This is Your Life, Harriet Chance! (16 page)

O
kay, 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.

Sick with worry and wracked with guilt, but certain beyond all reasonable doubt that you are pregnant, you return home late from work that evening and find that Bernard has prepared himself beans and toast and sits in his chair working a crossword. You graze his shoulder on the way past. He tries to pat your fanny. Playfully, you elude him. But inside you’re dying. Stealing to the bathroom, you take a shower
so hot it burns, scrubbing yourself raw to rid yourself of Charlie Fitzsimmons, inside and out. Your efforts, of course, are futile.

Your life has jumped the tracks, Harriet Chance. So what’s a grown girl to do?

In bed that night, under the covers, though your stomach and your heart are in knots, and the very idea is revolting in every aspect, you take Bernard firmly in your hand until he’s at full attention, then you straddle him in the darkness, hating yourself, sobbing so quietly he can’t hear you, hoping beyond hope that he can somehow unroot or dislodge your error, your—dare we say it—mistake. Not to be crass, but the plain truth is, when he rolls you over on your back to assume missionary, you’re wishing Bernard could fuck the life out of you.

Not really his style. After three minutes, or an hour, or a year, Bernard groans his release and rolls off of you, whereupon he promptly falls asleep without a care in the world.

From here on out, Harriet, it’s all a charade. Thank heavens, Charlie Fitzsimmons was a Caucasian, or this one would come back in nine months to bite you, for sure. Maybe not an ideal solution to your problem (and your problem is just getting started here), but hey, given the available choices, what was a girl to do?

Observe, Harriet, the world’s biggest Band-Aid. Believe it or not, it’ll get the job done for almost fifty years. But man, is it gonna sting when you pull that baby off.

T
he frigid air of the observation deck sobers Harriet almost immediately as she leans on the rail, staring dumbly at the blackened form of the mountains, crouching in the moonless night. Somewhere out in the vast, dim quiet, there’s an answer for everything. But all Harriet can hear is the wind rocketing past her ears. All she can feel is dread, cold and implacable as the Yukon night.

Rising at the back of her throat is a clot of emotion, crude and shapeless as a lump of coal.

Dear God, help me see clearly. Give me the strength, give me the courage.

But praying doesn’t help. This one’s not in God’s hands.
This one stands squarely on Harriet’s shoulders. And not the other Harriet.

Caroline’s not in the room when Harriet returns. She sheds her jacket and moves restlessly about the cabin for a few minutes, finally taking up the remote. Flipping through channels, she pauses the instant she sees black and white. Good old black and white, so soothing next to the barrage of color.

There’s Bogey on the screen with Bacall.
Key Largo,
an old favorite. A movie she’d seen for the first time ten years after its original release, a second screening with Bernard at the Uptown Theater, before the new owners gutted the place. They’d sat on the balcony, Harriet pregnant with Skip, though nobody knew it yet.

Nineteen fifty-eight. It doesn’t seem possible.

Suddenly she feels Bernard’s presence.

“She’s got my feet in case you hadn’t noticed.”

He’s beside her on the love seat, his voice cracked and wafer thin, only a wisp of ghostly white hair left atop his spotted crown.

“You knew it all along, didn’t you?”

“Like you knew about Mildred? No, Harriet, I suppose both of us were more than a bit nearsighted. It happens.”

They fall silent, turning their attention to the screen, where the shutters are banging and pictures are falling off the wall, and Edward G. Robinson’s bug-eyed agitation is reaching its crescendo.

“You ought to apologize.”

“I’m sorry, Bernard.”

“I mean to her.”

Harriet sighs, muting the television. “God, what a mess I’ve made.”

“You had some help along the way.”

“How can I ever undo it?”

“Technically, you can’t. But you can start over. Or try.”

“What if it’s too late?”

“There’s always that possibility. But don’t let it stop you from trying. Believe me, you’ll regret it, Harriet. Just look at me.”

