The Golden State

“What are you saying? I’m the idiot who gave the immigration guys my card and signed that fucking paper.” While we talk I think suddenly of a thing I saw in a BabyCenter comment, a random flash of true insight imparted by a stranger. It was about the “culture” of your family, that only you and your partner can make and which dictates the things that you do and enjoy and the way you raise your kid. I think the remark was delivered in the context of making your baby go the fuck to sleep or something like that. But I think of how it is when Engin and I are in the Buick together or sitting on the couch each doing our own thing or when we talk throughout a TV show about where we should buy our stone shack or how much of an idiot Tolga is or the nature of Hugo’s essential being or what new bizarre baby behavior Honey is exhibiting. When Rodney and Helen visited when Honey was born she told me “Just remember that these are the good ole days” which seemed kind of sinister but now I understand. I have always just liked to be around Engin so much and it occurs to me that I am denying myself and Honey that opportunity, that I am robbing us of the good ole days, that I am stymying further opportunities to build our singular familial culture, and I get pissed all over again.

I remember too that I have been feeling very sorry for myself and not that sorry for Engin which is unfair because he is the one who had the god-awful demeaning interaction with the two men resulting in his being turned away from the United States and put back onto a plane and not being able to see his infant daughter and then discovering that his compliance with their demands, his signing of the dreaded fucking form I-407 meant that he is on record as voluntarily surrendering his green card and he like me must look back at that encounter and want to literally murder everyone involved, as I do, poke them with a knife, except that he can actually picture it and see the scene in his dreams whereas I rely on stock footage of various bland consular rooms I have known and every beefy male movie villain to fill in as the Homeland Security guys and every day I ask myself why I didn’t warn him to be careful why I assumed good faith on the part of these people why I pictured all the kind friendly consular officers of my childhood helping me renew my passport or giving my mother her terra-cotta urn, and not the people Engin had to see, people who took him away from his child because they vibrate with some higher mandate about securing our fucking borders. I feel so much hate and I wish I had somewhere to put it, that there was some decisive action to take.

“I’m so sorry,” I repeat. “I’m so sorry we did this to you.”

We sign off and I light another cigarette smoke it down to the filter staring across the road at the scrub beyond the split-rail fence, where some quail are making their coordinated swarm through the sagebrush, and then I wipe my face off and go back inside. I feel clean, somehow. Or neutral. It’s like the hangover and the anguish of the morning has wrung out sentiment from me, I am a dishrag that has been squeezed and placed over the rack to dry. Alice is there on the couch, petting the head of Honey, whose eyes are heavy but open, her rosy little lips pursed into a kiss, her hand reaching up toward Alice’s face.

“Well, this one’s awake,” says Alice. “Probably needs a snack.”

“Hi baby!” I say to Honey. “Did you have a nice nap on Alice’s lap?” and she kicks and strains to roll off Alice saying “Amee-amee-amee.” I kneel down to meet her and need to put my hand back to steady myself from mild spins. Alice stands up with effort, I can almost hear her back clicking, and then briskly straightens her skirt.

“Well, then. I guess I’ll go and get my nap.”

“Are we still on for dinner,” I say rather than ask, feeling bereft at the prospect of her absence.

“Oh, sure, I guess,” says Alice.

“I’ll pick you up at five at the Arrowhead,” I say. “We’ll go have the prime rib.”

“Okay,” she says, and walks slowly to the door. I scramble up from Honey’s level and intercept her and lay a hand on her bony shoulder and she flinches and looks at me with what seems almost like hostility.

“I just want to say thank you again, for what you did.”

“Well,” she says. “What else was I going to do?” Honey tugs at my knees and raises her arms to be picked up. I reach down and bring her up, using her as a shield against some faint but perceptible disapproval I suddenly feel in the air of the mobile home.

“Say bye-bye, Honey,” I say, waggling the baby’s hand. “See you soon.”