This is Your Life, Harriet Chance!

by Jonathan Evison

  Admit it, pride is only part of it. There’s something else, Harriet, something way down deep. Something you’ve struggled for twenty years to understand, a cruel and inexplicable magnetism that almost feels like duty. You could probably take this thing apart piece by piece and understand it, but that is something you’re not ready for or are unwilling to do.

  Ahem. Moving on.

  To Uncle Charlie’s credit, he’s honored that promise he made you in your parents’ hallway half a lifetime ago. And what’s more, age has apparently mellowed him. There are no strings attached to this favor. The strings, mercifully, appear to have been cut. While he shares with you the same old confidence and familiarity, he’s been a perfect gentleman, so far. Not so much as a slap on the fanny. Hard to believe, really. Sick as it sounds, you can’t help but worry that you’re no longer attractive.

  Six months, a year from now, everything will look a lot different, Harriet. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves again. Let’s just linger here for a moment. Let’s not talk about the ways in which your job spreads you thin on the home front or how your domestic responsibilities are not diminished, only compressed into fewer hours. And let’s definitely stop talking about fathers and uncles and husbands, and the power they hold over you.

  No, let’s just enjoy the moment, breathe deeply of this last, albeit brief, reprieve from your domestic bell jar.

  August 20, 2015

  (HARRIET AT SEVENTY-EIGHT)

  Across the aisle from the window, on the starboard side of the Lido buffet, Harriet picks around a shrimp cocktail, gazing distractedly to the east, where the verdant coastal range runs like a spine. They’re still hundreds of miles from the glaciers, yet Harriet can see the evidence of their patient, grinding retreat in the canyons left yawning in their wake.

  “The food isn’t bad,” says, Caroline, inhaling her fettuccine.

  “You look as though you haven’t eaten in weeks.”

  “Pardon me for enjoying my meal.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  Caroline spools some fettuccine. “Mom, sometimes it’s best not to comment. Didn’t you learn anything from all those lawyers?”

  “Touché,” Harriet says.

  Things are going pretty smoothly between them, all things considered. Beyond a bit of the usual touchiness, Caroline seems resolved to making the best of their time together in captivity. The truth is, Harriet’s glad for the company, happy to have an ally. Yes, she’s had a rough go with her daughter, but it hasn’t all been bad.

  “Let’s do something fun,” she says.

  “Like what?”

  Harriet fishes out her reading glasses, unfolds her daily planner, and begins scanning the checklist. “Well, it looks like there’s a comedian in the Vista Lounge. Clayton Somebody-or-other.”

  “Ugh.”

  “I’m with you,” says Harriet. “Most of them aren’t very funny. Last week, I saw a young man on The Late Show who had a parakeet for a partner. Every time the comedian would say something, the parakeet would chime in with ‘Squawk.’ That’s what she said. ‘Squawk.’”

  Caroline guffawed.

  “Oh, c’mon, Caroline.”

  “Well, it’s kind of funny, Mom. At least when you do the parakeet.”

  “Look here,” says Harriet. “We can still catch the tail end of the digital-photo-sharing workshop if we hurry.”

  “No, thanks. And I’m not sure I’d classify that as fun.”

  Undaunted, Harriet goes back to the list. “At six, there’s a signature cocktail tasting in the atrium.”

  Caroline frowns. “Yeah, great plan, Mom.”

  “I’m sorry, dear, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  The mere suggestion of a cocktail has Caroline palming the tasseled monkey’s fist at the end of her key chain. Harriet doesn’t know how many years of sobriety the knotted little rope represents, but she knows that every day has been hard won for Caroline.

  Watching her, Harriet’s heart sinks a little. Something about that little knot always makes her sad, maybe the way it’s burnished from all of Caroline’s nervous handling.

  “I’m proud of you, Caroline. You know that.”

  “It is what it is, Mom, that’s all.”

  “I know it must get hard.”

  “Squawk. That’s what she said.”

  “I’m being serious here, Caroline.”

  “Fine, Mom. Thank you. You’re right, it’s hard. And most days I don’t even see the point. But I mark them off, one at a time. What am I preserving?”

  “I know the feeling,” says Harriet.

  “Do you?”

