Just to make matters worse when it comes to Pen’s siblings, Harriet has decided she wants to leave the group, opening up a perfectly good tiny-ish house for a new occupant.

“I just need to get out of this country,” she said at our last “ranch” dinner. "I can't live in a dark cloud anymore." There might have been a tear involved, but my lack of sympathy didn’t let me see it.

Of course, Harriet and I had a long history. Long for me anyway.

When we met in 1987, I was not immediately drawn to her, mainly because she looked out of my league. Her skin was a tanish pink. She had long, silky blond hair that she pulled over to one shoulder with a big tortoiseshell clip. She wore gauzy pants drawn in around narrow ankles. Her top was a blousy silk, and her sandals revealed delicate, manicured feet. I usually don’t pay much attention to how people dress, but I remember being impressed that she looked elegant and amazingly comfortable…all at the same time. My look was usually blunt. Darker. Hers was soft. Lighter. 

One thing I can say without hesitation is that Harriet is and always will be an artist—not that I like everything that she paints or sculpts, but every piece she creates has her voice, her talent, her intent. The fact that she grew up with the indulgence and affirmation of very supportive parents helped her do something rare for women in the 80s. She made her living as an artist. She taught art at a community college in Howard County just outside of DC, and she freelanced as an illustrator for the host of trade publications located inside the Beltway. 

That is how I met her. I needed to hire a small number of freelance artists who could illustrate our articles on very short notice. She was the only woman to apply, and lucky for me, she had the credentials that put her at the top of the list.

We spent a year getting to know each other. Casually at first. No intimate sharing or confidences. But once we introduced drinking into the equation, that too began to change. 

Throughout my life, I have alternated between being comfortable and fidgety with being gay. I soon learned that was not so with Harriet. During that first year, I discovered she had always been comfortable with her sexuality. Of course, I assumed that meant with being gay, but in fact, it meant with having sex. And it turned out she had it quite often. With a variety of people.

Once we were “together” that fact did not change, although it took me years to figure that out. When I did figure it out and told her I was not happy with that addition to our relationship, she quickly defined it as my deficit…I was immature, I lived in the dark ages, I was inhibited, inflexible, overly dependent. I accepted that reasoning until the day Harriet moved out--the day she moved in with Pen. Mainly because that kind of thinking was so thoroughly Harriet. That free-spirited approach is why I loved her. What I never loved was her dismissal of me.

Still, in the end, I was not the one to leave her. Cowardice, I think. Even though I had left her emotionally years before her departure. I had put up thin walls that slowly grew into strong indifference. Something I don't think she even noticed. But before that, we did have many good times. We flew back and forth to Santa Fe to visit Pen, we roamed scores of art galleries and museums discussing each artist’s technique or intent. We went to parties. We got drunk. We made love. 

When she left me for life with Pen, I think it is fair to say I was relieved. Not because I wanted her gone per se, but because I wanted a life where I felt so little for someone I loved to be gone.  

So, when Harriet announced she was moving out, on me, again, I think some unresolved feeling popped out. (Weird after all this time.) Honestly, thinking things through, I would delight in the idea of getting to know a fresh person. The only obstacle in our way, of course, is finding this fresh person, unanimously agreeing to include her/him in our living arrangement, all before Pen commits siblicide.