This is Your Life, Harriet Chance!

by Jonathan Evison

  “I have no idea. Probably at home.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m your wife. I’m Harriet.”

  And using one of the few tools in your belt (not that it ever works), you reach for the wedding picture (must be the twentieth time in two days) and hold it out to him, pointing out Bernard in his two-button tuxedo and you in your mother’s wedding dress.

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “That’s us, on our wedding day.”

  “Whose wedding?”

  “Ours—yours and mine. See.”

  He blinks at the picture, uncomprehendingly. Blinks again, still nothing.

  “Where the hell’s Mildred?”

  April 14, 1973

  (HARRIET AT THIRTY-SIX)

  And speaking of Mildred, now that we’re starting to put it all together, do you happen to remember where your husband was on April 14, 1973? I’ll give you a hint: he’ll still be there in two days, when you celebrate your fourteenth anniversary alone.

  Yup, Bernard is in Philadelphia instead of at home for the occasion of his daughter’s birthday.

  No, you didn’t have any help with the arrangements, it’s true. But c’mon, Harriet, it was a kid’s birthday party, not the inaugural ball. Since we’re being honest with ourselves, just admit it, you practically phoned in your daughter’s birthday party. Not to say, you weren’t harried throughout the debacle.

  Half drunk on white wine, you burned the cake, then frosted the damn thing with your hands as though you were slathering grease on a ball joint. You forgot to invite half the class. You even forgot to tell Skip, who was at a baseball game. The paper napkins didn’t suit the occasion. You accidentally bought diet soda.

  And that’s before the party even started.

  Look at you, Harriet: your tank is two-thirds full by the time guests start arriving, and that’s when you begin calling them all by the wrong names.

  You forgot to put out the snacks.

  The living room is a mess.

  There are no beanbags for the Toss-Across, no pins for the donkey.

  And your replacement donkey tail is—ahem—rather obscene-looking.

  Not your best work, Harriet.

  But it gets worse. After the cake has been eaten, at least those portions that are edible, after the oversized, distinctly elliptical tail with its bell-like tip has been pinned on the donkey (thankfully, not between its hind legs), you come up three candles short in the end.

  You knew you forgot something at Food Giant!

  Epic fail, Harriet. But before you go too hard on yourself again, just remember who Bernard was with that moment when Caroline finally blew out those three candles. That’s right, he was with your future best friend, Mildred Honeycutt, eating pie, and for all you knew, stroking her hairy leg under the table.

  Now that we’re starting to put it all together, now that we’re really starting to see things as they were, how about a big “Fuck you, Mildred Honeycutt”?

  November 4, 1942

  (HARRIET AT SIX)

  And since we’re on the subject of sixth birthday parties, let’s talk about your own, Harriet, what the heck? Not to compare, but your mother doesn’t drop any balls in making the arrangements, oh no. This party actually looks like an inaugural ball. Tropical fruit punch in the crystal bowl (and no, that’s not canned pineapple), a two-tiered German chocolate cake from Borracchini’s, gift bags with tin whistles, rubber elephants, and homemade brittle wrapped in cellophane, and nothing that looks even remotely like a donkey dick.

  Twenty-one children and forty adults attend, including your best friend, Miriam Addleman. Unlike Bernard, your father is not in Philadelphia. He’s right there, lighting the candles, snapping the pictures, smiling at his pride and joy, if not checking his watch occasionally.

  But for all the pomp and circumstance, for all the little frilly details upon which your father spared no expense, your sixth birthday party, for lack of a better word, sucks, Harriet.

  Though you’ve come out of your shell considerably and are developing something resembling a confident voice, you are not a social animal. If given the choice, you still lean toward invisibility.

  Not gonna happen, not today. After the games and the gifts and the singing, after you’ve blown out exactly six candles, and your father has cut the cake, and you hunch greedily over your towering wedge of layered chocolate and coconut, your mother renders you all too visible.

  “For heaven’s sake, Harriet, don’t take such big bites,” she says in front of practically everyone. “You think you might’ve learned your lesson by now, Little Piggy.” Then, turning to Miriam’s mother, she explains: “The child has a weakness for food. She nearly choked to death when she was a toddler, you know.”

