“You know what I mean,” Harriet said. “You’re smart. It might be off-putting to Mr. Pine, or that Lebensmal person. You know how men are.”
Elizabeth considered this. No, she did not know how men were. With the exception of Calvin, and her dead brother, John, Dr. Mason, and maybe Walter Pine, she only ever seemed to bring out the worst in men. They either wanted to control her, touch her, dominate her, silence her, correct her, or tell her what to do. She didn’t understand why they couldn’t just treat her as a fellow human being, as a colleague, a friend, an equal, or even a stranger on the street, someone to whom one is automatically respectful until you find out they’ve buried a bunch of bodies in the backyard.
Harriet was her only real friend, and they agreed on most things, but on this, they did not. According to Harriet, men were a world apart from women. They required coddling, they had fragile egos, they couldn’t allow a woman intelligence or skill if it exceeded their own. “Harriet, that’s ridiculous,” Elizabeth had argued. “Men and women are both human beings. And as humans, we’re by-products of our upbringings, victims of our lackluster educational systems, and choosers of our behaviors. In short, the reduction of women to something less than men, and the elevation of men to something more than women, is not biological: it’s cultural. And it starts with two words: pink and blue. Everything skyrockets out of control from there.”
Speaking of lackluster educational systems, just last week she’d been summoned to Mudford’s classroom to discuss a related problem: apparently Madeline refused to participate in little girl activities, such as playing house.
“Madeline wants to do things that are more suited to little boys,” Mudford had said. “It’s not right. You obviously believe a woman’s place is in the home, what with your”—she coughed slightly—“television show. So talk to her. She wanted to be on safety patrol this week.”
“Why was that a problem?”
“Because only boys are on safety patrol. Boys protect girls. Because they’re bigger.”
“But Madeline is the tallest one in your class.”
“Which is another problem,” Mudford said. “Her height is making the boys feel bad.”
* * *
—
“So no, Harriet,” Elizabeth said sharply, coming back to the subject at hand. “I won’t play along.”
Harriet picked some dirt out from beneath a fingernail as Elizabeth harangued about women accepting their subordinate positions as if they were preordained, as if they believed their smaller bodies were a biological indication of smaller brains, as if they were naturally inferior, but charmingly so. Worse, Elizabeth explained, many of these women passed such notions down to their children, using phrases like “Boys will be boys” or “You know how girls are.”
“What is wrong with women?” Elizabeth demanded. “Why do they buy into these cultural stereotypes? Worse, why do they perpetuate them? Are they not aware of the dominant female role in the hidden tribes of the Amazon? Is Margaret Mead out of print?” She only stopped when Harriet stood up, indicating she did not wish to be subjected to another unabridged word.
* * *
—
“Harriet. Harriet,” Madeline repeated. “Are you listening? Harriet, what happened to her? Did she die, too?”
“Did who die?” Harriet asked distractedly, thinking about how she’d never read Margaret Mead. Was she the one who wrote Gone with the Wind?
“The godmother.”
“Oh, her,” she said. “I have no idea. And anyway, she—or he—wasn’t technically a godmother.”
“But you said—”
“It was a fairy godmother—someone who gave your dad’s home money. That’s all I meant. Fairy godmother. And she—it could have been a he, by the way—he or she gave it to everyone at the home. Not just your dad.”
“Who was it?”
“I have no idea. Does it matter? A fairy godmother is just another word for philanthropist. A rich person who gives money to causes—like Andrew Carnegie and his libraries. Although you should know there’s a tax break in philanthropy, so it’s not completely unselfish. Do you have other homework, Mad? Besides the damn tree?”
“Maybe I could write a letter to Dad’s home and ask who the godfather was. Then I could put that name on the tree—maybe as an acorn. Not as a whole branch or anything.”
“No. There are no acorns on family trees. Also, fairy godmothers—philanthropists—are private people; the home is never going to tell you who ponied up the big bucks. Third, we never say fairy godfathers. The fairy person is always female.”