Jonathan Evison - This is Your Life, Harriet Chance!

“Sounds like a place they send horses to die. And what is it with these damn golf carts buzzing around everywhere like mosquitoes? The place can’t be but three acres.”

Harriet shushes him. “Go on now, get. Not here. You can’t just pop up anytime you feel like expressing an opinion, Bernard. People are going to think I’m crazy.”

“Well?”

“And don’t sulk.”

“Who’s sulking?”

“Go,” she says.

Fikru turns in the driver seat, wearing a big pearly grin. “Everything is okay, Miss Harriet?” “Yes, just fine, dear.”

By the time they reach the clubhouse, where they whir to a halt between two guard rails, their chariot has begun to feel like a pumpkin again. Even Fikru’s charm has lost some of its luster as he assists them off the cart. Beneath his magnanimous air, he now strikes Harriet as a tad too efficient, a tad too curt and professional in his movements, a tad too quick to hop back into the cart and give a honk, as if, indeed, he has delivered them, as a postman might deliver a package.

“Isn’t this convenient?” says Mildred.

As they begin the thirty-foot trek to the front door of the clubhouse, Harriet can’t help but notice that Mildred is depending on her walker more than ever. The past couple years have not been kind to Mildred’s health. She’s shrinking before Harriet’s eyes.

Nothing about the clubhouse — not the low ceiling, nor the hospital-like sterility, nor the smell of Glade air freshener — inspires Harriet’s appetite. With the dining room to themselves, they agree on a table by the window, overlooking the guest parking lot, which Harriet notices is also conspicuously empty, save for her own Oldsmobile.

“Try something new today, darling,” Mildred urges. “The Szechuan chicken is delightful. Not too spicy.”

Is it going to be like this all cruise long, Harriet wonders, Mildred presiding over Harriet’s every dietary choice? Yes, Harriet has always liked that Mildred nudged, cajoled, and even forced her to venture beyond her safe boundaries. Without Mildred’s encouragement, Harriet might never have known the joys of slot machines, Qigong massage, or crosscountry skiing. She appreciates it, truly she does. It’s just that, well, sometimes Mildred can be a little pushy, though Harriet feels guilty even thinking as much.

But for Pete’s sake, there’s something to be said for a little consistency. That’s what drew her toward Bernard in the first place — consistency, predictability, a propensity toward repetition. Harriet likes her routines, she enjoys her frozen beef portobello, her chicken Caesars. Her system is accustomed to them — their uniform size and agreeable texture, their stable calorie count. With few exceptions — most recently, the cruise — Harriet sees little reason to diverge from her routines, most particularly with regard to diet.

The waitress soon arrives for their orders. Mildred orders the crab melt with a side salad — one of the specials. Harriet doesn’t stray from her customary Caesar.

Mildred remains all but silent through lunch, to the point where Harriet wonders if perhaps she isn’t having one of her spells. Finally, she inquires as much.

“Oh no, I’m fine, darling,” Mildred assures her.

“Good, then. Let’s get started.”

The moment the waitress clears their plates and wipes the table clean, Harriet dons her reading glasses and spreads out her cruise materials on the tabletop. Highlighter poised, she begins their weekly exercise.

“Okay. Thursday at ten thirty a.m. Let’s see, we have the Greenhouse Spa & Salon raffle in the Lido spa or the Good-feet Clinic — I’m leaning toward the foot clinic.”

After a moment of silence, Harriet glances up from her planner at Mildred, who has yet to ready her materials.

“So sorry, dear,” says Harriet. “Have I jumped the gun again?”

Mildred casts her eyes down, then piles her hands in her lap.

“Are you sure you’re okay, dear? You look a little peaked.”

“Oh, darling, I just can’t do it anymore,” Mildred proclaims.

“I’m overplanning, aren’t I?” says Harriet, setting her checklist and pen on the tabletop. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear, I know it’s aggravating, it’s Bernard. He was always so damn insistent upon—”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“It’s the Celebrity Cook-Off in the Culinary Arts Center, isn’t it?”

Mildred reaches a trembling hand out and clutches Harriet’s. “Darling, I can’t go on pretending.”

“Pretending?”

“I’ve known for weeks. I just couldn’t stand the idea of disappointing you. I just thought if I. .”

“Mildred, what are you talking about?”

“The cruise, darling.”

“You’re absolutely right. Let’s not overdo it.”

“I can’t do it, darling, I can’t go.”

It takes a moment for the realization to settle in.

“Well, dear, are you all right?” Harriet hears herself saying. “Is this a health issue?”

Mildred casts her gaze out on the empty lot. “Oh, darling, please don’t let’s talk about my reasons. Just think, you can go to the Goodfeet Clinic. You can skip the mixology class. And I won’t make you try sushi. You can do anything you please without me browbeating you. And surely you’ll meet all kinds of nice people.”

Classic Mildred. Another inexplicable decision. Like leaving the church three weeks after they met. Like canceling the couples’ retreat two years in a row. Like cutting her hair off, buying a horse, renouncing wheat and cosmetics. Here was the Achilles’ heel of their friendship, and Harriet’s lone misgiving with Mildred, this maddening capacity to surprise those around her, and without explanation.

“Well, I don’t know what to say, Mildred.”

“Oh, Harriet, don’t say anything. I didn’t want it to be this way, please understand.”

“Is Dwight behind this?”

“Darling, no. It’s complex.”

That’s it? It’s complex? That’s all she’s got in the way of an explanation? With trembling hands, Harriet begins gathering her cruise materials, then stands and walks out of the clubhouse, leaving Mildred behind.

“Forgive me, please,” Mildred calls out.

The moment Harriet hits the open air, clutching the guard rail, it shames her to find that she feels nothing so much as relief. She’s off the hook. No cruise! No mixers, no seminars, no raw fish!

“So, that’s it, you’re not going?” It’s Bernard again.

“You don’t honestly expect me to go alone?”

“Take one of the kids,” says Bernard.

“You know that’s not going to happen.”

“Couldn’t hurt to ask.”

“Well, it wouldn’t do any good, either.”

“What about Barbara Chatsworth, then?”

“She’s in poor health — hospitalized last month, the poor dear. Besides, I think I grate on her nerves.”

“Well, how about somebody else from the church? That little Higashi lady that makes the cobblers?”

Harriet sighs. “It really means that much to you?”

“I didn’t say that. I just think you oughta get out and live a little, Harriet. Be adventurous.”

“Why should I start now?”

“You deserve it. Now that you haven’t got me to lug around, you owe yourself a little vacation.”

“Oh, Bernard, I just don’t understand. You know I’m terrible on boats. I can hardly bear the ferry to Edmonds. Why did you bid on an Alaskan cruise, for heaven’s sake? Why not a basket of artisan breads?”

He shrugs.

“Well, if you wanted to surprise me, you succeeded in that.”

She reaches out for his hand and gives it a little squeeze.

When she arrives at the straightaway path leading to the visitors’ lot, she hears the clownish little honk and the whir of the motor and turns just in time to find Fikru coasting to a stop beside her, beaming like a jack-o’-lantern.