Some pleasant conversation, tempered by grief, a few tears, and some nervous laughter ensue. You handle yourself courageously, Harriet.
In the backyard, Father Mullinix, brushing crumbs from his gown, deems cremation an acceptable form of Christian burial, then proceeds to share a few words on the subject of immortal souls, along with a little hope and assurance from the book of Job. A little Corinthians for good measure. And a welcome moment of levity when he nearly drops the urn.
Finally, flanked by your middle-aged children, with your loyal friend Mildred clutching your hand, a scattering of ashes and a smattering of bone chips beneath the bare lilac as some but not all of your husband’s mortal remains are returned to the earth. Somehow you could only scatter half of him.
All in all, a nice send-off, if not a little subdued, for the man you spent the majority of your life with. Yes, Harriet, you preferred to grieve quietly rather than demonstratively. Yes, you preferred a small, sober gathering of family to the spectacle of an open casket, and a receiving line of once-familiar faces and misplaced names. My God, you haven’t seen the Blums in twenty-five years, why would you want to grieve with them?
But grieving aside, Harriet, let’s talk about the real reason you had Bernard reduced to ashes and not buried beneath a maple in accordance with his wishes (for heaven’s sake, he bought the plot twenty-five years ago). Admit it, the real reason you chose cremation was because you yearned to see his mortal shell pulverized. You hated his body for betraying him—for betraying both of you. He was a walking, talking corpse those last eighteen months. His brain began decomposing long before his breathing stopped. His bowels and bladder were not far behind. Oh, he was strong, right up to the end, though, wasn’t he? He could overpower you with his infantile rage, and did on numerous occasions, resulting in bumps, scrapes, bruises, even one black eye, which you attributed to the car door.
C’mon, admit it, Harriet, irrational as it may be, to a large degree, you hold him responsible for those last terrible years—including your own failure, Sherwood Arms, the fall, every last sordid detail. Still, those years give off such a glare that you can’t bear to look at them. Not today, not next week, but sometime soon, Harriet, you’re gonna have to.
August 19, 2015
(HARRIET AT SEVENTY-EIGHT)
Some seven hours after Dwight picked her up at her doorstep, Harriet, nerve-worn, famished, and aching, finally sets foot on the carpeted promenade of the Zuiderdam, with a silent prayer of thanks on her lips. The worst is over—it has to be—and Harriet has survived mostly intact. Her relief, while considerable, is short-lived, as the line of boarding cruisers empties into a chaotic scrum on the mezzanine, where the bulk of the mob elbows for position before the elevator bank, while a few courageous cruisers with the strength and wherewithal brave the wide carpeted stairway to the upper promenade.
She gropes around in her purse, withdraws her reading glasses, and scans her itinerary for her cabin assignment until the mezzanine is all but empty.
“Here, let me take a peek at that,” says a voice from behind.
Harriet turns to discover none other than the flatulent young giant in the sleeveless T-shirt from the customs line.
“C’mon,” he says after a cursory scan of her boarding pass. “Y’all are on Rotterdam, just a couple doors down from me.”
His breathing is labored from exertion. There’s a little rattle in his throat. Lumbering across the mezzanine, he parks both wheelie bags in front of the elevator bank, pushes the call button, and mops the sweat from his forehead with a hairy forearm.
“Kurt Pickens,” he says, extending a hand.
“Harriet Chance.”
“No kiddin’? Went to school with a fella named Boyd Chance. You got people in Bath County?”
“Not to my knowledge, dear.”
“Where y’all from?”
“Washington State, dear.”
“How about that? Owingsville, Kentucky, here. This is us,” he announces as the elevator door opens on a long stretch of ghastly carpet.
Dragging the luggage, Kurt guides her down a cramped hallway toward the rear of the vessel. He’s sweating again after thirty feet.
“Whoooeee,” he says, catching his breath. “They don’t make it no cake walk now, do they?”
“No, they certainly don’t.”
At last, Kurt deposits her in front of her cabin door, where he instructs her on the use of her card key, his great midsection still heaving.
“Bless you, Mr. Pickens.”
