The Education of Harriet Hatfield Read Free Page B

with the classics of the feminist movement and a dazzling table of art books, biographies, and the newest poetry in Vicky’s honor. This table would be referred to as “Harriet’s Choice.”
    I decided on champagne as the easiest and most festive drink, with orange juice in reserve for nondrinkers. Angelica insisted on having a huge cake catered for me, and that meant plates which we dashed out to get, paper napkins, of course, and plastic forks. Since the new owners of the house had not moved in I plundered the garden of chrysanthemums and asters, a glorious bunch in the middle of the round table in front of the fireplace. It was, as I had dreamed, surrounded by four small round leather armchairs where people could sit and read comfortably. I had placed my desk at the back where I could see what was going on but not obtrusively, and at half-past two I am saying a little prayer to Sylvia Beach, my heroine among women booksellers, to hover over us and give us her blessing. But when at three no one has showed, I begin to feel horribly nervous.
    “What if no one comes, Joan?”
    Patapouf, lying under my desk, gives a growl. No doubt she is dreaming. I had imagined that she would help put people at their ease, be the welcomer, waving her great black plume of a tail, but what if she thinks I am being invaded by hostile strangers? For the moment every single thing so carefully prepared seems to be in peril.
    But at this moment a chauffeured limousine stops at the door and, of all people I dread to see, Vivyan Powers emerges and walks in and shakes my hand and turns to Joan, whom I quickly introduce. She is dressed, I note with some surprise, in expensive stone-washed jeans and jacket and purple Reeboks.
    “I didn’t know how to dress,” she announces. “After all, what in hell is a women’s bookstore about? What are you up to, Harriet? You look awfully tame in that old tweed suit, I must say.”
    “Did you expect a clown of some sort?”
    But Vivyan is already wandering around, picking up Adrienne Rich and laying her down like a hot cake. “Am I the first victim?” she asks.
    “The first customer so far.”
    Patapouf now emerges and goes right over to Vivyan and smells her shoes. “So you’re still alive,” she says, bending down to pat her huge black head.
    “Champagne?” Joan brings a glass on a tray.
    “Never say no,” Vivyan says, and then, “You must join me so we can have a toast.”
    I do not intend to drink so early in the day and am relieved to see two old friends, Professor and Mrs. House, looking in the windows. “Welcome, friends!”
    Helen comes in the door first and gives me a hug. “It’s so exciting,” she says, and Harold follows and kisses me on the cheek.
    “What an achievement!” he says after I introduce them to Joan and Vivyan. “You really are an amazing woman to have managed all this in less than a year!”
    “We’ve worked like dogs,” I say, including Joan.
    “Mr. House is brave to dare enter this sanctuary,” Vivyan says.
    “Really? But I am much too curious to be held at bay,” he answers, laughing his short bark of a laugh. “Who knows? I might get converted.”
    It is really a thrill when at last three young women in very long skirts, peasant blouses, and high boots troop in shyly. “We saw the sign,” one says, “in the Coop.”
    “Oh, look at the biography,” another goes right to the table. “It’s a treasure house! Masson … I’ve looked and looked for that. De Beauvoir … I was told it was out of print.”
    My head is beginning to hum with pleasure and relief. This is the scene I have dreamed of for so many months. Champagne is passed just as Angelica appears bearing the fabulous cake and lays it on the table.
    “You’ll have to cut it, Harold, I’m much too nervous!” and then I hug Angelica. Now she is here all will be well. “Without Angelica,” I announce, “none of this would have been possible.”
    “Nonsense!” she says.
    Quite a buzz of