Chapter 18

Frank liked Monaghan, and told him to report for work Monday morning. We took him out to eat at Garduño's, the one on Academy, and then took him back to his room. Cecelia had packed him some of her bread, and one of her pecan pies, and some preserves and vegetables she'd put up, and some of my extra clothes – not worn out stuff, just some shirts and a couple of pairs of jeans I didn't actually need and didn't wear much anymore – and gave them to him. She had to just about order him to take the stuff, and while I agreed with her I knew how he felt. Sometimes our American theory of rugged individualism prevents us from accepting what we need when someone gives it to us on a silver platter. In some ways the toughest obstacle to vibrant Christianity in the United States isn't the media's scorn or the attacks of atheists, but the notion that every man is his own king who need not bow down to, nor accept charity from, anyone. That attitude makes it tough to recognize Christ as Lord, and to allow God's people to act like God's people.

We spent the afternoon and evening in peaceful relaxation at home. Darlia colored in her room, and played with her dolls, and after a while went outside and ran her Tonka trucks over the grass. She likes the dolls and the trucks equally – and she's both feminine enough to be a young lady and chunky enough to maybe someday drive a dozer.

As darkness fell Cecelia and I put Darlia to bed, and then I sat on the sofa while Cecelia lay down with her feet in my lap. I absently rubbed her feet with one hand while I read Beat To Quarters. I was getting toward the end of the book, and – as usual – railing to myself against Barbara Wellesley's cavalier dismissal of Hornblower's marriage in her desire to get him into bed.

Cecelia's voice broke into my fictional world. "If you'll remove my socks, your hand can do my feet much better service."

I looked over at her face, and saw a gentle smile there – the one that I think is even more beautiful than the full-blown billion watt smile that she so frequently gives me. I noted the little lines around her eyes and the corners of her mouth that, because smiling caused them, stand out more clearly whenever she smiles. They're the only indication I can see on her that she's 41, and not 31, or even 21. I dogeared my book and slipped her socks off her feet, tossing 'em on the floor at the end of the sofa. "Is that better?" I asked, using both hands now.

Cecelia stretched like a cat, and if I hadn't known better I might have sworn I heard her purr. "That is divine, Darvin. You know precisely how to touch me in order to make me feel so good."

I felt a flush creeping up my face. "I don't know how you meant that, C, but it's got a couple of possible meanings."

"It does, doesn't it?" I glanced at her face, and saw a look of surprise. "I hadn't considered the other meaning, and didn't have it at all in mind – although, my husband, it is as literally true as the one I did intend."

"Sheesh, woman, are you trying to embarrass me?"

"Not at all, Darvin – though it is gratifying to know that you are capable of embarrassment when your wife, of all people, speaks to you of such things. You are, as the embarrassment betokens, a moral, upright, and pure-minded man. Whatever your past – and I know something of it – you are now as much a paragon of virtue as I have ever known."

Normally I'd make a smart remark in response to something like that, but not this time. "You really think I'm that good?" I shook my head. "I live in my head and my heart, C – I can't see that I'm even a fraction of that."

"Who taught me that the mark of a sinful man is a belief in his own goodness, and the mark of a good man is recognition of his sinfulness?"

Again I looked up from her feet to her face. And I held the look, noticing the brilliant shine of those black eyes. "Cecelia, you've got me there. I taught you that, and I believe it. And while the conclusion is inescapable, I'm not sure I like it."

"I would be concerned if you did immediately like it, Darvin. You're far more advanced in theology than I am; as much as you've taught me, and as much as I've learned through my own study, you've progressed further still in the years I've known you. But I am no ignoramus, and I am persuaded that if you were susceptible to flattery – or even sincere compliments – you would be in danger of a fall. I love your lack of pride – though speaking of it to you may swell your head intolerably – and do not desire its alteration." She'd smiled as she spoke of a swelling head, and I knew she wasn't being malicious.

I thought for a moment, my hands working steadily on her thin feet. As with her hands, the veins and tendons stood out clearly. Objectively they probably were not terribly attractive feet – all bone and sinew, narrow and knobby, with calluses from her habit of going barefoot outside in warm weather – but I couldn't think of any other feet in the world I cared to rub, and these I could rub all day and never tire of it. Finally I formulated my response, and gave it to her. "Lacking any intelligent thing to say to you, other than 'you're right' and 'thank you, ' I do acknowledge your rightness, and I do thank you."

"You are gracious, Darvin, but I am not sure you will ever be graceful. Your expressions sometimes have all the delicacy of a Cape buffalo in a rage."

I gave her left foot a tickle, and laughed at the quick jerk she gave. "Cape buffalo indeed. I'll have you know I'm not near that pretty."

"Of that, Darvin, I have no doubts whatsoever."

Very frequently I don't know how to keep up with Cecelia. Her mind is more agile than mine, and though I enjoy trying, I rarely can match her in a battle of wits. But sometimes I come up with just the right response. I lifted her foot – the one I'd tickled – and bent my head down, and kissed it.

"Darvin," she said, and her voice sounded choked. I looked up in surprise, and there were tears in her eyes, and one actually slipping down her cheek. "I am not worthy to have you kiss my feet, my darling."

"Nor am I worthy to kiss your feet, Cecelia. But my love for you makes me bold ... and as far as I'm concerned, there is no more worthy woman in the world than you."

She wiped at her eyes. I had, without realizing it, found a way directly to her heart. In all our years of marriage I'd never thought of kissing her feet, and now that I had, I realized just how special the gesture was to her. "Darvin ... my husband," she said, "we have never been very copious in our use of endearments. It's not that we don't love each other; we palpably do. It's just that, for whatever reason, we have never fallen into the habit. But though I may not say it frequently, you are mi paloma – my dove."

"I think maybe I know why you call me that – when usually men use that endearment of women. But if you'd explain..."

"Gladly. A dove is a symbol both of peace, and of the Holy Spirit. And you have brought me peace. The longer I know you, and love you, and live with you, the more I realize how cold and harsh I was – at least at times – when I was single. Perhaps it is not a deliberate influence on your part; perhaps you are not even aware of your influence upon me. But the influence is there, an influence for good in my heart and my life. You have, in bringing me peace, been my dove.

"And it is not, really, you who have done this. You are the instrument. You have yourself preached and taught on the fact the we are tools in the hand of God, and that whatever good we do is in reality His power working in and through us. I do not ascribe to you divine power; it is God in you, and not your own meritorious character or actions, who has been peace to me. And so, though you are not Him, you represent to me – you are the channel to me, in a very real sense – of the Holy Spirit. In you I see that divine dove descending from on high, and telling me that God loves me – me the arrogant, cold, unpretty, and unlovable creature who to this day possesses the ability to use her tongue as a weapon." She took a breath – a ragged one, for she was on emotional ground. "You are my dove for those reasons, Darvin, and in those senses."

I took my left hand from her feet, and slid it under her blouse, which was untucked now in the peace and privacy of our house, and rested my hand on her stomach. I felt the soft warm skin, and the ridges of the abdominal muscles, and the erratic movement of her diaphragm as she tried to control her breathing – which, I realized, was very nearly sobbing. "Cecelia, Cecelia, please, don't cry." I pressed gently on her stomach, and felt her subside. "I didn't mean to upset you."