“You’re right,” she says, standing. She gathers her purse and coat, leaving Bernard on the love seat.

“I assume you won’t be here when I get back?”

“Probably not,” he says. “I’m what you might call AWOL.”

“Will you come back?”

“Yes.”

“You promise.”

“I promise. Now go,” he says, shooing her toward the door. “And turn the volume up on your way out, would you? This is the best part.”

“Bernard.”

“What?” he says.

“I suppose I should thank you.”

Disembarking the elevator, Harriet is determined to make the necessary revisions, whatever they may be. She hasn’t
the foggiest idea what she’s going to say to her daughter to smooth over a lifetime of deceit, no clue what apology or explanation could possibly inspire forgiveness for forty-eight years of misgivings, but Harriet marches down the corridor with purpose.

By the time she arrives at the Crow’s Nest, the crowd has thinned out. Caroline has vacated the table. Harriet’s heart sinks. She could be anywhere. Scanning the room, Harriet spots Kurt, still hunched at the bar, nursing a green bottle of beer.

“Dear, you didn’t happen see where my daughter disappeared to, did you?”

No sooner has she said it than she sees it on the bar top near to Kurt, next to an empty highball, rope worn smooth as wax: Caroline’s monkey’s fist.

As if on cue, Caroline saunters back from the restroom, sneering the instant she registers Harriet. She’s drunk, it’s obvious.

C
TO Charmichael is dressed for business today. Crisply pleated dark slacks, starched shirt, obedient hair. Even his bald spot looks shiny. He circles the desk upon Bernard’s entrance, and perches on the front edge, folding his arms like a disappointed boss.

“It appears, Candidate Chance, you’ve been up to something. Clearly, you’ve not been spending your time contemplating nothing, or you wouldn’t be back in my office. That’s two strikes, you understand. One more than the guidelines allow for.”

Instinctively, Bernard bows his head and casts his eyes toward his shoe tops.

“Frankly, I’m at a loss, Chance. Your military record indicates no history of insubordination. Your taxes were all in order. Your home life was a mess, but that’s not so uncommon. Your attendance was exemplary, outside the confines of husbandry and fatherhood, that is. I really didn’t see you as a flight risk.”

“I’m not running, sir. I’m just trying to help.”

“Help whom? It would appear that you’re trying to improve your own case. Trying to get your wife to forgive you so you can neutralize your guilt. You’re not the first, you know? And neither are you the shrewdest nor the most worthy, not by a long shot. Let’s see, so far, you’ve defended your mistress, displaced some WD-40, eaten some corned beef, and watched Humphrey Bogart. I’d say you’re not staging much of a defense. So as your chief supervisor, let me offer you a little advice. Make yourself comfortable, Candidate. There’s plenty of improvements we can make right here. We could work on that impulse control, clean up your language, focus on a few blind spots. With a little diligence and some elbow grease, you could make CTO in five years if you walk a straight line. You could at least make deputy. Don’t blow it, Chance. Whatever you think you’re doing, it’s not worth it. Accept your remorse, and put it in a box. Compartmentalize, for heaven’s sake. This isn’t permanent. It doesn’t have to be. There’s still a chance for you. You didn’t reveal anything about the nature of transition, right? Nothing about the steps? Nothing about
the eight principles. You’ve simply meddled in your former life, so what? A little interference. It happens more frequently than you might think, actually. That’s why I’m here. To make corrections. I’m not going to lie to you, this is a strike against you, sure, but it’s by no means insurmountable. Save yourself, Chance.”

“Sir, with all due respect, this is not about me anymore. This is about them. I can’t undo the damage, that’s perfectly clear, but I can sweep up some of the rubble I left behind, and I can get out of their way for good.”

“Don’t do it, Candidate. You won’t even have a chance to regret it. Remember the nothing. Always remember the nothing.”

