“Frederick and Nelson.”
“Right. Frederick and Nelson.” Skip doffs his cap, runs a hand through his thick hair. “Mom, Frederick and Nelson closed twenty years ago! I don’t even think that old buffet did dinners.”
“I saw him, Skip, with my own eyes. I touched him.”
“Mom, I had a dream my hands were made of soap. But look, they’re not!” He submits his outthrust hands as evidence.
“It’s not the same thing.”
“It is, Mom. It was a dream.”
“No. It wasn’t.”
“Okay, what then? A hallucination?”
“Not exactly,” says Harriet.
“Whatever it was, Mom, it has nothing to do with reality.”
“Fine, maybe it doesn’t mean anything. There, are you satisfied? But just suppose I took a little comfort in it, how about that? Well, then, I suppose you two would want to deprive me of that, wouldn’t you?”
“Mom, that’s not how it is,” Skip insists, fishing a fresh pickle from the jar. “What have we deprived you of?”
“He’s right,” says Caroline. “We’re just concerned about your well-being.”
“Oh, stop Caroline. Like you were concerned with your father’s well-being?”
“Mom,” Skip says. “This is different. Dad was incapacitated.”
“He’s reaching out,” says Harriet. “Don’t you see? That’s what this is about. I’ve been thinking long and hard about it, and I’m sure he’s come to help. Maybe to guide me.”
“Let’s hope not,” says Skip.
“That would be a first,” mutters Caroline.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means he was never much help while he was alive.”
“Take that back, Caroline.”
“Oh, c’mon, Mom. You did everything. You cleaned, you cooked, you did every single thing he ever told you to do. The Major just sat around polishing his belt buckles and reading newspapers.”
Though Harriet appreciates the affirmation, it annoys her that she should have to defend a protocol designed specifically to eradicate obstacles for her children. Why should Harriet apologize when she tended to every runny nose and broken bone, prepared every meal, consoled every heartbreak and disappointment, all so that Caroline and Skip could enjoy a better quality of life than her own? It breaks Harriet’s heart that Caroline squandered every opportunity, that she sabotaged her life with bad decisions. It breaks her heart that Caroline never gave her grandchildren and that Caroline’s unofficial “foster daughter” is, and always has been, something of a problem, much like Caroline herself. But what breaks Harriet’s heart the most is that things might have been different. She might have saved Caroline. Or Bernard, for that matter.
“That doesn’t change the fact that he was your father,” says Harriet. “Or that I failed him.”
“He was a bully, Mom. Quit saying you failed him. You were his servant, his nurse, you were practically his mother. The only meal Dad could cook was toast.”
“And beans,” says Harriet.
“Fine, and beans. I mean, who gets to be ninety years old and never cooks a single meal for himself besides beans and toast?”
“He made tapioca pudding, too. Oh, Caroline dear. I know you had your differences. But you’re nearly fifty years old. Isn’t it time to forgive your father?”
“Why, because you did?”
“I fell apart, Caroline.”
“He’s the one who fell apart.”
“C’mon, you guys,” says Skip, brandishing his pickle like a traffic wand. “We’re not getting anywhere here.”
“Where are we supposed to be getting to? Is this another intervention?”
“Settle down, Mom.”
“You vacuumed under some sofa cushions at your father’s wake. You made a few calls to the insurance company. But when did I ever ask either of you for help? Darlings, if you really want to help me, fix that garage door, and pressure-wash those steps. Clean the gutters. If you want to comfort me, how about sending an Easter card? Or reminding my grandchildren that I exist?”
Caroline looks away.
“Okay, Mom,” says Skip. “I get it.”
Skip takes Harriet’s elbow and leads her the first few steps to the sofa. Halfway there, she breaks free.
“My goodness, a few phone calls, a couple trips to the dump — that’s all I ever asked.”
“Mom,” says Skip. “The thing is, look: we just think this cruise is too much right now. Caroline, back me up here. We really think you ought to call Mildred and postpone the thing. Maybe in a few months, when—”
“Absolutely not,” Harriet says, surprising herself. “I intend to honor your father, no matter what the two of you might think of him. He bought this cruise for me; he intended it for the two of us, the least I can do is go on the darn thing. And I’m taking his ashes with me.”
“Mom, is that even legal?”
“Don’t try to talk me out of this, Skip.”
“But Mom, you—”
“Please. Let me do this.”
Her children exchange glances. Caroline shrugs.
“And Mildred, she’s good to go?” says Skip.
“Yes,” lies Harriet. She knows it may be her only chance.
“You’ll take it easy, right?” he says. “Promise?”
“I promise.”
Skip looks to Caroline for approval.
“Why are you looking at me?” she says.
September 8, 1962 (HARRIET AT TWENTY-FIVE)
Then, after a few wearisome years of domestic drudgery, a few years sequestered in your little house, in your little neighborhood, with your little problems, something happens. The outside world calls. On the north end of downtown, they’ve erected a futuristic wonderland, a marvelous, humming other-world full of possibilities, punctuated by a six hundred foot exclamation point. It’s impossible not to get caught up in the excitement. Suddenly your life, by mere extension, does not seem so small.
Is that a smile, Harriet Chance?
Look at you, on the global stage! All the world is taking notice of you and your gorgeous city, drinking you up like a Sloe Gin Fizz. The traffic jams are horrific. The lines are soul-crushing. But there is magic at the end of each one.
There you are, Harriet, on the amazing Bubbleator, Skipper, nearly three years old, clutching your hand tightly, World’s Fair lariat cinched securely around his neck, smiling up at you. At 130 pounds, you’ve never looked better. And look at Bernard, fit as ever, his arm, strong and able, around your waist, as the Bubbleator ascends into the unknown. The future is on everybody’s mind, and you’re on a rocket ship speeding toward middle age, but suddenly you’re okay with that.
Maybe, like everyone else on the Bubbleator, you’re no longer taking your future for granted. A single phone call, a little red button, and poof, it could all disappear. Have you finally embraced domestic life, Mrs. Bernard Chance? Have you released your independence at long last? Have you finally stopped tracking the progress of that other incarnation of yourself, the one who didn’t bow to the expectations of society, the one who didn’t opt for the easy way out, the one who wasn’t going to have children until she was thirty?
Or have you simply lowered your standards?
It helps that Bernard has started to notice you again lately. He’s showing signs of tenderness, displays of affection. Rarely does he pass you in the hallway or in the kitchen without some physical communication — the grazing of an elbow, the touch of a hand, and yes, even a pat on the fanny. What’s more, he’s taken an interest in Skip now that the boy can talk. Together, they go to the Montlake landfill on Sunday, where they sit in the Buick and eat BurgerMeister fries, marveling at the perfectly good things people throw away.