Admit it, Harriet, deep down, you’re just a little disappointed it’s Caroline and not Skip coming to visit you on this glorious Saturday in early spring. And make no mistake, it is glorious. You could reach out and touch the mountains. The birds are atwitter, as they flit about your garden. You’ll eat at the patio table, where already it’s pushing seventy degrees.
Yet Caroline’s imminent arrival troubles you. Too bad Mildred and Clark have canceled at the last minute—again. Too bad Bernard is not likely to move from his roost in front of the television all afternoon, where he cycles endlessly among collegiate football, PBS, and the History Channel.
Still, you’re determined to give Caroline the benefit of the doubt and make this a nice visit. You prepare a roast, with new potatoes and carrots, and you bake a cake, lemon chiffon. You clean the kitchen and bathroom, you dust, you make up the guest room and arrange flowers, hellebore and bleeding hearts. Everything is perfect.
Ah, but it never is, is it, Harriet? Your daughter arrives with gin on her breath, prickly as a saguaro. Nails bitten to the quick.
Brunch conversation is one-sided: Caroline’s litany of woes. Another lay-off. Another boss screwing her out of her unemployment benefit. At fifteen, Cassidy is threatening to move out of the house. She’s dating a twenty-year-old thug with an ace-of-spades tattoo on his neck. The kid is practically living with them. She ought to start charging them rent. Really, she’s harboring a runaway.
Of course you know what’s coming. It always comes, trailing Caroline like a fog of gin. Before your wayward daughter can muster the nerve to be direct, you’re already reaching for your checkbook, though not, of course, before Bernard has retreated to the television with his plate. Not because Bernard would disapprove (though he might) but because Caroline still somehow manages to be proud.
Seven hundred dollars. Last time it was eight. Six months ago, it was a thousand. And what does this money buy you? Not even peace of mind. Not even a phone call once a month. But you write the check, you always write the check. In the memo line you write “gift.” She’s your daughter, Harriet. You tell yourself that her problems are still your responsibility, even at thirty-eight. Who knew that one phone call from New Mexico all those years ago would mark the beginning of a long pattern, a legacy of trouble and expense, of bailouts and rescues and interventions?
It breaks your heart to watch her struggle. You want nothing more than happiness for your daughter. You’d do anything to make that happen. But today you finally draw the line, Harriet.
Hours after the check has been written, the plates have been cleared, and the conversation has (at times) even managed a certain level of ease, who do you find at the hallway desk, stealthily rummaging through your purse, rifling through your credit cards like a professional?
The thing that surprises you, now and later, is your calmness. Not so much as a vent of steam from Mount St. Harriet. One word, three letters is all, its meaning delivered with such clarity, such finality, such gravity, that it elicits no comeback or defense whatsoever.
Out. As in, O-U-T. As in, completely out—out of your house, out of your life, and as much as possible, out of your thoughts and prayers.
When Bernard ambles into the kitchen for a snack a half hour later and wonders what happened to Caroline, you give him the skinny. He nods. As always, he shares your prejudice. You can’t help but wonder if he knows the truth.
It will be nearly four years, and seven steps, before you hear from Caroline again, when she calls you on Easter morning to make her amends.
August 22, 2015
(HARRIET AT SEVENTY-EIGHT)
The Crow’s Nest is almost tasteful, with its burgundy club chairs and panoramic views. The light is subdued, but cheerful, the temperature perfect, the chatter so polite as to be but a pleasant murmur beneath a tinkling of silver and glassware. Tonight Harriet’s club soda tastes colder.
On a stool before the gaslit hearth, a handsome young man with a thick, lustrous head of hair and Scottish brogue (or maybe Irish), strums an acoustic guitar to the tune of “Danny Boy.”
