The History of Great Things (20 page)

O
kay. So it's 1961. Let's try being sisters again, a year apart this time, very close. You can be the older sister again. There's no Marjorie. She was never born. We've just graduated from college. You went to Parsons against the wishes of Mother and Daddy (your parents are our parents this time); we were both supposed to go to a state school to get husbands, but we both dreamed of being world-famous couturiers like Coco Chanel, so I follow you to Parsons and we share a big two-bedroom apartment in London Terrace because you can do that at this time.
It's Deco, Mother! Absolutely fabulous! There's a swimming pool! Tell Daddy that Babe Ruth once dressed up as Santa for the annual Christmas party!
But Mother and Daddy are beyond freaked out that we're on our own in New York City, and Mother keeps sending letters begging us to come back to Iowa, telling us there are so many nice young men right at home, at church, sons of friends who work at banks and insurance companies, and we tell them not to worry, there are men here who aren't criminals, and we didn't come here to meet men anyway, and we're happy and well, and more and more women are working now, and we like it. After college we get jobs in the garment district, you as a seamstress and me answering phones,
but at night we come home and sketch and gossip (my boss is a creep, has been
doing it
with his secretary, has patted my bottom more than once); we design clothes for a modern working woman, separates, slim skirt suits, simple dresses with an eye to detail, seaming, covered buttons, pockets, always pockets—that will be our trademark! We create a small line to begin: one suit, three blouses, a skirt, a cardigan in three different colors (with a narrow satin ribbon trim around the neckline), one cocktail dress (with a satin ribbon and small bow under the bust, to match the cardigan), and we take it around to the department stores. We point out all the special details—the quality of the fabric, the different ways the pieces can work together, ways to take the pieces from day to night—and we are turned down, store after store, no Saks, no Bergdorf's, no Bonwit's, no Macy's, no Gimbels. The good news is that Alexander's offers us a deal, but only for the suit, and it's a much smaller offer than we hoped for, but now we're in a pickle, because it's barely enough to cover our electric bill. But we shake on it, and on the 1 train we try to hide our disappointment that we didn't become famous designers overnight.
Maybe we
should
just go home and get husbands
, you say.

—I don't understand, why, Betsy, if you're making this all up, it all has to be so hard. Why couldn't we just go to New York and become successful fashion designers and meet wonderful men and live in penthouses with maids?

—That's not a story. That's not what a story is.

—I thought a story could be whatever you wanted it to be.

—Think of it this way: The notes in an aria aren't random. They follow an order. Imagine how awful it would sound if you tried to sing from a score that someone had put through a shredder and then taped
back together. There are still some basic principles that make a song something you might ever want to listen to. I might also point out that you sing some of the saddest songs in existence.

—Yeah, which is one more reason why I don't want to read sad stories.

—Look, if there aren't some bits of conflict, the results are likely to be boring, or meaningless, or very, very short.

—But there are happy stories in the world. Heartwarming stories.

—I'm not big into heartwarming. When I'm done you can write your happy story for us.

—Okay, then, I will!

—What if we were to go back to that time Ginny came over to your house and Grandpa was a racist jerk?

—Mmf. Won't that mess with the time-space continuum or something?

—What do you know about the time-space continuum?

—I read things.

—I haven't figured out the science of that fiction just yet, but
I'm pretty sure the time-space continuum will be just fine.

O
ne day, you bring your friend Ginny home for a playdate after school. You're having the best time: your dolls are best friends, and they're having a doll wedding where your teddy bear is the groom because nobody has any boy dolls. Ginny's doll Althea is the bride, with a veil made of a scrap of tulle and a piece of ribbon trim from our mom's sewing basket. Chappy the teddy bear is wearing a black ribbon around his neck for a bow tie. Your doll Patty Ann is the maid of honor.
Dum, dum da dum
, you sing together. You walk Althea to the altar and stand her face-to-face with Chappy. A naked baby doll is jumped in for the minister because you forgot about the minister until just now. Ginny makes the baby doll have a deep voice.
We are gathered here today to bring together Althea and Chappy in holy matrimony. Chappy, do you promise to take this doll, Althea, to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold in— Wait, I don't think that's right, it's not “to have and hold
in”
— Sure it is, so you don't let the sickness out— To have and hold in, sickness and health, richer and poorer, until death do you part? I don't think that makes all-the-way sense. Just say I do. I do
, you say for Chappy, trying to sound like a bear who talks.
Althea, do you promise to take this teddy bear to be your dear husband, to have and to hold in sickness
and health, richer and poorer, until death do you part? I do
, Ginny says for Althea. You both burst into giggles.
You may now kiss the bride!
Ginny says, and you both mash the doll and the teddy bear together, completely cracking yourselves up, and this is when Daddy comes in.

