Michael had never been alone in her life, and Margaret doubted it was really what she wanted, either. They both longed for something beyond love and friendship—a relationship so deep they could call on that other person any time of the day or night. People learned to live without that, but Margaret didn’t want to.
After lunch, they stepped outside to watch the Navy Day Parade. The military men marching past the Plaza wore uniforms, but to Margaret, they didn’t look like soldiers yet. Most still wore the demeanor of their civilian trades. Only the sportsmen and officers wore their uniforms with any martial bearing.
Michael said it reminded her of the time she carried the American flag in a suffragette march. The flag was too long, and at Forty-second Street, a policeman had stopped and helped her fix it. As Margaret and Michael watched the men march off to their uncertain fate, Michael pulled off her veil and vowed not to wear it again.
Thirteen
1943
Put a he on a he
Or a she on a she
And it never adds up to 1 2 3.
Put a he on a she
Or a she on a he
And before you can even say Jack Robinson
You’ve made 3.
He times she divided by he
Then take away she
And now what have you left?
A he or a she.
And what’s this strange geometry
Within the heart of you and me?
This place apart
This secret heart
When all is what it seems to be.
“HE AND SHE”
White Freesias
Michael rented two apartments on East End Avenue. The flats were at the end of a hall across from each other, and she planned to live in one. The other she intended to use as a writing studio. She planned a New Year’s party at her new apartments and fretfully waited for guests to arrive. If all went well—if people came—then her reputation had survived the vicious article. She wasn’t sure if Tweed’s influence could sway the Social Register to remove her from the list, but this party would give her an indication.
The next day, she called Margaret, ecstatic that the newspaper piece actually served to make her more attractive to the men in her circle. Among the women, it elevated her mystique. She was, without a doubt, still part of the social set that mattered so much to her. Finances, though, would be a problem. She asked Margaret if she wanted to give up her place in the Village and move into the apartment Michael was going to use as a writing studio.
The new apartments were only two blocks from Michael’s Gracie Square apartment but were a world away from Margaret’s bohemian enclave in Greenwich Village. She would only have to pay Michael for half of the rent, the same amount she was already paying for her old apartment. Unlike her ancient building in the Village, this one had hot and cold running water. An arched marble fireplace graced the room. But a wall of windows looking out on the East River as it curved around the building was the most dramatic feature in the space. Having apartments at the end of the hall gave the women similarly spectacular views that glistened in the day and sparkled at night as the boats moved up and down the water.
Michael’s proximity meant frequent interruptions. Michael simply couldn’t force herself to sit down and work. One day she claimed to have gotten a great deal done, but Margaret was surprised to see that the work she had done was party planning, not poetry.
Michael’s inability to concentrate had become a problem for Margaret. Lunches at the Plaza, Diana’s latest drama, and a busy social calendar were easy distractions. If Margaret didn’t get her writing done between eight in the morning, when she woke, and ten, when Michael stirred, then it was unlikely she would write at all that day. She needed a place away from Michael’s hubbub. Deadlines were upon her.
She remembered a book of New York architecture Tweed had that included a photo of a tiny antebellum farmhouse nestled among tall buildings somewhere on the Upper East Side. If the house still existed, it would make a fine writing studio. Its size and cobblestone courtyard reminded Margaret of the house she had rented from Stringfellow Barr while at UVA, but she couldn’t remember exactly where it was. Margaret spent a morning walking around the Upper East Side looking for the little cottage. She peered around buildings and down alleys for hours. Finally, on York Avenue, she saw a building that looked familiar. She walked through the entryway of a tenement and found it. The little clapboard house was tucked away underneath a peach tree. It was just as she remembered in the photograph. It was painted white with angles of roof betraying addition after addition. Somehow all the changes only made the home more charming. She located the landlord of the tenement building and found that she owned this little home, too. She told Margaret it had once been a goat hut, which only added to its appeal for the whimsical writer. Margaret rented it on the spot.
The house was nestled behind the tenement, a series of brownstones, and a Greek Orthodox monastery. It had only four rooms—two upstairs and two down. The floors were connected by a stairway outside. An attached room housed the bathroom, and a tall stucco wall at the north end of the courtyard was accented by a medieval-looking wooden door that led to the monastery’s garden. There was no electricity, and two drafty fireplaces were the home’s only sources of heat. The cold seemed to radiate from the old brick floor, so Margaret filled the house with plenty of furs. In front of one small window, she hooked a hammock into a small nook. Michael decorated the little house with antique furniture, and together they planted flowers in the courtyard. A friend donated two geranium trees that had once stood at the entrance of a horse track. Their colorful flowers bloomed high on either side of the front door. Margaret christened her little hidden home Cobble Court.
A few days after settling into Cobble Court, Margaret returned home to the apartments to find Michael in a meeting with a promoter. She seemed quite nervous, so Margaret quickly retreated to her own apartment.
Later, Michael told Margaret the promoter had called her, hoping to hire her to perform a series of concerts around the country that, like her short-lived radio show, married great works of literature with classical music. Given Michael’s uncharacteristic jumpiness, Margaret was certain it had been the other way around. Regardless, the promoter and Michael had reached an agreement. The tour would start in small concert halls and churches and run for six months before finishing at Carnegie Hall in New York. Michael was elated. She was going to have an income that came with a spotlight.
This was Michael’s tacit admission she was not going to succeed as a writer. The recital readings and their accompanying music would take weeks to plan, but she was at last motivated to work. Margaret was relieved. She still wrote short stories and had written a play for an adult audience, but it was clear she couldn’t soon support herself as a writer of anything besides children’s books. Those stories about furry little animals that Michael made fun of might not be serious literature, but they paid the bills.