“I gotta say good-bye. Please, sir, you gotta grant me this. I promised her. She’s expecting me.”

“I admire your commitment, Chance, I do. But it’s a little late in the game. I’m not gonna look the other way this time. I’m afraid leniency is simply out of the question. If you go back, you’ll be sealing your fate. I’ll have no choice but to send someone after you.”

“I understand, sir. You’ve got your orders.”

“I’m not sure you do, Chance. Just to be clear, you’ll be choosing nothing. Nothing at all. As in, end of story. You’ll be wishing for test patterns, a hum—anything at all. Only you won’t know it, Chance.”

“Yessir.”

CTO Charmichael shakes his head grimly. “You’re making a mistake.”

“Maybe so, sir.”

“You can’t hide. They’ll find you. Sooner or later, they’ll nab you. And when they do . . .”

“Yessir, end of story.”

Y
ou never saw Caroline as the nurturing type. Naturally, you are circumspect when she tells you that twelve-year-old Cassidy is like the daughter she never had. Rail thin Cassidy, with her stiff upper lip, and those deep-set, sullen eyes, so far beyond their years. Really, what Caroline has come to tell you is that she needs to borrow a thousand dollars.

This business with the runaway Cassidy will not end well, you tell yourself, as ever, writing another check. And piece by piece, the evidence will support your case, as Caroline fails in her role as mentor, fails to set a good example for Cassidy, and fails miserably as an authority figure.

But here we are again, getting ahead of ourselves.

Maybe, Harriet, you were wrong about Caroline’s capacity
to nurture. Maybe you just didn’t know where to look all those years. Maybe Caroline was right when she said you never gave her enough credit.

Exhibit A: Remember the white rat? That revolting little red-eyed rodent that went everywhere with her, sophomore year of high school? Crawling up and down her sleeves, lolling around in her pockets, nibbling at her earlobes. You know, the one that got loose in the house, the one that scurried right past your feet when you were making Bernard’s toast, the one that came to an abrupt stop when you brained it with a skillet. To be fair, the damn thing startled you, a white blur—it could have been anything. And you were only trying to divert its course. A lucky shot, really.

That rat had a name, Harriet, it was Mr. Obidiah Whiskers. And when you crushed Obidiah Whiskers, with one cast-iron stroke, you crushed Caroline, too. Yes, that sounds silly—it did then, and it still does. I mean, c’mon, it was a rat! You even offered to buy her a new one. And while nobody expected you to shed a tear for the unfortunate Mr. Whiskers, you might have showed a little more compassion than “It’s only a rat, Caroline.”

She was just a kid, Harriet. Worse, a teenager. A little empathy might have been nice. An apology of some sort. Just sayin’.

And let’s talk about the mutt, while we’re at it, the one Caroline brought home on her sixteenth birthday, the little brown one missing half an ear, and the ferocious breath, and
the cataract clouding its right eye. That was Boogaloo, in case you’ve forgotten, and Caroline was obviously smitten beyond hope with the pathetic creature. The fact is, she could have used a companion about then. Better than the delinquents she was running around with.

But you wouldn’t give in, would you, Harriet? You wouldn’t even let her ask her father before you made her drop off the dog at the humane society. Was it really the new wood floors? Was it really your allergies? Was it really fair to speak on Bernard’s behalf?

You didn’t want your daughter to have a dog.

Gads, Harriet, even
your
mother let you have a dog! So why would you deny your daughter a dog? She would have made any concession to keep that dog. She promised to pay for its upkeep. The miserable thing might have happily slept in the garage. Probably Caroline would’ve slept in the garage with it.

Admit it, you were just being cheap with your daughter. It was a learned behavior, not that that’s an any kind of excuse.

Rats, dogs, foundling children, there’s a pattern here, Harriet, though it’s taken you nearly a half century to acknowledge it. Maybe your daughter’s not perfect, maybe she can’t tell her own story the way she’d like to. Maybe something is stopping her.