Chapter 40 Who Were, Are, and Will Be
Who Were, Are, and Will Be
Margaret, wearing a champagne-colored silk sheath dress, came out of the bathroom at the same time Walt entered the bedroom.
He carried a wicker basket wrapped in a cellophane bag and topped with a big blue ribbon.
“This just came for you,” he said. “Probably from the kids.”
Indeed, it was. A card had been signed by all three, but the touching note expressing congratulations for Margaret’s award
and regrets that they couldn’t be there to see her receive it had clearly been penned by Suzy, who had become a fine writer
herself. Bobby had probably picked out the champagne, and Margaret had no doubt about who had insisted on including the hideous
orchid corsage with the neon-green ribbons. Walt grinned when he spotted it.
“Let me guess. Beth?”
“Once a smart-ass, always a smart-ass,” she laughed, then turned her back toward Walt. She pushed her hair up off her neck.
“Can you zip me? I can’t reach.”
“I can’t get the doohickey at the top to hook,” he said after a few seconds of fiddling.
“It’s fine. Just as long as the zipper is up.”
Margaret walked to the bed and slipped on the jacket she’d laid out for herself. It was new, purchased just for tonight, made of an elegant chocolate-brown and gold-flecked wool-silk blend and trimmed with gold buttons. She turned to face Walt, extending her arms from her sides.
“What do you think?”
His eyes traveled up and down her frame, from the tips of her tan Stuart Weitzman pumps to the top of her shining and sleekly
styled hair, which Margaret’s hairdresser had lightened to a color more platinum than gray.
“Beautiful. As always.”
“You’re sure? Not too mother-of-the-bride?”
“Nope, you look great.” He tilted his head to one side. “Have you lost weight?”
Margaret shook her head and retrieved her evening clutch from the top of the dresser.
“It’s the Spanx.”
“Spanx?”
“Shapewear,” she explained. She touched up her lipstick, then slipped the tube and a few extra business cards into her bag.
“A sort of one-piece undergarment made of spandex or elastic or some such thing. It holds you in. Smooths out the rolls and
bumps.”
“So, a girdle.”
“Well, now that you mention it . . .” Margaret paused to think. “Yes.”
“Ha! Guess what goes around comes around.”
It does indeed. And never more than tonight.
* * *
Betty Friedan’s book had been the catalyst to a life Margaret could scarcely have imagined when she first knocked on Charlotte’s
door. Forty-three years later, a piece she had written in the wake of Ms. Friedan’s death in February would mark, though not
the end of Margaret’s career, probably its pinnacle. At seventy-six, she realized this award would likely be her last.
Margaret was fine with that. She took pride in not just accepting change but embracing it. And Walt? Well, he practically chased it with a lasso.
They’d obtained three advanced degrees between them, taking turns as primary breadwinner when the other was in school, and
sharing the load the rest of the time. Collectively, they’d held more than a dozen job titles, working for themselves but
also for others at companies as small as Babcock’s Best Books and as large as the Washington Post. Unsurprisingly, Walt had changed careers more frequently than Margaret, but eventually landed his dream job as a research
librarian at the Library of Congress, specializing in prerevolutionary American history of the Virginia Tidewater region.
“Pretty specific for a guy who could never make up his mind,” Walt joked after he got the job. True, but he’d finally found
his niche and worked at the library until his retirement.
They’d changed addresses often too. Their most recent move had taken place two years before. Margaret had liked their house
in Arlington, so her first response to Walt’s suggestion was a firm no.
“I know you love this place, Maggie. So do I. But the upkeep is harder every year. Those condos on D Street Northwest are
brand-new and in a great location, two blocks from the mall and a metro station. We’d be able to get rid of the car—”
Margaret raised both hands, signaling he should stop right there.
“Hang on. You want to sell the house and the car?”
“Walking is better for you,” he said. “Keeps you young. Besides, you’re always complaining about the traffic. And at our age,
is it really a good idea to keep driving?”
“Hey, you’re the one who pushes the yellow lights, buster. I am an excellent driver.”
“Yes, you are. An excellent driver,” he said, tilting his head and tucking his chin in a perfect imitation of Dustin Hoffman’s
character from Rain Man. “An excellent driver.”
Margaret crossed her arms. “If you think you’re going to joke me into moving, think again. I like this house,” she said, repeating her primary argument. “And those condos are so small. What are they? Maybe half the size of our current house?”
