Jonathan Evison - This is Your Life, Harriet Chance!

At what point did you lose control of your life, Harriet? When did you start hating yourself? When did you decide to start slowly killing yourself, and why? Maybe the answer is at the bottom of that highball glass.

Or not.

Oh, go ahead and make another, Harriet. But stick with me here. This part has a happy ending. Sort of.

As you’re slumped at the kitchen table, trying to reconcile your anger with your despair, five-year-old Caroline comes to comfort you. Actually, she’s just ferreting out another Christmas cookie when she walks in and finds you there, weeping inconsolably for no discernible reason.

“Come here, honey,” you say.

Reluctantly, she inches toward you, expressionless. You reach out for her hand and pull her close to you. Warily, she submits. You clutch the child to your chest until she has no choice but to surrender to your embrace.

“Mommy’s sorry,” you say.

The girl says nothing.

For five minutes, you hold her captive.

“It’s not your fault,” you tell her.

Again, she says nothing.

You clutch her even tighter. You rock her like a baby, sobbing into her shoulder, as she stands there stiffly, silently, no doubt confused.

Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas, Harriet! All is calm, all is bright.

In the Lido buffet at breakfast, Harriet wipes her mouth and pushes her Greek omelet aside as she scans her daily planner.

“What about aqua aerobics with lifestylist Rocco at ten?”

“Sorry, Mom. I’ve got stuff to take care of.”

“You’ve got all afternoon. C’mon, let’s get some exercise. We’ve done nothing but eat for two days.”

“It’s a cruise, Mom. That’s what you do. You’re supposed to gain five pounds. You go and enjoy your activities, I wanna get this stuff out of the way.”

“Well, what is it? Maybe I can help.”

“That’s okay, relax. Enjoy your cruise.”

“What if I don’t feel like relaxing? Let me help.”

“No, Mom, I’ve got it.”

“What is it? Is it work?”

“Some of it, yeah. Look, Mom, it’s just some stuff, we’ll talk about it all later, okay?”

“Mm, I see,” says Harriet. “I understand, of course, I get it. I’ll give you your space, I’m sorry.” She folds her planner and stuffs it in her purse. “You always needed your space. You and your father.”

“Mom, it’s not like that. We’ll hang out later.”

“I’m getting on your nerves.”

“No, actually. You’re not. I’m having a great time. A lot better than I expected. Really.”

It’s a left-handed compliment, but Harriet will take it.

“Well, so am I,” she says. “Actually.”

They exchange sly smiles.

“Good,” says Caroline. “We’ll do something fun later. And Mom, do me a favor: take it easy. I mean with the exercise stuff, be careful. Don’t overdo it.”

“You act like I’m going to fall and kill myself.”

“Well, shit, Mom, can you blame me? Look, have fun. Just be careful, that’s all I’m saying. Promise?”

“Promise.”

After breakfast, they go their separate ways.

Arriving at the pool punctually, Harriet is unaware that she’s been entertaining any expectations regarding lifestylist Rocco until she sees him standing poolside, clutching a yellow float noodle: four foot six, and Asian. Not that the young man is unattractive. Somehow she’d just expected someone brawnier: a blue-eyed Neapolitan, with thick, dark brows and chiseled biceps. But what he lacks in stature, Rocco compensates for with spunk. And it’s contagious. Who knew water walking could be so much fun? They (eleven women and a Swedish fellow in what amounts to a thong) kick, and punch and make water waves, working their abs and hamstrings and buttocks, their quads and glutes and joints, while Rocco remains tirelessly upbeat all the while, despite the fact that the poor dear practically has to tread water in the shallow end.

When it’s over, Harriet feels jelly-legged but energized. Easing her way out of the shallows, she’s already famished again.

Scarcely has she seated herself in the buffet than the hulking figure of Kurt Pickens appears at the head of her table.

“Y’all mind if I join you?”

“There’s just me, dear.”

Though Harriet notes with satisfaction that today Kurt’s T-shirt has sleeves, it poses a rather offensive question in bold print. Namely, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU LOOKING AT?

“Just lost my nut up in the casino,” he says. “Couldn’t buy a hand.”

Without further ceremony, he lowers himself into his seat and sets methodically to work on his mashed potatoes.

“I’m sorry to hear it, dear.”

“Ah, well,” he says. “Sun don’t shine on the same dog’s ass every day. This whole damn thing was Donna Mae’s idea,” he observes, stabbing a forkful of sausage. “Hell, I wanted a flat-screen TV. But Donna Mae, she was bent on seeing Alaska. I said, ‘Well how about someplace decent, like the Caribbean?’ You know, Hawaii or whatever? But that was Donna Mae. Willful as a damn bloodhound.” He forks a meatball and pops it in his mouth. “Unfortunately, not as loyal.”

“I’m so sorry, dear.”

“Reckon she thought she deserved better,” he says, chewing. “Somebody fitter, more adventurous. Somebody named Garth in a white convertible.” He stabs another meatball.

“Oh, Kurt, that’s awful.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, waving it off with his forkless hand. “Once she lost the weight, it was the only logical conclusion for us.”

“I doubt that’s the case.”

“It’s the case, believe me. She made the right move. This Garth in the white convertible has a lot on the ball. Some kind of investment banker in Lexington. Plays tennis. Drinks martinis.”

“That’s all superficial,” says Harriet.

“Look at me,” he says. “What do you see?”

“Honestly?”

“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.