Harriet Beamer Takes the Bus (2 page)

“Okay, so back to the bet. If I win then —”

“Then you get to stay in the house until you … well until —”

“I die. You can say it. I know I’m going to die one day, same as you.”

“Well, no one is dying today,” Henry said. “Let’s get you to the hospital.”

Henry helped his mother off the couch. She hopped toward the front door with Henry’s help. Harriet reached out her hand to Prudence. “It’s a bet, Your Honor.”

“It’s a bet,” said Prudence, shaking Harriet’s hand.

Three painful hours and four X-rays later, Harriet learned she had lost the bet. Four months after the orthopedist declared her ankle fully mended, Harriet sold her pretty little custom-built Cape Cod and met her obligation. Her bank account grew to a size she had never thought she would see again, and she phoned Henry and Prudence to tell them she was on her way.

“I’m so glad, Mother,” Prudence said. “It really is for the better. You’ll see.”

Humphrey rested his head on the sofa as close to Harriet as possible.

“It’s going to be all right, boy. We’ll be just fine in California.”

Harriet looked out her bay front window. Spring was definitely on the fringes. “I hope so anyway. I hope.”

T
HOSE FOUR MONTHS WERE, TO SAY THE LEAST, A WHIRLWIND
— to say the most, heart-wrenching. Harriet’s house sold quickly, being in a fine neighborhood with a good public school district and, of course, the Saint Denis Parish. She didn’t even need a lawn sign — she preferred not to inform the entire neighborhood of her plans anyway. People clamored to be in Saint Denis. So Harriet was mostly pleased when she sold the house to a young couple with four school-age children.

A month before settlement day, Harriet invited her best church friend for pie and coffee. She decided it would probably be a good idea to let Martha know — she didn’t want to simply up and leave. People might think she had died or been kidnapped or something.

Martha arrived early as usual. Although she was the same age as Harriet — two months older, in fact — Harriet always thought of her as younger. Martha possessed such a free spirit and was as spry and youthful as any forty-year-old. She wore what Harriet called bohemian clothes — colorful skirts, bandanas, sandals in summer, and sneakers all winter — and made a living creating stained glass windows. Harriet never told her, but she sometimes wished she had even an ounce of Martha’s artistic talent. Harriet, who wore flowered dresses and sensible shoes and concerned herself with keeping a neat house, serving nursery duty, returning
her library books on time, and keeping her weekly date down at Saint Frank’s for bingo, never did anything unexpected or out of the ordinary.

“Martha,” Harriet said as she opened the door, “you’re early — again.”

Martha laughed. “You know me. I’ll probably die early.”

“Oh, don’t say such a thing. Come on in. I was about to set the table.”

“Set the table? You must have something mighty important in that brain of yours if you’re setting a table for us.”

“I do,” Harriet said. She followed Martha into the living room. “But it can wait a few minutes.”

“Then at least let me set the table while you get the goodies ready. You made pie, of course.”

That was nice and neighborly and all, but Harriet wanted to set the table herself. Martha had a way of making even the most mundane things prettier and better. Most of the time it was a welcome set of skills, especially at a church supper, but that day, with such an important announcement to make, Harriet wanted to be in charge. Still, since Martha had already started folding the cloth napkins into swans or parrots or something equally exotic, Harriet let her continue.

“You have your good crystal out and china — my, my, what a pretty pattern.” Martha peered into a French Haviland pie plate. “Now you’ve got me guessing. What in the world could be so terribly important as to warrant good china and your favorite salt and pepper shakers — oh, let me guess, Prudence is preggers. How marvelous.”

Preggers.
Harriet swallowed. “No, no, Prudence is not … preggers … she’s too busy with her lawyer job, and you know Henry, still writing his books.”

“Well, I wish for your sake she’d change her mind. The old bio clock is ticking.” She moved her index finger back and forth like a pendulum.

Harriet placed a deep-dish apple pie with a golden crust on the table. “Look who’s talking. Weren’t you forty-two when Wyatt came along?”

“Yeah, well. I already had three others, and he was kind of … well, Wyatt was definitely God’s idea. Jack and I were not planning. He’s our ‘You said it would be all right’ baby. ‘Course he’s all grown up now, but he still keeps me young.”

Harriet set out the good silver and watched Martha rearrange the cut flowers in the vase on the table. She magically made them look better than Harriet’s best effort only thirty minutes previous. Harriet sighed. How can they be the same daffodils? Then again, Martha could scrape a dead raccoon off the street and turn it into a lovely centerpiece.

“Oh, where’s your pooch?” Martha looked around. “He usually greets me.”

