Clark never cared enough to suspect a thing. All those years, he was more interested in his Wall Street Journal than he was interested in me. But something happened when he retired. Suddenly he was present. Suddenly he was taking an interest in my ever-evolving worldview.
I felt certain the move to Sequim in ’85 would end the association for good. The very day that Clark and I committed to the idea, I broke it off with the other man. Not face-to-face, not with a phone call, but like this, with a letter. I know I’m a coward. I gave him no forwarding address, no number, and only the vaguest references with regard to our relocation. It was a clean break. And God, but what a relief it was to let go, to put the thing behind me.
Sequim was the perfect opportunity for a second chance. I was ready to reinvent myself and erase my past. I was ravenous to be someone else completely. I was ready to respect myself so that I could respect others — specifically, Clark. At fifty-eight, I was ready to be the woman Clark deserved. I owed it to him. And by God, that first year in Sequim, I improved myself. I took classes at the community center. I became quite active at St. Luke’s. I began to explore my inner self in ways that had formerly never occurred to me. Inch by inch, I was expanding. And the church was only the beginning of my spiritual inquiry. I discovered the public library. I dabbled and experimented in a variety of alternative health regimens and holistic philosophies. I stopped eating wheat, I practiced self-care and nurturance.
And Clark, dear Clark, finally a husband, he encouraged me every step and every leap of the way. We began to get acquainted as though for the first time, and it was thrilling. I felt like a new person, like I’d been given a fresh start. Clark proved himself capable of things I never even suspected. We went skydiving on our thirty-fifth anniversary, hand in hand.
Then, one Sunday morning everything changed. No sooner had I taken my seat beside Clark at St. Luke’s than I saw him, the other man, and I knew in that instant that no faith or discipline could save me. Of all the churches in all the world, there he was, and I was doomed, just as sure as I was doomed when I walked into that coffee shop in Philadelphia thirteen years earlier. There he sat, directly across from me, third pew, just left of center, glasses halfway down the bridge of his nose, a crossword in his lap. And there beside him, attentive and right at home, was you.
Harriet swoons, the letter slipping from her grasp. Only dimly is she aware of the pages scattering as they flutter to the carpet. Her ears are ringing. Her legs are numb. The room spins slowly. Bracing herself on the edge of the bed, she feels her heart kicking at her rib cage, as though desperate to escape. She believes in this moment that she’s dying.
August 18, 1965 (HARRIET AT TWENTY-EIGHT)
Uh, well, ummm, yeah. Hello? Hello? Nudge, nudge. We’re frozen here. Looks like we’ve tilted, Harriet. Didn’t see that one coming. How about a replay, how would that be? I’ll stake you to a few credits. How about we just pull back the old plunger and give it another go, let her fly, and see where we end up? Yeah, let’s do that. Ding-dong-ding, 1973. Nudge nudge, no thanks. Ring-a-ding-ding, 2012? Nudge nudge, forget about it. Click click, nudge nudge, dong-dong-dong, summer of 1965—now that’s more like it.
Who’s that smiling mom with the short, sassy hair, the relatively slim one in the pink one-piece and the fake Armani sunglasses, soaking up the rays, while her freckle-faced son with the peeling forehead frolics nearby in the sand? Why, of course, it’s you, Harriet Chance, with adorable little Skipper! And it’s no small wonder that you’re smiling: you have so much to be happy about. Never mind that things are heating up in Vietnam, never mind those fires still smoldering in Watts, the future looks bright, at least from where you’re lying right now, on the shores of Lake Washington, the sun beating down on your attractive face.
In a couple of weeks, Skip starts kindergarten, and you, Harriet, can finally rejoin the workforce, at least part-time. Oh, you don’t have the same expectations this time around, heavens no. You’re not looking to make a name for yourself, you just want a life outside of the house and a small measure of independence from your family. You miss the sense of purpose and the vitality of downtown. You miss lunching at the Continental. Most of all, you miss having a career, some other yardstick besides household cleanliness by which to measure yourself.
In a month or so, you’ll have all that. Look at you, controlling your own destiny! You’ve done your work: typed those letters fastidiously (eighty words per minute; you haven’t lost a beat), licked those envelopes, delivered those résumés (in person, dressing the part perfectly). You’re giddy with anticipation. Any day now, that phone will start ringing and your new adventure will begin. Yes, it’s been a fine summer, Harriet, a mild, uneventful, leisurely summer, full of barbecues and bikinis, ambrosia salads and dry martinis. But be honest, fall can’t come soon enough.
Let’s talk about the cherry on top: the fact that Bernard is behind this move one hundred percent. He kisses you on the head, pats your fanny, and says he’s proud of your initiative. Yes, you married a decent man, Harriet. A little bossy, perhaps, a little stubborn, a little awkward with his emotions. But he’s got his strengths, too: Dependability. Integrity. Good hygiene. He has your best interest at heart, he really does. And even when he’s at his worst, his most ragged and impatient, when he storms out of the house and doesn’t come home, he’s always good for that rose in the morning. When has your husband failed to support you? In what decision has he ever failed to back you up? Yes, you might have asked for more, Harriet. But c’mon, he’s no mind reader. It’s not like you’ve been lobbying for your needs these past six years. No, Harriet, Bernard is not big on charm, he’s not Cary Grant, not even Russ Tamblyn. And God knows, you won’t find him leading the charge for women’s lib, but he’s as good, if not better, than most husbands.
And that, Harriet, is just one more thing to be grateful for as you hurtle toward thirty.
This is your life, going in a welcome new direction.
September 6, 1989 (HARRIET AT FIFTY-TWO)
And while we’re discussing new directions in life, let’s say we zip ahead (ding-dong-ding, flip-flip-flip) to the fall of 1989, where you’re just getting settled in the banana belt, and the change is a welcome one. You adore your new home. Living in that drafty old house on the north end, you never dreamed of such an abode. The views are spectacular. Already, you can name every peak and ridge of the North Olympics, visible from your patio: Deer Ridge, Hurricane Ridge. Blue Mountain. That little one there is Lost Mountain. You could spend the rest of your days sitting on that flagstone patio, admiring the views, or in your spacious kitchen, chopping vegetables by the window, or tending to your spectacular garden.
So it hurts you just a little bit that Mildred never comes over. She’s never been past the driveway, never seen the open floor plan, or the views, or seen Bernard in his natural environment, puttering in the garage, drinking coffee from an ancient thermos, listening to baseball on his transistor radio. The fact is, Mildred has only met him a few times in church basement over crumb cake, and that was before she stopped going to St. Luke’s.