He gives the scene a good long stare. His face is perfectly still, but his eye sockets may as well have flames shooting out of them. You have no idea why, though Ginny has an idea. He leaves the room and goes downstairs to get our mother, who's sewing in the den while I'm doing homework.
Get that colored girl out of here
, he says. Mother hustles upstairs and I follow on her heels, crying
Mom, Mom, don't do it
. She says
Shush, Betsy.
I say
Mom, Mom, don't let Daddy do this
, and she says
He's the man of the house
, and I say
Uch!
and I run back downstairs to find Daddy smoking out in the backyard, and I say
Daddy, Ginny is a person just like you
, and he says
You are asking for big trouble, young lady
, and I say
I don't care! I am here from the future! We have an African American president!
and he says
What the hell is “African American”?
And I say
It means black, negro, colored! We have a colored president! There are two little colored girls in the White House! I'm going to wash your mouth out with soap just for thinking such a thing!
And I say
I don't care! The future is here!
This is when everybody comes downstairs, Mother holding Ginny's hand, you right behind, and Mother is extremely worried that the neighbors might hear, what with this happening outside, and she says
Walter! Betsy! Please!
and I say
No!
and Ginny really does want to go home now, and you are rather unsure about this whole scene, and I yell loud enough for the neighbors three houses down to hear
A racist lives here! A racist lives here!
and this is when I get a hand to the face, but I say
Go ahead and hit me! I don't care!
You're crying now, Ginny's crying now, saying
I want my mama
. Mother
wipes Ginny's eyes gently with a hanky from her pocket, says
Okay dear, we're going to get you home now
. They leave; Daddy tells us we're both grounded until we graduate from high school; that's when I say
Fuck you, I'm going back to the twenty-first century.
Daddy actually laughs in my face.
You just got yourself grounded
until
the twenty-first century, Betsy.

Later that night, when we're tucked into bed, you tell me I'm crazy.
What were you thinking, Betsy, everything is worse now
, and I say
No it isn't, it's better
; you say
You got grounded forever!
And I say
We spoke up. We spoke up
. You say
You spoke up
, and I say
We spoke up. We're a team
.

—I have something I want to do next.

—What's that?

—I want to go to your wedding.

—That would be nice. It was an awesome day.

—So you are married!

—Yes, Mom, I'm married. Didn't we already cover that?

—It's getting a little blurry for me, what's real and what isn't.

—Well, let's just try it.

Y
ou always said you wanted a beach wedding, so you plan a ceremony on the beach on Fire Island, and the Solomons are kind enough to host a backyard reception. Everyone you want to be there is there. I make your dress, of course. I'm not sure what's in style right now, so let's keep it simple, it's at the beach. You don't want to look like some dumbass in a ball gown on the beach, you want to go sort of bohemian. Off-white with an empire waist, maybe a slim brocade ribbon under the bust with the ends hanging down, a flowy chiffon skirt, with off-the-shoulder straps, almost like a cap sleeve. A flutter sleeve. Very Juliet. It's a perfect New York September day, not a cloud on the entire East Coast. Your friends gather on the beach; there's an aisle made from two rows of beach glass on either side, leading to a driftwood archway decorated with all kinds of white flowers. Ben is at the end of it, with his father and best friend next to him. Nina is your maid of honor, of course. I'm a bridesmaid, because we're sisters, but it's informal so we're just standing there on your side. Everyone is happy.

—That's nice, Mom. Ben's parents are actually long gone.

—Oh no!

—I guess this confirms that you aren't all out there somewhere having a big after-party.

—No, I wish. Well, I'm sorry for Ben.

—Yeah. He's okay. But I'm sure he'll be happy to have his dad there too.

Fred walks you down the aisle. He is, of course, beaming.

