Before leaving New York, Michael met with her accountant, who told her she had to find a way to make an income. Her divorce settlement and savings would not support her for long. She was terrified she couldn’t support herself. Her recent autobiography hadn’t sold well, and none of her poetry had been published in years. Her agent was trying to sell a collection of letters between her and John Barrymore, but there was little interest. Barrymore had died in May, and the stardust that once surrounded the couple was fading. Worse, the legacy he built was being dismantled by Diana’s bad behavior. The only headlines the young starlet made were for throwing punches at Hollywood parties or producers. Always mercurial, Michael was now even more sensitive and irritable.
When Margaret made a seemingly innocuous comment that she liked lightning and thunder as she watched a storm turn the sky black, Michael raged at her. How could she be so insensitive? Margaret knew she had a terrible fear of storms, and her remark was inconsiderate. Michael retreated to her bedroom, and Margaret slept on the couch that night. She was angry with herself that she’d ruined Michael’s first day in her new house. She reflected on the shifting sands that were Michael’s moods and on her own desire to please. What did Michael really want—a friend with her own thoughts and opinions, or a statue standing silent? She was tyrannical with Margaret, then wanted her to stand as an independent person. The situation was impossible!
As she lay there, she wondered if the relationship she hoped for could ever be. She slept fitfully and was awakened by Michael making coffee downstairs. Margaret waited quietly as she wondered what this day would hold. Michael asked Margaret to join her for breakfast, and everything seemed to be back to normal. They chattered to their dogs and talked about where to place a vegetable garden. When Michael rose to go write in her studio, Margaret flippantly told Michael to work hard, and Michael responded with a torrent of complaints. Michael criticized Margaret for mispronouncing her words; she said her remarks weren’t clear in their connotations or meanings; she wanted everything brought to her lower level of understanding; she intentionally found ways to aggravate others—just to get a reaction from them. She said Margaret’s inability to write anything except children’s nonsense was because she had no deep emotions. Her writing could only become more serious if she, too, became more serious. Margaret needed to grow up, Michael raged.
Michael’s words stung, but Margaret knew some of her accusations were valid. There was, indeed, something within her that wrecked relationships. She obsessed over trying to please lovers and then found ways to undermine and irritate them. She recognized that quality in her own mother and was afraid it was an inherited curse. Her habit of using the wrong word and losing her train of thought when she spoke was embarrassing. She struggled with self-confidence and knew Michael did, as well, but the face Michael was able to show the world was one of confidence, courage, and intelligence. Margaret wanted that for herself. She wished she could cut the damaged part of her psyche out of her brain and heart, but she would take this bitter medicine from Michael in the hope of sweet things to come. She told herself that Michael was not lecturing her out of cruelty but out of a loving desire to fix her. She, too, wanted their relationship to be one between equals. Michael had no desire to be with a childlike version of herself, skipping along. If she was to keep Michael’s love, she had to come forth as herself, pure and relaxed, uncompromising and ruthless. She apologized to Michael.
That evening, Michael received a phone call from a reporter at a major New York newspaper, the New York Journal-American, asking about her divorce. He told her that Tweed had flown to Reno and filed for divorce. Margaret listened to Michael’s laugh and her flippant responses. How easy it was for her to shape editorial policy. How wise of her to be charming and cheerful instead of defensive. Michael called her lawyer and had him countersue Tweed for divorce on the grounds of mental cruelty.
The two women spent the next few days reading and gardening. Margaret planted tomato vines along the fence, and Michael planted chrysanthemums in beds near the house. They dug a winter garden and talked about the soups they would make from their carrots and beets. When they wore their dirty clothes and muddy boots into town, Margaret teased Michael that she would need to hide if she saw any of her social club friends. They surely wouldn’t allow someone who tromped around in filthy clothes like hers as a member.
When they returned to New York, the article on Michael’s divorce was published. Michael’s charm on the phone with the reporter had counted for nothing. Tweed had tipped off the reporter to Michael’s affair with Margaret. Tweed had obviously worked closely with the reporter to craft the vicious exposé, which dismissed Michael’s stage career and poetry as insignificant. To make certain she knew he was the source, Tweed provided the sketch that hung above their fireplace for the article. The article branded Michael as the “Sappho of Long Island.”
Michael was shattered. Being an avant-garde, somewhat androgynous poet was considered eccentric and was tolerated in her circle of society friends like the Vanderbilts and Astors, but being called a lesbian in the paper of record almost certainly meant social banishment.
Michael hid away at the Colony Club worried that she might lose friends, family, and her inheritance after the scathing article. She told Margaret to stay away. It was better for both of them if they weren’t seen together until Michael’s lawyers settled the financial details of her divorce.
Michael refused Margaret’s calls, but a month after the article ran, she invited her to lunch at the Plaza Hotel. Margaret arrived first and took a table at the back of the room so she could watch for Michael. She didn’t recognize her until a strange woman sat down at her table in the seat opposite her. Michael had hidden her bushy brown hair by a veil tied close to her head and under her chin. She told Margaret she was incognito—she’d grown tired of hearing the whispers of “There goes Michael Strange” as she walked by.
Her voice was strident, not at all like her usual calm, musical tone. She had been very busy trying to settle the whole mess with Tweed. Their plans to live together at Gracie Square were out. Tweed would be keeping the apartment. Michael had to find a new place to live. She wouldn’t be able to see or call Margaret for a long time. Margaret needed to stop asking where Michael had been and what she had been doing with her days. She already had enough to worry about.
Michael worked hard to maintain her androgynous, mysterious allure; she would not put that at risk for a relationship with Margaret. Neither would she give up her social standing for anyone. After her pronouncement, Michael was happy and light again. Margaret’s mind raced with responses she kept to herself. She mourned for the lost closeness with Michael but knew there was nothing else they could do.