Under the circumstances, Harriet is finding it hard to maintain her anger. It’s possible, she’s forced to admit, that Caroline actually has her best interest in mind. Viewing her life from some distance, Harriet can see how her situation might look to her daughter: osteoarthritis, dented side panels, phantom WD-40 cans. All that house, all that yard, all those stairs. And there she is, pushing eighty years old, brittle-boned and stooped, two hours from her nearest relative. Yes, from this vantage, Harriet can see why there might be legitimate cause for concern. And for the first time, she’s touched by her daughter’s solicitude. Tonight Harriet is willing, once again, to give Caroline the benefit of the doubt. She’s earned it.
“Just have a glass of wine, Mom. Don’t worry about me.”
“No, dear, I’m fine.”
But a glass of wine sounds awfully good.
“Seriously, Mom. Just enjoy yourself. I’m around booze all the time.”
“Fine, then. I’ll order a glass.”
Harriet’s glad Caroline talked her into it. The sweet white wine is a perfect accent to the velveteen air of the Crow’s Nest, a perfect complement to the sad, sweet longing of “Cockles and Mussels.” What’s more, Caroline seems perfectly comfortable with it. In fact, between sets, she flags the passing waitress and orders Harriet another glass, which is quite thoughtful if not a little surprising, all things considered, though Harriet has a sneaking suspicion she knows who will be picking up the tab. But what’s a few dollars, next to peace and tranquillity with her daughter?
Having conceded her campaign, as far as Harriet can tell, Caroline makes no further mention of the house. They do what they never seem to be able to do: they while away the evening with agreeable conversation, treading the past lightly, avoiding points of contention, keeping the reins on their sarcasm.
“Oh, these old songs are so romantic, aren’t they?” says Harriet.
“They are,” says Caroline. “I’ve have to admit. I’m a sucker for an Irish accent.”
“Oh, look,” chimes Harriet. “It’s Kurt!”
Indeed, Kurt ambles in wearing a gray T-shirt (with sleeves!) that says LOOK, DON’T TOUCH. He’s clean-shaven, and his hair’s in order. Harriet gives him a little wave, but Kurt doesn’t register it, as he takes a stool at the bar, his back pointed squarely at Harriet and Caroline.
“Shall I invite him to join us?”
“Mom, please, no.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“I wasn’t going to try and set you up, you know?”
“I know. I’d rather it just be the two of us tonight, though.” Harriet pats her on the knee. “That’s sweet, dear.”
“And Mom, I’m sorry I discouraged you from coming on this cruise. Seriously. I underestimated you.”
“You meant well, dear, I know that. It’s also possible that you overestimated the cruise.”
“A little of both, I guess. Anyway, I’m glad you didn’t listen to me. Are you having fun?”
“Oh yes, dear,” says Harriet with a slug of wine.
“Do you want another glass or anything?”
“I’ve had plenty. Gracious, if I drank another, you’d have to carry me out of here. How about you, dear? Another club soda?”
“What’s the use, I can’t feel it.”
“Squawk. That’s what she said,” quips Harriet.
Caroline grins. “Well played, Mom.”
“Why—hic—thank you,” says Harriet.
“Look, Mom,” says Caroline, reaching into her purse. “We need to resolve some stuff.”
Harriet straightens up in her chair and summons what concern she can muster. “What is it, dear?”
“Your future,” says Caroline. “We can’t ignore it.” She sets some forms on the table and returns to her purse for a pen. “It’s just stuff designed to make things easier for you. Mostly, it’s a precaution.”
Suddenly, Harriet is alert. The warmth drains from her in a flash. “What is this?” She snatches up the paper and dons her glasses.
“It’s in case anything happens,” says Caroline. “And you’re unable to make a decision or whatever.”
It doesn’t take long for Harriet to recognize the significance of the paper. “You don’t actually expect me to sign this, do you?”
“Mom, it’s just in case.”
“Is that why you’ve been trying to get me drunk, Caroline? You actually think you can dupe me into signing away my freedom?”
Harriet stands up too fast and nearly loses her balance.
“Mom, sit down. Let me explain.”
“You’d sell my house right out from under me, wouldn’t you? Lock me away and help yourself to my bank account.”
“Sit down, Mom, you’re making a scene.”
