For the first time in weeks, Charlie found himself facing a Saturday and Sunday with no work plans—no receptions or cocktail parties, no hearing preparation or research—so he was determined to make the weekend enjoyable for him and Margaret. On Saturday morning he surprised her with breakfast in bed—toast, eggs, bacon, coffee—though her lingering morning sickness meant most of her bites and sips were in the name of love, not hunger. He settled next to her on the bed and opened up Friday’s Washington Star. “Should we see a movie?” In New York they saw films so often, it didn’t matter which one they picked on any given night since odds were they’d see another within the week. But since moving to Washington, they hadn’t been to the cinema once.
Margaret nodded but patted her still-small belly and said, “I’m asserting my right to pregnancy-veto.”
Charlie rolled his eyes playfully and checked the listings.
“How to Marry a Millionaire,” Charlie read.
“That’s with”—Margaret paused and then whispered breathlessly—“Marilyn Monroe?” She put her finger on her lips, widened her eyes: Baby girl so confused!
“All right, all right,” Charlie said, smiling, well aware of Margaret’s aversion to Miss Cheesecake 1951—an aversion he didn’t share, but now was not the time to press the issue. He glanced at the next ad. “Hondo, starring John Wayne.”
“Ugh,” she said. Two years before, Wayne’s Big Jim McLain depicted him as a heroic agent of the House Un-American Activities Committee, with cameos by actual HUAC members; ever since, Margaret had considered him a propaganda puppet of the more jingoistic drum majors in the U.S. Congress.
“The Wild One with Brando, that’s a no,” he announced. Charlie found Brando, and indeed the whole belly-scratching, teeth-picking Method-acting school, mumbly and contrived. “What’s A Lion Is in the Streets about? Cagney’s in it.”
“I think it’s about a crooked politician.”
“No politics, thank you,” Charlie said. “The Robe with Richard Burton?”
Margaret leaned closer to Charlie and looked at the ad. “Looks religious,” she said. “Let’s see something fun; we can do piety and suffering some other time.”
That left Roman Holiday, a romantic comedy with Gregory Peck and a newcomer named Audrey Hepburn.
Margaret was not only excited to get out of the house but touched by Charlie’s effort. Both on their best behavior, later that evening, after a lazy, comfy day at home, they walked hand in hand to the nearby cinema. They’d opted for the Calvert Theater, a classic movie house with luxurious and spacious seating. He put his arm around her as soon as the Paramount Pictures mountain logo appeared on the screen, and she accepted it, nestling into his chest.
He patted her tummy.
“I’m glad the rabbit died,” he whispered.
“That’s such a strange saying,” she whispered back. “The rabbit dies no matter what. They inject my urine into the bunny; a few days later they open the bunny to inspect her ovaries.”
“Bunny dies either way?”
“Bunny dies either way.”
They enjoyed the film, though they agreed that the what-might-have-been ending was unsatisfying. Charlie didn’t mention to Margaret that he’d grown a bit uncomfortable at the moral dilemma presented to the Gregory Peck character, who opts to do the noble thing; was Charlie choosing the same path? But he’d shaken off the discomfort and lost himself in the charm of the film. Afterward they retreated to Martin’s Tavern, a small Italian bistro on Wisconsin Avenue, where they ordered veal piccata and a carafe of Chianti.
They were trying to remind themselves of what they enjoyed about each other outside of the newly hectic tenor of their DC life. Ten days before, Charlie rushed home after the defense appropriations bill markup, excited to show his skeptical wife that his strategy had worked, that the money for Goodstone had been deleted in the latest draft. But even though he raced red lights and arrived home by six thirty, Margaret had already fallen into a deep sleep on the couch. The next morning, still eager to share his news, Charlie headed into the kitchen, only to find Margaret furious. The day before, she’d learned that Gwinnett’s research team had returned to Nanticoke and Susquehannock Islands without her. Her encounter with Teardrop the pony was the most noteworthy event in all their research. “But of course, my being a woman—and one with child, no less—all but erases that,” she fumed. “Can’t wait to see what gender pronouns are used to describe the researcher’s encounter with the pony in the final published work!” Charlie tried to be sympathetic, and he realized that this wouldn’t be the moment to share his own professional triumph. He left for work feeling vaguely disgruntled, and it wasn’t until a day later that she asked him about Goodstone. By then, he’d built up a head of righteous petulance and didn’t answer, even though he knew it was childish, and the simmering tensions between them continued.
Tonight, however, they were both trying to put aside the resentments they’d let fester. And as soon as they had their first sips of wine, she brought up the appropriations bill. She reached across the table to hold his hand. “Proud of you,” she said. He would have proposed again right there if he’d had a ring.
“It was great,” Charlie said. “I was trying to keep a low profile, but during the markup, Chairman Carlin took a moment to thank all the veterans for our service and for sharing our experiences with them. The other guys on the committee applauded; it was really nice.”
“And the appropriation money for Goodstone is gone?”
“Gone with the wind,” Charlie said. “The provision was literally x-ed out, a line struck through the whole paragraph. And on the floor of the House later, a bunch of the vets—Strongfellow, MacLachlan, Sutton, Street—all patted me on the back. Highlight of the year.” He caught himself—Margaret had told him she was pregnant in January. “In terms of Congress, I mean,” he added.
The tavern was full of revelers—Georgetown University students, professionals whose postwork happy hours had morphed into sloppy dinners, married couples trying to catch up after busy weeks. It was dark, the restaurant’s maroon ceiling and oak floors providing little reflection from the hanging chandeliers and candles on each table. Waiters bustled in and out of the kitchen, ferrying hamburgers, oyster stew, and hot browns to customers, while the saloon seemed almost like an assembly line for martinis.
Margaret rested her elbows on the table and ticked off the names on her fingers.
“Strongfellow is the OSS guy on crutches; MacLachlan, or ‘Mac,’ is the minister from Indiana; Sutton is the conservative Democrat who’s challenging Kefauver. Who’s Street?”
“The Tuskegee Airman,” Charlie said. “Distinguished Flying Cross.”
“Oh, right,” she said. “We should have him over for dinner. Is he married?”
“Yes,” Charlie said. “With twins. Just born last year.”
Margaret shuddered a bit. “Twins! I can’t imagine. Let’s hope we don’t get that lucky,” she said with a smile.
“Good God, no. Can’t imagine two; I’m terrified of one.”
“I wonder if people having twins say, ‘The rabbits died.’ Or if they think there were three dead rabbits for triplets.”
“Good Lord,” said Charlie. “If it’s triplets, I’ll have what the rabbits are having.”
She chuckled. “I’ve been meaning to ask you—does your office manager have children?”
“Miss Leopold? I don’t believe she’s even married. She’s never discussed any family. She wears rings, but none on her left ring finger. I can’t imagine she doesn’t have suitors—she’s a knockout for her age—but none that I know of. Why do you ask?”
“I want to visit your office more,” Margaret said. “If this is our life now, I need to get to know the people you’re working with.”