The ride was choppy, and Bill had to steer the boat into the waves to keep the spray from the whitecaps away. Margaret wanted to sit next to him on the captain’s seat, so he gave her a hand up. They held on to each other as the boat was lifted high by one big wave and then dropped back into the sea. Bill promised it would be smoother sailing once they turned the point.
Margaret felt secure in Bill’s closeness on their perch above the ocean. He turned the boat into the channel of islands. It occurred to Margaret that those patches of land and trees looked disconnected on the surface, but far below, they were the same land. The trees, rocks, and ocean valleys were all one, standing together against the endless waves. People were like these islands, she thought. They live separate lives, but underneath they are all connected. They seek comfort and support through others. No one really stands alone. Margaret nestled in closer to Bill, thrilled to be in his arms in the fresh air and on the exciting seas of her beloved Maine.
*
By fall, Margaret had won her bet with John McCullough. Gertrude Stein was already at work on The World Is Round, a children’s manuscript. She promptly finished it for Scott to review. On the evening it arrived, Margaret invited John and Bill Scott to come to her apartment to read through their prize. As was her style, Stein added little punctuation. This didn’t surprise Margaret, but John was flummoxed. It was unreadable. Margaret still had hopes of meeting her literary hero, so she wasn’t going to cave easily, nor would she second-guess Stein’s methods.
For over an hour, they debated whether what Stein had sent was publishable. Margaret defended Stein’s view that children naturally knew where pauses in stories fell. John was certain that children would get lost in Stein’s train-of-thought style. Scott listened thoughtfully to both of his staff members: he knew that publishing this text would be a financial risk, but he wanted the laurels of having such a famous author on his small company’s list. Like Margaret, he believed in challenging the status quo in favor of moving children’s literature forward.
Suddenly, the lights went out. This wasn’t the first time Margaret had forgotten to pay her bill, but it was an unfortunate time for it to happen. She knew what to do. She found her stash of candles and placed them strategically around the living room. Before long, everyone grew hungry, but the only thing edible in Margaret’s apartment was a boat-shaped cake she had ordered for a bon voyage party she was hosting the next day. It was important to keep Scott there until she could convince him to accept Stein’s manuscript, so she placed the cake on the coffee table. Between bites, the conversation continued.
Both sides grew more entrenched in their positions, and the discussion turned heated. At its crescendo, Basil stepped inside the apartment to return Margaret’s vacuum cleaner. He had heard loud voices on the other side of the door and had come in, unsure of what he might be walking into. When he saw the partially eaten cake, candles burning on every available ledge, and the startled faces gazing up at him, it was more than the shy professor could bear. He dropped the vacuum and scurried down the hall, away from the drama unfolding in Margaret’s apartment.
Margaret’s laughter broke the tension, and the three editors soon reached a resolution. Margaret felt victorious. They would publish the book. She would edit the manuscript and present her suggested changes to John and Scott. It would be John’s responsibility to convince Stein to accept them.
*
Margaret had arranged to meet Bill Gaston for lunch at the Bear & Bull, part of the Waldorf Astoria hotel. Coming in from the bright day, she had to pause at the entrance for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the cloaked darkness of the room. She didn’t see him. This room was rarely empty, but Margaret had never been there for lunch; evenings were always brisk and crowded.
Margaret took a few steps toward the bar and caught the bartender’s eyes. He lifted his head toward the back of the room, and she saw Bill sitting at a table in the corner. He wasn’t alone. Margaret nodded a quick thanks to the bartender and saw a sympathetic look in his eyes. She took a deep breath and made sure there was a smile on her face before she headed to Bill’s table.
The woman sitting with him had on a black silk dress that was totally inappropriate for the early afternoon hour. Her body language indicated that if she hadn’t already slept with Bill, it wasn’t out of the question. Margaret’s name for women like this one was Slitch. These women were always slinking around cocktail parties in low-cut dresses with an air of superiority founded only on their sexuality. Margaret knew that once those Slitches had to carry on a conversation, she could always trump them. Wit was her domain.
Bill said the woman knew how to read palms, and the Slitch offered to read Margaret’s. She declined, saying that she would let her foot be read, but never her palm—that she kept a secret. Even the Slitch laughed, but it sounded as forced as the smile on Margaret’s face.
Soon the woman said her good-byes, and Margaret was left alone with Bill. He told her that the woman was quite clever at outwitting the government. Her clothes, jewelry, and apartment were all gifts from men she knew, and none of it was documented, so she never filed income taxes. Margaret knew better than to criticize another woman to a man because it always compelled him to defend her. Yes, she agreed, that was very wise of the girl.
Smart, indeed, Margaret thought. That Slitch cut emotions out of the equation. To her, relationships were probably nothing more than business transactions. Maybe that’s what Margaret needed to do—build emotional calluses when it came to Bill. But it was too late; she was in love, and the worst part was that she knew for certain there would always be another woman with him at the bar.
Nine
1939
Fog
Like memory
Drifts softly
Softly over the sea
Grey in its mystery
And all we see
Or do not see
Is different
Softened in fog
And memory.
UNPUBLISHED
Margaret sat at the antique dining table that served as her desk at Scott’s new offices. Through the glass-paned door behind her, peacocks strutted around the small courtyard. At her feet rested her Kerry blue terrier, Smoke. He appeared to be nothing more than a black mass of curls until he moved or groaned. Across from her sat Leonard Weisgard, an illustrator she hoped to hire. He was gangly with a crest of thick, dark hair that reminded her of a cockatoo. His agent had sent him to meet with Margaret a few days earlier, hoping she would hire him to illustrate Gertrude Stein’s book.