Indeed, neighboring tables have begun to take notice.
But Harriet doesn’t care. “On top of everything else, you bungled it, Caroline. Even if you did dupe me into signing this, you’d need two witnesses. My God, you could have picked a shrewder conspirator than Dwight Honeycutt!”
The music stops. At the bar, Kurt has turned to see what the commotion is.
“Mom, sit down, please,” says Caroline. Rising to her feet, she coaxes Harriet back into her chair. Harriet complies but only because she feels woozy.
July 1, 1966
(HARRIET AT TWENTY-NINE)
Look at you, Harriet Chance, so diligent, so fastidious in your attention to detail! It’s Friday at 6 p.m., and most of the office left hours ago for the holiday. But not you, Harriet. There are documents to file, motions to draft, letters to write. A pile of work that would daunt most people but not Ms. Harriet Chance. The productivity thrills you. Every day you learn something new about the vast quagmire of law, and bit by bit you see the big picture coming together like a jigsaw puzzle.
When you’re really in a good groove, you allow yourself to daydream, don’t you? With your enthusiasm and your sterling work ethic, is it so impossible to believe that you could go back to school and earn a law degree? Isn’t that what your father had planned for you? Isn’t the timing right? You’ve got your days, with Skip at school. You could keep your job and go to school nights. You could pay for child care with your own income. You could still be your idealized self: independent, decisive, outspoken.
Ah, but you’re just musing, aren’t you Harriet? You wouldn’t dare share this dream with anyone, least of all your husband, who still seems slightly amused by your professional endeavors, though he is supportive. But what on earth would he say when you tell him you want to be a lawyer?
There is one person upon whom your good, hard work is apparently not lost, one person who has professed to believe in you all along, who has encouraged you, a person with whom you’ve always shared a unique, if not always healthy, repartee as confidants. And he just so happens to be the only one left in the office.
Listen to Charlie Fitzsimmons commend you on your superlative work. Telling you he can count on you one hundred percent, that he trusts your work and your character implicitly, that nobody is quite as quick and efficient, and discreet. Charlie’s not as old-fashioned as some. He believes the right woman can do most anything a man can do. In fact, he can see increasing the right woman’s responsibilities, expanding her sphere of influence. Who knows, maybe even subsidizing her continued education—his words, not yours.
At first, your shoulders tighten beneath his touch, which stirs an old confusion and a racing heart. But his words embolden you. The fact that until five minutes ago the man was repellent to you only seems to inflame you more, as though you’ve actually managed to turn the emotion inside out, unleashing a reckless impulse you could never have guessed at.
No, it’s not Charlie’s empty promises of mobility that set your heart to racing, nor the fact that his words echo your daydreams. In fact, it has little to do with your ambition. It’s something else. Three things, actually: One, an almost instinctive obedience to authority, which you abhor in yourself, though you have no power to stop it. Two, some dark impetus beyond reason, some grotesque thing that’s been living under a rock your whole life (let’s call it repression). And lastly, there’s the truth, plain and shabby as a hobo’s trousers, that you believe yourself to be worthless, though you don’t fully know it yet, at least you haven’t formally acknowledged it.
This is your life, Harriet, taking a hairpin turn.
Take a good long look, before we move on, like a rubbernecker at the sight of a collision. Unthinkable as it is, that’s really you, Harriet Chance, black-and-white-checked skirt hiked six inches above the waist, bare legs splayed on the mahogany desktop, as Charlie Fitzsimmons, pants bunched around his ankles, toupee listing badly to one side, empties himself inside of you.
Welcome to the sexual revolution, Harriet Chance! You won’t be staying long.
August 22, 2015
(HARRIET AT SEVENTY-EIGHT)
As soon as the dizziness subsides, Harriet gulps the last of her wine and sets the empty glass on top of the documents. A little wine drips down her chin, but she makes no effort to wipe it off, leaving it there like a challenge. Suppressing a hiccup, she stares Caroline down from across the table until Caroline is forced to avert her eyes.
Harriet promptly flags the waitress and orders another glass.
