Jonathan Evison - This is Your Life, Harriet Chance!

Here you come, Harriet Nathan, tiny face pinched, eyes squinting fiercely against the glare of surgical lamps, at a newly renovated Swedish hospital, high on Seattles First Hill. Its an unseasonably chilly Wednesday in autumn, and the papers are calling for snow. Roosevelt by a landslide! they proclaim. Workers grumbling in Flint, Michigan! In Spain, a civil war rages.

Meanwhile, out in the corridor, your father paces the floor, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow. Clutching an unlit Cuban cigar, he checks his wristwatch. Hes got a three-oclock downtown.

By the end of the week, Harriet, youll leave the hospital wrapped in a goose-down swaddler knit by your ailing grandmother. Your father will miss his three-oclock today. But lets not get ahead of ourselves here. They dont call it labor for nothing. Lets not forget the grit and determination of your mother. All that panting and pushing, all that clenching and straining, eyes bulging, forehead slick with sweat. Lets take a moment to appreciate the fact that she wont begrudge you any of it, though youll always be your fathers girl.

Here you come, better late than never: a face presentation. Not the boy your father so desperately wanted, but here you come, anyway, all six pounds three ounces of you. Button nose, conical head, good color. A swirl of dark hair atop your little crown. And a healthy pair of lungs, too.

Listen to you wail, as the doctor slaps your fanny: your cries, phlegmy and protracted. Hear them? These are virtually the last sounds you will utter until well after your second birthday.

Yes, Harriet, you were an exceptionally quiet child. Too quiet.

Exhibit A: December 31, 1936. For the rest of their lives, your parents will regale you, and anyone who will listen, with a rollicking story about a certain New Years Eve party on the north end. The story involves a bassinet into which your father, in a moment of stoned clarity and admirable foresight, fastened you by your ankles and armpits for safety, using his own necktie and a leather belt from the hosts closet. The party is a triumph, as the story goes, with Bacchus leading the charge. The music is brassy, the walls are thrumming. So frenzied the celebration, in fact, that amid their merrymaking, revelers fail to notice the upended bassinet in the corner. That is, until whiz kid, Charlie Fitzsimmons, the firms youngest partner, lipstick on his collar, ladies underpants adorning the crown of his head, nearly trips on you on his way back from the punch bowl.

It will not be the last time Charlie Fitzsimmons takes notice of you.

Would you look at that glass of milk? he shouts.

For an instant, the party is struck dumb as everyone turns their attention to the corner. Look at Harriman Nathans girl!

Shell make a hell of a judge, observes Charlie.

And of course, hilarity ensues. The story never fails, and youre the punch line, Harriet.

There you are, for God only knows how long, upside down, your poker face turning from red to blue to purple, your little gray eyes gazing impassively at the world, as your parents ring in a prosperous 1937.

You never made a peep.

This is your life, Harriet. The beginning, anyway.

Harriet finds Father Mullinix in his stuffy office behind the chapel, his reading glasses roosting halfway down the bridge of his nose, his laptop propped open in front of him.

Hes on his feet before she can cross the threshold. Harriet, youre shivering. Sit. He lowers her into a straight-backed chair. My goodness, youre sopping wet.

Hes here, Father, she says. I found his slippers this morning next to mine in the breakfast nook.

Father Mullinix smiles patiently, setting his big hands on the desktop. Weve talked about this several times recently, Harriet. Theres but one ghost in the Bible, and we both know who that is.

But last week, the WD-40. And now this.

Drawing a weary breath, Father Mullinix holds it in.

You dont understand, says Harriet. The WD-40, that was him, telling me to quiet those hinges on the dishwasher. He hated the squeaking.

Slowly, Father Mullinix releases his breath. Clasping his hands together on the desktop, he proceeds expertly in a measured tone.

Perhaps it is possible hes trying to speak to you through God, he concedes. But certainly I wouldnt take the WD-40 as a sign. Perhaps you left it there on the chair, a lapse in memory. It happens to me daily. Yesterday I found these very glasses in the pantry. Were all so busy in these times, so preoccupied. And you of all people, Harriet, you are so diligent in all things, particularly for someone of your. . experience.

But I know I didnt leave it there. And the slippers.

Well, Im sure theres an explanation.

I saw him Father, I felt him. Last night, we were at the Continental Buffet. He was eating corned beef.

Ah, I see. Youve had another dream.

I wasnt dreaming. He was an actual presence.

Father Mullinix smiles sadly, but Harriet can tell his patience is wearing thin. For months, shes been eating up his time, unloading her grief on him, bludgeoning him with the details of her dream life and, most recently, trying in vain to convince him that Bernard still lingered somehow in the earthly realm. Perhaps she was mistaken in confiding in him this time, though hed never failed her in the past.

Do you think Im, oh, Father. . you dont think Im. .?

I think, perhaps, you could use some rest, Harriet.

But Father, I assure you Im

Please, let me drive you home, Harriet.

Look at you, Harriet, a grown woman! No longer a glass of milk but a tall drink of water. Okay, not so tall. Maybe a little on the squat side, maybe a little pudgy, to hear your mother tell it. But your hygiene is fastidious, your bouffant is formidable. And youre still quiet, which makes you popular among lawyers and men alike. But youve no time for men. Youre a professional. Marriage is one negotiation that can wait. First, your own apartment. An automobile. A promotion.

The sky is the limit!

Here you are, at Fourth and Union, top floor, just three months removed from your associates degree. And not your fathers firm, either. Sure, you had a push, a few advantages in life, but you got here on your own. No, youll never be a lawyer, but a crack legal assistant is not out of the question. You love your job. Okay, maybe love is a bit strong. But prepping documents, writing summaries, filing motions, all of it agrees with you. Look at you, downtown girl: chic but pragmatic. Shopping at Frederick & Nelson! Lunching at the Continental Buffet!

Lets be honest, though. Lets talk about the problem that has no name. All these months later, theyre still slapping your fanny around the office. Your salary doesnt stretch that far. The work is exhausting. As both a woman and an assistant, youre expected to work harder. And for what? A string of pearls? A sleek automobile? A slap on the can from a junior partner? It will be six more years before Friedan exposes the feminine mystique, twelve more before Yoko Ono proclaims woman as the nigger of the world. But by God, Harriet Chance, youre determined to buck your disadvantages. Okay, maybe determined is a bit strong; how about resigned to them? The least you can do is achieve independence. Tackle adulthood on your own terms. Put that associates degree to some purpose.

Make a name for yourself, Harriet Nathan.

The truth youre not telling anyone, especially not your father, is that amid the administrative whirlwind of the office, the hustle and bustle of downtown, the ceaseless tedium of legal research, you yearn for something less exhausting: for stability, predictability, and yes, a Christmas hearth festooned with stockings.