“Y’all have a good cruise now,” he says, resuming his ungainly stride. “See you at the buffet.”
The cabin, furnished roughly as it had been in the brochure, is half the size it appeared in the photos. The decor is bland and inoffensive: beiges and muted pastels, rattan and smoked glass. The art, nautically themed, is inconspicuous. The overall effect is an airport Radisson in miniature.
Harriet immediately unzips her wheelie bag and checks on Bernard’s ashes. Finding the container intact, she sets it atop the dresser, then lowers herself into the love seat, hoping against hope that she’ll be able to lift herself out again.
If things keep up at this pace, she’ll drop dead before Skagway, a thought that—at the moment—is less disconcerting than it should be. Closing her eyes, she takes several deep breaths and stares at the back of her eyelids.
Dear Lord, forgive me for questioning your wisdom. I’ve leaned on my own understanding, and I’ve had moments of doubt. But I have not lost faith, Lord.
She feels better immediately. It’s all out of her hands now. Before long, her body is one with the quilted cushion of the love seat as the heavy veil of sleep descends.
Then sunlight floods the room.
Harriet turns sleepily to meet a gentle breeze, and there, standing on the veranda not ten feet from her, clad in a crisp gray coverall, hair Brylcreemed to a shine, stands Bernard, looking just as he did when she first met him in 1957.
“Lot of hand sanitizer,” he observes. “That’s good. You get a GI breakout on this tub, and bingo bango, there goes your cruise. They’ve got dispensers at the end of every hall-way—every twenty feet on the Lido deck. Not the most decorative things, soap dispensers, but smart.”
“Oh, Bernard, you’re coming.”
“You tell me,” he says, crossing the threshold, whereupon he begins subjecting the room to a casual inspection—squeezing throw pillows, opening cabinets, running his fingers over the desktop, then checking them for dust.
“Kind of small,” he concludes. “But efficient. How’s the water pressure?”
“I haven’t tested it.”
“Meals included?”
“Yes, buffet and dining room.”
Jutting his lower lip out, he nods, mildly impressed, as he raps a wall with his knuckles to determine its thickness, then pauses to inspect the framed print above the love seat, tilting his head curiously one way, then back the other.
He’s so close, Harriet can smell him, his Brylcreem, his starch, and yes, even his hand sanitizer.
“I feel so strange,” says Harriet. “Am I . . . dead?”
“Not yet,” he says, examining the television remote. “Trust me, you’ll know.”
“Should I be frightened?”
“Won’t do you any good,” he says, setting the remote aside. “Don’t bother planning.”
“That doesn’t sound like you. You made our burial arrangements the day we moved to the peninsula.”
“Twelve ninety-nine was a steal. Copper deluxe caskets, hardwood—the good stuff.”
Here he drifts absently toward the bedroom portion of the cabin, pausing at the dresser to pick up the yogurt container, considering its weight before reading the label.
“Good plot, right? Conveniently located. Shady, not too crowded. Nice place to be buried.”
“It’s beautiful, I’m sorry. I know you would have preferred it that way. I was just . . . it was selfish of me.”
He waves it
off. “Look, I understand. Who needs all the ceremony at a time like that. And what’s the difference? I take up less space this way. And think of the money you’ll save on flowers.”
Gently, he sets down the ashes. “Glacier Bay, huh? Not what I had in mind for a final resting place exactly.”
“You don’t approve?”
“Actually, I’m starting to like the idea. Look, there’s something I’ve gotta tell you. You deserve to know. Things we can’t plan for—they happen, Harriet.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“I’m not talking about Alzheimer’s. I’m talking about . . . situations. Not ideal ones. We cause them to happen even when we don’t mean to. We’re weak, Harriet, and I was weaker than most. The best we can hope for is forgiveness. I hope you can accept that.”
“It sounds like an apology.”
“It is.” He turns to face her directly. “But it probably won’t do me any good.”
Slowly, still facing her, he backs between the parted drapes and onto the veranda. “I really am sorry,” he says, receding.
“You shouldn’t be,” she says, a sleepy smile clinging to her face.
