Mildred Honeycutt, ever your savior, and right from the start.
Here you are, Harriet, in the airless basement of St. Luke’s on that scorcher of a Sunday so long ago, nervous, reluctant, miserable, as your poor, untouched Bundt cake all but collapses under its own weight in the stultifying heat. Thank heavens for Mildred Honeycutt, with her cropped hair and bold, disarming nature, not only for extending a welcome on behalf of the entire congregation but for having the courage and politeness to wash two slices of your disastrous confection down with her weak coffee.
You are taken immediately by Mildred Honeycutt. And let’s face it, her attentiveness has everything to do with it. At fifty-one, you feel overlooked. You never thought you’d miss that licentious slap on the fanny. But twenty-nine years of rigorous routine and loyal service to your family have made a wallflower of you, Harriet, or that’s what you think, anyway.
Look at the way Mildred blushes as she pours your coffee. Why, she can hardly look at you. And yet, when she thinks you’re not looking, she can’t seem to take her eyes off of you. She makes you feel fascinating. Admired. Mysterious.
How long has it been since you’ve had a friend — your own friend? Not Margaret Blum but a trusted confidante. Yes, Harriet, you long for companionship outside of Bernard’s influence. Somebody to commiserate with. Somebody you can complain to. Somebody to listen to you without offering advice. How is it that you’ve so rarely managed to achieve this? Why is female fellowship forever so elusive to you? Are you different from other women?
In the early going, Mildred vexes you somewhat with her impalpable nature, even as she tempts you with familiarity. You sense she wants more of you, and yet she is not solicitous of intimacy. But there’s something at work beneath the surface of her that draws you to Mildred. You exchange recipes and benign commentary. The sermon, the humidity, the fading lavender. She never mentions her husband, but that diamond must be four karats. Likewise, she never inquires about Bernard, or your children, or your home. You reason that Mildred Honeycutt is shyer than you gave her credit for, that her boldness is a tool meant to deflect, and this makes you want to know her more.
Not until Week 3, when you serve together at the All Hallow’s Eve dinner downtown, does Mildred finally surrender.
“Have you ever been horseback riding?” she asks.
And like that, your friendship is off at a canter.
Look at you, at Lost Mountain Ranch, atop your shimmering mount! At any rate, look at you, atop that spindly-legged nag with the lackluster coat and the respiratory problems. Still, you feel big in the saddle, with all that power beneath you. Bigger than you’ve felt in years. And you have Mildred Honeycutt to thank for it.
You will have many things to thank Mildred for in the years to come. Mildred will offer you everything in the way of female fellowship you ever yearned for. She will listen and absorb, consider you without judgment. She will push you and guide you and test you. But none of it will happen overnight. No, Mildred is a safe that requires cracking.
The week after your adventure at Lost Mountain Ranch, without explanation, Mildred leaves St. Luke’s, for good, though she remains your friend for many years to come.
August 13, 2015 (HARRIET AT SEVENTY-EIGHT)
Though Harriet doesn’t dare confide as much to Mildred, she finds the subtropical artifice of Sunny Acres odious in most respects — the potted palms, the bougainvillea, the thatched-roofed utility sheds. The housekeepers in their white aprons, the attendants (invariably Hispanic or black) zipping around in golf carts, tipping their hats as they whir past. All of it feels like a resort to Harriet and, by extension, a lie.
Sunny Acres promotes health and active living, but it nurtures dependence. Oh, there are origami classes and whirlpools, to be sure. But these aren’t the sort of activities that keep a person vital. Raking leaves keeps you vital. Paying bills, running errands. For all its pretension, Harriet knows that Sunny Acres is priced competitively. Otherwise, Mildred’s son, Dwight, would’ve sequestered her somewhere more affordable.
Mildred greets Harriet at the curb in front of her unit, which smells of pill jars and candle wax. She stands, all five feet of her, in a long and unseasonably warm pistachio-colored double-knit jacket of some vintage; one hand rests on her aluminum walker.
“You just missed Dwight,” she observes.
“Mmm,” says Harriet, crossing her arms in front of her.
“He said to say hello.”
Harriet gazes off in the direction of the pool house. Mildred dusts the lapel of her coat, then fidgets irritably with her hair.
“Oh, you’re just a paranoid old bag of bones, you know that? And quit equating this place with Sherwood Arms. This is not Sherwood Arms. And what happened with Bernard was no fault of yours. You know darn well, it’s not as if I’m under lock and key, here. You think Dwight dragged me here kicking and screaming, but the truth is I was tired, darling. That big house was too much for me. All those stairs. All that lawn. I’ve explained all of this before, dear. You just don’t want to hear it.”
“Hmph,” says Harriet.
“Well, it’s true,” Mildred insists. “At some point, you just get tired of hanging on. All those memories. All that junk.”
If nothing else, it’s heartening to hear Mildred defend herself. Lately, her spunky self-assurance, her fizzy good humor, her bubbly optimism, her signature Monday morning effervescence — they’re all flattening like warm soda.
“I apologize for the wait,” says Mildred, checking her watch. “Fikru should be here any minute. Perhaps he’s having trouble with his cart.”
“I’m in no hurry,” says Harriet. “Why don’t we walk?”
As if on cue, Fikru whizzes up on his golf cart with a clownish little honk of the horn and comes to a stop directly in front of them.
“’Allo, ladies,” he says with a toothsome smile and a tip of his hat.
Fikru hails from Ethiopia. Or maybe Kenya. Harriet’s ashamed of her geographical ignorance every time she sees the young man.
“You are looking exquisite today, Ms. Harriet. Your beauty has an expansive quality to it, like the savanna after the rainy season.”
Harriet blanches. She sees these flirtations for exactly what they are, of course: hospitalities. And yet she cherishes the attention. If she felt overlooked at fifty, she feels downright invisible at seventy-eight.
“And you, Ms. Mildred,” Fikru croons, stepping down from his cart, where he makes a wafting gesture with his hand, breathing deeply. “Fragrant as the Abyssinian rose.”
As Fikru assists Mildred into the backseat of the cart, stowing her walker in the front passenger’s seat, Harriet awaits her turn with mounting anticipation. When the young man returns to offer his assistance, Harriet is standing as upright as possible, elbow at the ready.
“You have a spritelike step, Ms. Harriet,” he notes, leading her up the cart.
Yes, Fikru is laying it on thick this afternoon. Perhaps he senses that Harriet’s opinion of Sunny Acres is softening. Maybe he gets a commission. Still, Harriet settles into her seat with the tiniest of flutters in her chest as Fikru resumes his station behind the wheel and taps the horn again.
“Hold on tight, ladies, while I deliver you.”
Harriet is still under the influence of Fikru’s considerable charm as they wend their way through Sunny Acres, maneuvering between colonnades of potted palms and meticulous lawns, cut through with gently winding concrete paths, everywhere the trilling of chipmunks. With her best friend seated beside her, Harriet tries to convince herself she could get used to the lifestyle. Perhaps she’d been judging the place harshly. Perhaps after all the gas-inducing anxiety of this surprise cruise, she’ll take a shine to the palliative environs of Sunny Acres: the hypnotic whir of the golf carts, the rhythmic spitting of sprinkler heads. The hint of the tropics clinging to the gentle breeze. Surely, a body could do worse than Sunny Acres. But no sooner does Harriet embrace this inclination than she turns to see Bernard seated beside her.