The Golden State

“Was your husband American?” I ask. “Oh yes,” she says. I offensively assume she means he was not also an Arab so I ask “Why did he speak Arabic?” I’m always hugely admiring of anyone who can learn Arabic. I studied Modern Standard Arabic for two quarters and really, it’s so hard, but she just says “He needed it for his work” and I hesitate and say “What kind of work did he do?” and she says “Oh, he worked for different places” and it’s such a weird answer that it summons the ghost of my mother who I hear say “Spook” with derisive finality and I almost laugh aloud because it’s such a thing she would say, a judgment delivered upon anyone in an embassy whose role was not clearly defined. I decide not to press.

“Where did you go in Turkey?” I ask. She is silent for a while looking at a point past Honey. “First we stayed in the city, with a lecturer from one of the universities.” She returns her gaze to me. “He had a beautiful wife named Gonul, I remember.” “Gönül,” I say reflexively, and years of vocabulary memorization kicks into gear like a tic (Gönül: heart; Gönüllü: with heart, volunteer). “It means ‘heart,’” I say. “That suits her,” the woman says. “She was very kind. They lived in a cold-water flat in one of those neighborhoods with the gorgeous wooden houses.” “Ah,” I say. “She had a little girl, I don’t remember her name. That’s who taught me ‘seni seviyorum.’” She shakes her head. “Imagine remembering that after all these years.” She smiles kindly at me, the first smile she has produced. “It must be something about hearing you say it.” Honey is still staring at her stupefied which is downright weird and I poke her. “Can you say hello?” I say. “This is Honey. Well, actually Meltem. Turkish.” “Pretty,” the crone says.

Honey comes to life and starts kicking and wanting to be let out and as sometimes happens when I’m out with her I worry so much she’s going to make a big scene that I get a fight-or-flight thing and say “You know I’d really love to keep talking but I should probably get her home for a nap,” and the woman waves her hand toward the door and I say “I’m Daphne. What was your name?,” which is a weird verb tense, and she says “Alice” and Honey wails and I say “Alice it’s so nice to meet you, I hope we will see you again tomorrow!” and I fire the stroller out the door like a shot even though as soon as I leave I regret running from what is likely to be the most interesting conversation I have all day week month year.

I let Honey out of the stroller and she does her spunky little run down the sidewalk until her head gets the better of her and she topples over hard and cries and I hustle to pick her up and cuddle her before she wants down again. While we walk home I think about what we are going to eat and I think she had Cheerios this morning which means she could have an egg which is nutritious and protein-filled and wouldn’t be a repeat and I think egg and berries and yogurt although that’s the last thing that I personally want to eat and wonder if I could somehow get a burger and shake from the Frosty and eat it away from her prying eyes.

Finally we are home, or back at the house, and I scramble us four eggs and split them between two plates and I slice up strawberries and put yogurt in a bowl and set her in the high chair and set myself down next to her and think once she goes down for a nap I can eat the bag of Lays.

It takes her a very long time to go to sleep. I open the bedroom window so I can hear her outside and her shouts and moans echo around the deck while I eat the chips drink a glass of water and then smoke a cigarette. It’s 12:10, early for her nap but I decide to wait her out and finally the sounds stop and after ten minutes it’s safe to assume she’s out.