April 16, 1973
(HARRIET AT THIRTY-SIX)
It’s true, Harriet, there are a few cracks beginning to show in the foundation of your marriage by the time you reach your ivory anniversary. But that’s a normal part of the continuum. Having apparently said all that needed to be said over the years, you and Bernard don’t talk much anymore. You haven’t had sexual relations in months. How long since you played a game of Scrabble or went to a movie? Again, nothing catastrophic, nothing that’s going to bring down the house, just the ruinous effects of time and familiarity.
Love grows quieter, Harriet, it’s true. People evolve, or they don’t. Either way, they grow apart. Sometimes they get busy. It’s not as if ball bearings are threatening to kill your family life, but last week Bernard missed Caroline’s birthday and Skip’s home opener. Tonight he will miss the occasion of your anniversary. But to his credit, he will remember the day and phone you from his hotel room, summoning the appropriate enthusiasm. And you’ll be glad to hear his voice.
Yes, all in all, things could be a lot worse. You could be divorced. You could be a widow. Gallo could stop selling wine by the jug. And where would that leave you, Harriet? Bored and sober.
The fact is, you’ve adjusted your expectations. You’re no longer a romantic. After fourteen years of marriage and two children, the glass slipper no longer fits. But being Mrs. Bernard Chance isn’t so bad. If not happy, you’re comfortable. You have two bright, healthy children and a nice house in a desirable neighborhood. Your refrigerator is always full, and every year so are those Christmas stockings. And though you’re relations have tapered off, and boredom has set in, seventeen years after he showed up at Fourth and Union clutching a bouquet, Bernard, still handsome, though frequently absent, perpetually grumpy, and often elusive, is still your husband, still the man you aim to spend the rest of your days with.
And you wouldn’t have it any other way.
This is your life, Harriet, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, until death do you part.
August 19, 2015
(HARRIET AT SEVENTY-EIGHT)
The dreamy smile still clings to Harriet’s face, as she pushes herself out of the love seat and begins unpacking her suitcase. Refolding her clothing (good heavens, those animals at customs have made a mess of it), she nestles each garment neatly into its tiny drawer, now and again smiling her satisfaction at Bernard’s ashes, atop the dresser. It’s as if he’s still in the room. She swears she can still smell his Brylcreem.
All settled in, Harriet perches on the edge of the bed, reaching for her purse. Remembering Mildred’s envelope, she debates whether she should even read it, at the risk of souring her mood. But she can’t help herself. She tears the envelope open, and removes the thick letter, folded in three.
My Dearest Harriet,
I’ve been trying for months to tell you in person, but I just couldn’t muster the courage. For years, I’ve been unworthy of your friendship and exploited your generosity. You’ve been the truest and most loyal friend I’ve ever had, and I’ve thanked you by withholding things for so long that my conscience simply can’t take it any longer.
It feels like I’m running out of time, and there’s so much I need to explain. But I feel that I must account for my actions before I can hope for the Lord’s mercy and that I must seek your forgiveness before I may ask as much of the Almighty. Hopefully, at least one of you can see clear to forgive me, though I will understand perfectly if you are unable to. Darling, I do hope you are sitting down.
What I have to tell you will come as a shock, but you deserve to know. Clark, may he rest in peace, never had the benefit of knowing. But I now see that nothing is covered up that will not be revealed, or hidden that will not be known. I will not make the same mistake with you that I did with Clark. I can promise you will never look at me the same after I tell you what I must tell you.
In 1973, after twenty-two years of marriage to Clark, I met a man. What can I say but that this man was very different from Clark, and he took me completely by surprise. I was not unhappy in my marriage, not even dissatisfied. Clark was a good man, a good father, and a great provider, if not a little absent. Together, we brought Dwight into the world, we lived in a beautiful home in Edmonds, we had many friends. I had much to lose. But as I said, this affair took me totally by surprise.
