Mr. Meade his comeuppance. But as she walked briskly, almost skipping to her desk, she admitted to herself that the basis for her outrage was more than intellectual. His comments had come bruisingly close to an implied indictment of her, even if she didn’t deserve it. She shrugged it off and began the letter.
“Mr. Meade,” she wrote, “I don’t know by what right you’re an authority on the family—and I doubt from your comments tonight in the program Capitol Life that you are—but you most certainly are not an authority on women. If a great many American women, and especially African American women, didn’t work outside the home, their families would starve. Would that bother you? And if you tried being a tiny bit more masculine, maybe the women with whom you associate might be ‘less aggressive,’ as you put it, softer and more feminine. Don’t you think we women have a big enough load without you dumping all that on us? Be a pal and give us a break, please. And don’t forget, Mr. Meade, even squash have fathers. Please be a good sport and don’t answer this note. Most sincerely, Naomi Logan.” She addressed it to him in care of the program and the station.
That should take care of him, she decided, already dismissing the incident. But within a week, she had his blunt reply: “Dear Ms. Logan, if you had listened to everything I said and had understood it, you might not have accused me so unfairly. From the content of your letter, it would appear that you’ve got some guilt you need to work through. Or are you apologizing for being a career woman? If the shoe fits, wear it. The lack of a reply would be much appreciated. Yours, Rufus Meade.”
Naomi hadn’t planned to pursue her argument with Rufus Meade; it was enough that she’d told him what she thought of his ideas and that her letter had annoyed him. A glance at her watch told her that the weekly radio program Capitol Life was about to begin. Curious as to whether he was a regular panelist, she tuned in. He wasn’t a regular, she learned, but had been invited back because of the clamor that his statement the previous week had caused.
The moderator introduced Rufus, who lost no time in defending his position. “Eighty percent of those who wrote or called protesting my remarks were women; most of the men thought I didn’t go far enough. Has any of you asked the children in these street gangs where their mothers are when they get home from school—provided they’re in school—what they do after school, when they last had a home-cooked meal, whether their parents know where they are? I have. Their mothers aren’t home, so they don’t know where their children are or what they’re doing. With nobody to control them, the children hang out in the street, and that is how we lose them. Children need parental guidance. When it was the norm in this society for mothers to remain at home, we had fewer social problems—less delinquency and fewer divorces. One protestor wrote me that even squash have fathers. Yes, they do. And they also have mothers who stick with them until they’re old enough to fend for themselves. In fact, the mothers die nurturing their little ones’ development.”
Naomi rubbed her fingers together in frustration. A sensible person would ignore the man and his archaic ideas. She flipped off the radio in the middle of one of his sentences. Wednesday’s mail brought another note from him.
“Dear Ms. Logan, I hope you tuned in to Capitol Life Sunday night. Some of my remarks were for your benefit. Of course, if you have a closed mind, I was merely throwing chaff to a gusty wind. Can’t say I didn’t try, though. Yours, RM.”
Excitement coursed through her as she read his note. She knew that not answering would be the best way to get the better of him. He wanted her to be annoyed, and if he didn’t hear from her, he would assume that she had lost interest. But she couldn’t resist the temptation, and she bet he was counting on that.
Her reply read, “Dear Mr. Meade, next time you’re on the air, I’d appreciate your explaining what a two-month-old squash does when it no longer needs its mother and fends for itself. (Something tells me it gets eaten.) You didn’t really mean to equate the maturity of a squash with achievement of adulthood in humans, did you? I’d try to straighten that out, if I were you. Don’t bother to write. I’ll keep tuning in to Capitol Life. Well, hang in there. Yours, NL.”
She only had to wait four days for his answer. “Dear Ms. Logan, you have deliberately misunderstood me. I stand by my position that as long as women guarded the home rather than the office and the Mack truck, juvenile crime and divorce were less frequent occurrences. You are not seriously concerned with these urgent problems, so I will not waste time writing you again. I’m assuming you’re a career woman, and my advice is to stick with your career; at least you’ll have that. Yours, RM.”
Naomi curved her mouth into a long, slow grin. She always enjoyed bedeviling straitlaced, overly serious people, though she acknowledged to herself that her cheekiness was a camouflage. It enabled her to cover her vulnerability and to shrug off problems, and besides, she loved her wicked side. Rufus Meade’s words told her that he was easily provoked and had a short fuse, and she planned to light it; never would she forgo such a tantalizing challenge.
Curled up on her downy sofa, she wrote with relish: “Dear Mr. Meade, I’ve probably been unfair to you. You remind me so much of my grandfather, who was born just before the turn of the century. If you’re also a nonagenarian, my sincere apologies. For what it’s worth, I am not a ‘career woman.’ I am a woman who works at a job for which I am well trained. The alternative at present would be to marry a male chauvinist in exchange for my keep, or to take to the streets, since food, clothing, and shelter carry a price tag. But considering your concern for the fate of the family, I don’t think you’d approve of the latter. But then, it isn’t terribly different from the former, now, is it? Sorry, but I have to go; the Saturday afternoon Metropolitan Opera performance is just beginning, and I’m a sucker for La Traviata. Till next time. Naomi Logan.” After addressing it to him, she mailed it and hurried back to listen to the opera.
Several days later, engrossed in her work, Naomi laid aside her paintbrush and easel and reluctantly lifted the phone receiver. In a voice meant to discourage the caller, she muttered, “Yes?”
There was a brief silence, and then a deep male voice responded. “Miss Logan, please.”
She sat down, crossed her knee, and kicked off her right shoe. That voice could only belong to him. She had heard it only twice, but she would never forget it. It was a voice that commanded respect, that proclaimed its owner to be clever, authoritative, and manly, and, if you weren’t annoyed by its message, it was sensually beautiful.
“Speaking,” she said almost reluctantly, as if sensing the hand of fate. There was more silence. “I’m hanging up in thirty seconds,” she snapped. “Why are you calling?”
His reply was tinged with what struck her as a grudging laugh. “Miss Logan, this is Rufus Meade. It seems that your spoken language is as caustic as your letters.”
Her world suddenly brightened; she’d made him angry enough to call her. She tucked a little of her wild hair behind her ear and laughed. Many people had told her that her laughter sounded like bells clinking in the breeze. “I thought I had apologized for being disrespectful,” she said softly, with an affected sweetness. “If Grandpa knew how I’d behaved toward an older person, he’d raise the devil.”
“At the expense of being rude,” he replied tightly. “I doubt that there’s a ninety-year-old man on the face of this earth who is my equal, and if you’re less than eighty, I’m prepared to demonstrate it.”
Oh ho, she thought, and howled with laughter, hoping to infuriate him further. “My, my. Our ego’s been pricked, and we’ve got a short temper, too.”
“And less patience, madam. You’re brimming with self-confidence, aren’t you, Ms. Logan?” She assured him that she was. Up to then, his conversation had suggested to her that he didn’t hold her in high regard, so his next words surprised her.
“Taking a swipe at me in person should be much more gratifying than having to settle for snide remarks via the mail and over the phone, so why don’t you have lunch with me?”
She laughed again, turning the screw and enjoying it. “You couldn’t be serious. Why would you think I’d enjoy