by Joyce Magnin
“Yes. Do I still matter, or have I used up all my purpose?”
There was a long pause and Harriet felt fidgety. “I’m sorry, Henry, I shouldn’t have asked that.”
“Mom, I —”
“Sorry, Henry there’s my next bus.” She closed her phone. Of course she still had a few minutes to wait, but it felt uncomfortable to talk about personal things with Henry — even long distance. The air was cool for a late spring afternoon, and Harriet enjoyed it. She would much rather be cool than too hot. She observed the people around her and marveled that most of them were young and hip looking. She liked that. Hip kids made her smile and remember her own youth.
Next Harriet got out her journal and pen. She crossed her legs and admired her bright red sneakers again. She never, ever thought she could love a pair of shoes as much as she loved her Converse. Change was good.
Dear Max, you will not believe what I did today. I rode in a helicopter named Crazy Jane with a Viet Nam vet named Milford. At first I was scared to death, but then I managed to sit back and relax. I figured if God was going to call me home in a fiery crash, I might as well enjoy the view. I’m writing this entry under a portico at the transit center in Asheville, North Carolina, on my way to Maggie Valley, also in North Carolina. I can’t wait to get there. David Prancing Elk made it sound spectacular. I’ll be sure to wink at a star for you. I hope I see some meteors. Remember how we thought shooting stars were expressly for us, from God at times. Like, I was thinking, when we lost the baby. You took me out that night, and we saw a shooting star. It cut through the sky like a diamond-studded knife. We prayed for another baby that night and two years later Henry was born, under a shooting star.
She leaned her head back against the brick wall and remembered the night Henry came into the world. They saw a shooting star on the way to the hospital.
Harriet swiped at the tear that fell onto her page. “I miss you, Max.”
She closed her book and set it in its pouch in her tote bag. Harriet sat and listened to the sounds around her, snippets of conversation, birds singing. There were nests in the portico roof. Sparrows, Harriet thought.
But then, just as she started to feel relaxed, she heard a scuffle and a scream behind her. She turned and saw a young man yank the handbag away from an older woman, older than she. The woman screamed as the hoodlum in dark jeans and white T-shirt hurdled one of the benches and came running with the handbag toward her.
Thinking fast, Harriet rolled her suitcase just in time to trip the thief. He crashed to the ground with a thud and a cry. Harriet raised her tote bag and sent it crashing down onto the boy. He hollered and cursed as Harriet continued to assail him with her tote.
“What. Is. Wrong. With. You?” she said with each glancing blow. Her bottle of blood-pressure medicine skittered out of the bag along with two gel pens and a canister of deodorant.
“Stop it, Lady,” the kid hollered. “Stop hitting me.”
Harriet looked at the boy. She noticed his bright blue eyes. “Ah, you’re not a criminal. You’re just a baby.”
The old woman, along with several other passersby gathered around. One of the group held a camera.
The young lady with the camera — actually a cell phone — moved closer to Harriet. “This is going on my YouTube channel,” she said. “I got the whole thing — from the first whack with that big purse.”
A middle-aged man joined the scene and knelt with his knee in the boy’s back. “You’re a real hero, lady. That was incredible.”
It took a moment before Harriet realized she was smiling into the girl’s camera.
“Thank you. Thank you so much,” said the crime victim. She leaned down and reclaimed her purse. “My … my life’s savings are in here.”
Harriet smiled at her. “I’m glad I was here at the right time.”
That was when two police officers approached and started asking questions. One of the officers helped the perpetrator up and handcuffed him. And what happened after that happened so quickly Harriet hardly had time to think. There were so many questions. A backup patrol car arrived on the scene and out jumped two more officers. They took Harriet’s vital statistics — her name, address, cell phone number, and such, while the original cops tended to the victim.
“You’re a true hero,” Officer Trotter said.
Harriet felt her face warm. “I just did what anyone would do.” Then she glared at the young man. “And you! You should be ashamed. What would your mother think of you stealing purses from women?”
The boy, who couldn’t have been much older than sixteen, didn’t say a word.
