Chapter 19

After the weekend in Oklahoma City, going back to work felt like it really was back to the salt mines. Not only had I given Cecelia and Darlia a taste of the vacation we'd lost, I'd gotten a taste of it too, and regretted having to leave it behind. And in fact I was in a sense losing more than they were; they could go where they wanted and when, but I had to stick with the investigation – unless I wanted to quit it altogether, and like Cecelia had said, it was personal now.

So I went back. I was beginning to get near the end of the personnel records, and so far only Stryker's file had interested me – and then only because of his actions. It looked like this was another of those necessary dead ends. You have to check out everything, lest you miss something, but most of the everything proves to be useless.

It was getting near lunch time when my cell phone went off. I looked, and it was Cecelia, so I answered it. "Yeah?"

"I propose, Darvin, that we meet in the park for lunch. I believe you will enjoy what I'm preparing."

"If you're doing the fixing, they ain't no believe about it." I smiled, though of course she couldn't see me.

"If I were doing the judging of your English, there would be no mangling about it." I could tell from her voice that she was smiling too. "You may join us whenever you're ready, Darvin." And she hung up. It would have seemed abrupt to anyone else, but we both get off the phone as quick as we can.

I put everything back in the box, noting that I only had half a dozen files left to check, and carried the box back to Harry's office. I was wearing a trail in the floor with that box. I told him that I didn't have time to talk because Cecelia was making lunch for me, and then I went.

In the park she'd snagged the same table we'd eaten breakfast at a couple of weeks before. On the table were plastic plates of sliced tomatoes and onions, and lettuce leaves, and fried bacon, and pieces of avocado. I knew what lunch was – a variation of BLTs, though Cecelia hadn't fried the bread in the bacon grease as she normally does.

I sat down beside Darlia and began putting my sandwich together. It was more of the sourdough from the store, which was good. Cecelia put the last few pieces of bacon on that plate while I was piling things on bread, and commenced to make her own sandwich. Darlia was already eating, munching steadily through a sandwich Dagwood might have envied.

Sometimes we talk – endlessly. And sometimes we say nothing at all for long stretches. We have no trouble with discussions, but silence doesn't bother us either. It's not just that we're country people, though we are, but that we're comfortable with quiet. Just because Cecelia's not saying anything doesn't mean she's mad, or ignoring me, or on the verge of abandoning me ... not that she ever will leave me; I know that as surely as I know my name. It's simply that she has no need to babble in order to love me – and I likewise love her even when I'm not making speeches.

Just now we didn't say much because we were busy eating. Everyone at some point talks with his mouth full – at least I've never met anyone who didn't – but there are times when you're so busy chewing that even asking someone to pass the bacon is an irritating interruption. We were in that condition now; we all were hungry, and the best way to fix that is to pig out.

But eventually we'd made sufficient pigs of ourselves, and began to slow down. I looked around and noticed that it was a warm early summer day, with the young leaves on the trees moving gently in the slight breeze and casting a wavering light on the table. I like parks, and am glad that Cecelia bought a house across the street from one, for it's that house that I moved into when we got married, but there's nothing like the city park in a small town. I don't know what it is – Cecelia could probably figure it out, but I'm not good at analyzing things like that and don't really care to be – but I swear you could blindfold me, take me across the country, and drop me in a park, and I could tell you just from the park whether it was in a city or a small town. Maybe it's the fact that when there's just one park in town it has to be everything, maybe it's the fact that small town parks tend to be a lot bigger than city parks, maybe it's the difference in the sound that comes into the park from the surrounding area, I don't know. But something's different.

Finally I swallowed the last bite and pushed my plate away. "Cecelia," I said, "that was highly excellent."

I saw Cecelia's eyes crinkle with her smile. "Art thou being redundant, my husband?"

"Perhaps a tad bit – and that thou wottest." I had no idea where Cecelia's old fashioned English kick had come from, but that's one thing where I can match her all day long. Most people can't speak King James English, and make a horrible hash of it when they try – as I know from years of listening to people pray in church meetings – but Cecelia and I can do it, if not fluently, then pretty well.

"I wot that thou hast a smart mouth," she said, and now her smile crinkled not merely the corners of her eyes, but the corners of her mouth as well. Her whole face lit up, and if there had been any ships in the area they'd have launched immediately.

