“Yeah, why not?”
“I see a young man in a rather off-putting T-shirt who talks with his mouth full.”
“What else?”
“A young man who could stand to lose a few pounds around the middle if he doesn’t want to invite heart disease. But a handsome one nonetheless. And quite knowledgeable — particularly in the arena of motor sports. Overall, I see a young man with a lot of potential, with his best years still in front of him.”
“Well, that’s not what Donna Mae saw.”
“The hell with Donna Mae,” says Harriet. “Become an advocate for yourself.”
“Okay,” says Kurt. “I’m a three-hundred-and-forty-pound recently divorced guy on a cruise by himself. I drink too much, I’m generally antisocial (though I’m afraid to be alone), I have a gambling problem, and it turns out I’m scared of mountains.”
“Well, that’s not so bad.”
“Okay. I lost my house in the divorce, Donna Mae fought me for custody of my cats, then had them put to sleep, I hate my job in wholesale plumbing supply, I wanna kill my boss, and the truth is, I don’t care if I wake up tomorrow morning, although the breakfast buffet is decent.” He carves out a bite of mashed potatoes. “Oh, and I’m impotent. So where do I go from here?”
“Glacier Bay,” says Harriet. “That’s where you go from here. Then Ketchikan. But with a new attitude, a new way of looking at things.”
Kurt spears half a sausage and pilots it to his mouth. “Go on,” he says.
“Maybe you go to the gym instead of the casino next time. They’ve got wonderful facilities here on the boat. You’ll feel better about yourself if you do something about your situation. You might start by putting that fork down.”
Still chewing, Kurt lowers his fork slowly. There’s nothing left on his plate but a smear of mashed potatoes and gravy.
“Oh, dear, I’ve offended you, haven’t I?”
Picking up his empty plate, he stands. “I’m going back for some of that pork loin. You need anything?”
June 21, 2014 (HARRIET AT SEVENTY-SEVEN)
Well, Harriet, it’s come to this. You’ve lost control of your life. Or Bernard’s life, anyway. Probably a blessing, don’t you think? Really, it ought to come as a relief, when you get right down to it. At least they’re not trying to take your house. At least they’re not coming for you.
Bernard sits stiffly on the sofa, fully clothed, awaiting the toast that is not forthcoming, while Good Morning America unfolds quietly on the television, though neither of you is watching it. You never do. You just like the company.
No matter how you entice Bernard to move from one activity to the next, one place to another, he’s uncooperative. Like Bartleby, he’d prefer not to, though Bartleby was never this cantankerous. Still, you have no choice but to try to move him. On at least five occasions already this morning, you’ve informed Bernard that you’re taking him to the Old Mill for breakfast. Your favorite, remember? A white lie he will never remember.
“Where’s my toast?” he wants to know.
Yes, he loves toast, though he chokes on it frequently.
It’s early morning and the fog off the strait has not yet lifted when Caroline and Skip arrive in Skip’s SUV. Caroline opens the back door for you and Bernard.
“Who’s she?” Bernard wants to know.
“That’s Caroline.”
“Caroline who?”
Here you are, Harriet, in the backseat, clasping Bernard’s hand in yours, on the drive to Sherwood Arms. Three and a half miles, and it feels like you’re driving to Spokane. You’ve dressed Bernard nicely, though dignity is lost on him. He’ll foul the white dress shirt the minute anyone tries to feed him. He’ll probably foul the diaper, too. But it’s no longer on you, Harriet. Admit it, as terrible as it sounds, it’s a relief.
God, but it happened so fast. How is it even possible?
“Where the hell are we going?” he wants to know.
Look at Caroline fondling her monkey’s fist in the passenger’s seat.
Look at Skip, fifty-five years old, gripping the wheel at ten and two, just like his father taught him.
At reception, you try to distract Bernard. But he doesn’t give a damn about any goddamn aquarium, does he? He wants his toast. Where the hell are we? he wants to know.
You shepherd him past reception. The walk down the corridor is a long and toastless journey. Finally, you arrive at number five. There’s a clipboard affixed to the door. A placard with two macramed carrots that says HOME SWEET HOME.
It’s so nice, you all say. Look at the view. They’ve thought of everything, haven’t they? And the staff is just lovely. Oh, look at the television, Bernard, just look at the size of it!
But you’re really just talking to yourselves, aren’t you? Because for all Bernard knows, he’s in Donald Duck’s living room with three complete strangers. All he knows is he wants toast. Bad enough to yell about it.
But you can see it, Harriet, a look in his eyes, an alertness, as if somewhere behind the disease, behind the scar tissue, behind the fog of disassociation, Bernard is all there, he’s just lost his ability to communicate. Like somebody turned off his volume. You’re certain he can see everything that is transpiring with crystal clarity, and he can’t do a goddamn thing about it.
Somebody, please, get the man some toast.
August 22, 2015 (HARRIET AT SEVENTY-EIGHT)
When Harriet returns from the buffet, she finds the DO NOT DISTURB sign dangling from the door handle of her cabin. Inside, the shower is running, and steam seeps in from beneath the bathroom door, fogging the windows. The cabin is a disaster area. In less than forty-eight hours, Caroline has taken over the room. Not the organized type by nature, her parents’ zealous attention to tidiness only seemed to encourage Caroline’s slovenly ways, as though her messiness was an act of defiance — one of many — that would last a lifetime. Her possessions, though few, are scattered widely, from the heaping coffee table to the unmade bed, where her dirty underwear is on display.
Instinctively, Harriet begins straightening the cabin, determined not to begrudge her daughter. She gathers the new sweater and blouse, hanging them in the tiny closet. Fishing the underwear off the pillow, she drops them in Caroline’s canvas bag. She smoothes the sheets and makes the bed before turning her attention to the chaotic coffee table, where from beneath Caroline’s jeans and pullover, Harriet unearths a thin manila folder.
She hasn’t the foggiest idea what the folder might possibly contain or what Caroline’s job at Office Depot might look like on paper. The fact is, it’s hard to imagine an Office Depot employee bringing their job home at all, let alone on vacation. What if it’s not work-related at all? What if it’s more legal difficulty or, worse, some medical concern Caroline is not telling her about? Hepatitis. Cancer. God knows, she abused her body over the years.
One eye on the bathroom door, Harriet peeks inside the folder.
Her immediate response is relief. No arrest warrants, no grim medical diagnosis, but real estate listings, several pages of them. Black-and-white photos, accompanied by a blur of vital statistics which Harriet can’t make out without her reading glasses. Is Caroline buying a house? How can she afford it? Are the listings rentals? Not until she spots the familiar Jace Real Estate logo does Harriet’s heart begin to race. Is Caroline moving to the peninsula? Impossible. Skip? Before Harriet can fetch her glasses, the shower sputters to a halt and the clashing metallic rings tinkle as Caroline pulls the curtain back. Harriet slaps the folder shut and replaces the jeans and sweater atop it, quickly busying herself with the dresser, as Caroline emerges, wrapped in a towel.