Why they call it the heartland

JUST MY LUCK THAT my soul mate in life turns out to be a 2-year-old with limited vocabulary and a preference for grape juice through a straw, which he allows to ferment on his little lips until it becomes wine. That’s just my theory. But how else do you explain his Bacchus-like behavior. The way he throws his French fries.

“You want something to eat?” I ask him.

“No, please,” the toddler says.

This is his latest response -- “No, please” -- a negative/affirmative to which I don’t know how to respond. Does he not want something so bad that he adds the word “please”? Or does he simply have “yes” and “no” confused, like the women I used to date?

I look into his handsome face for a sign that might help me decipher this puzzle, the way a courtesan would look into the face of an aging and daft monarch -- respectful, sure, but unclear on how to help.

“How about some juice?” I say.

“No, please,” says the toddler.

We are back in the heartland to visit the toddler’s grandmother, just him and me, a dynamic duo, a regular pair of power travelers. We arrived on the red-eye, stumbling off the plane as if we’d been at sea three months. By the time we’d gotten our luggage and a cab, there were four puffy guys in TSA windbreakers keeping a very close watch.

“You’re the last guy I want to go to jail with,” I tell him.

“We’re going to jail?” he asks excitedly.

“Cracker?” I ask, offering him a Saltine.

“No, please,” he says.

And off to grandmother’s house we go, over the river and through the woods, 35 bucks door to door. In minutes, we’re in the tightly tended northern suburbs, where they keep horses for pets and everyone seems birthed of the same two parents. The only real diversity is a bad dye job. Basically, I can hardly tell any two people apart.

“They should all wear jerseys,” I say.

“Who?”

“We’re here,” I say as we pull into the driveway.

We’re checking in on grandma to make sure she isn’t partying too hard or neglecting her grandmotherly duties. You know how grandmothers are today.

“You look good,” I tell her.

“Come see grandma,” she tells the toddler, then smears 2 ounces of her lipstick on his left cheek. I think, for a brief moment, he’s been stabbed.

At lunch the day he arrived, the toddler held a burp for 10 full seconds, a feat I compare to Beamon’s world record long jump or DiMaggio’s 56-game hitting streak. It may never be broken. Even his grandmother, who has been around burps her entire life, is impressed.

“That was a good one,” she says when the burrrrrrrrrrp finally subsides.

“Better out than in,” I say, quoting Shrek.

“Is he always so gassy?” his grandma asks.

There is much to relish here in the heartland. It is prosperous, even by California standards. The people in the northern suburbs are a finely scrubbed bunch, quick at stoplights, chatty in the grocery store.

The toddler loves them all. He waves to plumbing trucks and policemen. Winks at women in sweaters and high-fives the yard man. He loves his six young cousins, who fold around him when he arrives like the petals of a flower.

At night, without a crib, the toddler and I share a bed. A pillow. The same night air. When he exhales, I take in his carbon dioxide and convert it into oxygen. It is just one of many ways that dads are like trees.

“I like you,” he says, patting me on the shoulder.

“I like you too,” I say.

Lying in bed, we listen to a north wind blow through the trees, and maple limbs beating the eaves of the house I grew up in. The furnace kicks on. The radiator clicks. Raindrops tap the window like a fingernail. Who says you can’t go home?

“It’s nice here,” I tell him.

“It is?” he says.

“In three weeks, it’ll be snowing,” I explain.

But for now, it is fall -- the sweetest season in our ripest month. Pumpkin patches, taffy apples, homecoming parades, lawns smooth as sweaters.

In the north breeze, a hint of tomorrow’s frost. In the west, a sunset made with grenadine.

A train whistle blows. The local team wins. A cheerleader hugs/mugs her boyfriend.

You can’t go home? Of course you can.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.