That was when the small crowd applauded.
“Oh my goodness,” Harriet said. “But I don’t deserve this. I was just on my way to California minding my own beeswax when I saw him. I think I acted on instinct. I’m just thankful he wasn’t any bigger. He’s just a kid.”
The woman videoing the whole thing stopped for a moment and said, “I’ll get this uploaded right away. It’s gonna be all over the place. Eighty-year-old woman nabs purse snatcher on her way to California.”
“Seventy-two, dear,” Harriet said.
“What?”
“I’m only seventy-two.”
The police officers led the perpetrator away. The crowd thinned, and Harriet sat with a thud onto the bench. Her heart pounded like a drum in the hands of a two-year-old. She needed to catch her breath. “Glory be. Thank you, Lord, for getting me through that one and for letting me nab that hoodlum.”
The victim approached Harriet. She opened her purse and removed a thin bank envelope. “I want to reward you,” she said as she offered Harriet a twenty-dollar bill. “It’s not much but —”
Harriet waved the money away. “Oh, gracious no. I refuse to accept any reward. You hang on to your money.”
The woman smiled so wide her upper plate dropped. She quickly corrected the situation. “Thank you. I’m on my way to live with my son. He’s meeting me at the station.”
“Oh, that’s a good thing.” Harriet patted the woman’s hand. “I am too. Going to live with my son, only I’m taking the long way.”
In all the commotion Harriet missed the first bus and had to wait for the next. But that was fine with her — gave her a chance to settle down after the ordeal. The next bus pulled up soon enough and Harriet once again lugged her suitcase up the steps with a bump, bump, bump that seemed to annoy the driver.
“Come on, Lady, I don’t got all day.”
“I’m quite sorry, young man,” Harriet said as she paid her fare. “But it’s getting heavier and heavier.” She took the first seat she saw and barely had room for her suitcase. It must have been a older bus, she decided, not as much leg room as the new ones.
Fifteen minutes later her stop came up on Patton Avenue. She moved to the front. “Can you direct me to the Tupelo Honey Café?” she asked the driver. “If it’s not too much of a bother.”
“Just over on College Street,” he said without even glancing in her direction. “Next street over, sort of, you’ll find it.”
“Thank you.”
Harriet stood a moment. It seemed a nice part of town, artsy and earthy like she’d expect to see flower children and hippies strolling about. But mostly she saw young folk, many on cell phones, others carrying cups of coffee and yakking up a storm with friends. All on their way to someplace.
She spotted a small boutique called Aunt Clementine and went inside. It was old with creaky floors. She saw all kinds of jewelry, large brooches and earrings with bright stones in them, and specialty clothing, like a pair of vintage stone martens still with their tails and eyes. She touched the soft fur. Why would anyone want to wear dead weasels around their shoulders? But Harriet did not see a single salt and pepper shaker so she bought the martens.
Next she moved on to a used bookstore. The smell was musty and bookish with a bit of cigarette thrown in. She loved wandering through the dark stacks looking at all the used books. She enjoyed picking out the
ones that had cracked spines and dog-eared pages. She figured those were the ones that got read. The others were like brand-new and probably never read or, at the very most, never finished. She finally settled on a copy of Pride and Prejudice. “I always wanted to read this,” she told the clerk. “And now I think I will.”
“You’ll love it,” the clerk said. “Austen is my favorite.”
“I’ve heard that from other people. My son — he’s a writer — says she’s great.”
“Oh, what’s he written?”
Harriet felt a wash of pride. “He’s written one novel — a Western. It’s called Ride the Wild Wind. Why a Western, I don’t know. He’s just finishing up his new book, and then I believe it will be sent out to the bookstores next year.”
“That’s great,” the clerk said with a bit of disbelief.
Finally, Harriet found her way to the Tupelo Honey Café, a lovely storefront restaurant nestled amid other stores and businesses. It had a green awning and tables and chairs assembled outside on the walkway. She thought about taking a seat outside, but when a chilly wind, chillier than before, kicked up, she went inside.