  “Let me ask you this, Caroline: how much time did you spend with your father near the end?”

  “Fair enough,” she says. “Maybe you do know. Anyway, it’s not anything I want to talk about.” Even as she says it, the hand with the monkey’s fist retreats under the table.

  “I’m sorry, dear. I mean for ever turning my back on you.”

  “Mom, really, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  A third voice breaks in, as Kurt Pickens, the giant from Kentucky, appears at the end of the table, clad in another sleeveless T-shirt, clutching a plate of buffet fixings—from prime rib to sushi.

  “Y’all mind if I join you?”

  “Why, of course not, sit down,” says Harriet. “This is my daughter, Caroline. Kurt was kind enough to help me locate my cabin and carry my luggage,” she explains.

  “The pleasure was all mine, Ms. Chance. Kurt Pickens, Owingsville, Kentucky,” he says, extending a hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Caroline.”

  Kurt squeezes into place at the table, picks up his fork, and promptly devotes himself to the task of eating with a steady, businesslike comportment (the prime rib being his first order of business).

  “Are you enjoying the cruise?” Harriet inquires.

  “Mmph,” says Kurt with his mouth full. “Little bit, I guess.”

  “Juneau was pretty wasn’t it?”

  “Not bad. Lot of mountains. Don’t reckon I could live there,” he says, stabbing a potato. “Too foggy.”

  Throughout the meal, Harriet continues to solicit conversation from Kurt while Caroline shoots her looks intended to let her know that she’s being rude. Finally, Caroline can’t hold her tongue.

  “Jesus, Mom, let the poor guy eat.”

  “Dear, I’m just being friendly, I . . . Kurt, I hope I . . .”

  “No, no,” insists Kurt, forking a California roll. “Hell, I don’t care. I’m from Bath County, where a buffet likes company. ’Course Donna Mae could never abide a buffet. Donna Mae liked the finer things.”

  “Caroline,” says Harriet, piloting the conversation swiftly away from Donna Mae. “Mr. Pickens says there are some Chances in Kentucky.”

  “Trash, mostly,” he says, glancing over his fork at Caroline. “No relation of yours.”

  “Nice of you to say so,” says Harriet.

  Kurt is beginning to warm up a little. And while Harriet would not characterize him as cheery, he is disarming. Where he might lack a little polish, and a couple of sleeves, he’s thoughtful. And much to his credit, he makes no further references to Donna Mae. Throughout dessert, he illuminates the cultural benefits of something called the “Ole’ Cornfield,” and something else called the “I-64 Motorplex.”

  In the elevator, Harriet tests the water.

  “What did you think of Kurt?”

  “What do you mean? He’s fine. How should I know?”

  “I’ll admit, he’s a little rough around the edges. But he has a native politeness, don’t you think? And he’s actually quite attractive for a larger man. A bit like Zero Mostel.”

  “Wait a minute,” says Caroline. “You can’t be serious. Mom, whoa. Are you trying to hook me up, here? He weighs like four hundred pounds. You don’t even know the guy.”

  “He could lose it. You changed your habits, didn’t you? Get him on a diet. Clean him up. Put some sleeves on him. He’
s really quite nice when you get beyond superficiality.”

  “Is that really as good as you think I can do, Mom? Seriously? You must think I’m a real loser.”

  “I don’t think you’re giving him enough credit.”

  “He drinks, Mom. What else do I need to know? And anyway, Jesus Christ, who says I’m looking to meet anybody?”

  “I didn’t see him drinking anything.”

  “Why do you think his cheeks are so red? That’s a drinker’s tan.”

  “I thought he was embarrassed about belching.”

  “Not to mention he’s probably diabetic and about fifteen minutes away from a heart attack. Thanks for looking out, Mom, really. But if I ever start dating again, I’ll let eHarmony take care of the profiling.”

  Back in the cabin, Harriet sheds her clothing in favor of a nightgown and climbs into bed without removing her makeup. Snapping on the lamp, she dons her glasses and begins flipping through one of her complimentary glossy magazines. Caroline kicks her shoes off and lays down on the love seat, where she picks up the TV remote and flips through the channels for ten or fifteen minutes. Unable to find a sufficient distraction, she snaps off the television with a sigh.

