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Authors: Elizabeth Crane

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BOOK: The History of Great Things
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That Ain't Right

O
ne 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.

New York City, 1967

Y
our 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?

Your reserve of questions is endless, and eventually I give up and tell you I don't know everything, which happens on the first day of first grade. On the walk to school, you say
Daddy knows everything, let's ask Daddy
, at which time I say
We'll talk about it after school
, and you look up at your new school, which
does not look like your old school, it looks to be covered in a hundred years of filth, dark and dirty and massive, like if you go in you will very obviously not come out, it looks like a big giant haunted house from a scary movie, not like your kindergarten in Louisiana, which was painted white and had a flower garden in front.
Where are the flowers? Well, there might not be flowers at this school. Where is the playground? It's right here, honey
, I say, pointing to some girls doing double dutch
.
That's an alley, Mommy, that's not a playground
, but it is a playground, it's clearly connected to the school, and even if it is a crummy one, it's definitely a playground, and you pull on me, trying to go back toward home, away from the doors of the school, you say
I don't want to go to this school
, and I say
You don't get to pick, this is your school, come on, it'll be great, you love school
, and you say
No, I don't, this school looks like jail
. You start crying for your father,
Where's Daddy, where's Daddy, I want Daddy, I want Daddy
, ceaselessly loud, gulping, inconsolable crying for your father.
Daddy lives in Iowa now. What? Whyyyy? Remember, we told you before we came here, Daddy and Mommy don't live together anymore? No you didn't tell me that! Yes, honey, we did, you and I live here now, it's your first day of school! No! I don't remember anything! Sweetheart, you'll make new friends, you'll learn all kinds of new things. No! I don't want new friends! I want Daddy! Come on, remember how much you love school? No! I don't! I only love Daddy! I want to go back! I want Daddy!
I remind you, again, that we explained about where Daddy was, and that you'd see him as soon as he sent us money.
We don't have money? Not enough. Why won't he send it? He says he doesn't have any more to send, but that isn't true, his parents have plenty. Why won't they send it? Because your grandmother isn't a very nice person and she hates me, now come on, honey, let me walk you to your cubby. Noooo!
It's all I can do to get you to take off your jacket and hang it up.
Honey,
you have to stop crying. I can't! I will never stop crying!
You cry when the teacher gently takes your hand.
Don't goooo!
It is reported to me later that you have cried all day. We go through this the next day and the next day, until I become sure you'll never stop, and you don't stop until around Thanksgiving, I suspect mostly because you're finally exhausted.

Around this time, a girl in your class named Alex says hi when you get placed in a special group of kids who can already read. Another girl named Liz is also in this group, and the three of you become fast friends, having playdates at each other's houses. We don't do this at our house often. Because why? Because I can't deal with it. That's just the truth. I can handle one friend over at a time, if you play quietly in your room. So you go to the other girl's houses, where you're free to get more rambunctious (though you're not what I'd call rambunctious anyway), where there are siblings, where there are toys and games and snacks other than celery and cream cheese. Alex and Liz are both nice, bright girls, much more outgoing than you, and one day at Alex's house you and Alex and Liz are playing psychologist, which is what Alex's mother does for a living. Alex is usually the psychologist in this game, since she knows the most about it, and Liz volunteers to be the first patient; you're undecided at this point, so at first you just watch and learn. Alex sits in an armchair in the living room and directs Liz to sit on the sofa.
Wait!
Alex says
I forgot something
, reaches for a box of tissues to put in front of Liz.
I don't have a runny nose
, Liz says, a little defensively, and Alex says
It's for if you have to cry
, and Liz says
I don't have to cry
, and Alex says
You might feel like crying soon
, and Liz says
I won't!
although she does feel a tiny bit like crying already just because she doesn't understand what Alex is talking about, and even Alex doesn't exactly understand why there
is crying in psychology. Alex herself has briefly been to a child psychologist, when she was four, doesn't remember it so well, only remembers playing with some blocks and puppets. What Alex knows about adult psychology she has learned from her mother's gentle explanation that sometimes people need to talk about their feelings, and also from what she picked up walking past her mother's office door and hearing occasional loud sobs and complaints about husbands and not feeling understood by anyone.

So tell me about your feelings today
, Alex says.
My feelings are fine
, Liz says.
No, you can't be fine, it's boring if you're fine
, Alex explains.
Okay, I'm feeling mad!
Liz says.
Great!
Alex says.
What are you feeling mad about?
Liz doesn't know what to say now, because of course she isn't really mad.
Are you mad because your parents are divorced? No. It's okay if you are. My mom says it's normal to be mad or sad about your parents being divorced. Well, I'm not. Are you sad? No! Okay, fine! What are you mad or sad about then? I'm not mad or sad. Have you ever been mad or sad?

At this point, you think about when you've been mad or sad, and if you've ever been mad or sad because your parents are divorced (you have for sure been sad), and what to call the other feelings you've had that aren't quite mad or sad. Is confused a feeling?

I was sad last week when I stayed over at my dad's and I had to leave to go back to my mom's. Good! Very good! But then I was also sad when I had to leave Mom's to go back to Dad's.

Wait, you get to see them both?
you say.
Sure, silly, everyone does
, Liz says. You say
No! I don't!
Liz says
You don't what?
You say
I don't get to see my dad anymore. Not even every other Wednesday? No.
Liz gets to see her dad every other Wednesday? What does Wednesday have to do with it? That doesn't make any sense—
but it still sounds way better than seeing your dad on no day. Alex can tell by your silence and the slight downturn of a frown that something isn't right here.
Oh no
, Alex says,
you better take a turn getting some psychology now
.
Liz, you get up now and give Betsy that seat.
You and Liz trade places and Alex says
So what are those feelings like, not to see your dad?
Alex has the idea that the word “feel” or “feeling” should be in just about every question she asks.
Bad
, you say. You've only last week stopped having round-the-clock bad feelings about this, and you are not in any hurry to get them back.
Bad, yes, very good
, Alex says.
Why is that good?
you ask, it doesn't seem good at all, bad and good aren't the same, how does she not understand that? Alex doesn't know.
Well, it just is, that's all
.

Your plan for when you get home is to ask me why can't you see Daddy every other Wednesday, but when you get back, I am crying. So you table the question for the time being and bring me a box of tissues and ask me if I want to talk about my feelings.

BOOK: The History of Great Things
6.42Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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