“He’s out back. I’m not ready for him to hear my announcement yet.”

Martha smiled and moved toward the glass sliders leading to the backyard and looked out toward Humphrey’s doghouse. “Honestly, Harriet, sometimes I think you believe that hound is human.”

“I never claimed he was human, but I’m fairly certain he understands me. He’s picked up quite a bit of English.”

“As opposed to dog speak.”

“Yes, and please don’t call him a hound. He’s sensitive.”

“Well, that’s what he is. A basset
hound.
“

“But it’s derogatory.”

Harriet poured herself a cup of coffee and stirred cream into it. She had been thinking about the best way to tell Martha her plan and thought she had come up with the perfect segue. “I’ve been enjoying Pastor Daniel’s messages these last few weeks — all about purpose and destiny and such, finding our place in the grand scheme of things. The center of God’s will and all that, even though I’m not certain I know how that feels or if I will ever understand
predestination.” She glanced at Martha over the tops of her glasses.

“Oh, oh, I know what he means.” Martha chimed in as she set a slice of pie on her plate. “When I’m working with the glass I feel something extraordinary. It’s like the line in that old movie about the missionary, about feeling God’s pleasure when he runs. I feel God’s pleasure when I work with the glass. It’s like I know God made me an artist and I really have no choice but to do it.”

Harriet stirred her coffee. “You mean
Chariots of Fire.
Eric Liddell.” Harriet stared into her coffee. Nothing fancy. No hazelnut or coconut flavors — plain old coffee — the same brand she had been drinking for over twenty years. Ordinary — that’s how Harriet had been feeling, she just didn’t know it. She could not remember the last time she felt God’s pleasure.

“I’m in a rut,” Harriet said after a moment. “I wake up the same time every day, make coffee the same time every morning, drink it from the same mug, sit in the same pew, attend the same bingo game every Thursday — never win more than $47.50. And then I give it to the church.” She looked away from Martha. “My life is boring. I don’t want to believe I was predestined to live out my days baking cookies. I just never had the gumption to try anything different.” She looked away and then back at Martha. “I never had the courage.”

Martha tapped Harriet’s hand. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Harriet, what are you trying to tell me? You must have something heavy on your heart. Does it have anything to do with Daniel’s sermons? Did you get a bad test result?”

Harriet sipped her coffee. She considered forgetting the whole thing, thinking it couldn’t possibly be as exciting as making art or getting a bad test result. “Oh, it’s nothing really. I’m just … moving. That’s all.” She looked straight at Martha. “I’m moving — soon.”

Martha swallowed a bite of pie without chewing. “Moving?
You mean into one of those fancy assisted-living places? Or the Presbyterian home?”

“Presby Home? No.” She looked away from Martha again. The Presbyterian Home was a fine alternative for someone in Harriet’s station of life, and after being a faithful member of the Presbyterian Church (even though she played bingo at St. Frank’s), she certainly qualified for a bed.

“California,” Harriet said.

“California? Well, what in the world?” Martha looked away and then back at Harriet. “Oh, I get it. Isn’t that where Henry and Prudence live?”

Harriet nodded. “Yes. And … you can’t talk me out of it. I already sold the house.”

Martha shook her head. “Harriet Beamer. I never thought this would happen. You love this house.”

“I do, but … well, I’m getting older and —”

“Oh so what? You’re not ancient. Did you lose a bet or something?”

Harriet pushed gooey apple slices around on her plate. “Yes. It was a stupid bet.”

“I knew it,” Martha said. “I told you one of these days that your gambling ways would get you into trouble. Not everything in life is a sure bet.”

“Well, good for you, Nostradamus,” Harriet said. “Your prediction came true. But it really is all because of that broken ankle I had at Christmas. Henry and Prudence are worried I can’t take care of myself anymore.”

“Oh, that’s preposterous,” Martha said. “You fell off one chair — so what. You are far from a doddering old woman.”

“I suppose.” Harriet nodded and sipped her coffee, lost in thought. “Maybe it’s not such a bad thing. I know I can still take care of myself. But I’m not getting younger. What do I have left? Ten decent years?” Harriet swallowed a bite of pie. “Remember how long ten years was when we were younger, and now —” she
snapped her fingers — “it could go in a flash. I mean, really, what can I do now? My life is practically over.”

“Don’t be morbid. Ten years is plenty of time. You can do whatever you want. Go wherever you want. I keep saying I’ll teach you to work with the stained glass. You can take a class in Russian literature, anything. You don’t need to sell your house and move clear across the country.” Martha seemed to swipe a tear away.

