November 4, 1936
(Harriet at zero)
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 Seattle’s First Hill. It’s 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. He’s got a three o’clock downtown.
By the end of the week, Harriet, you’ll leave the hospital wrapped in a goosedown swaddler knit by your ailing grandmother. Your father will miss his three o’clock today. But let’s not get ahead of…
