Told through alternating perspectives, The Wrong Kind of Woman is an engrossing story about finding the strength to forge new paths, beautifully woven against the rapid changes of the early ’70s.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Sarah McCraw Crow’s The Wrong Kind of Woman, which is out now.
In late 1970, Oliver Desmarais drops dead in his front yard while hanging Christmas lights. In the year that follows, his widow, Virginia, struggles to find her place on the campus of the elite New Hampshire men’s college where Oliver was a professor. While Virginia had always shared her husband’s prejudices against the four outspoken, never-married women on the faculty—dubbed the Gang of Four by their male counterparts—she now finds herself depending on them, even joining their work to bring the women’s movement to Clarendon College.
Soon, though, reports of violent protests across the country reach this sleepy New England town, stirring tensions between the fraternal establishment of Clarendon and those calling for change. As authorities attempt to tamp down “radical elements,” Virginia must decide whether she’s willing to put herself and her family at risk for a cause that had never felt like her own.
February 1971, Westfield, NH
At the dining table, two fondue pots bubbled over blue Sterno flames, one with hot oil for the cubes of meat, the other with cheese sauce for bread. Virginia didn’t like fondue, the way the meat was either tough and overcooked, or red and cold in the middle. But the intimacy of it, their arms and elbows knocking together as they set their spears of meat in the pot, was lovely and made them all laugh. Virginia remembered with sudden clarity another dinner party, maybe at Ronald and Betsy Garland’s house, when Ronald had said something crude about the four faculty women, some crass double-entendre about their love lives, and Virginia hadn’t been bothered enough to tell the men to cut it out. Her cheeks and throat heated up in belated embarrassment.
“So, the Bread and Roses meeting,” Helen said. “How was it, Louise?”
“Well,” Louise said. “I wish I could say terrific, but it was pretty chaotic.” She turned Virginia’s way. “I went to a meeting of a women’s collective in Boston last week.”
“Ah,” Virginia said. If only she’d listened, or asked a question, instead of yammering on about herself last week, she’d already know about Louise’s trip to Boston.
Now the others were talking about the marches for equality last summer. “Even with hecklers and the cops being aggressive, the whole day felt terrific,” Helen said.
“Same in New York,” Louise said. “Something like fifty thousand women marching, and listening to speakers. This Bread and Roses meeting was nothing like that.”
Virginia could have gone to the Boston rally last summer, or the giant New York rally. She could have linked arms with strangers, other women. She could have listened to Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem and Bella Abzug. She could have brought Rebecca with her. Instead, she’d only read about those rallies in Time magazine. Until now, it hadn’t occurred to her that she too might take part.
“They’ve been running these consciousness-raising meetings around Boston too,” Louise said.
“Clarendon College could use some consciousness-raising,” Helen said.
“Maybe we should engineer another takeover of the president’s office,” Lily said. “Demand that more women be hired.”
“Demand coeducation too,” Louise said.
“And a normal size women’s bathroom in the library.”
“A bathroom that’s not in the basement.”
“Demand that fraternity members learn to sew their own clothes.”
“And take care of a baby!”
They were all laughing now as their demands got sillier.
“But President Weissman,” Corinna said. “He’s a scientist. I’d hate to make him unhappy with another takeover.”
“He’d understand, in the long run,” Louise said. “If he doesn’t, well, maybe his time has passed.”
“I could host a meeting,” Virginia heard herself saying. “One of those consciousness-raising meetings.” She’d read about these meetings, women filling up New York City apartments, gathering to talk about their lives, about political issues and the world. Without any men. She had friends now, and maybe she could make something happen.
“Yes, it’s time,” Louise said.