A hostess showed her to a seat. “Enjoy your dinner.”
Harriet looked at the menu. Everything sounded so good. Too good. She was half-starved. Being on the road left little time to eat. And Harriet liked to eat, even though Doctor Nancy was always on her about watching her carbs. Harriet swallowed and set the menu down as a most terrible thought crossed her mind. Moving to Grass Valley would mean needing to find a new doctor. Oh dear, another reason she should have called off the silly bet when she had the chance.
After a few minutes Harriet settled on the meat loaf, mostly because she liked the name: Not Your Mama’s Meat Loaf, and it came with from-scratch mac ‘n’ cheese. It sounded perfectly comforting on such a long and occasionally harrowing day. She thought about the purse snatching and winced. She could have gotten hurt, but in the heat of the moment there was not time to think.
Harriet liked the Tupelo Honey Café. There were black and white photos scattered about the walls of people and places, and the décor reminded her of an old-fashioned tearoom. The kind she used to visit with her mother so very long ago. Lush potted and hanging plants added to the earthiness of the place. Harriet breathed in the ambience and felt her shoulders relax for the first time all day.
Her server came by. “My name is Sheretha. I’ll take your drink order, and can I start you off with an appetizer?” she asked.
“Oh, no, not today. I think I’d like the meat loaf, though — it sounds scrumptious.”
“It is,” the server said. “The best in town.”
“And iced tea,” Harriet added. “Not sweet.” Her phone jingled. “I’m sorry.”
“No problem. I’ll be right back with your tea,” the server said and walked off toward the kitchen.
“Hello,” Harriet said.
“It’s me, Martha.”
“Martha,” Harriet tried to whisper. “How are you? Everything okay?”
“Everything is fine by me, how’s by you?”
“Oh, Martha, I just had the most unusual day. I flew in a helicopter.” That was when she noticed the couple next to her look over. “But let me call you later when I get to my room. It will be more private, less nosey, I mean noisy.”
“Helicopter? I got to hear this. Now, you better call me later.”
Harriet closed her phone. In a few minutes, her iced tea arrived, followed not too much later by the main dish. Harriet finished every bite of her meat loaf. It truly was the best she had ever eaten. She told the server so when she came to get her plate. “This was the best meal I’ve had since I left Hickory, and the meal I had in Hickory was the best since, well, since I cooked for myself back in Philadelphia.”
“Are you traveling?” Sheretha asked.
“I sure am, on my way to California.”
“No kidding?” Sheretha said. “Cool.”
“Thanks. It’s been real … cool.”
“Here’s your check, whenever you’re ready,” Sheretha said.
“Sheretha,” Harriet said signing the statement. “I was wondering, do you know of a nice hotel around here?”
Sheretha pondered a moment. “If I was going to stay somewhere tonight, I’d see if I could get a room at the White Gate Inn. Pretty expensive and ritzy, but I hear it is the best. Very luxurious.”
“Luxurious. I could do with some luxury.”
“'Course I could never afford it, what with being a single mom with three kids. My goodness. But I do work hard.”
“The White Gate Inn.”
“Yep. You better call first in case they don’t have a room available.”
“Thanks,” Harriet said.
After paying her bill and leaving Sheretha a ridiculously large tip, Harriet called the inn, and much to her delight they had two rooms available for the night. Harriet booked the Emily Dickinson room. She couldn’t have been more thrilled. The only trouble was getting there. The inn wasn’t that far from the restaurant, but there was no bus going that way, and now it was nearly night, and she was tired. She didn’t want to walk.
Harriet called a cab. She stood outside the restaurant and waited. The air was cool but not cold, and smelled of the city — a mixture of exhaust and food smells. Cars whizzed past, bikers with headlights rode by, but mostly Harriet enjoyed watching the people. She thought there were a lot of people out on a weekday evening.
The cab pulled close to the curb, and Harriet climbed into the back. “Hello,” she said. “I’d like to go to the White Gate Inn please.”
“Okeydokey,” said the driver.