  You still feel the familiar heat of shame coloring your cheeks as you swallow your last big bite of birthday cake, which tastes less like German chocolate and more like an act of defiance.

  A little later in the party, as the kids are ramping up for sugar-induced chaos, and the parents, just beginning to show their liquor, stop caring, the whiz kid, Charlie Fitzsimmons, takes you aside.

  “That wasn’t very nice of your mom,” he observes.

  “Daddy calls you the whiz kid,” you say.

  He smiles. Twirls a few locks of your hair between his fingers. “That’s right,” he says. “The whiz kid. He’s always got your back.”

  And then he tells you the story about how he was big and awkward as a kid, in someplace called Quincy, and his friends called him Charlie Fatzsimmons, and his father called him Fatz, and the lady from the Chinese grocery called him Ju, which meant “pig” in Chinese.

  “You know Chinese?”

  “Only a little.”

  “Could you teach me?”

  “What I know, I suppose.”

  After talking to Charlie, you feel better—a lot better, actually. He even smuggles you an extra piece of German chocolate cake and sits with you while you eat it by the water heater.

  August 20, 2015

  (HARRIET AT SEVENTY-EIGHT)

  By the time Harriet is shipboard again in Juneau, the worst of her hangover has passed. She’s exhausted, but pleasantly so, as she surrenders her boarding card at the checkpoint without a hitch.

  “Welcome back, Ms. Chance. Did you enjoy Juneau?”

  “I did, dear.”

  “Excellent. Watch your step.”

  Such is her state of fatigue that even the thought of Mildred cannot arouse Harriet’s ire as she progresses turtlelike down the carpeted corridor, clutching her Tlingit mask and her tiny totems. She can’t wait to get to her cabin. That footbath never sounded better. A cup of herbal tea from room service. Maybe the other half of that Vicodin. For the first time, this cruise is beginning to sound restful.

  In spite of a shaky hand, Harriet wields her card key with aplomb and pushes through the door. She nearly jumps out of her orthopedics when she sees who’s waiting there. Perched on the love seat, hunched over Mildred’s letter, Caroline looks up, flush with excitement.

  “Jesus, Mom,” she says, setting aside the letter. “This is seriously fucked up in like a really big way.”

  “Put that down. And please don’t talk like that.”

  “I mean, I knew Dad was a creep, but this takes the cake.”

  Harriet snatches the letter off the coffee table. “You might have warned me you were coming. Why are you here?”

  “I never left Vancouver. You just seemed, I dunno, just . . . the whole thing made me nervous. I was worried. So was Dwight.”

  “Dwight? What does Dwight have to do with anything?”

  “So I got a flight.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  “My phone.”

  “Dear, I appreciate your concern, but you can’t afford that, can you?”

  She averts her eyes toward the yogurt container on the dresser. “Skip had miles.”

  “And how did you get aboard? How did you get into my cabin?”
>
  “I made some calls.”

  Harriet looks at her doubtfully.

  “Skip made some calls.”

  “To whom?”

  “The cruise line, I guess. And Dr. Ritchie. He faxed a note.” “What could Dr. Ritchie possibly have to do with any of this?”

  “Never mind that. Mom, this is nuts. Dad was fucking Mildred for like half his life. Jesus, no wonder he was never home.”

  “Stop talking like that, please.”

  “Well, shit, Mom. This is seriously screwed up.”

  “Do you think I need you to tell me that? I know screwed up when I see it, Caroline. My goodness, I’m looking right at it.” Harriet regrets the statement, immediately.

  Caroline stands, turns toward the veranda. “I see. Fine.”

  “I’m sorry,” says Harriet, setting her bag down. “I didn’t mean that. Sit down, sweetheart. It’s been a shock, that’s all.”

  “Fuck, I guess so,” she says, resuming her seat. “You’re telling me you had no clue?”

  “Caroline, please, stop using that language.”

  “Oh get over it, Mom. You’re not that old-fashioned. You really had no idea? All those years?”

  “I didn’t. My God, Caroline. Don’t you think if I . . . of course I didn’t.”

