Chapter 22

We were both quiet for a while then, thinking our own thoughts, taking comfort from each other. Cecelia's arm under my hand was soft and hard both – the skin as soft as a baby's, but with hard muscle underneath, muscle that she's been building with 42 years of hard labor in the fields and hard work in the weight room. My index finger was tracing the vein that ran along her bicep when she spoke again.

"It's been 10 years now..."

"Ten years?"

"More than that, actually, but Darlia is 10 this year, and so that figure is in my mind. I remember a night when we lay in the bed of your truck, and looked up, and I concluded that if I had my husband and the stars I was content. I amend that conclusion in but one respect tonight – if I have my husband, my daughter, and the stars, I am a happy woman. I am rich, Darvin, rich beyond my wildest childhood imaginings, richer than I would have ever believed did I not see the figures regularly with my own eyes. But I would with good cheer abandon every penny of my money, and see my tangible possessions go into the hands of despoilers, if that were the price of keeping my family with me and in good health. You and Darlia are my true wealth."

I remembered that night too. We'd been married just over a year then, and were still learning each other – our habits, our idiosyncrasies, our tempers and likes and dislikes. It had been a giddy time, when every day was brighter because I woke up beside Cecelia. Come to think of it, that fact still made life better. "You know, C," I told her, "that was a special night. Shoot, that whole month was special, that whole year was special. I can't hardly think of any time during our marriage that hasn't been special."

"I can recall a time that was more in the nature of horrendous. But I know what you mean, and I concur. Still, I cherish a conceit regarding that night – I cannot prove it, and even if I could I would not, for it isn't truly important, but I like to think that was the night we conceived Darlia."

"Could be," I said. "But that's not a question I've ever thought on."

"Nor would it be; when you say you are less introspective than I, you utter the simple truth. Your mind is a fine one – I have never had occasion to regret our marriage on the ground of your mental capacity – but it does not work as mine does. I look within myself, and catalog what I find, and analyze it, and reach conclusions regarding myself. You simply are, and are content to be, and to be as you are. Neither sort of mind is inferior, and neither is superior – but they do sometimes lead us into different resting places."

"Yeah – I'm just glad I got you and 'Lia, and you're here thinking on which night it was." I chuckled, and rubbed my fingers over her smooth cheek, which felt – just as it looks – as though it were carved out of some chocolate colored wood, smooth and silky. "You know, C, you never will lose the ability to surprise me. Not only had I never thought on that question, it equally hadn't occurred to me that you would."

Her hand reached down and squeezed mine, while the arm around me tightened for a moment. "I wish never to become predictable to you, for predictability is tedium, or at least can lead thereto. And besides, if I ever become predictable, it will be much harder to criticize you for not knowing what I want when I haven't told you."

"And that," I said with a smile, "would ruin your reputation among women. A woman whose husband can read her mind! Forsooth and alack and all that jazz!"

"Callate, esposo. En boca cerrada no entran moscas."

I laughed at the Spanish admonition. "Indeed, they ain't no flies goin' into no shut mouths. So what say you follow your own advice, hm?"

"Nay, Darvin, I cannot – I am the wife, and therefore must dominate you. You are to bow to me, not the other way round."

I gently rubbed my knuckles on her arm. "You ain't careful, I'm gonna give you an Indian burn."

She stretched out her arm, its thin darkness visible against the lighter soil, even in the night. "If you think you can survive the attempt, feel free. But be aware, Darvin, that better men than you have tried to intimidate me, and they now wish they had never heard of me."

I giggled. "You know, C, you said it as a joke, but it's the truth too – especially the part about 'em being better men. They ain't a whole lot special about me, which makes me appreciate so much the fact that you love me." And I turned her face up and kissed her, long and slow and careful.

When we finally separated, she put her hand behind my head and kept me near, so near I could faintly feel her lips moving as she spoke. "I love you, my husband, because you are not unworthy of respect; you are very special. I do not know where I could have found a man who cared more for justice, who loved God more, who was so willing to surrender himself entirely into the hands of the woman he loved. It is because you are such a special man that I have submitted myself to you as your wife; did you not love me with such a great and marvelous love, you would find me intractable not merely in jest, but in reality; I would never have consented to marry you. I know you speak out of your honest appraisal of yourself, but I say this to you: You are a far better man than you believe, a far better man than any I have ever known. And I will love you forever because of who and what you are."

With the tracking over, vacation got back into its usual pattern – which was no pattern at all, really. We woke up when we wished, we walked when and where we wished, we went to bed when we were tired. We didn't eat elegantly, nothing like what Cecelia cooks in Albuquerque, but we ate plenty. And we grew more tan under the desert sun, we found all over again that it's impossible to count the stars that glitter in the desert sky, we renewed our acquaintance with the tortoises and rattlers and scorpions and tarantulas of the desert. We all got stuck with cholla balls no matter how carefully we watched where we put our feet. We all made do with sponge baths. We all used the outhouse when we were home, and a hole in a gully when we were out.

The one the desert affects least, I think, is Cecelia. She's loved it since our first trip, with a quiet steady love that, if it's not as passionate as mine, will never fail. And her skin, though it does grow darker from the sun, is so dark already that only those who know what to look for ever spot the increased melanin.

But I grow noticeably darker, even my permanent tan taking new life from days on end under the burning sun. Darlia too tans well, though instead of getting browner and browner, she increases her golden glow, her skin going from aged ivory to a color that makes me think of Doc Savage. The sun bleaches her hair until the dark blonde turns light, and the lighter streaks began to blend in.