“So, how was it?” Caroline asks, offering her an elbow.
“The views were stunning,” she says. “Your shopping was a success, I see. The sweater is adorable on you.”
Harriet suggests that they double back and drop Caroline’s bags in the cabin, but Caroline insists she’s famished.
Dining at the Harbor House, they both order the salmon, and Caroline displays her new clothes for Harriet while they wait for their entrees. A polar fleece pullover in a flattering blue. A stylish pair of bootleg jeans. A black one-piece bathing suit. The more genuine enthusiasm Caroline expresses over these purchases, the less Harriet worries about Skip. He can afford it. It’s sweet that he’s doing this for his sister. When was the last time Caroline went shopping anywhere but Ross or T.J. Maxx? When was the last time she even seemed to care what she was wearing? It occurs to Harriet that she’s not the only one with a history of being cheap with herself.
The salmon is overcooked and Harriet doesn’t even recognize the vegetable. There are spots on the water glasses. Everything is overpriced. But nothing can dampen the spirits of mother and daughter as their dinner conversation unfolds easily. No trampled toes or raised hackles along the way. Caroline’s monkey’s fist never leaves her purse.
Afterward, Harriet insists on picking up the tab, tipping a hair over twenty percent.
“Look at you,” Caroline chides. “Big tipper.”
“Oh, stop it,” Harriet scolds. But the truth is, she’s pleased by her daughter’s approval.
Arms grazing, they stroll back down Skagway’s main thoroughfare, as the sun dips below the mountains and the dusky air assumes an autumnal chill. The little shops begin to light up, and somehow the town seems less rugged and suddenly more quaint.
“I’m glad I came,” says Caroline.
“Me, too,” says Harriet, clutching her hand.
They continue their leisurely pace, past the Gold Digger Mine and Dine, and Prospector’s Cafe, soaking up the manufactured charm. Passing the hokey mercantile, a half-dozen more gift shops, and the train museum, they arrive, pleasantly flushed, at the monstrous hull of the Zuiderdam.
Upon their return to the cabin, Caroline is still energetic.
“They’ve got karaoke in that lounge upstairs. What do you say, Mom?”
“Dear, I couldn’t eat another bite.”
“No, it’s music. People sing along. It’s fun.”
Exhausting as the mere thought of venturing out is, Harriet can’t disappoint Caroline.
“Just give me a few minutes to freshen up, dear.”
Caroline changes into a fresh blouse and her new jeans. Side by side, in the tiny bathroom, they apply their makeup and finesse their hair. By the time they’re finished, Caroline looks ten years younger and ten years happier. Harriet looks like a dried fig.
“You look nice,” says Harriet.
“You, too, Mom.”
But the long walk down the Rotterdam corridor to the elevator bank is beginning to take a toll on Harriet. Her neck is starting to throb. The balls of her feet ache. She can actually feel her mental focus softening.
The interior of Northern Lights certainly doesn’t help. The club is even more incoherent than the Vista Lounge, as though Dorothy Draper and a color-blind sultan have been set loose in the place. The host, DJ Raj, is a swarthy young man clad in pointy dress sandals and a fez, shiny pants of indeterminate material, and a billowy shirt with a leather drawstring.
“Next up, give it up for Cindy, yo. Cindy in the hoooouuusse!”
An inebriated bottled blonde of forty-five, with a suspicious tan, wobbles to the stand in an immodest blouse, seizes the microphone from Raj, and promptly announces, “People say I look like Stifler’s mom,” just as a chorus of synthesized strings takes flight beneath her.
No sooner do they find a table and start perusing the nonalcoholic beverage selections than Caroline stands up, as if to go to the bathroom.
“Dear, are you certain you don’t have a bladder infection? You just went five minutes ago.”
“I forgot, I’ve gotta e-mail Skip real quick, let him know everything is okay. I told him I would.”
“Didn’t you just phone him in Skagway?”
“What can I say, Mom? He’s concerned.”
Though the news ought to annoy her, it pleases Harriet to know that Skip is thinking about her. He may be his father’s son, he may not visit enough, he may take Harriet for granted much of the time, and yes, her little Skipper underestimates her, always has, but she’s never had reason to doubt his genuine concern, or question his motives. Not like Caroline has given her so many occasions to do.
“Please hurry back, dear,” she says.
In Caroline’s absence, Harriet is forced to give the music her attention, with nothing but a flat club soda to distract her. And frankly, it’s giving her a headache. It’s not that the singers themselves are terrible (though, make no mistake, most of them are completely tone deaf and can’t keep time to save their lives), it’s not even the canned elevator arrangements that aggravate her. It’s the material itself that grates on Harriet. The compositions are inane. They just don’t possess the same pluck and punch as her beloved standards. Often, the lyrics suffer from imprecise grammar. In some cases, they don’t make sense at all. Mosquito, libido, anything for a rhyme.
No, it isn’t Harriet’s imagination, this new music cuts corners whenever possible, suffers from the yawning, butt-scratching torpor of the overfed teen, sprawling on unmade beds in the glow of television sets. Where timeworn sentiment, even pith, was once the objective of well-turned lyric, a simple “yeah yeah” would now suffice. A rhyme. An arbitrary allusion to insects.
Harriet sips her warm club soda and tries to tune the music out, though each performance commands her attention anew. Cindy’s appetite for center stage cannot be sated. Her forehead glistens under the bandstand lights, the neckline of her blouse plunging farther, as she caws and screeches like a disgruntled raven. But worse still is the imprecise grammar of DJ Raj, yo. He may as well be speaking a foreign tongue with all his “shiznits” and so forth. With each song, Harriet’s mood deteriorates further. And she can’t even order a glass of wine to take the edge off.
By the time Caroline finally returns, twenty-five minutes later, Harriet can hardly contain her annoyance.
“Sorry, Mom. It’s such a pain to log on. It takes literally forever.”
“Which is how long I’ve been sitting here alone.”
“I said I’m sorry, Mom.”
And just like that, they’re back to their old ways. All the goodwill they created throughout the past two days is beginning to erode.
“And just what did you tell Skip that was so important that you left me sitting here by myself all night?”
“I told him that we were fine, Mom. That we were having fun.”
“Mmm,” says Harriet, folding her arms.
“Well, aren’t we?”
Something in Caroline’s expression softens Harriet. She could say something else about the thoughtlessness of Caroline’s actions, about the terrible music, about the warm club soda, about her aching neck and back and feet. She could say something about Caroline hijacking her cruise and taking advantage of Skip. But something has changed. For the first time in years, Harriet can see a glimmer of hope in her daughter’s eyes.
“Yes, dear, of course we are.”
December 25, 1972 (HARRIET AT THIRTY-SIX)
Look around you, Harriet, at the sights and sounds of a Chance family Christmas. See the handsome Norway spruce festooned with tinsel and lights. Hear old Bing belting it out on the hi-fi. Feel that crackling fire, smell that tangy ham. And look at those four felt stockings dangling above the hearth, the ones you yearned for so long ago. You’ve much to be grateful for, Harriet.