Dear Smitten Kitten,
I miss you like Joe DiMaggio misses Marilyn. It’s been less than two weeks since you left, but it feels like forever. And I feel like a dope for noticing, much less caring, but it’s the truth, and I’m glad to tell it.
Everything I said to you over Thanksgiving is true too. I know you’re not quite ready to believe me, especially not after Betty and Marie horned in on our table at the club the night before you left, but you have to know I didn’t invite them. I have no idea why Betty thought she could act so possessive of me. I hope I made it clear to her—but more importantly, to you—that she shouldn’t hang a single hope on me, because I’m hopelessly gone on you.
There. I’ve said it, and you can torture me with it if you want. But I’m handing you my heart right here in this letter, Kitten. I have never felt like this about anyone, and I’ll go holler it in Harvard Yard if you want me to. Maybe I’ll even do it if you don’t, so that someone laughing at my foolishness will spread the gossip until it gets back to you, and you’ll know how very serious I am.
I want a future with you, Kitten. I want to graduate and become a captain of industry so I can buy you any house you desire, take you on any holiday you want, send our children to any schools you choose, and give you a household staff that will manage everything, so all you need to do is buy thingsthat catch your eye and keep me on my toes with your clever conversation. That will be the entirety of your domestic duties if you wish it.
This isn’t an official proposal, Kitten. I know you’re enjoying the classroom. But won’t you be a little bit glad to turn in your gradebook for good and never have to deal with a misbehaving student again? When the sum total of your worries will all fall inside the home I’ll build for you? When your whole job is the children we’re raising and not twenty strangers who may not choose to mind you?
I want to give you that. A life of ease. A beautiful home and kids. I’m just asking you to tuck the possibility away in the back of your mind or a tender corner of your heart, and let it grow. Let it grow so that when you come home for Christmas, I can spend thirteen days convincing you of how deep my feelings are and the last day celebrating when you say yes to the question I’ll be thinking of nonstop until then.
Yours always,
Dear Heart
I set down the letter.
“Harvard Yard, so we got his school right,” Jay says, scrolling through his phone. “And these dates on the letters—you’re frowning again.”
I glance up to find him studying me. “Yeah. Sorry. Trying to work through some presentism.”
“The part about how he dreams of a future for her where she’ll buy stuff and entertain him?” he guesses.
“Yeah.” Historians need to examine the past objectively. One of the hardest biases to overcome is presentism, the tendency to judge other eras by modern values, like what it takes for a woman to be fulfilled now versus what she might have valued then. It’s human nature, but it’s poor scholarship.
“I can’t blame you,” Jay says. “I can do a good rant on this. Want me to?”
A smile teases the corner of my lips. “Please do.”
He stands and paces. “Who does this guy think he is, telling her to pop out kids and plan vacations? Easy for him to say it’s not that big a deal when he gets to pursue any professional avenue he wants while she’s expected to stay home. And the nerve of this guy to say he loves her because he finds her conversation interesting. Why is it all about him?” He stabs the air to emphasize key points.
It’s an appropriate amount of outrage, and his serious words with the playful delivery release some of the letter’s ick. I give Jay a solemn nod. “Nice job. However, in Dear Heart’s defense, if Smitten Kitten was super hot, he was probably in a rush to lock it down.”
He rubs his chin. “True. The rules change depending on hotness. I withdraw my objections.”
“Good rant, though.”
He inclines his head in gracious acceptance of the praise before he breaks character with a grin. “Thanks.”
“No, thankyou.” I mean it. His joking has given me enough time to pinpoint why a letter reflecting exactly the sentiments I would have expected during this era is hitting me harder than it should. “Now, tell me how you really feel about this one.”
He gives a single-shoulder shrug. “I’m glad we’ve moved past that kind of thinking.”
My eyes trace some of Dear Heart’s words.Domestic duties.Turn in your gradebook. I feel my frown returning, but I can’t help it. “I’m trying to hold space for the social values sixty years ago and give Dear Heart grace for being a young man in love. But it’s hard when I’m not sure we’ve all left those double standards behind.” Isn’t that how I ended up taking this job in the first place? Being the victim of a double standard?
“Do you run into this a lot? Is it this blatant?”
“Not blatant, no. I’m all for stepping out of the workforce to focus on kids full-time if that’s what womenchoose. My sister-in-law did, and she’s super happy, but it wasn’t expected. And I don’t think anyone thinks twice about moms who work full-time.” I stop to consider the root of the ick. “Sometimes different standards for men and women professionally still show up in other ways.”
My pay was fair at the Sutton. Or at least comparable to what other curators earned. None of us is ever paid what we’re worth, but there wasn’t a pay disparity between men and women. It’s more about the unspoken, unmeasurable double standards, like how our professionalism is judged.
“You’re speaking from experience.” His tone is an invitation to tell him more.
Should I give Jay the whole story of why I ended up leaving the Sutton? The idea exhausts me, plus Catherine Crawford hasn’t reached out to express a concern to me, or, asfar as I know, to anyone else about my position here. Definitely not to Jay, or I would have heard about it, I think. I’m banking on that as a sign she’s willing to let me start with a clean slate.
Either way, I don’t want to color Jay’s perception with my worries. If Catherine is considering this a fresh start, I’ll know based on our interaction tomorrow night. If she isn’t, I can use Jay as an objective observer to tell me if I’m being oversensitive or if he senses she has a problem with me.