"Well, I doubt that you want me to have a dumb mouth," I replied, dropping the King James act; it didn't fit what I was saying. I nudged Darlia with my elbow, and she grinned up at me. She knows I mostly lose when I get in a battle of wits with Cecelia, but she enjoys it anyway ... perhaps she enjoys it because Cecelia wins.

"The mouth you have, Darvin, is the one I live with. Unfortunately, it isn't the most intelligent mouth I've ever encountered, so perhaps you should have a dumb mouth."

"She got you there, Daddy," said Darlia.

"Child, when I want your opinion, I'll give it to you."

"Only if Mommy tells you what it is first."

I can't win a battle of wits with my daughter either. "Okay, you two – I surrender. I'm quitting before I get any further behind." I took a swig of my Coke – Cecelia had gotten Cokes for all of us – and changed the subject. "Darlia, if Mommy doesn't mind, would you like to patrol with me this afternoon?"

"Would you mind, Mommy?" Her voice was eager, and she bounced up and down on the bench in her excitement.

"Not at all, honey. It might be educational."

"Oh, cool! Daddy, we're gonna be polices!"

Cecelia leaned across the table and tapped Darlia on the shoulder. "I know that you love your father, and are like him; that you emulate his speech patterns on occasion, and fall into them naturally. But you really must, honey, remember that they're 'police officers, ' okay?"

"Yes, Mommy."

I didn't say anything. The fact is that I probably am a bad example to Darlia when it comes to speaking English; I am naturally informal, and my English consequently is frequently ungrammatical. And this was one point where I agreed completely with my wife; Darlia did need to get it into her mind that cops are not "polices."

Darlia took the next step. She turned to me and asked, "If ... people who are police ... are 'police officers, ' how do I use 'police'?"

"Well, 'Lia, it's like this. 'Police' is a collective noun – at least that's what I call it. You remember what a noun is, right?"

"Yeah."

"Good – 'cause sometimes I forget." She smiled at that small joke, though in truth my grasp of the parts of speech is pretty fragmentary; I speak like I walk, instinctively, without much knowledge of the mechanics of it. "A collective noun – and again, that's what I call 'em; what the correct term is I don't know – is a noun that includes a lot of things or people. 'The police' sounds like one thing, but it's actually a whole lot of people, like 'the church'."

"I know that the church is a lot of people, Daddy – it's all of God's people."

"Exactly. And 'the police' is all police officers – though usually when someone says it he has in mind the local department – in this town, the Red Hawk PD. So, if you want to talk about individual cops, you say 'police officer' or 'police officers, ' and if you want to talk about them as a group, you say 'police'."

"I think I get it now." She turned to Cecelia. "I know, Mommy, that I used it wrong, but I was kind of confused."

"That's okay, Darlia. But if you're confused about a word, please ask me or your father. I know you're smart, but you're still just nine; it's all right if you can't figure everything out for yourself."

"Okay, Mommy."

After Cecelia had driven away with the picnic materials, or what remained of them, Darlia and I walked over to my official car. I squatted down by her as she belted herself into the passenger seat; I'd unplugged the CD player and put it on the floor in back. "Darlia," I said, pointing, "do you know what that is?"

"It's a shotgun." And it was, locked in its clamp against the dash. They'd foisted it off on me anyway, issuing it after I'd had the car for a couple of days. I could have stashed it in the trunk, but if I had to have the thing I wanted it where I could get at it.

"And you won't touch it, will you?"

"Daddy, you know I know about guns."

"That's true, Weightlifter, but that's not just a gun – it's a police department gun. It's not mine. So you want to be extra careful with it, okay?"

"Okay, Daddy."

I got erect and shut the door, and went around the hood to my side of the car. I started the engine and turned on the police radio; if I was going to show my daughter police work, I might as well do it right. I called the dispatcher and informed him that I'd be on patrol with a citizen ride-along.

"What does '10-4' mean, Daddy?" Darlia asked.

"It's cop language for 'okay, ' or 'I understand'."

"Oh... 10-4, Daddy." And she grinned at me as I put the car in gear and pulled away.

We drove around for awhile, me looking at everything and Darlia alternately looking out the window and at me. "Daddy," she asked, "are you looking for something?"