“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.”
“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.
I sling Honey over my hip and we walk across the room waving at the van Voorheeses and to Kimmy, who points me to the bathroom. “We’ll catch up,” she says, and I say “Absolutely” and rush Honey to the bathroom because she is starting to cry and squirm and the smell says to me that the diaper has been breached. I feel calm and capable and as we open the door to go into the bathroom I say “We are going to have you fixed up in a jiffy,” and then with the mother machine brain I run a quick diagnostic of the situation and recall that I have already put her spare pants on her but then remember that the other pants are just wet with water and so they will work as a switch if the worst has happened. There is a changing table in the handicapped stall and I set Honey down and she cries and squirms and I babble at her “You’re fine you’re fine you’re fine” and think about what we’ll need to get done before we take Alice to her last stop. We’ll need to clean up the house. We’ll need to call Engin send several e-mails to the Institute do laundry and pack everything up. Sure enough there is a smear of poop that reaches up to Honey’s back, peeking out of the diaper onto the inside band of her pants but mercifully not her shirt. I regret that poop is getting on the changing pad I’ve spread over the fold-out changing table but remember also that I have hand sanitizer because I am organized and ready for anything. I wipe Honey’s bottom put on cream put on the new diaper put on the damp previous pants and pack everything up and set her down on her feet and glance at my phone which tells me it is nearing bedtime. She grabs my leg and says “Mee-ow mee-ow mee-eow” which I realize with sudden clarity is “Pick me up!” and I say “Ah, yes! Yes I will pick you up! Listen to all this talking you’re doing” and I pick her up and kiss her a big dramatic kiss that makes her giggle and I think I don’t make her laugh enough and I do it again and again until she’s laughing so hard her hiccupy baby laugh it’s hard for her to catch her breath. I don’t do anything for her enough, I think, not enough talking singing playing teaching.