Schrödinger's Craft
A box arrives by mail or special delivery. If you open it, you will find a small journal with blank pages, a sharpened pencil, crayons, and a handheld recorder with a note taped to it that reads, “listen to me.” Perhaps you examine the contents of the box and then pick-up the recorder and press play. You hear a voice.
“This is my voice,” says the Voice coming from the handheld recorder, “yet it is not my voice. Inside the box you will find my book, yet it is not my book, or maybe it is not yet my book. I will read it to you, and you will help me write it.”
* * *
“Page one,” says the Voice. “This is the title page. I’ll give you a moment to open the book.”
Perhaps you open the book and turn to the title page. The Voice: “This page is for the words I do not have, yet. So for now, just turn the page.”
Perhaps you turn the page.
* * *
“On page two and page three,” says the Voice, “there will be a photograph of my grandmother. I’ll describe the photograph so that you can draw it. Maybe you will capture her likeness, but probably you won’t. I’ll give you a moment to pick up the pencil.”
Perhaps you pick up the pencil and draw the photograph as instructed. The Voice: “It is snowing, or maybe it looks like it could snow. My Grandmother is in her twenties, and she is standing in Central Park in front of grey bollards that keep her on course. Leafless trees stretch into the distance. Her hands are tucked into a muff or maybe she is holding her overcoat. She wears a black beret, but it is hard to tell color in a black-and-white photo. Her black hair, in curls, hangs just below her shoulders.
“Or it could be summer, and she could be sitting in Central Park on green grass with her legs stretched out in front of her. She could be surrounded by purple flowers and wearing an off-the-shoulder, blue and white striped dress. Or the dress could be pink and white and the flowers yellow.
“Or maybe she is not in Central Park at all. Maybe she is posed in front of the display windows at Macys or leaning against a lamppost on Bleeker Street or standing under the running-lights outside Radio City. If you put your ear close to the page—”
“Go ahead,” says the Voice. “Place an ear close to the page. I’ll give you a moment.”
Perhaps you place an ear close to the page. The Voice: “You can almost hear her whisper, but probably not, about the time she saw Sinatra and how his eyes are blue but not nearly as blue as they appear in photos.”
* * *
“Turn to page four,” says the voice, “and draw a line down the center of the page.”
Perhaps you turn to page four and draw a line as instructed. The Voice: “Label the top of the line ‘New York Botanical Garden’ and the bottom of the line ‘Bronx Zoo.’”
Perhaps you label the line as instructed.
“Imagine,” says the Voice, “that there are 4,456 feet between the top and bottom of the line, even though there aren’t. This is where my grandmother was raised, even though it isn’t, in more apartments than she was ever able to remember.”
“Now, on to page five,” says the Voice, “which is for the last story my Grandmother told me before she lost her ability to tell me her memories. Here’s what I know: My great-grandfather took my grandmother shopping. She was very young, and this happened regularly enough on special occasions to follow a pattern. ‘Find something you like, and try it on,’ he would say, but in Hungarian, not English, ‘and we will see how you look in it.’ ‘Find something you like and try it on’ was part of the pattern, and on this day the pattern ends in a new pair of shoes. I like to think the shoes were red. Probably they weren’t. Perhaps color this page red. It’s up to you, but leave space for holes in the story.”
Perhaps you choose a crayon and color the page as instructed while you listen to the Voice: “Later that same afternoon, my grandmother was wearing her new pair of shoes while riding her bike. She broke the left or right heel when it got stuck in the spokes. A stranger who witnessed the accident gave her money to fix the heel, so she took it to a cobbler who replaced it. She returned home later that same night with fixed shoes and was punished, maybe because she broke a heel on her new pair of shoes, maybe because she didn’t tell her parents about the broken heel or the strange man and the money, or maybe because she stayed out too late. The reason was lost on her, or she had lost the ability to reason it.”
* * *
“Now turn the page,” the Voice says, “and use your pencil to draw a line diagonally from the bottom of page 6 to the top of page 7.”
Perhaps you pick up the pencil and draw a diagonal line from the bottom of page 6 to the top of page 7 as instructed.
“Trace the line from bottom to top and back down again, twice.” says the Voice. “Label the top of the line ‘New York City,’ and the bottom of the line ‘Austin.’”
Perhaps you trace and label the line as instructed. The Voice: “I am here, and I am not yet here. Imagine that there are 1,747 miles between the bottom and top of the line, even though there aren’t.
“My grandfather, from Austin, met my grandmother, from New York, while he was in the military. After finishing his tour, he drove from Austin to New York and back down again, twice, once to propose and once to get married. Following a large Hungarian wedding, he packed my grandmother and her belongings into his car and drove her to the Capitol of Texas, where she lived begrudgingly but then happily for the rest of her life.”
* * *
“Page 8 will be the last page,” the Voice says.
Perhaps you turn to page 8 and await instruction.
“Draw 2 tally marks for my parents,” says the Voice.
Perhaps you draw 2 tally marks.
“Draw 4 tally marks for my grandparents,” says the Voice.
Perhaps you draw 4 tally marks.
“Draw 8 tally marks for my great grandparents,” says the Voice.
Perhaps you draw 8 tally marks.
“Draw 16 tally marks for my great-great grandparents,” says the Voice.
Perhaps you draw 16 tally marks. The Voice: “Draw 32 tally marks for my great-great-great grandparents, 64 for my great-great-great-great grandparents, 128 for my great-great-great-great-great grandparents, 256 for my great-great-great-great-great-great grandparents, 512 for my great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandparents, 1,024 for my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandparents, 2,048 for my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandparents, and 4,096 for my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandparents.”
Perhaps you try to draw tally marks as instructed.
“This is my family,” says the Voice, “and it is not yet all of my family. They are here, yet they are not all here.”
“Turn to the title page,” the Voice says. “Write, ‘This is my story, yet it is not my story.’”
Perhaps you turn to the title page and write, ‘This is my story, yet it is not my story,’ as instructed.
“Put your ear close to the book,” says the Voice. “Listen for me.”
As a professor of English, Christopher Krejci tells stories, teaches others to tell stories, and reads and writes about how to do both better. Although new to fiction, he is a member of the Dramatists Guild, and his plays have been performed in New York, California, Texas, Louisiana, and Georgia.