You say your vows; your old friend Bob has gotten ordained just so he can perform your ceremony. People cry and laugh; they know you're a good couple. I sob and sob, more than a sister might, ordinarily, to the point where some of the guests are wondering what's wrong with me and are maybe thinking it's because I'm still single and not because I'm both your sister and your mom and I'm so happy to see you so in love. Everyone walks back up to the house, which is where I unfortunately have to deal with the fact that Victor is now married to that awful Bernadette, and because I'm your sister I can't just say
I knew it!
I have to keep acting like we're sisters, which I guess means that Fred is my father too, which is a little weird. (Am I my own mother? Too much to process at once. Let's pretend Fred's second wife is my mom.) At the reception, Fred/Dad takes me aside and tells me how lucky he is to have two such special daughters. He believes he's had a whole lifetime of knowing me, and that that version of me is someone he would say such a thing to. I want to ask him a bunch of questions, basic ones, like
What exactly do you know about me?
—which is, of course, absurd, something you might say to a stranger you were suspicious of—but I don't have to, because he immediately tells me about a camping trip we took when we were kids in the seventies, and our mom was away (ha!), and how different you and I were: you were happy with a Tab in a hammock with your nose in a book,
and I wanted to do everything that could be done, go fishing, paddle a canoe. He told me I even asked about hunting, which is hilarious to even think about, me with a gun, not to mention him with a gun (
We skipped that
, he says), and of course, hearing this, I knew he'd have been just as happy to sit in a camp chair with you and read too. No question you were his kid. Me, anybody's guess how far back my odd string of DNA came from. But in his version of history, he took me to do all those things, and you were not happy about having to go along, didn't know why you couldn't stay back at the tent.
Because you're nine
, he said, so you brought your book into the canoe and we fought; I was pissed that you were sitting in the boat like a lump, and I didn't know why you were allowed to just do that, and he says that he told me
You girls are both the best daughters around, but you're two different people, and there's no one thing that's going to make everybody happy besides roasting marshmallows, and we can't do that all day, so if she wants to read a book in a canoe that's fine with me, and if you want to spend all day swimming in the lake, that's fine with me too.
Of course, he also made sure there was time for you to read, and told me it wouldn't hurt me to read a book either, and after the sun went down we told the silliest ghost stories around the campfire that we could think up, about ghosts who come back and do nice things, like make delicious lobster eggs benedict before you wake up, and then when no one in the family takes credit for it you're a little spooked because where would you get the lobster in Iowa anyway, and you happen to notice that there are no lobster shells or eggshells in the trash, there's nothing in the trash at all, and you say
Well, you or Mom could have taken the trash out
, and you say
Mom never takes the trash out
, and you laugh because it's true. The truth is, seeing Fred all these years later, in this way, is weirdly nice. I'm many decades older than I was
when we were married, and here I am in the body of a forty-year-old, and I mean, yes, I have had sex with that old man, but he doesn't know that.

—He probably was a really good father to you.

—He was, Mom.

But getting back to that awful Bernadette. I chat with Victor during the cocktail hour, and of course, just the way Fred thinks I'm his daughter, Victor thinks I'm his stepdaughter; we haven't seen each other in some years, not so much a falling out as maybe a predictable drift after a late remarriage. He doesn't know I'm the dead love of his life. Bernadette's shoving pigs in the blanket in her mouth; she's a rather crude eater, I have to say, and she looks god-awful, not that she was ever all that attractive but now she's got her hair dyed dark black, she could use an eye job, and her dress is 100 percent polyester if it's 1 percent, and it's been hanging in her closet since 1982. She excuses herself to go to the bathroom. I ask Victor if he's happy. He says
Sure, you know me
, I say
I mean, with Bernadette
. He tells me it's a different kind of relationship after you lose your wife.
She takes care of me instead of the other way around. Yeah, but do you love her like you loved . . . Mom?
I ask.
I love her
, he says, but I can tell it's not in that way that means someone is head over heels.
So not like you loved Mom?
I ask.
It's just different
.
She's a different person.
So, different, but also not just as great
, I say, and he looks at me like he knows what I want him to say, except I know he doesn't, he says
Sweetheart
,
what do you want me to say?
and I tell him
I want you to say that you loved me the best
, and he says
What?
and I realize how that might have sounded, so I say
I want you to say that you loved Mom the best
, and he says
I'm not going to say that
, and I say
Well,
I can tell the difference when you look at her,
and he says
You don't know everything
, and I say
I know more than you think
, and I walk away, and I know he knows I'm right.

—Does that make you feel better, being right?

—Kind of.

—We've still got some super-weird blendy point-of-view science here. Maybe we're inventing a new genre. POV-sci.