The Golden State

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.”

“Okay,” Alice says. “That’s probably wise.” I pick up Honey. “I have to change her diaper, I think,” I tell her. “Would you like to try the ice cream bar? I can bring you something.” “No thank you,” she says, and I think I might want something from the ice cream bar, but I remember I have the Diamond box at home still and this time I won’t throw myself down the stairs.