  “I think I’ll go up to the observation deck or something. You wanna come?”

  “I’ll stay here, dear. Don’t forget your key.”

  Caroline slips back into her shoes and fetches her purse off the dresser. “And Mom, do we have to look at the ashes? Can you move them or something? And please, do yourself a favor, throw away that damn letter.”

  The minute Caroline shuts the door behind her, Harriet regrets staying. Caroline is right, it’s suffocating. There’s simply no escaping Bernard and Mildred.

  Though Mildred was a comfort to Harriet after Bernard’s passing, always on hand with a casserole, it now occurs once again to Harriet that Mildred might have been a lot more helpful during the precipitous decline of Bernard’s mental health, considering she’d spent decades loving the man. Surely, Mildred might have picked a less convenient time to abandon him.

  “He deserved a better ending,” Mildred had said at the wake as Harriet scattered ashes beneath the lilac.

  At the time, the statement had sounded almost like an accusation, one Harriet felt she’d earned. She’d set them both up for failure. Now Mildred’s words strike a discordant note. Just where the hell was Mildred to help improve Bernard’s ending? Where was Mildred fifteen times a day when Bernard observed, as though for the first time, that “while a tactical victory for the Japs, the Coral Sea was a strategic victory for the Allies”? Worse than the diapers or the vacant expressions or the spoon feeding of apple sauce had been the tedious repetition of “We used to call Okinawa the gray pork chop,” “Speed will kill a bearing faster than an increased load,” and “You wanna prevent rust?—Vinegar.”

  “What can I say? She didn’t have your patience.”

  Harriet turns to find Bernard beside her in bed, his hair thinner and whiter on this occasion. His lips, receding slightly, are dry; his chest, pale and sunken. Little tufts of white hair have taken root in his ears.

  “She had a mustache, too,” says Harriet. “In case you hadn’t noticed. And she was downright fickle. Not to mention downright pushy with her opinions. And pretty unreliable when you get right down to it.”

  “We’ve all got warts, Harriet. Hell, I was made of warts, you know that. I didn’t deserve either of you.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  “The point is, I was a terrible husband, a terrible person. I see that now, clearer than ever. I was thoughtless and inconsiderate, and I made bad decisions, big ones. And what’s worse, I stuck to them like General Custer. I was an absentee father, a tight ass, an unreasonable judge, a liar, a cheater, a—”

  “You weren’t that bad.”

  “But I was.”

  “Just let it go, Bernard. Don’t make me defend you again.”

  “Aw, but Harriet, c’mon. You’re too damn forgiving of me. You always were. Give me what I deserve for once.”

  “You got what you deserved, remember?”

  On that note, they retreat into a dense silence. Harriet stares up at the ceiling and listens to the sound of her own shallow breathing. He’s right, she thinks, she’s too easy on him.

  “Are you real?” she says at last.

  “You’re talking to me, aren’t you?”

  “Why didn’t you come sooner?”

  “It’s hard to explain, honey, trust me. It wouldn’t help you to understand, anyway.”

  “How long do you plan on hanging around?”

  “Probably not long.”

  Again, they fall silent. Shifting slightly on her back, she feels the graze of his arm hairs. She turns to him and looks him right in the eye.

  “Am I going to die?”

  Bernard doesn’t answer.

  “Well, am I?”

  “Of course you’re going to die, Harriet.”

  “Soon?”

  He rolls over on his side so that his back is facing her. “Tell me,” she says.

  He reaches over and turns off the lamp. “It’s getting late.”

  “What do you mean? For heaven’s sake, it’s only seven ten.”

  Just then, the door opens as Caroline returns from the observation deck. Cheeks red, hair windblown, she looks around the cabin.

  “Who were you talking to?”

  “Just the television, dear.”

  “Seriously, Mom, are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Just sleepy, dear.”

  November 4, 1966

  (HARRIET AT THIRTY)

  Ring-a-ding-ding, it’s your thirtieth birthday, Harriet Chance, let the party begin! Bernard has risen to the occasion, once again proving that he’s a thoughtful husband, in addition to being a good provider, an excellent mechanic, and a prolific shoe shiner. He’s arranged a sitter for Skip. Dinner reservations with the Blums at Canlis! A table by the window, overlooking Lake Union. Filet mignon and Chianti by the bottle. Why, just seeing Bernard in a suit and tie ought to be worth the price of admission.

