Make a name for yourself, Harriet Nathan.
The truth you’re not telling anyone, especially not your father, is that amid the administrative whirlwind of the office, the hustle and bustle of downtown, the ceaseless tedium of legal research, you yearn for something less exhausting: for stability, predictability, and yes, a Christmas hearth festooned with stockings.
You yearn, too, Harriet, for a man. C’mon, admit it.
So, what is it about this new young building superintendent that catches your attention in the hallway upon your return from lunch, as he explains to your boss, in layman’s terms even you can understand, the difference between AC and DC? Surely, it’s not his stature. He’s two inches shorter than you. And it turns out, he’s not all that young, at thirty-three. There is, however, a squareness to his shoulders, a symmetry to his face, a quiet confidence in his bearing. Not just the firm, but the whole building — all that concrete and steel, all that electricity, all that plumbing — is reliant upon his capability. You’re not alone. The whole office is impressed by his confidence, charmed by his forthrightness. Even the partners, those pompous autocrats, bulging at the waist, those experts who defer to no one, treat this man as an equal.
But here’s the thing: tending an elevator, a fan, a heating duct, in his neatly creased work trousers, penlight clutched between his teeth, as he reaches for his tool belt, exposing the gray Semper Fi tattoo on his inside wrist, he strikes you as more than their equal.
Harriet Nathan, meet Bernard Chance, your valentine for 1957.
April 6, 2015 (HARRIET AT SEVENTY-EIGHT)
A phone is ringing. Slippers pad down the hallway of a large, otherwise quiet house in the flats of Carlsborg. Three bedrooms, two and one-half bathrooms, in the banana belt. With mountain views. Convenient shopping. Imagine country living in this dream home on 2.5 acres!
A spotted hand picks up the receiver and answers in a voice dry and brittle as a wheat cracker. “Hello?”
“May I please speak to Bernard Chance?”
The voice on the other end is also female, slightly stiff.
“I’m afraid he passed in November.”
“I see, I’m so sorry. Is this—?”
“This is his wife, Harriet.”
“Well, I guess that explains it. I’m so sorry.”
“Explains what, dear? To whom am I speaking?”
“This is Janis Segress from the Ann and Virginia Nitterhouse Foundation. Mr. Chance never picked up his gift basket after our silent auction last fall — wait, let’s see, 2013, so, that’s two falls ago. The voucher expires at the end of August.”
“Voucher?”
“The Alaskan cruise? He never mentioned it?”
“Bernard? Alaska? This is the first I’ve heard of it. Are you certain you have the right Bernard Chance?”
“One thirty-six Rake’s Glen?”
“Yes, that’s us.”
“We’ve been trying to reach him for months at 491-2318, but that number is no longer in service.”
“Oh, that was his cellular telephone, dear. He never cared much for the device. He swore it would give him a brain tumor.”
“I see.”
“Of course, he went much quicker than he might have with a brain tumor. Physically, anyway.”
“Well, that’s a blessing, I’m sure.”
“It was no blessing, dear, let me tell you.”
“Well, I’m certainly sorry to hear it. You’re welcome to—”
“Unless you consider urinating in Walmart a blessing.”
“I see, well, as I was about to s—”
“Or wandering Cline Spit in your pajamas.”
“Yes, well, I’m certainly glad we were able to track you down before the—”
“I was outmatched, dear. It’s that simple. I was an old woman myself. Who was I to think I could care for anybody under the circumstances?”
“Mm. I see. Well,” says the voice. “At any rate, our offices are located on—”
“He was still quite strong, physically, you understand. Overpowering at times. But that was only part of the problem.”
“Uh-huh, yes, I see. As I was saying, our offices are located on North Sequim Avenue at West Hendrickson — kitty-corner to Jace Real Estate.”
“It’s a cruel process, aging. Take my advice, dear, maintain your independence as long as possible.”
“I’ll be sure and do that, Mrs. Chance. Now, you’re welcome to redeem your gift anytime between ten a.m. and four p.m., Tuesday through Friday.”
“Don’t let the world push you around. Stick up for yourself, dear.”
“Yes, I’ll be sure and do that. And Mrs. Chance: congratulations!”
“Thank you, dear.”
Replacing the phone receiver, Harriet pads back down the hallway to the foyer, where Bernard’s blue windbreaker droops like a windless flag off the coatrack, a book of crosswords jutting out of the side pocket. On her way past, she stoops to straighten his sneakers.
“Hmph. Alaska,” she says, straightening up. “What on earth were you thinking, dear?”
She retires to the kitchen, sets the kettle to boiling, and lays out two mugs in the breakfast nook.
“Well, you can hardly expect me to go alone,” she says, unsheathing a tea bag. “It’s true, I could always take Mildred. Oh, but dear, do I have to go? Would you be hurt if I didn’t? You know I’m not a traveler. What you were thinking? A cruise?”
Just as the kettle is about to hiss, she hoists it off the burner and proceeds filling the mugs. “Oh, fine, then. I’ll ask her. Are you happy now?”
August 15, 2015 (BERNARD, DECEASED, DAY 277)
Forgettable dress shirt, forgettable tie, pattern baldness: CTO Charmichael is nothing like Bernard expected. But then, none of this is what he expected.
“Mr. Chance, please sit down,” Charmichael says, without looking up from the manila folder splayed open before him.
Chief transitional officer, you’d think he’d have a bigger desk. Something in mahogany. But no, it’s institutional, bland and sturdy. A vice principal’s desk. In fact, the whole office screams high school administration — the cork bulletin board, the squat gray filing cabinets, the rotary pencil sharpener.
“I presume you know why you’re here?” he says, still not looking up from the file.
“Actually, no, sir.”
Finally, Charmichael looks up, engaging Bernard’s gray eyes meaningfully. “A little matter with some household lubricant, for starters.”
“Sir?”
“Some wandering slippers? Starting to ring a bell, Candidate Chance?”
“Ah,” says Bernard. “That.”
Charmichael furrows his brow. “Strictly forbidden, you understand. As is eating, for the record. Yes, even in dreams.”
“I thought that—”
“Any contact is forbidden, Candidate Chance. Regardless of the nature. This was all in the orientation, as well as the manual. Hard to miss, really. Section One, as a matter of fact. Was that not perfectly clear?”
“Uh, yessir. Yessir, it was, or I thought it was. Forgive me, sir.”
“Believe me, I’m trying, we all are. There’s hope for you, Chance. That’s why you’re here. If there wasn’t hope for you, you’d be. . well, somewhere else.”
“But, sir, the thing is, she has no idea what’s coming. The shock might be too much. I gotta get to her, I gotta explain.”
“By my reckoning, Candidate Chance, you had nearly four decades to do that. Why the big hurry, now that you’re deceased?”