The History of Great Things Read Online Free Page A
Author: Elizabeth Crane
you, though he misses me and wishes I didnât have to be away quite so much. Câmon , your father says, letâs bake some sugar cookies. I got a couple of new cookie cuttersâa 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 youâre going to have to make do with baking and eating them for now. Fine.
âDid that really happen?
âDidnât you just finish saying you specifically wanted things that didnât happen?
âI did.
âSo Iâm doing it your way.
âWell, it seems believable.
âWhat does that mean? You think I canât guess?
âI think maybe you could guess but you wouldnât want to.
âAll right. Thatâs fair enough. It may have been true once, but things are different now, Betsy.
âHuh.
âLook, 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.
âThatâs true. You could have kept more things to yourself.
âYouâd be surprised.
âOr 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 donât 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 donât ask any questions, so at first I assume youâre 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: itâs only a two-bedroom, but we donât 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. Itâs hard to tell exactly what conclusionsyou draw, only that your eyes are always wide open, that youâre 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 donât have good answers for. Where are all the houses? People donât really live in houses here. Why not? Maybe because itâs such a small island? Itâs an island? Where is the beach? There is no beach. I thought islands had a beach. Not this one. Why arenât there more trees? There are more trees in the park. Why is there so much trash in the street? I donât know. What is that man doing with his pants down? I donât know. Donât look at that. Why is that ladyâs skirt up so high? Because sheâs trampy. Whatâs trampy? Never mind. Why is everyone a different color here? Because everyone doesnât hate people who are different colors here. What? Never mind. What does pendejo mean? I donât 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 doesnât have a job. Why not? Heâs probably lazy. Why is that lady shouting at nobody? That ladyâs just crazy. It seems like there are a lot of crazy people here. There are. Why is it so loud in the subway? Theyâre trainsâtrains are loud. Why is it so loud here, everywhere? Because millions of people live here. Why do those cigarettes smell so bad? All
âDid that really happen?
âDidnât you just finish saying you specifically wanted things that didnât happen?
âI did.
âSo Iâm doing it your way.
âWell, it seems believable.
âWhat does that mean? You think I canât guess?
âI think maybe you could guess but you wouldnât want to.
âAll right. Thatâs fair enough. It may have been true once, but things are different now, Betsy.
âHuh.
âLook, 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.
âThatâs true. You could have kept more things to yourself.
âYouâd be surprised.
âOr 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 donât 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 donât ask any questions, so at first I assume youâre 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: itâs only a two-bedroom, but we donât 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. Itâs hard to tell exactly what conclusionsyou draw, only that your eyes are always wide open, that youâre 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 donât have good answers for. Where are all the houses? People donât really live in houses here. Why not? Maybe because itâs such a small island? Itâs an island? Where is the beach? There is no beach. I thought islands had a beach. Not this one. Why arenât there more trees? There are more trees in the park. Why is there so much trash in the street? I donât know. What is that man doing with his pants down? I donât know. Donât look at that. Why is that ladyâs skirt up so high? Because sheâs trampy. Whatâs trampy? Never mind. Why is everyone a different color here? Because everyone doesnât hate people who are different colors here. What? Never mind. What does pendejo mean? I donât 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 doesnât have a job. Why not? Heâs probably lazy. Why is that lady shouting at nobody? That ladyâs just crazy. It seems like there are a lot of crazy people here. There are. Why is it so loud in the subway? Theyâre trainsâtrains are loud. Why is it so loud here, everywhere? Because millions of people live here. Why do those cigarettes smell so bad? All
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