  So, why so glum, beneath that courteous smile, birthday girl?

  Is it because you couldn’t find a thing to wear, not a stitch of clothing that would fit over your blasted stomach, swollen as it is to the size of a bowling ball? Because your ankle straps are cutting off your circulation? Because after barely a year back on the workforce, another unplanned pregnancy has sunk your prospects for a career?

  That’s part of it.

  But there’s more, isn’t there? Something darker troubles you, Harriet, as you and Margaret retire to the ladies’ room for a powder. Something you could never confide in Margaret. Or Bernard. Something you’ll never tell Mildred. Something you’ll have to confront by your lonesome. As a matter of fact, it will be forty-eight years before you will confide the information to anyone.

  But let’s put things in perspective here. It’s not the end of the world. That’s still coming, Harriet. No, in the big picture, what troubles you probably won’t matter.

  Unless you make it.

  So c’mon, birthday girl, turn that frown upside down, and start counting your blessings! Things won’t turn out so bad. It’s just a little setback. So you’re gonna lose your administrative job, so what? Really, you should be thrilled. It’s not like you’re barefoot. Go on, take a nip of that flask Margaret carries around in her purse. That ought to help. Hey, it’s 1966, smoke a cigarette in the bathroom while you’re at it. Hell, you can smoke it at the table.

  The thing to remember, the thing not to lose sight of, the thing your mother has been trying to tell you forever is this: Quit being so selfish, Harriet. You’re not worth it. Quit being ambitious, quit wanting so much, you don’t deserve it. Once and for all, quit casting yourself as the victim. Just be a good woman, and bear the load life hands you. Put on some lipstick and live a little. And order another martini while you’re at it.

  This is your life,
Harriet, the first day of the rest of it.

  August 21, 2015

  (HARRIET AT SEVENTY-EIGHT)

  By the time Harriet and Caroline stake out a window seat and unfold their napkins, the public address has sounded its call for Skagway and the Lido deck is beginning to empty. The mighty Zuiderdam slows to a crawl as the tiny borough of Skagway appears off the port side, a little slab of a town wedged deep in the gullet of a steep valley. Above and beyond, loom the great snowcapped domes of the Yukon.

  “You’re sure you won’t join me for the train excursion?” says Harriet. “I’ve got two seats.”

  “I’ve gotta pick up Skip’s wire and buy some clothes. Find some other stuff.”

  “Then why don’t I just forgo the train and come along with you on your errands?”

  “No.”

  “It’ll be fun.”

  “No, Mom. Definitely not.”

  A little crestfallen, Harriet turns toward the window.

  “Mom, don’t be that way.”

  “Lord knows, you don’t need me slowing you down.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “Look, I just won’t have you missing that train trip. It sounds amazing. Much better than slogging around this frontier looking for a fax machine. I can meet you afterward. We’ll go to some shops and grab a bite.”

  Within the hour, Harriet has taken her place alongside the railroad tracks next to cruise facilitator C.J. and fifty or sixty other cruisers. From this vantage she can see straight through the center of town, which could be a film set, with its lone, wide avenue dressed up in gold-rush glory, its wooden storefronts, facades painted cheerfully in reds, and pinks, and yellows, brimming with tourists.

  The trip to White Pass Summit does not disappoint. By the midway point, Harriet has deemed the excursion well worth the $130 she paid in advance. The vintage railway coach is both comfortable and tasteful with its burnished wood and expansive windows. And the scenery is nothing less than breathtaking. A panorama of jaw-dropping grandeur: of gorges and glaciers and cliffhanging corners. Ice fields, thawing meadows, and alpine lakes splayed fingerlike between the broad-shouldered mountains. Even the names are evocative: Bridal Veil Falls. Dead Horse Gulch. Inspiration Point. And oh, how Bernard would have loved the tunnels and the towering wooden trestles, the feats of engineering, of jobs done right, how he would have adored the noisy workings of the train itself, the thrum of the rails, and the clatter of the coaches.