  “How is that even possible?”

  “Do you think I don’t feel like an idiot? Just imagine.”

  “Well, I’m not a bit surprised, actually.”

  “Good for you. As it happens, I was, Caroline. And quit being so hard on him. We’re all ‘fucked up,’ as you like to put it.”

  “Why are you defending him?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Unbelievable. After all you did for him.”

  “He did his share for me, you know. And for you, too.”

  “See, you’re doing it again. It’s like a habit with you, Mom.”

  “You’re right, it is. And a tough one to break. Oh, but please darling, I’m so tired. I apologize, it was a terrible thing to say. You’re not screwed up. I’m the screwed-up one.”

  Harriet takes her coat off and throws it on the bed. “So, I take it you’re coming along?”

  “Yeah. That’s okay, right?”

  Harriet looks at Caroline’s measly purse. “What will you wear?”

  Once again, Caroline averts her eyes. “I’ll figure it out in Skagamalack or wherever. I’ll buy a sweatshirt with a moose on it. And a bathing suit. This will be fun, Mom, you watch.”

  “Do you have money?”

  “Skip’s wiring some.”

  “You could always ask me, you know.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Caroline, things are different now. You’re in a different place. If you need money, I can always—”

  “Mom, I appreciate it. But you’ve done enough. Really, I don’t want your money.”

  “Why won’t you ever let me help you, dear?”

  “Won’t I?” Caroline stands and walks to the sliding door. She’s about to step out onto the veranda when she turns back to Harriet.

  “Honestly, I don’t get it, Mom. You find out your husband was cheating on you for like . . . fuck, half your life, and you don’t seem that upset about it. Christ, not only do you forgive him, you defend him. You never went that easy on me, that’s for sure.”

  “I know, I know. I made you go to summer camp. We’ve been over that. I apologize, Caroline. My God, if I could have possibly known that I’d be hearing about it forty years later, I would never have made you go.”

  “Oh, please. Like this has anything to do with summer camp.”

  Suddenly the room is beginning to sway, and it’s not the Zuiderdam. Harriet tries to ease herself backward onto the bed, and misjudges the distance, just enough that she nearly loses her balance.

  “Jesus, Mom, are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Just worn out. Dear, could you hand me the water bottle on the coffee table, please.”

  Caroline uncaps the water and hands it to her, looking genuinely concerned. “Are you sure you’re okay? How’s your back?”

  “Fine,” says Harriet.

  “You look pale. Should I call someone?”

  “Heavens, no. Thank you,” says Harriet, kicking off her shoes. “I think I’ll just rest my eyes. Make yourself at home, dear.”

  And no sooner has Harriet swung her legs onto the bed, rolled over onto her side, and closed her eyes than sleep begins to seep heavily into her bones.

  “Just holler if you need me,” she hears Caroline say.

  “Yes, dear.” She can barely get the words out.

  She hears Caroline walk to the bathroom, shut the door, and turn on the shower. Within seconds, Harriet is sleeping like iron.

  May 7, 1955

  (HARRIET AT EIGHTEEN)

  Look at you, Harriet, the week before senior prom, all decked out in champagne taffeta for your dress fitting. Look at you, chin up, back straight, as your mother sits nearby impatiently, offering unsentimental commentary.

  Terrence Osier is to be your date, he of the debate club, captain of the basketball team, and your parents roundly approve. He comes from a good family, father’s a circuit court judge, mother’s a Nordstrom. They’re members at both the University Club and the Tennis Club. The truth is, in spite of his pedigree, Terrence Osier doesn’t do much for you, with his dirty blond cowlicks and his smug self-assuredness, but then, most boys don’t do much for you.

  Your father is sparing no expense on the dress. He’s treating this prom like some kind of debut. You’ve been starving yourself for three weeks (with more than a little coaching from your mother), and it’s working. You feel good about yourself, even though you sense something vaguely wrong with this state of affairs. The truth is, the pressure you feel to be thin is mostly external. Who are you starving yourself for, Harriet? Not Terrence Osier.