“Probably less,” Walt admitted. “Look, all I’m asking you to do is take a tour and keep an open mind. Yes, it would be a big
change. But it could also be a big adventure. At this stage of life, how many more of those are we going to get?”
Moving to downtown DC had been an adventure. Shops, restaurants, museums, theaters, and a subway station that would take them
anywhere in the city were just a stone’s throw from their building. Weekly happy hours had made it easy to meet the neighbors,
people in every stage and walk of life. With Walt volunteering as a docent at the Smithsonian and Margaret still writing every
morning, they were as busy as they’d ever been, and as happy.
The condo was small, and paring down their possessions was hard. But Margaret knew that an adventurous life required trade-offs. As Betty
Friedan once said, “You can have it all, just not all at the same time.” People often cited that quote in reference to women.
As far as Margaret was concerned, it applied to any person of any gender at any stage of life.
* * *
Walt’s hair was white and a bit thinner, but he was still a handsome man, especially in a tuxedo. He stood in the foyer, holding
Margaret’s coat as she exited the bedroom.
“It’s ten blocks. Do you want to walk or hail a cab?”
“Oh, let’s walk. It’s a nice evening.”
“You sure? Ten blocks,” he reminded her, casting a doubtful glance at her new shoes.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, sliding one arm into her coat. “Oh, wait! I forgot my earrings!”
“If you don’t hurry up, there won’t be time to walk,” he called as she scurried away.
Margaret pretended not to hear him. The earring backs were a bit fiddly, but she finally got them on and crossed the room
to the bureau to check herself in the mirror one more time.
Not bad, she thought.
Turning to leave, she caught sight of the shelf where she displayed her most important mementos: two previous awards, a notebook
of her clippings, framed photographs of the Bettys, and photos with various colleagues, including Mrs. Graham. Katharine had
died in 2001, but not a week went by without Margaret thinking of her old boss, the woman who had opened so many doors for
her. Margaret reached for the photo.
“Thanks for inviting me into the room, Katharine. That lunch changed everything.”
Sylvia, a bit worse for wear but still functional, also had a spot on the shelf. Every now and again, Margaret typed out a
letter or two, just for the pleasure of striking the keys and hearing the cheerful ding of the roller return. Today Sylvia
sat atop Margaret’s 1963 copy of The Feminine Mystique, near a snapshot of Margaret and the author.
They’d met at a fundraiser in 1971. Margaret had found Friedan prickly, defensive, and a bit arrogant, nothing like the Aunt
Betty of her imagination. But that was beside the point. It wasn’t the woman herself who had altered Margaret’s path, but
the words she had written. Prickly or not, Friedan had produced a work that cast ripples through generations of women, including
many who had never heard her name or read her book.
“Margaret Ruth Ryan,” Walt shouted from the foyer, “if you don’t shake a leg, you’re going to miss your own party!”
“Coming!” Margaret placed Mrs. Graham’s picture back on the shelf, then scanned the photo gallery once again. “Thanks, girls.
Thanks for everything.”
* * *
Though the Lafayette Ballroom was beginning to fill as they entered, Margaret and Walt were the first of their party to arrive.
Margaret saw plenty of familiar faces milling around the reception area, people she had worked with over the years. They offered
congratulations on her award, complimented her outfit, and said they needed to get together soon. Margaret took note so she
could follow up later. What Mrs. Graham had said all those years ago was still true—Washington was all about connections.
Margaret was always intentional about maintaining hers.
At the check-in table, a young woman who introduced herself as the “honoree wrangler” escorted them to their seats. “You’re
right here,” she said, gesturing toward a round table at the front of the room. “Number 5. We put all the award recipients
near the stage to help move things along. Remember, everyone only gets three minutes for their remarks.”
“What happens if I go over? Do you play music over the speech? Bring out the hook?” At the wrangler’s alarmed expression,
Margaret laughed. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll be brief.”
When the woman left, Walt gave Margaret a look that was half reproving and half admiring. “That wasn’t very nice, Margaret.
You scared that poor girl.”
Margaret gave him an impish smile. “Well, I’m not as sweet as I used to be.”
“But a helluva lot more fun.” He gave her a peck and pulled out her chair. “Why do all hotel ballrooms look the same? And
why, even with all these people around, can you never flag down a server? I want a drink.”
“Me too. Can you go to the bar?”
“What would you like?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Margaret said distractedly. “Surprise me.”