Though this other man and I lived for years within ten miles of one another on the north end of Seattle, we met on the other side of the continent, in a coffee shop near the old Philadelphia Civic Center, where he was on business, and I was in Camden making arrangements for my mother’s burial. It was only whim that brought me to the city that morning. I needed to get away from it all—my father, the arrangements, that old house, with all its memories. I suppose I was looking for nothing more than an escape. I will not burden you with the details of our first encounter, except to say that it was chance, but it did not feel that way.
I’ve often thought that were it not for my emotional state, I would not have taken up with this man, that if Clark would have been at my side during these dark hours, instead of in New York with pressing business, I would not have felt the need for such a companion. If my mother had died two days earlier, if Dwight had come from Bozeman with his new girlfriend, if I’d not taken a bus downtown, if I’d not happened upon this coffee shop and seen the pies in the window, had I not sat at the counter instead of a booth—if any one of these things had gone differently, I likely would not have met this man, and my life for the next four decades would have been very different.
But these are only excuses. Wishful thinking has taken me as far as it can take me. Whatever the circumstances leading up to our meeting, no matter how coincidental or seemingly fated our association, I now take full responsibility for my actions. That it has taken me four decades to do so is disgraceful.
This man, it turned out, was also married, and happily so. He had two children, a king’s set, boy and a girl, along with a loyal and supportive wife, of whom he always spoke highly. These things he told me before I knew his last name. So, you see, he, too, had everything to lose. How can I explain how we thought our association was worth risking everything but to say that the decision seemed inevitable? How can I explain my attraction to such a man but to say that it was contrary to any other attraction I had felt before? He was not as refined as Clark, not in his manners, or his tastes, or even in his emotional sophistication, but he was sincere and quietly strong in a way that Clark wasn’t. And he was troubled, too, by the world, and by the ways of his own heart, and I suppose I thought I could save him. It’s an old storyline that never ends well.
We met on two more occasions before he left Philadelphia for his family. He left on the Sunday I buried my mother, and I had no intention of ever seeing the man again; that is to say, I had every intention
of never seeing him again, though I knew with every nerve in my body that I must. And this is how I felt about the man for the next thirty-odd years.
What must you think of me, now? Sneaking around all those years, abusing the confidence and generosity of a husband who provided for all but one of my needs—a need that had not existed until I met this other man at the age of forty?
How could I have been capable of such deceit? How could I live with myself, knowing that Clark had no clue as to my duplicity, nursed not even the slightest suspicion of my infidelity? That’s how much he trusted me. All those years, off and on, I had extramarital relations with another man, and Clark carried on as usual, buying me bouquets and complimenting my weak coffee.
As Clark and I passed our golden years together, it seemed natural that our relations should tail off, that our love should mellow, at least in its physical expression. This was not the case with the other man. We still coupled like young newlyweds late into our sixties. Living as we did on stolen hours, our association was only physical in the sense that there seemed to be no more immediate solution to bridging the distance between us.
Understand that never in all these years did I confuse my love for Clark with my love for the other man. One, though practiced, and requiring at times no little effort, was calm and steady, while the other, effortless, reckless, ranged anywhere from tumultuous to chaotic. Never did I discuss or even consider leaving Clark for the other man, nor he his family.
In 1984, I tried to end the association. Clark, having retired the previous year, was for the first time in our thirty-four year marriage, not absent. On the contrary, he was very present. He hardly came or went at all. Logistically, the association became more difficult to maintain and, by extension, more secretive. Our meetings became less frequent, more harried, and for the first time, ambivalent. Suddenly, we spent less time coupling and more time scheming. These limitations to our freedom soon exacted their toll. The less time we spent together, the more we quarreled. For the first time, the association was beginning to exhibit all the trappings of an unhappy relationship. I began to see the man differently. Those very qualities I had once idealized, I now saw in a more unflattering light. And when I began to suggest we break off the association, new qualities emerged in my lover: Jealousy. Possessiveness. He became a tyrant with his opinions. He lowered my opinion of myself. And such was my guilt by then that I began to need this, too. It was as if by punishing myself, I could undo everything that came before. The less respect he paid me, the more I needed him to achieve balance. For here was the love I deserved, the love I had earned.
This is Your Life, Harriet Chance! Page 7
