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.