Six of Margaret’s books had been published in the last two years, and all the while, she had been rewriting fables into storybooks for the Walt Disney studio and rewriting Brer Rabbit stories for W. R. Scott. It dawned on her that the common threads in those ancient stories was human nature—its failings and triumphs. Such stories had been told for centuries because every culture at every time understood the themes. The characters and way in which the stories were told changed, but the essence of the stories remained the same. Those stories were recounted around campfires, then by troubadours and, eventually, shared in amphitheaters and much later on televisions. Now, she was transforming them into picture books for Disney to animate and show on thirty-foot movie screens. Donald Duck, Mickey Mouse, and their friends replaced those ancient characters, but at the heart, the stories were the same—they were simply being told for a new audience in a new way. Margaret realized that if she could write about the common threads of childhood in her own books, then maybe they, like fables, would last.
As she sped down the slope, the book crystalized in her mind. She settled into the warm, tiny shack and dashed off a story about a child who tells his mother that he is going to run away. He threatens to turn into a variety of things to escape, but she counters each of his metamorphoses by changing into something that will bring him safely back to her. At the end of the story, he decides he might as well stay home. By the time Margaret’s date and Monty returned, she had completed the story on the only available piece of paper she had: her ski receipt.
*
At the beginning of December, Margaret was in Saks Fifth Avenue and stopped at the perfume counter. She asked to sample the perfume she knew Michael wore. It was completely unique and far out of Margaret’s price range, but it smelled divine. How smart of Michael to choose an expensive and memorable scent instead of flitting from one perfume to another like most women, Margaret thought. The aroma lingered in Margaret’s memory long after she left the store. It triggered a desire to be with the alluring woman, so Margaret invited her for cocktails.
They met in the Village and took a walk after drinks. It was a warm night for that time of the year. A foggy mist blew in from the river and laced the air as they wandered aimlessly down the empty streets. Dark forms scuttled into doorways as they drew close, vanishing by the time the women walked by. Michael threw her arm over Margaret’s shoulder and spoke of days in Paris and of walking with school friends through sinister, mysterious streets that felt like this.
At one corner, they saw taxi drivers across the intersection. The drivers stood outside their cabs, smoking cigarettes. Michael shouted out to them, asking if they could tell her where the Grand Theatre was. One shouted back that it had been gone for years but he could take them by the place where it used to be.
Michael waved her thanks. She wanted to walk. She took Margaret’s arm and led her down the street. The driver yelled after them that it wasn’t safe for them to walk alone—there were wolves on the way. Michael leaned into Margaret and asked what he had meant by wolves. Bad men, Margaret explained, men lurking in doorways.
Michael howled the word wolves over and over, in her low, sensuous voice. As they walked on in the low-hanging fog, danger shrouded the air. It made Margaret feel alive.
*
That week, Margaret received her first disparaging book review in The New York Times for Polite Little Penguin. The reviewer found it well-meaning but confusing—the story didn’t really make sense. Most likely little attention was paid to the book reviews in that day’s paper. It was December 7, 1941—the day the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor.
Three days later, Michael recorded her last broadcast for the America First Committee and then held a cocktail party. Bill and Margaret went, even though there were rumors there was to be a blackout across Manhattan that night amid fears that the city might be attacked. Margaret and Michael were amused that they both wore black dresses with bright red belts.
Michael offered to let Margaret use one of the spare rooms in her apartment as a writing studio. That way they could read each other’s work at the end of the day. Bill warned Margaret to be careful or she would wind up being Michael’s Boswell—a reference to the eighteenth-century biographer James Boswell, who kept meticulously detailed notes on the life of his friend and subject Dr. Samuel Johnson. Margaret protested but knew he wasn’t too far off the mark—Michael confessed she collected biographers and journalists as friends in the hope they would write about her.
Margaret envisioned herself writing in Michael’s lavish apartment. One of Tweed’s relatives had been the architect and another the owner of the development, so he and Michael had one of the best apartments in the building. It had a dramatic view of the East River, and whenever Margaret entered it, she felt like she had stepped into a home on the coast of France. Floor-length Venetian mirrors hung on the walls. At each turn, large vases of flowers the size of bushes were strategically placed. Over the huge Renaissance fireplace, a mantel was lined with tiny glass animals, and above it hung a sketch of Michael by a famous French artist. In those pencil lines, Margaret saw Michael’s exceptional beauty in her youth.
When Margaret first walked into Michael’s bedroom, she wondered if she had stepped into her daughter Diana’s bedroom by mistake. Stuffed animals were stacked high on the bed. It turned out they were all Michael’s; she confessed that she’d collected them her whole life. The room itself was sophisticated, decorated in blue velvet baroque fabrics. Heavy blue drapes framed the window. From there, the river looked like a silver ribbon winding its way around the city. At night, the lights along the shore lined the river as it faded from sight.
*
Although Michael and Tweed appeared to be a happy couple while they entertained in their magnificent home, Margaret knew it was a fa?ade. Michael was miserable in her marriage. She confessed that she was incapable of being faithful to her husband, or any man, and had learned the art of discreet affairs when she visited Spain during her boarding school days. She had asked someone why Spanish women were so close to their maids, why they always rushed off to the movies together in the afternoon. She was told that the women weren’t really going to the movies. The minute they turned the corner, the women walked off to meet their lovers while the maids went on to the movies. American women, Michael said, want to talk about their affairs. If they had the good sense to keep quiet, there would be far less trouble.
Twelve
1942
For having felt well loved by you
For having felt no shyness that you should watch my face
For the joyous meeting of eyes in laughter
The fling of your head
And the dark bright look of you
The warm flowing laughter
From a hundred hidden springs in other years
And for the constant uncertainty
Of when you would laugh
“IN GREATER AMICUS”
White Freesias