Jonathan Evison - This is Your Life, Harriet Chance!

A third voice breaks in, as Kurt Pickens, the giant from Kentucky, appears at the end of the table, clad in another sleeveless T-shirt, clutching a plate of buffet fixings — from prime rib to sushi.

“Y’all mind if I join you?”

“Why, of course not, sit down,” says Harriet. “This is my daughter, Caroline. Kurt was kind enough to help me locate my cabin and carry my luggage,” she explains.

“The pleasure was all mine, Ms. Chance. Kurt Pickens, Owingsville, Kentucky,” he says, extending a hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Caroline.”

Kurt squeezes into place at the table, picks up his fork, and promptly devotes himself to the task of eating with a steady, businesslike comportment (the prime rib being his first order of business).

“Are you enjoying the cruise?” Harriet inquires.

“Mmph,” says Kurt with his mouth full. “Little bit, I guess.”

“Juneau was pretty wasn’t it?”

“Not bad. Lot of mountains. Don’t reckon I could live there,” he says, stabbing a potato. “Too foggy.”

Throughout the meal, Harriet continues to solicit conversation from Kurt while Caroline shoots her looks intended to let her know that she’s being rude. Finally, Caroline can’t hold her tongue.

“Jesus, Mom, let the poor guy eat.”

“Dear, I’m just being friendly, I. . Kurt, I hope I. .”

“No, no,” insists Kurt, forking a California roll. “Hell, I don’t care. I’m from Bath County, where a buffet likes company. ’Course Donna Mae could never abide a buffet. Donna Mae liked the finer things.”

“Caroline,” says Harriet, piloting the conversation swiftly away from Donna Mae. “Mr. Pickens says there are some Chances in Kentucky.”

“Trash, mostly,” he says, glancing over his fork at Caroline. “No relation of yours.”

“Nice of you to say so,” says Harriet.

Kurt is beginning to warm up a little. And while Harriet would not characterize him as cheery, he is disarming. Where he might lack a little polish, and a couple of sleeves, he’s thoughtful. And much to his credit, he makes no further references to Donna Mae. Throughout dessert, he illuminates the cultural benefits of something called the “Ole’ Cornfield,” and something else called the “I-64 Motorplex.”

In the elevator, Harriet tests the water.

“What did you think of Kurt?”

“What do you mean? He’s fine. How should I know?”

“I’ll admit, he’s a little rough around the edges. But he has a native politeness, don’t you think? And he’s actually quite attractive for a larger man. A bit like Zero Mostel.”

“Wait a minute,” says Caroline. “You can’t be serious. Mom, whoa. Are you trying to hook me up, here? He weighs like four hundred pounds. You don’t even know the guy.”

“He could lose it. You changed your habits, didn’t you? Get him on a diet. Clean him up. Put some sleeves on him. He’s really quite nice when you get beyond superficiality.”

“Is that really as good as you think I can do, Mom? Seriously? You must think I’m a real loser.”

“I don’t think you’re giving him enough credit.”

“He drinks, Mom. What else do I need to know? And anyway, Jesus Christ, who says I’m looking to meet anybody?”

“I didn’t see him drinking anything.”

“Why do you think his cheeks are so red? That’s a drinker’s tan.”

“I thought he was embarrassed about belching.”

“Not to mention he’s probably diabetic and about fifteen minutes away from a heart attack. Thanks for looking out, Mom, really. But if I ever start dating again, I’ll let eHarmony take care of the profiling.”

Back in the cabin, Harriet sheds her clothing in favor of a nightgown and climbs into bed without removing her makeup. Snapping on the lamp, she dons her glasses and begins flipping through one of her complimentary glossy magazines. Caroline kicks her shoes off and lays down on the love seat, where she picks up the TV remote and flips through the channels for ten or fifteen minutes. Unable to find a sufficient distraction, she snaps off the television with a sigh.

“I think I’ll go up to the observation deck or something. You wanna come?”

“I’ll stay here, dear. Don’t forget your key.”

Caroline slips back into her shoes and fetches her purse off the dresser. “And Mom, do we have to look at the ashes? Can you move them or something? And please, do yourself a favor, throw away that damn letter.”

The minute Caroline shuts the door behind her, Harriet regrets staying. Caroline is right, it’s suffocating. There’s simply no escaping Bernard and Mildred.

Though Mildred was a comfort to Harriet after Bernard’s passing, always on hand with a casserole, it now occurs once again to Harriet that Mildred might have been a lot more helpful during the precipitous decline of Bernard’s mental health, considering she’d spent decades loving the man. Surely, Mildred might have picked a less convenient time to abandon him.

“He deserved a better ending,” Mildred had said at the wake as Harriet scattered ashes beneath the lilac.

At the time, the statement had sounded almost like an accusation, one Harriet felt she’d earned. She’d set them both up for failure. Now Mildred’s words strike a discordant note. Just where the hell was Mildred to help improve Bernard’s ending? Where was Mildred fifteen times a day when Bernard observed, as though for the first time, that “while a tactical victory for the Japs, the Coral Sea was a strategic victory for the Allies”? Worse than the diapers or the vacant expressions or the spoon feeding of apple sauce had been the tedious repetition of “We used to call Okinawa the gray pork chop,” “Speed will kill a bearing faster than an increased load,” and “You wanna prevent rust? — Vinegar.”

“What can I say? She didn’t have your patience.”

Harriet turns to find Bernard beside her in bed, his hair thinner and whiter on this occasion. His lips, receding slightly, are dry; his chest, pale and sunken. Little tufts of white hair have taken root in his ears.

“She had a mustache, too,” says Harriet. “In case you hadn’t noticed. And she was downright fickle. Not to mention downright pushy with her opinions. And pretty unreliable when you get right down to it.”

“We’ve all got warts, Harriet. Hell, I was made of warts, you know that. I didn’t deserve either of you.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“The point is, I was a terrible husband, a terrible person. I see that now, clearer than ever. I was thoughtless and inconsiderate, and I made bad decisions, big ones. And what’s worse, I stuck to them like General Custer. I was an absentee father, a tight ass, an unreasonable judge, a liar, a cheater, a—”

“You weren’t that bad.”

“But I was.”

“Just let it go, Bernard. Don’t make me defend you again.”

“Aw, but Harriet, c’mon. You’re too damn forgiving of me. You always were. Give me what I deserve for once.”

“You got what you deserved, remember?”

On that note, they retreat into a dense silence. Harriet stares up at the ceiling and listens to the sound of her own shallow breathing. He’s right, she thinks, she’s too easy on him.

“Are you real?” she says at last.

“You’re talking to me, aren’t you?”

“Why didn’t you come sooner?”

“It’s hard to explain, honey, trust me. It wouldn’t help you to understand, anyway.”

“How long do you plan on hanging around?”

“Probably not long.”

Again, they fall silent. Shifting slightly on her back, she feels the graze of his arm hairs. She turns to him and looks him right in the eye.

“Am I going to die?”

Bernard doesn’t answer.