“Maybe I do,” Harriet said. “Maybe the kids are right. Maybe I’ve used up my usefulness here, and now it’s time for my children to take care of me.”

Martha shook her head. She sipped coffee and looked around the kitchen. “There must be more to this.”

“No. Not much more.” Harriet stirred her coffee again. “Although I guess there is a part of me that figures when — or should I say
if?
— they decide to have a baby, I’ll be there. I’d want to be part of the baby’s life. And that trumps any assisted-living home. Come to think of it, it would be assisted living in reverse. I’ll get to assist them.” Harriet smiled at her realization.

“That is one way to look at it. But to sell your house and move so far —” Martha sniffed. “I’m going to miss you.”

Harriet was glad when Martha left. But as she was washing the dishes and packing the china into a sturdy box marked “good dishes,” a melancholy crept into her bones. Martha still had purpose. That was certain. She felt God’s pleasure when she arranged the colorful cut glass into gorgeous pictures. For Harriet that day, it seemed God had finished with her, that he had no more purpose for her life than she did with the tiny bits of leftover apple pie she pushed down the Insinkerator.

When settlement day, June 2, finally arrived, Harriet slipped into her favorite cotton dress with the purple flowers and lace on the collar. She most always wore dresses. She never felt comfortable in blue jeans, although she did wear clam diggers in the warmer
weather and when she visited the shore. But that day she slipped into her most familiar clothes. Signing the house over to Barry and Samantha Fredrickson was a bit more serious than a trip to the shore. A fact that struck her as she sat across the table from the young couple. When it came time to sign the papers, her hand shook, and as a result, her signature was wobbly. But she walked away with a happy, fat check. Max had seen to it that the house would be paid off in the event of his premature demise, so she owed only taxes. She deposited the check on her way home to tell Humphrey the news. The new owners said it would be fine with them if she remained in the house an extra day or two to get things settled. They charged her rent, of course, but Harriet didn’t mind.

Harriet stopped at Larry’s Deli and purchased four glazed donuts and a can of sardines in a bright red wrapper.

“Humphrey,” she called when she opened the front door. “Mommy has treats for you.”

Humphrey scrambled from his 2:00 p.m. resting spot in the sun.

Harriet plunked the sardines into Humphrey’s bowl. She only gave him sardines when she had a good reason. A smidgen of guilt crept into Harriet’s heart as she wiped sardine juice from the floor. He probably still remembered eating sardines the day before she took him for a trip to the vet, which turned into something a little more than routine. Let’s just say Humphrey came home a little lighter the next day.

Humphrey lapped the fishies up faster than flies find a warm pile of poop in July. Harriet knew he was a little worried and wondered if she should even tell him. But that wasn’t fair. She couldn’t just spring it on him at the very last minute. Besides he had been watching her pack and must have known something was up.

“Humphrey,” she said just as he swallowed the last morsel. “I got something to tell you.” She sat at the kitchen table and opened the donut bag. Humphrey scooted toward her. He had learned to do this on his butt, not that standing up and walking was so hard,
but why waste the energy? His eyes brightened as she jiggled the donut bag.

Harriet figured Humphrey had come to know her pretty well. Sometimes a dog can know things without words; a simple look on a human’s face can be enough to spell impending disaster or even unspeakable joy like a fresh warm donut from Larry’s.

Harriet knew Humphrey knew. She scratched behind his ears and smiled into his impossibly sad, bloodshot eyes. “We’re taking a little trip, you and me.” She tried to sound as upbeat as possible and fed him part of the donut, which he wolfed down in no time.

Humphrey perked up. The dog wagged his tail and performed his version of the happy dance, which was little more than a few tail chases. Harriet loved that.

“Good boy, Humphrey. You are going to have so much fun on that airplane.” She patted his head.

Humphrey yawned. Walked away. Did a double take and whimpered.

“I don’t care what anyone says. I know you can understand me. But don’t worry, you’re going to love the plane.”

Harriet spent the rest of the day packing, unpacking, and repacking. It was difficult to decide what to keep, what to donate, and what to throw away. It had taken her nearly three years to rid the house of Max’s clothes and belongings. But as she went through closets and drawers she came across other Max memorabilia and had a tough time keeping tears at bay.

“Oh, Max,” she said, holding an old wristwatch. “You never did get this fixed. But that was just like you. Say one thing, do another.”

By dinnertime she had grown so weary of crying over Max she set about packing her salt-and-pepper collection. She had gone to the U-Haul store and purchased nice sturdy boxes, strapping tape, and a large black Sharpie.