“I thought you said you’ve had enough.”
“Mind your own business.”
Caroline is polishing her monkey’s fist under the table, as though she might conjure a spell out of the thing.
Harriet’s temples pound with rage. The camaraderie, the healing, the easy laughter—all just a ruse.
“Durable power of attorney? Why not legal guardianship, Caroline? I’m sure they’ve got a notary on board. Then you could really have your way with my assets. Lock me up in Sherwood Arms and throw away the key, why don’t you?”
“Nobody’s trying to lock you up. And Sunny Acres is hardly Sherwood Arms.”
“My God, you could’ve just asked for money. It always worked before.”
“I don’t want your money. But now that you mention it, you might have left me a little something after Dad died.”
“Funny, I had other things on my mind, Caroline. But you’re right,” she says bitterly. “You’re absolutely right.”
She fishes her checkbook from her purse and picks up Caroline’s pen and quickly scrawls out a check, barely legible, for eight thousand dollars. She writes nothing in the memo line.
“C’mon, Mom, knock it off.”
“Should I add a zero? Would you rather I leave the amount blank?” Harriet tears the check from her register and pushes it across the table. “There, are you happy? Don’t cash it until we get back. I’ll have to transfer the funds.”
Caroline pushes the check back.
Harriet volleys the check back, then picks up the pen again. “And while I’m at it.”
She grabs the document and flips to the second page and signs it, hand trembling. “There,” she says, to the bewildered couple at the adjacent table. “You saw that.” Then, turning back to Caroline: “You’ll need signatures.”
Harriet stands up, just as her glass of wine arrives. “And for the record, your father is still alive.”
“See? It’s statements like that that make me think you’re—”
“That’s not what I mean, Caroline.”
“What are you talking about?”
Harriet looks her daughter straight in the eye, unflinchingly. “All these years you’ve been begrudging the wrong man.”
Caroline leaves off rubbing her knot, matching Harriet’s gaze for what feels like forty-eight years.
This time it’s Harriet who looks away first. “Now look what you’ve made me do,” she says, and walks away from the table, wobbling slightly. As she exits the Crow’s Nest, a wave of remorse courses through her like nausea. She pauses briefly to look back at her daughter,
pale and perplexed, fondling her monkey’s fist again. And in that moment realizes she just made the biggest mistake of her life.
July 1, 1966
(HARRIET AT TWENTY-NINE)
Okay, maybe the second biggest mistake of your life. You’re wracked with guilt the instant Charlie Fitzsimmons climbs off of you, mops the sweat off his brow, and straightens his toupee. You maintain silence as you dress, an easy state of affairs for the two of you, let’s face it.
Before you can begin to unravel the mess you’ve made, before you can begin to calculate your next move, you feel it. A tickle at first. Something takes root in you in that instant, even as Charlie pulls his pants up and fastens his belt. Yes, something starts growing, something that will still be with you forty-nine years later, Harriet, something you’ll never be able to outrun: contempt. Mostly for yourself but, to a lesser degree, contempt for the world. And yes, Harriet, as tough as it is to admit, as awful as it sounds, contempt for the unwitting life that has taken root inside you.
Now let’s be perfectly clear on something: You want to get rid of this, this . . . what shall we call it, child? That seems a little premature. This thing? That’s a little objectifying, don’t you think?
Hell, why mince words? Let’s just call it Caroline.
The second-to-last thing in the world you need right now is another child (the last thing being an illegitimate one). But you really have no choice, Harriet, at least not a safe or reputable or affordable one—and many would say not a moral one. It’s 1966. The National Organization for Women is less than a week old. Legal abortion is still four years off, a reality so distant that Margaret Sanger won’t live to see it. The available options are all prohibitive one way or another. They involve back alleys or intercontinental flights or precarious home remedies. Your only legitimate (sorry, poor word choice) option may be a trip to the roller skating rink, where a couple of good hard falls might do the trick.
So you’ve got that going for you.
This is Your Life, Harriet Chance! Page 15