Harriet checked the face on the license with the face in the rearview. “Robert,” she said. “That’s a nice name.”
“Thank you,” he said.
The ride to White Gate took only a few minutes, and before she knew it, Harriet had passed through a white picket fence and was walking up a flower-lined walkway to the entrance.
Harriet stood for a moment and breathed deeply. The house was spectacular, with red clapboard siding surrounded by gardens on sloping hills. Harriet was certain she heard a waterfall nearby.
She rang the bell and was met by Ralph, one of the owners.
“Welcome,” he said. “You must be Harriet Beamer.”
Harriet smiled. “I am.”
“Well, I couldn’t miss you. You’re famous.”
Harriet stepped through the threshold. “Famous? You must mean another Harriet Beamer.”
Ralph shook his head. “Aren’t you the Harriet who is traveling across the country using public transportation?”
Harriet smiled. “I guess so, but … how did you know?”
“You made the Asheville Citizen-Times, honey. At least their website.”
“Oh dear. Really?” She looked around at the spectacular parlor. Her eyes landed on a beautiful oil painting above the fireplace mantel. “I love that,” she said, hoping to avoid any more talk about her celebrity.
“That, my dear, is called A Still Wind Blows. It was painted by Elizabeth Versace.”
Ralph checked Harriet in. “The Emily Dickinson suite. You’ll just love it. It’s one of my favorite rooms.”
“Emily Dickinson is my favorite poet.”
“Ohh, well then, this is the perfect room for you. It’s just so … so Emily.”
They climbed an elegant stairwell. The room was a couple of doors down on the right. He showed her inside.
“Oh my goodness gracious,” Harriet said. She stood still a moment, barely able to catch her breath. “It’s … it’s gorgeous.”
“Thank you,” Ralph said as he parked her suitcase near the bed. “I think you’ll find everything to your satisfaction, but if you should need anything, anything at all, please call the front desk.”
“Thank you.”
“Have a sweet night,” Ralph said as he closed the door.
Harriet dropped her tote on the floor. The room was spectacular. Th
ere was a four-poster bed with a lovely rose-covered comforter. A small writing desk sat in the corner surrounded by large windows with blinds, not curtains, so Harriet could enjoy the budding trees outside. The living room section of the suite had a fireplace and chairs and a sofa. Harriet thought she could live there with no problem. The windows looked out over lush gardens. Harriet remembered a bit of Emily: “The lovely flowers embarrass me. They make me regret I am not a bee …”
She sat on the chair in the sitting room, kicked off her sneakers, and yawned with her whole body. This had to be the most relaxing place in the world.
Harriet checked her phone and decided it would be best to charge it while she called Martha and talked to her with the cord dangling. She still owed her an explanation about the helicopter. Even though it was late she figured it would be okay. Martha was a night owl. She often stayed up late working on her stained glass.
“Martha,” she said, “it was … spectacular. A little scary but still —”
“I don’t believe it,” Martha said. “You actually rode in a helicopter. Did it have doors? You know some of them don’t have doors.”
“Yes, this one had doors, and Milford, he was the pilot, was ever so sweet. A little rough around the edges but still quite sweet. I saw North Carolina from a mile in the sky. It was —”
“Spectacular,” Martha said. “I would have been scared half to death. Airplanes are one thing but —”
“You would have done it if it was the only way to get where you needed to go. I have trouble finding a bus sometimes once I get out of the city limits. As a matter of fact I have no clue how I’ll ride into Maggie Valley. But you know what, Martha, I’m learning to trust God in ways I never had to. He always comes through even if it is a wild helicopter ride.”
“That’s great, Harriet. I never heard you speak like this. Oh, you always had the God stuff down, but now it’s different. Your voice is different.”
“This time it’s … personal,” Harriet said. “You know what I mean?”
“I think so.”
“I guess it’s like I can actually feel God’s —”
“Pleasure?”
“Um, not exactly. More like God’s big, giant hand on my back. He keeps nudging me to take the next bus. To get to the finish line.”
