Jonathan Evison - This is Your Life, Harriet Chance!

Nineteen fifty-eight. It doesn’t seem possible.

Suddenly she feels Bernard’s presence.

“She’s got my feet in case you hadn’t noticed.”

He’s beside her on the love seat, his voice cracked and wafer thin, only a wisp of ghostly white hair left atop his spotted crown.

“You knew it all along, didn’t you?”

“Like you knew about Mildred? No, Harriet, I suppose both of us were more than a bit nearsighted. It happens.”

They fall silent, turning their attention to the screen, where the shutters are banging and pictures are falling off the wall, and Edward G. Robinson’s bug-eyed agitation is reaching its crescendo.

“You ought to apologize.”

“I’m sorry, Bernard.”

“I mean to her.”

Harriet sighs, muting the television. “God, what a mess I’ve made.”

“You had some help along the way.”

“How can I ever undo it?”

“Technically, you can’t. But you can start over. Or try.”

“What if it’s too late?”

“There’s always that possibility. But don’t let it stop you from trying. Believe me, you’ll regret it, Harriet. Just look at me.”

“You’re right,” she says, standing. She gathers her purse and coat, leaving Bernard on the love seat.

“I assume you won’t be here when I get back?”

“Probably not,” he says. “I’m what you might call AWOL.”

“Will you come back?”

“Yes.”

“You promise.”

“I promise. Now go,” he says, shooing her toward the door. “And turn the volume up on your way out, would you? This is the best part.”

“Bernard.”

“What?” he says.

“I suppose I should thank you.”

Disembarking the elevator, Harriet is determined to make the necessary revisions, whatever they may be. She hasn’t the foggiest idea what she’s going to say to her daughter to smooth over a lifetime of deceit, no clue what apology or explanation could possibly inspire forgiveness for forty-eight years of misgivings, but Harriet marches down the corridor with purpose.

By the time she arrives at the Crow’s Nest, the crowd has thinned out. Caroline has vacated the table. Harriet’s heart sinks. She could be anywhere. Scanning the room, Harriet spots Kurt, still hunched at the bar, nursing a green bottle of beer.

“Dear, you didn’t happen see where my daughter disappeared to, did you?”

No sooner has she said it than she sees it on the bar top near to Kurt, next to an empty highball, rope worn smooth as wax: Caroline’s monkey’s fist.

As if on cue, Caroline saunters back from the restroom, sneering the instant she registers Harriet. She’s drunk, it’s obvious.

CTO Charmichael is dressed for business today. Crisply pleated dark slacks, starched shirt, obedient hair. Even his bald spot looks shiny. He circles the desk upon Bernard’s entrance, and perches on the front edge, folding his arms like a disappointed boss.

“It appears, Candidate Chance, you’ve been up to something. Clearly, you’ve not been spending your time contemplating nothing, or you wouldn’t be back in my office. That’s two strikes, you understand. One more than the guidelines allow for.”

Instinctively, Bernard bows his head and casts his eyes toward his shoe tops.

“Frankly, I’m at a loss, Chance. Your military record indicates no history of insubordination. Your taxes were all in order. Your home life was a mess, but that’s not so uncommon. Your attendance was exemplary, outside the confines of husbandry and fatherhood, that is. I really didn’t see you as a flight risk.”

“I’m not running, sir. I’m just trying to help.”

“Help whom? It would appear that you’re trying to improve your own case. Trying to get your wife to forgive you so you can neutralize your guilt. You’re not the first, you know? And neither are you the shrewdest nor the most worthy, not by a long shot. Let’s see, so far, you’ve defended your mistress, displaced some WD-40, eaten some corned beef, and watched Humphrey Bogart. I’d say you’re not staging much of a defense. So as your chief supervisor, let me offer you a little advice. Make yourself comfortable, Candidate. There’s plenty of improvements we can make right here. We could work on that impulse control, clean up your language, focus on a few blind spots. With a little diligence and some elbow grease, you could make CTO in five years if you walk a straight line. You could at least make deputy. Don’t blow it, Chance. Whatever you think you’re doing, it’s not worth it. Accept your remorse, and put it in a box. Compartmentalize, for heaven’s sake. This isn’t permanent. It doesn’t have to be. There’s still a chance for you. You didn’t reveal anything about the nature of transition, right? Nothing about the steps? Nothing about the eight principles. You’ve simply meddled in your former life, so what? A little interference. It happens more frequently than you might think, actually. That’s why I’m here. To make corrections. I’m not going to lie to you, this is a strike against you, sure, but it’s by no means insurmountable. Save yourself, Chance.”

“Sir, with all due respect, this is not about me anymore. This is about them. I can’t undo the damage, that’s perfectly clear, but I can sweep up some of the rubble I left behind, and I can get out of their way for good.”

“Don’t do it, Candidate. You won’t even have a chance to regret it. Remember the nothing. Always remember the nothing.”

“I gotta say good-bye. Please, sir, you gotta grant me this. I promised her. She’s expecting me.”

“I admire your commitment, Chance, I do. But it’s a little late in the game. I’m not gonna look the other way this time. I’m afraid leniency is simply out of the question. If you go back, you’ll be sealing your fate. I’ll have no choice but to send someone after you.”

“I understand, sir. You’ve got your orders.”

“I’m not sure you do, Chance. Just to be clear, you’ll be choosing nothing. Nothing at all. As in, end of story. You’ll be wishing for test patterns, a hum — anything at all. Only you won’t know it, Chance.”

“Yessir.”

CTO Charmichael shakes his head grimly. “You’re making a mistake.”

“Maybe so, sir.”

“You can’t hide. They’ll find you. Sooner or later, they’ll nab you. And when they do. .”

“Yessir, end of story.”

You never saw Caroline as the nurturing type. Naturally, you are circumspect when she tells you that twelve-year-old Cassidy is like the daughter she never had. Rail thin Cassidy, with her stiff upper lip, and those deep-set, sullen eyes, so far beyond their years. Really, what Caroline has come to tell you is that she needs to borrow a thousand dollars.

This business with the runaway Cassidy will not end well, you tell yourself, as ever, writing another check. And piece by piece, the evidence will support your case, as Caroline fails in her role as mentor, fails to set a good example for Cassidy, and fails miserably as an authority figure.

But here we are again, getting ahead of ourselves.

Maybe, Harriet, you were wrong about Caroline’s capacity to nurture. Maybe you just didn’t know where to look all those years. Maybe Caroline was right when she said you never gave her enough credit.

Exhibit A: Remember the white rat? That revolting little red-eyed rodent that went everywhere with her, sophomore year of high school? Crawling up and down her sleeves, lolling around in her pockets, nibbling at her earlobes. You know, the one that got loose in the house, the one that scurried right past your feet when you were making Bernard’s toast, the one that came to an abrupt stop when you brained it with a skillet. To be fair, the damn thing startled you, a white blur — it could have been anything. And you were only trying to divert its course. A lucky shot, really.