The Golden State

I hold the wooden door for Alice and stoop to bring Honey down off my shoulders, and discover that she has taken hold of a fistful of my hair. “Ow ow ow,” I say and try to extricate it from below while holding the door open with my hip. Honey grunts as she yanks and Alice says to her, “OH miss! You had better let go of your mommy’s hair,” and pinches the top of her thigh with a gnarled hand and Honey lets go and is first silent in shock and then puts her hand theatrically on her thigh and cries out and I set her down on the floor and pick her back up. I think Alice ought not to pinch my baby but that’s an awkward conversation to have.

The interior of the Antelope Meadows lodge has an air of abandonment notwithstanding the cars out front. There is a bulletin board with laminated informational sheets about the variety of floor plans available for anyone who might still wish to purchase a plot in the development. There is a separate bulletin board for current residents, with yellowing cautionary notices about water scarcity and bears. A few dusty animal heads gaze out from above a cold fireplace. To the left of the main room is the bar/lounge with pool table and a sour smell that extends faintly to the lobby and to the right is the restaurant. I lead Alice to the hostess stand where there is a pretty peaches-and-cream-complected youngish woman in a T-shirt and ponytail with a rose tattoo peeking up near her collarbone. “Two adults and a baby,” I say, and she looks questioningly at me.

“I know I recognize you,” she says, “but I’m trying to think from where.”

“My grandparents used to live here,” I say. “Frank and Cora Burdock, over in Deakins Park.” Her face lights up.

“We used to ride bikes!” she says. “My folks lived behind them on the other side of the circle for a few years.” “Kimmy?” I say after a moment of silence, remembering being five, seven, eight, eleven on home leave, and riding bikes with a moon-faced, smiling girl around and around the park.

“I remember,” I say, marveling at how completely that tie had been severed over years of sporadic visits. I don’t know her last name; we aren’t Facebook friends. We ceased to exist to each other when we were teenagers and I’m surprised by how clearly her child’s face returns to me now. We hug around Honey and I say “Can you say hello to Kimmy” and she squirms against me. “This is Honey,” I say.

“My goodness, how beautiful,” she says to the baby. “What is she, year and a half?”

“Just about,” I say. I always feel impressed by how easily other women can do this. I don’t think I have any idea how old babies are from looking at them yet.

“I’ve got three,” she says. “My oldest is twelve if you can believe it.” We are the same age or thereabouts, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three. “Amazing,” I say, feeling truly amazed.

“I know, I’m crazy! But we have a lot of fun.” She laughs. “I married a local boy, we live out over on the road to Rigby” and motions east. “I’m just helping out my sister tonight, so this is a real coincidence!” I shift Honey to my other hip and smile broadly wondering what I should say. She saves me the trouble. “My folks are down in Chico now.” “Great,” I say.

“We always missed your grandparents so much,” she says kindly. “They were real good people.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I miss them too.”

“Your mom was in Sac…”

“She’s gone now too,” I say, and she nods. “I heard that. I’m sorry. Are you up here to stay?” she asks, with seemingly genuine interest.

“Just visiting, you know, showing Honey the place. We’ve been trying to sell the house but it’s just sitting there.”

“Yeah, the market’s no good right now, unless you got a land parcel to go with it. Where are you living now?” She darts her eyes over my hand and then her gaze moves and lingers on my face and I remember suddenly my ghastly eyebrow and how it must look. I put my hand to it and say “Ugh, I know, it’s awful—I tripped last night and banged it on the front walk.” And she says “Yikes” and I answer her question and say “Down in San Francisco. My husband is Turkish—he’s over there now finishing school. We had some mix-ups with his green card that we’re trying to deal with.” I hate how much of a shady business this makes it sound like our marriage is, not to mention my fucked-up face and the fact that she probably thinks I married a foreign wife-beater even though this makes no sense because I just said he was back in Turkey and I feel irrationally angry at Kimmy and her local boy and three children.

“I remember when we were kids you always lived somewhere over there… was it Greece?” “Yeah,” I say. “Good memory!” Alice shifts beside me and I realize how rude I’ve been. “Uh, I’m sorry, Kimmy, this is Alice, my friend” and Alice nods and Kimmy says “Pleasure” with a huge smile.