Margaret’s work with Disney and editing fables had taught her that children, regardless of their race or gender, connected with stories with animals as main characters. The public seemed to agree with her, judging from the success of the Disney books. She took on more book projects for the studio, including a manners book. She joked that Donald Duck was going to say, “Hell, that ain’t polite!” but in reality she believed in the importance of social graces and was proud of all her work. She was also too polite to directly challenge her former mentor. She no longer shared those types of stories in the Writers Laboratory. Instead, she borrowed her friends’ children and read her stories to them.
Margaret’s career was zooming along. She was part of Bank Street’s seminars on how to write for children and was quite proud that the Museum of Modern Art in New York displayed her book The Little Fireman in an exhibition of contemporary American art. She was writing for Bank Street, Scott, Harper, and a magazine geared toward children called Story Parade. She earned more than most authors, but she usually spent every penny before the next royalty payment arrived. She was an impulsive spender and a poor record keeper, so it wasn’t unusual to receive notice her bank account was overdrawn. She took that in stride, rarely worrying about her cash flow. Her father would always loan her what she needed to get by, or she could turn a manuscript into quick cash by selling it to a magazine. As a last resort, she could always sell a book for a flat fee in lieu of royalties. She rarely took that course, but one time she saw a gray fox coat in a store window. She didn’t have the money to buy it, but it was gorgeous—worth selling off all the rights to a manuscript. She knew Bennett Cerf at Random House was looking for children’s books. Even though at a party long ago she had dumped a drink in his lap for making fun of her “baby” books, they were friends. She called him up and that day walked out of his office with a check.
What Margaret was completely incapable of writing was anything of interest for adults. She submitted short stories, feature articles, and books to editors and publishers she knew, but only one of her articles was picked up. The finished piece was published as a photo essay, so she wasn’t even credited.
The short stories she wrote still mirrored her life. In one, she lashed out against her staid brother-in-law, Basil, for criticizing her flitting, uncertain career and romantic life. In another, she recounted meeting the now-married Morrie for a drink in the hope of understanding why he had left her years before. These stories were useful for purging her frustrations and rewriting unsatisfactory endings of relationships and arguments to her own liking, but they were little more than diary entries.
She still yearned to write something of literary merit for adults but couldn’t seem to leave the children’s book business behind. She assigned days of the week to focus only on serious writing, but found she couldn’t schedule what flowed out of her. When she put her pencil to paper to write something for adults, another children’s story, poem, or song poured out. She couldn’t stop them even when she tried. It felt like automatic writing, as if she was only the medium through which the stories came.
She decided that the only way to jump from juvenile to grown-up writing was to leave children’s publishing altogether. Maybe that would turn the spigot of juvenile notions into something she could sell to an adult audience. She had resigned from Scott at the beginning of the year but continued to write books for the small publishing house. She made the rounds of her regular publishers and told them that she would accept no more writing assignments. She turned over most of her Bank Street editorial duties to another editor and, perhaps to convince herself, listed herself as a writer of juvenile books and of a play and stories not intended for children in the annual publication of Who’s Who in America.
She soon knew that a complete break wasn’t possible. There were projects in the works she was contracted to finish. She also wanted to continue some series, like the Noisy books, for the sake of her illustrators. Her books were selling, and children’s publishing divisions were springing up in almost every publishing house. Many of them called, hoping she would write something for them. She told them she was too busy. Earlier that year, Al Leventhal, the publisher who first hired her to write for Disney, suggested she join a guild of writers and artists that was producing books for a variety of publishers. He was a good friend, and she liked working with him, so it had been tempting. She had initially declined, but after she pared down her schedule to commit herself to writing more for an adult audience, she realized she couldn’t support herself if she wasn’t writing for children.
*
Margaret was surprised when Michael Strange called to invite her to lunch. She wondered what spurred this invitation but was excited to see Michael again. At Margaret’s suggestion, they planned to meet at the Lafayette, Margaret’s favorite restaurant. She chose a seat that gave her a view of the entrance. She wanted to see how the staff reacted to a celebrity coming to their restaurant. People like Michael seldom ventured into the Village.
She ordered a vermouth cassis and tried to shake off the hurriedness that enveloped her. She lived close by but had barely arrived on time. She didn’t want to be late—even though Bill had said it was unlikely Michael would show; he had reported to Margaret that Michael rarely did anything she promised.
Michael arrived only a little late. She swirled into the doorway in a huge fur coat topped by a fur hat. She looked like a member of the Russian royal family. The ma?tre d’ greeted her with a flourish and showed her to Margaret’s table. The waiter, who had been entirely indifferent to Margaret’s drink order, praised Michael’s choice of sherry effusively. Margaret smiled, happy to see the typically subdued staff in a fluster.
Michael also needed a moment to settle. She had gotten on the wrong subway, and when she emerged at street level, she’d been lost in the angular maze of streets and buildings of the Village. Over drinks, they chatted, and Margaret contemplated why exactly Michael had asked her to lunch. There was a current flowing under this meeting, Margaret could feel it. Michael’s eyes danced with anticipation, which told Margaret there was more going on in Michael’s mind than her polite conversation let on.
After their first drink, Michael asked Margaret how her love life was faring. Margaret tried to laugh it off, but Michael pressed her. Was she living with a wild musician? Maybe two of them? If so, was the sex good?