"Running Commentary"

Harriet And Her Lawyer
Sometimes the words don’t flow. I’m working on three different things and none of them are coming together. Time to drop back and punt. Thank God for my reserve tank. What follows is one of my all-time favorites, partly because of the woman involved, and partly because … well, it all goes back to Harriet. Originally published in 1994 in the Wayne (PA) Times and republished in 2012 in the Salina Journal. Hope you enjoy it, just as I enjoyed Harriet …
I think of Harriet at the strangest times.
Recently, I think it was because of a birthday. Whatever the reason, thoughts of her come and go like a gentle wave at low tide.
I first met Harriet inside a state mental hospital. No sooner had she signed herself in for treatment but what her husband filed for divorce and sought custody of their children.
Harriet hadn’t even stepped into the batter’s box and already had two strikes against her.
At the hospital, I met a chain-smoking woman not quite five feet tall who weighed slightly less than a Toyota. In her mid-40’s but appearing at least 10-15 years older, Harriet resembled a pudgy fireplug.
I would soon learn that the pressures raging within Harriet were not unlike what one would expect beneath a hydrant – constant, awaiting a release valve.
Harriet was truly unique – her teeth were false, but her heart was innocent. I liked her immediately. The woman had spunk. Her smile melted my resistance. I agreed to take her case.
From that day forward, for a period of several years, Harriet and I did battle. Usually against her husband, sometimes against each other. I never treated her differently than other clients. Mental illness should not be confused with mental competency – so long as Harriet understood the legal proceedings, she called the shots.
Harriet was ill … she certainly wasn’t stupid.
But friction was inevitable. It was my job to tell Harriet things she didn’t want to hear. Harriet wanted to fight the divorce. Fight the system. I admired her spirit; however, Pennsylvania law recognized no fault as grounds for divorce.
We could delay things … we could negotiate a better deal. But unless Harriet’s husband agreed to reconcile, the process was inexorable. We had guns – but no ammo.
Despite the restraints imposed by our professional relationship, I became quite fond of Harriet. As the legal case wound down to a conclusion, our relationship became more personal. I was her friend, one of the very few she trusted. At some point, I stopped charging for my time.  
We were quite the odd couple – two friends with absolutely nothing in common.
When my schedule allowed, I checked on her to see if she needed anything. Sometimes we walked to the community room where there was a piano. Harriet would sit behind me, dragging on a cigarette and swigging iced tea from a plastic gallon jug while I played Jerome Kern and Gershwin tunes from the 40’s.
I never left the hospital without getting a bear hug.
Our visits continued intermittently after the divorce was over. I stopped in when I could, often finding her sleeping outside on a particular bench – residents are territorial about their favorite benches. I knew where I could usually find her if it wasn’t too cold outside – Harriet’s bench.
Her medication made her drowsy, and cigarette smoke polluted her lungs, but nothing could touch her heart. As frustrated as she was about life, Harriet never stopped smiling. She laughed at my jokes and we frequently talked about the weather.
She looked forward to the day when she could leave the hospital.
That day finally came. Harriet announced she was moving to California to live with her oldest son. I knew the family situation and was suspicious about his motives. As a result of the divorce settlement, Harriet had a substantial trust fund.
Two words:  liquid re$ource$.          
I tried to get Harriet to reconsider another alternative – a community living arrangement, a controlled environment in a nice house she would share with other former patients. But Harriet’s mind was made up. Legally, there was nothing to stop her.
The door to Harriet’s cage was open.
She wasn’t sure she could fly, but she was fully prepared to die flapping.
In the months that followed, Harriet occasionally called my office collect from California to say hello. She missed our visits. The conversations were awkward at first, then ceased altogether.
She died about a year later and her body was flown back to Pennsylvania for burial. I didn’t count heads, but there were fewer than 10 of us at the funeral. Her son was a no show – no surprise there.
Funerals are often sad … Harriet’s was sadder than most.
A few months later, I was driving past the state hospital and made a spontaneous decision to revisit the old bench near the lawn where Harriet and I sat and talked about the weather and her dreams of a better life.
Harriet’s bench.
I drove to a nearby parking lot and walked up a grassy hill to the bench and sat down … alone with my thoughts. It was a beautiful spring day.
A man walked past.
I bummed a cigarette and had a smoke.
God bless all those who aren’t sure they can fly but are fully prepared to die flapping. Contact Michael at: Rmykl@yahoo.com