Harriet shoots up from her chair. “Good heavens, what are they doing?”
But before she can protest further, she watches through the glass as a rather skittish Doberman pinscher is escorted into the room and persuaded to sniff Bernard’s mortal remains.
“What on earth? I’ve never heard of such a thing. Do I look like a terrorist to you? For heaven’s sake, I’m Episcopalian!”
Before Harriet can finish dressing down the officer, the man with the dark circles pokes his head in.
“She’s clean,” he says.
The officer frowns. Resting his hands on his knees, he pushes himself out of his chair. “We’re sorry about the inconvenience, ma’am.”
Across the hall, Harriet is forced to produce her passport again and sign for her bags. She’s led down the hallway and delivered to an empty podium at the head of another receiving area, where instantly she’s relieved to spot a sign that says MS ZUIDERDAM. She can’t help but beam her approval at the young woman who greets her at the podium.
“May I see your boarding pass and your declaration form, please?”
Harriet nimbly produces the items from her pouch and passes them to the young woman, who inspects them both smilingly before passing them back.
“Perfect,” she says, turning her attention to her computer, where her fingers begin tap-dancing on the keyboard. “Hmm,” she says, after a lot of tapping. “It says here we don’t have your questionnaire.”
“Excuse me?”
“You were supposed to fill out a hospitality questionnaire online.”
“Dear, but I—”
“How did you book your reservation?”
“By telephone, of course.”
“So you never received the questionnaire?”
“No.”
The woman frowns. “Wait here.”
She confers in low tones with a bearded associate as a line begins to stack up behind Harriet. When the woman returns, she’s clutching a packet. Harriet’s heart sinks.
“Ma’am, can I ask you to step aside here? Just have a seat at that table, and someone will be right with you.”
She corrals Harriet briskly to a nearby fold-out table, where she pulls out a chair.
“Go ahead and fill this out,” she says, producing a pen from behind her ear.
Harriet looks dully down at the packet, weary beyond outrage. Mechanically, she picks up the pen and begins filling out the questionnaire.
Ten minutes after completing the packet, nobody has come for her. Her patience, already frayed at the edges, begins to unravel. She’s ready to stand up and begin yelling, ready to take somebody to task. My God, her hands are shaking by the time another young woman arrives to collect her packet. Harriet scarcely has time to begin complaining before she’s promptly presented to yet another agent and asked to surrender her boarding pass again. The young man scans the paper with a red light, producing a beep, then smiles.
“Enjoy your cruise,” he says. “Watch your step.”
And just like that, the ordeal is over. Harriet passes through a sliding glass door and begins inching her way up the pier toward the gangway.
November 19, 2014 (HARRIET AT SEVENTY-EIGHT)
Hold on tight, Harriet, we’re off and racing again, careening past switches, gates, and stoppers, ding-ding-ding, thwack off a live kicker, and currently hurtling headlong toward the drain. Yep, everything moves quicker now, everything but your reactions.
Welcome to your not-so-distant past, Harriet Chance. Look at you, dressed in black, all the way down to your orthopedic shoes. Today you bury your husband of fifty-five years. Well, not exactly bury. Hey, it wasn’t an easy decision, but it had to be made. No use in debating it now.
Wanting to avoid a big ceremony, you see to the arrangements with minimal fanfare. A sleepy wake at the Carlsborg house. Just Skip and Caroline, Mildred, and Father Mullinix. Caroline is biting her nails, and Skip is rummaging through the refrigerator as Mildred busies herself around your kitchen. Ever the helper, your friend sets out a cheese plate, some cranberry scones, makes a pot of her signature weak coffee. Thank God for Mildred. And thank God for Father Mullinix, a stationary presence on the sofa, nibbling, and looking strong.
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.