket, she rang the doorbell.
A middle-aged woman wearing a black dress and white apron greeted her with a pleasant smile, beckoning her into a foyer bigger
than Margaret’s living room. There was a huge, richly colored oriental rug on the floor and a three-tiered brass chandelier
hanging from the ceiling. A marble-topped table with an enormous bouquet of calla lilies stood directly beneath it.
As the pleasant woman helped Margaret with her coat, a somewhat younger woman, wearing cat-eye glasses and a conservative
but elegant dress of blue wool, appeared.
“Mrs. Ryan? I’m Gloria Sizemore. A pleasure to meet you. Mrs. Graham apologizes for the short notice, but she is so pleased
you were able to come.”
“Thank you. I hope I’m not late. I had a bit of trouble finding the address.”
Margaret followed Miss Sizemore across the foyer and into a hallway with paneled doors on one side and tall, thick-paned windows
facing a lovely winter garden on the other.
“Not to worry, Mrs. Ryan. There are a few stragglers, but most of the others are already in the library.”
Margaret stopped short.
“Others?”
* * *
The library was as elegant as the rest of the house. Three of the four walls were lined with built-in wooden bookcases painted
a soft green color, the shelves so full there didn’t appear to be space to squeeze in even one more volume. Scores of framed
photographs hung on the remaining wall, black-and-white prints of Mrs. Graham and the late Mr. Graham posing with presidents,
politicians, and celebrities. The room was filled with groupings of comfortably elegant sofas and chairs and the hum of female
voices.
Margaret didn’t take a head count but estimated about fifteen to be present, ranging in age from midtwenties to late sixties.
Some of the women sat; some stood. Some smoked cigarettes; some sipped small glasses of sherry. All were deeply engaged in
conversations and paid not the least attention when Margaret entered the room. She hung near the doorway, feeling very out
of place.
The room smelled of coffee, cigarettes, and Shalimar, the same scents that perfumed the air of Concordia coffee klatches.
In that situation, Margaret would have established eye contact with the nearest bored-looking woman, then walked up and introduced
herself.
But none of these women looked bored, and Margaret couldn’t summon the courage to insert herself into a conversation. Instead,
she wandered toward one of the bookcases, tilting her head sideways to read the spines, feigning interest in an entire shelf
of books written by current or former members of the Supreme Court. Justice John Jay had published not one but three volumes
of his papers and correspondence. Who knew?
As Margaret was sliding volume three from the shelf, a pocket door in the middle of the picture wall slid open. Mrs. Graham
entered, looking elegant in a pale pink shantung suit.
“Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!” Katharine said, lifting her arms and bringing all conversation to a temporary halt.
“Telling the office that I’m not to be disturbed invariably triggers an avalanche of editorial emergencies.
But I’m all yours now, at least until the next crisis.
How are you all? Does everyone have everything they want? ”
A blunt-featured woman with dark auburn hair waved her hand. “I’d like an exclusive with the attorney general, if you can
arrange it.”
“Oh, Helen, wouldn’t we all?” Mrs. Graham laughed and the others joined in. “We’re still waiting on one more, so lunch is
a little delayed. In the meantime, anyone who isn’t on deadline can help themselves to more sherry.”
There was another round of laughter. Mrs. Graham’s eyes brightened with recognition when she spotted Margaret standing near
the bookcase.
“Ah, you made it! Ladies, I want to introduce you to a new friend of mine,” she said, crossing the room. “This is Margaret
Ryan, a freelancer. She recently wrote an essay about her neighborhood book club, the Bettys, and how reading The Feminine Mystique impacted them. If you haven’t read it yet, you should.”
The women murmured collective greetings. Margaret smiled and nodded politely, certain she was blushing.
Freelancer? If Margaret had ever qualified for the title, she sure didn’t now. Fired freelancer might be closer to the mark. Or poser. Though Margaret didn’t know these women, the fact that they all seemed to know one another, and Katharine Graham, was an
indication that they were serious writers, journalists, whereas Margaret—
Mrs. Graham touched Margaret’s shoulder and began speaking to her in a low, almost conspiratorial tone, just loud enough to
be heard over the hum of resumed conversations.
“Let me give you a quick who’s who. That’s Nancy Dickerson over there.” Mrs. Graham gestured discreetly to a slim woman with
light brown hair and a face a movie star might envy. “You may recognize her. She’s a correspondent at NBC television. First
woman to report from the floor of a political convention.
“And the woman she’s talking with?” Mrs. Graham nodded toward a much older lady with salt-and-pepper hair.
“After a long career as a reporter, Bess Furman is now in charge of the press office of the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare. The redhead who wants an exclusive with Bobby Kennedy?” Margaret’s gaze shifted to the other side of the room.
“That’s Helen Thomas, White House correspondent and president of the Women’s National Press Club. ”
As Katharine continued, Margaret scanned the faces of the other guests, feeling a mixture of awe, gratitude, and disappointment.
She was amazed to be standing amid such an accomplished group. And of course, she was honored that Mrs. Graham had included
her. Even so, she had hoped this day would turn out differently. Mrs. Graham seemed to pick up on that.
She tilted her chin downward and looked Margaret directly in the eye. “I can’t give you a job at the paper,” she said. “Executive
editors get very testy when publishers interfere with hiring. Also, you’re just not ready. One good piece of writing doesn’t
entitle you to a job in a major newsroom, and I’m not sure hard journalism would play to your strengths anyway.
“But this town is all about connections, Margaret, and there’s not a woman in this room who isn’t worth knowing. Just remember