Lydia Kiesling - The Golden State

“It’s nice, actually,” she says in a creaking voice. “To be around Honey. I remember things I forgot before, about taking care of little children.” She takes her fork and spears a single bean with shaking hand. “Today I thought about the twins being born. I remembered being pregnant again when they were just Honey’s age, right before we knew they were sick.” Honey drops her fork on the carpet and moans and I pick it up and wipe it off and hand it back without looking. “If I could freeze a moment I think it would be that one. We took them on hikes every weekend, a pack and a baby on each of our backs.” I stifle a sob and she looks almost affectionately at me.

“My husband always wanted a whole bunch of kids. I just wanted one who wasn’t sick, even though I felt bad to think about it that way. But he died before we could have another. And it probably would have been sick anyway.” She puts a single kidney bean into her mouth. “I was a teacher, you know.”

“How long did you do that?”

“Only got to do it for two years. Then I had my babies and that was just about it for me for a good long time.”

I shake my head to disperse the little cluster of thoughts her report has brought on. Alice placidly chews salad. Honey is occupied with her bread. The burly men clink their forks. A thought announces itself and as is usually the case whenever I have a charitable thought I decide to immediately say it and regret it rather than stop to consider and then talk myself out of it.

“What if we took you on to the camp?” I say. “You said it’s just a few hours. We can leave you there, or bring you there and come back here, or whatever you decide to do.” She frowns. I wonder whether I’ve offended her, and remember anew that any ship of that nature has sailed, since she saw me half naked this morning after having agreed to announce the news of my death should the occasion require. She has seen my boobs and held my baby. I forge on.

“I can talk to Mark and Yarrow if you think it would help them feel less anxious.” Her hair is so smooth, it’s like gray onyx or something, if onyx can be gray, my eyes keep going back to it. I want to touch it, a bridge too far.

“What about your job?” she asks.

“I think as long as I keep e-mailing them they can’t accuse me of job abandonment.” I swallow another piece of prime rib. “So what do you think?”

“I think it’s odd that you aren’t more worried about my plan. Mark and Yarrow were ready to have me committed. I have to admit the fact that you aren’t makes me wonder if I really am crazy.” I catch the implied rebuke and have to decide quickly whether to reveal some sign of how much it wounds me or whether to laugh it off.

“Well, given my behavior since you met me that’s a reasonable fear, Alice,” I say, deciding to take the high road. “I probably seem like a nutcase.”

“I don’t think you’re a nutcase,” she says. “Just highly strung.” I take Honey’s sippy cup full of milk out of my bag and give it to her. “Mut,” she says, and I am getting ready to launch into a spiel and almost don’t notice it’s the first time she’s said it.

“Oh my goodness!!!” I cheer. “Yes, your milk! You’re going to drink your milk!”

“Mut,” she says and I kiss her.

I notice movement by the door and glance over to see a large group of van Voorheeses enter, but not the Ed branch. I don’t know their names but I recognize them from the various funerals the last decade compelled me to participate in—the Elks Lodge, the Golden Spike, the Grange in Revival Junction. This is the old crowd, although there are a couple of young people with them and I wonder where the young people live and what they do. These are the people my mother could have gone up to and been hugged by and talked about ancient sled accidents with, long-ago horse rides, Girl Scout camp, waterskiing down in Gold Lake. She and Uncle Rodney always said they had the greatest childhood. My own legacy in the town is as a gloomy teenager, an eye-rolling waif. But when my grandfather died, then my grandmother, then my mom, I stood with Uncle Rodney and felt the town’s warmth as I sampled the enchiladas chilis bean salads potato salads accorded me as a bereaved daughter of Altavista.

It occurs to me that going over and saying hello is an act of filial piety. They haven’t met Honey, who is the small but very present, very alive continuation of the Burdock line. I sigh and look at Alice.

“I should go and say hello to those people,” I say. “They knew my mom and my grandparents.”

“Fine by me,” she says.

“You want another glass of wine?” I ask her. “Better not,” she says.

“I’ll just be a minute,” I say, and extricate Honey from her high chair. “We’re going to say hello to the people who knew your grandma.”

They have been seated on the other side of Spotted Owl and Nancy Pelosi and the latter wave again at Honey as I maneuver around their table. We arrive in front of the van Voorheeses’ long table and I address myself to the elderly couple on one end whose names have escaped me. “Excuse me,” I say, leaning forward to the woman. “I’m, um, Jeannie Burdock’s daughter. Frank and Cora’s granddaughter,” and they reward my filial piety by saying “Oh oh” and standing up and depositing napkins on the table and giving me a big hug and putting their hands on my shoulder and touching Honey’s hand. “And who is this?” they ask and I say “This is my daughter” and like that I just start crying.

“Oh honey,” says the woman. “We miss your mom and her mom and dad too.” I nod and wipe my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just don’t really know anyone up here, I thought I’d say hi.”

“We were just saying we hardly recognize anyone anymore. We live down in Red Bluff most of the year now. We just came up for the Parade and the Cattlewomen’s shindig.” Oh god. The Fourth of July parade. The Cattlewomen’s Association.

“This is Honey,” I say.

“Well hi, little Honey,” the lady says. “Bill, just look at her!” That’s right, his name is Bill.

“Where do you all live now?” Bill asks.

“Well, we live in San Francisco, but it’s a little complicated right now because my husband is Turkish and the government made some mistake with his green card and he’s stuck there while we’re trying to get it figured out.”

“Oh gosh, that’s too bad,” she says.

“Turkish!” the man says and chucks Honey under the chin. “Imagine that!” and I say, “Yep, she’s ah, Honey Mehmetoğlu.” “Well hello, Honey,” he says and smiles kindly.

“Now didn’t you and your mom live somewhere over there,” the woman says. “Yeah, we did for a while,” I say, and she nods and says “What an interesting experience you all got to have,” and I say “Sure did” and the waitress arrives to take orders and I glance at Alice staring off into space and say, “Well, nice to see you all,” just as the man is saying “Now, how’s Rod doing,” and I say, “Oh, real good,” and they say good and I say again “Nice to see you all” and they say “Yes, yes,” and pat me and I walk back to our table carrying Meltem Mehmetoğlu.

Alice is looking bored by the time I get Honey back into her high chair and cut some more meat for her and start working away on the sinewy pieces.

“How was your visit,” she says and I chew and say “Fine” through a mouthful of meat and then I swallow the meat and say “Um, so, would you like us to come with you, to the camp?”

“I suppose that would be all right,” she says. Honey starts thrashing in her seat and I smell poop. “Okay,” I say. “Good.” I want to show Alice that I am not crazy and that I can take care of the necessary arrangements. “So shall I talk to Mark and Yarrow? I mean, I’m happy to get on the phone with them and just tell them I’m a responsible person and I’ll, uh, take care of you. Not that you need taking care of.”