Elizabeth Crane: The History of Great Things

Dear Mommy,

I can only write the alphabet letters now but I can read! I sound out the words and Daddy is happy. We read all day. I am a big girl now. Daddy says so. Daddy plays kitchen with me and puts my bathing suit on me and turns on the sprinkler outside and I run in it. I hope New York is fine.

Love,

Betsy

One afternoon when you’re about five, you’re next door at your friend Linda’s house making a fort out of blankets and sofa cushions that is intended to be a home in which you are the dad. You have volunteered to be the dad, even though Linda says she was going to make you be the dad anyway because House decides, Betsy . You start to say why you actually want to be the dad; Linda almost asks why any girl would want to be the dad and not the mom, which is obvious to you but not to her, but she stops herself because she doesn’t want to risk you changing your mind and then having to explain to you what House decides means. Linda is a nice Southern girl, and you are also a Southern girl now, technically, though you were born a Yankee; maybe that’s a mixed blessing, but of the two I think it’s the better. You make pretend dinner in the kitchen, pretend pork chops and pretend frozen peas from the pretend refrigerator (a scratchy sofa cushion, set on end) while Linda pretend vacuums the floor. What would you like for dinner, dear? Linda asks, and you put on a deep voice and say I’m making pork chops and peas , and Linda says What, no, the daddy doesn’t make the dinner , and you say in your own voice Sure he does , and Linda is now wondering if you live in Backwards World, says No, the daddy goes to his work and then when he gets home he sits down at the table and asks where dinner is . This is the first you’ve heard of this; there may have been a moment when some version of this happened back in Binghamton, but you have no recollection of it. Your dad teaches music at college, which to you means he does this by some kind of telepathic singing magic, because he is almost always home when you’re home. Yes, you do go to kindergarten, so you don’t know that he is gone for some of those hours, but he is there to make oatmeal or eggs and toast in the morning, and he is there to take you to school, and he is there to pick you up from school, and he is there to play with you after school, and he is there to make dinner, give you a bath, read you books at bedtime, tuck you in, come back in when you have nightmares, and he’s there for more of the same every other day of the week. What? You look at Linda like she’s crazy. Nuh-uh , you say, Yuh-huh , she says Ask anyone , and you say I don’t have to ask anyone, I know what’s true , and she says You don’t! and you say I do too! My daddy makes the dinner! and Linda says No he does not , and you say He does too! and Linda asks Well why doesn’t your momma make dinner? That’s the right way , and you tell her your mommy goes away to work, and Linda shakes her head and says Oooh , like this is just terrible, says That ain’t right . You say Don’t say that! She says Well it ain’t. The momma takes care of the babies and the daddy goes to work . You say Shut up! kicking down the cushion that’s holding the whole structure in place. Linda says Oooh, that’s not nice, I’m telling . You stop yourself from saying she’s lucky you didn’t kick her. You say Well, I’m telling, too , even though as soon as you say it you’re not quite sure what it is you might be telling.

You run home and enter the house yelling. Daddy! Daddy! Linda was mean! What? I’m sure she didn’t mean to be, come tell me about it. I told her the daddy makes dinner and she said that ain’t right. Isn’t right , he says. Isn’t right , you say; you’re prone to picking up poor grammar habits, he’s prone to nipping that in the bud. Well, pumpkin, we are doing it just a little differently than some people do it right now , he says. What do you mean? When I was growing up , he says, more often than not, mommies stayed home and daddies went to work. That’s how my folks did it, although my mother was a schoolteacher briefly before she married my father. Waaaay back before I was born, if women worked, it was usually before they got married, or it was in very specific fields: schoolteachers, nurses, like that. Now things are changing, and some mommies are also going to work. It might seem different to Linda. But that doesn’t make it wrong. It’s not wrong. When he says these last two sentences, you’re not fully convinced that he’s fully convinced. You’re a perceptive kid, but you’re four, not in any position to challenge him. Fred’s changing with the times, semi-reluctantly. He has the sense that when you grow up, you might be able to do whatever you might like to do, and he wants this for you, though he misses me and wishes I didn’t have to be away quite so much. C’mon , your father says, let’s bake some sugar cookies. I got a couple of new cookie cutters — a horse, a dog, and a house, and I got us some blue sprinkles. Okay! you say. Can we get a real horse and a real dog too? Umm, I think you’re going to have to make do with baking and eating them for now. Fine.

— Did that really happen?

— Didn’t you just finish saying you specifically wanted things that didn’t happen?

— I did.

— So I’m doing it your way.

— Well, it seems believable.

— What does that mean? You think I can’t guess?

— I think maybe you could guess but you wouldn’t want to.

— All right. That’s fair enough. It may have been true once, but things are different now, Betsy.

— Huh.

— Look, if I only tell you what I know for sure, your part of the story is going to be very short and possibly not as interesting as mine. You kept a lot of things to yourself, Betsy.

— That’s true. You could have kept more things to yourself.

— You’d be surprised.

— Or not.

Your father and I sit you down and explain what divorce means, that he and I have grown apart, that we both love you very much but that we are not going to live together anymore, that he has accepted a teaching job in Iowa, and that you will visit him there, but you will come with me to New York City, where there are opportunities for me that don’t exist in Iowa. I can see your little brain wheels speeding up, that you are imagining that his work in Iowa is only temporary, just like when I was away working when we lived in Louisiana, but you don’t ask any questions, so at first I assume you’re fine, that you understand. We tell you to just keep being the brave and strong little girl we know you are, and things will be fine, almost like they always were. Your father helps me pack up our things for the move, though after everything is divided up neither of us seems to have much, and when we get to the apartment it suddenly feels rather big: it’s only a two-bedroom, but we don’t have much more than a single bed for each bedroom, four Victorian parlor chairs, and a love seat for the living room.

In the weeks after our arrival, from your height of forty-two inches, you begin to store away vast files of information about our new city. It’s hard to tell exactly what conclusions you draw, only that your eyes are always wide open, that you’re aware of your surroundings and that you have not yet made sense of them for yourself, because I get asked a lot of questions I don’t have good answers for. Where are all the houses? People don’t really live in houses here. Why not? Maybe because it’s such a small island? It’s an island? Where is the beach? There is no beach. I thought islands had a beach. Not this one. Why aren’t there more trees? There are more trees in the park. Why is there so much trash in the street? I don’t know. What is that man doing with his pants down? I don’t know. Don’t look at that. Why is that lady’s skirt up so high? Because she’s trampy. What’s trampy? Never mind. Why is everyone a different color here? Because everyone doesn’t hate people who are different colors here. What? Never mind. What does pendejo mean? I don’t know. What does fuck mean? Never mind. How could that guy fall asleep in the middle of Broadway? He might not have another place to sleep. Why not? Maybe he doesn’t have a job. Why not? He’s probably lazy. Why is that lady shouting at nobody? That lady’s just crazy. It seems like there are a lot of crazy people here. There are. Why is it so loud in the subway? They’re trains — trains are loud. Why is it so loud here, everywhere? Because millions of people live here. Why do those cigarettes smell so bad? All cigarettes smell bad. What’s that smell? I don’t know. What’s that smell? I don’t know. What’s that other smell? I don’t know. Why is everything so smelly? Why is there writing on everything? Is it okay to write on things here? I thought it wasn’t okay to write on things. What are those people doing? What are those people doing?