Jonathan Evison - This is Your Life, Harriet Chance!

Alas, the tiny expensive zipper on that dress only buys you five minutes. But lucky for you, Terrence is far from adept at the art of unclasping brassieres (not as fast as some— ahem— with a little more experience), or you might not have escaped with what was left of your dignity.

The takeaway here, Harriet, is that there’s nothing wrong with you. You’ve got big ankles and an unhappy mother. You’re versatile and absorbent. You can do a lot with that, as a woman, or a paper towel. So, what are you waiting for, child?

This is your life, Harriet, go out and get it!

Whose dexterous fingers are those, shuffling sprightly through legal files, gliding over writs and motions, line-dancing across that IBM Selectric like they were born to it? Why, they’re yours, Harriet Chance — that is, Ms. Harriet Chance, as you like to be called around the office. Yes, not yet thirty, you’re finally downtown again. Generating income (not that Bernard’s salary is in any way insufficient), exercising your independence, using your powers of critical thinking toward some end beyond laundering, cooking, and cleaning.

You’re catching up with the other you. Telling your own story, or getting closer, anyway.

It’s your second week back at work, and you’ve hardly skipped a beat. Despite your six-year absence, a new office, and a whole new set of protocols, you’re proving yourself nothing if not adaptable, and it feels good.

It feels great, in fact.

No sooner have you left your domestic station than the world is suddenly a bigger place, full of sights and sounds and actions you cannot predict. No matter that your duties are purely administrative. No matter that your function is invariably to serve. Your refreshing enthusiasm, confidence, and efficiency are a boon to the whole firm.

Charlie Fitzsimmons says so himself.

Okay, asking Charlie for a job wasn’t the plan. Not even plan B or C. The other you would never have done that. But let’s face it, they’re not just handing out jobs to twenty-eight-year-old homemakers, six years removed from the workforce. In fact, not one of those meticulously prepared résumés got you so much as a callback. I guess the interesting thing here, the question we may want to be asking is, why didn’t you call upon your father’s network? God knows, he could’ve scared something up for you. He’s Harriman Nathan. He’s got his own table at the University Club. There’s a YMCA gymnasium named after the man. At sixty-nine, his name is still the first one on the marble slab. So, why not go to him for a job instead of Charlie Fitzsimmons?

Admit it, pride is only part of it. There’s something else, Harriet, something way down deep. Something you’ve struggled for twenty years to understand, a cruel and inexplicable magnetism that almost feels like duty. You could probably take this thing apart piece by piece and understand it, but that is something you’re not ready for or are unwilling to do.

Ahem. Moving on.

To Uncle Charlie’s credit, he’s honored that promise he made you in your parents’ hallway half a lifetime ago. And what’s more, age has apparently mellowed him. There are no strings attached to this favor. The strings, mercifully, appear to have been cut. While he shares with you the same old confidence and familiarity, he’s been a perfect gentleman, so far. Not so much as a slap on the fanny. Hard to believe, really. Sick as it sounds, you can’t help but worry that you’re no longer attractive.

Six months, a year from now, everything will look a lot different, Harriet. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves again. Let’s just linger here for a moment. Let’s not talk about the ways in which your job spreads you thin on the home front or how your domestic responsibilities are not diminished, only compressed into fewer hours. And let’s definitely stop talking about fathers and uncles and husbands, and the power they hold over you.

No, let’s just enjoy the moment, breathe deeply of this last, albeit brief, reprieve from your domestic bell jar.

Across the aisle from the window, on the starboard side of the Lido buffet, Harriet picks around a shrimp cocktail, gazing distractedly to the east, where the verdant coastal range runs like a spine. They’re still hundreds of miles from the glaciers, yet Harriet can see the evidence of their patient, grinding retreat in the canyons left yawning in their wake.

“The food isn’t bad,” says, Caroline, inhaling her fettuccine.

“You look as though you haven’t eaten in weeks.”

“Pardon me for enjoying my meal.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Caroline spools some fettuccine. “Mom, sometimes it’s best not to comment. Didn’t you learn anything from all those lawyers?”

“Touché,” Harriet says.

Things are going pretty smoothly between them, all things considered. Beyond a bit of the usual touchiness, Caroline seems resolved to making the best of their time together in captivity. The truth is, Harriet’s glad for the company, happy to have an ally. Yes, she’s had a rough go with her daughter, but it hasn’t all been bad.

“Let’s do something fun,” she says.

“Like what?”

Harriet fishes out her reading glasses, unfolds her daily planner, and begins scanning the checklist. “Well, it looks like there’s a comedian in the Vista Lounge. Clayton Somebody-or-other.”

“Ugh.”

“I’m with you,” says Harriet. “Most of them aren’t very funny. Last week, I saw a young man on The Late Show who had a parakeet for a partner. Every time the comedian would say something, the parakeet would chime in with ‘Squawk.’ That’s what she said. ‘Squawk.’”

Caroline guffawed.

“Oh, c’mon, Caroline.”

“Well, it’s kind of funny, Mom. At least when you do the parakeet.”

“Look here,” says Harriet. “We can still catch the tail end of the digital-photo-sharing workshop if we hurry.”

“No, thanks. And I’m not sure I’d classify that as fun.”

Undaunted, Harriet goes back to the list. “At six, there’s a signature cocktail tasting in the atrium.”

Caroline frowns. “Yeah, great plan, Mom.”

“I’m sorry, dear, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

The mere suggestion of a cocktail has Caroline palming the tasseled monkey’s fist at the end of her key chain. Harriet doesn’t know how many years of sobriety the knotted little rope represents, but she knows that every day has been hard won for Caroline.

Watching her, Harriet’s heart sinks a little. Something about that little knot always makes her sad, maybe the way it’s burnished from all of Caroline’s nervous handling.

“I’m proud of you, Caroline. You know that.”

“It is what it is, Mom, that’s all.”

“I know it must get hard.”

“Squawk. That’s what she said.”

“I’m being serious here, Caroline.”

“Fine, Mom. Thank you. You’re right, it’s hard. And most days I don’t even see the point. But I mark them off, one at a time. What am I preserving?”

“I know the feeling,” says Harriet.

“Do you?”

“Let me ask you this, Caroline: how much time did you spend with your father near the end?”

“Fair enough,” she says. “Maybe you do know. Anyway, it’s not anything I want to talk about.” Even as she says it, the hand with the monkey’s fist retreats under the table.

“I’m sorry, dear. I mean for ever turning my back on you.”

“Mom, really, I don’t want to talk about it.”