  The A-line design is supposed to be slimming. But it’s all wrong, your mother says. The hem is too high. Your kneecaps look like frozen game hens. Your ankles look fat. When the woman tailor, who does not disagree, brings the hem down, you look squat. It’s enough to exasperate your mother.

  You’ve been absorbing it your whole life, Harriet. Every time you pick up a fork or form an opinion. You’re sick of it, sick of wondering what is wrong with you that you can’t please your mother. Like a wicked den mother, she nits and picks and criticizes you constantly, so much that you’re convinced she doesn’t even mean to, that it’s a compulsion. Why does she seek always to improve you, as though it’s her life’s work? And why do you take it to heart? Is it because you already know that you’ll never be all that you could have been? Because you’ll never be able to tell your own story the way you want to tell it? Because you haven’t got the courage? Isn’t it enough that your father believes in you, Harriet? Your father, who, according to your mother, is naive, in spite of all appearances, and doesn’t understand the ways of the world. Your father who’s been blinded by his rose-colored glasses. Your father who wants to see a princess in every warthog. Your father who has no idea what it is to be a woman. You may be his princess, he may think the world of you, he may pull some strings for you, honey, but you’ll always be a woman in a man’s world, mark my words.

  And nobody wants a girl with fat ankles.

  Okay, so not the first time your mother’s been wrong, oh no, not by a long shot. Turns out, Terrence Osier doesn’t give a whit about fat ankles, Terrence Osier is primarily interested in breasts. He spends forty minutes after the dance, all chin and elbows, groping to get at your ample pair in the backseat of the green-and-yellow Chevy Bel Air his parents bought him. But not before Terrence wins a debate on the subject, which is—let’s be honest—brief, not that you have any interest in being fondled, rather because you always aim to please. The fact is, any sort of petting makes you vastly uncomfortable.

  Alas, the tiny expensive zipper on that dress only buys you five minutes. But lucky for you, Terrence is far from adept at the art of uncla
sping brassieres (not as fast as some—ahem— with a little more experience), or you might not have escaped with what was left of your dignity.

  The takeaway here, Harriet, is that there’s nothing wrong with you. You’ve got big ankles and an unhappy mother. You’re versatile and absorbent. You can do a lot with that, as a woman, or a paper towel. So, what are you waiting for, child?

  This is your life, Harriet, go out and get it!

  September 17, 1965

  (HARRIET AT TWENTY-EIGHT)

  Whose dexterous fingers are those, shuffling sprightly through legal files, gliding over writs and motions, line-dancing across that IBM Selectric like they were born to it? Why, they’re yours, Harriet Chance—that is, Ms. Harriet Chance, as you like to be called around the office. Yes, not yet thirty, you’re finally downtown again. Generating income (not that Bernard’s salary is in any way insufficient), exercising your independence, using your powers of critical thinking toward some end beyond laundering, cooking, and cleaning.

  You’re catching up with the other you. Telling your own story, or getting closer, anyway.

  It’s your second week back at work, and you’ve hardly skipped a beat. Despite your six-year absence, a new office, and a whole new set of protocols, you’re proving yourself nothing if not adaptable, and it feels good.

  It feels great, in fact.

  No sooner have you left your domestic station than the world is suddenly a bigger place, full of sights and sounds and actions you cannot predict. No matter that your duties are purely administrative. No matter that your function is invariably to serve. Your refreshing enthusiasm, confidence, and efficiency are a boon to the whole firm.

  Charlie Fitzsimmons says so himself.

  Okay, asking Charlie for a job wasn’t the plan. Not even plan B or C. The other you would never have done that. But let’s face it, they’re not just handing out jobs to twenty-eight-year-old homemakers, six years removed from the workforce. In fact, not one of those meticulously prepared résumés got you so much as a callback. I guess the interesting thing here, the question we may want to be asking is, why didn’t you call upon your father’s network? God knows, he could’ve scared something up for you. He’s Harriman Nathan. He’s got his own table at the University Club. There’s a YMCA gymnasium named after the man. At sixty-nine, his name is still the first one on the marble slab. So, why not go to him for a job instead of Charlie Fitzsimmons?