Chapter 20

When I got home Cecelia was gone, no doubt on her school run. There are disadvantages to sending Darlia to school so far from home. If we'd decided to send her to APS she could have walked to school – the elementary school is on Pennsylvania and Indian School, and she could have walked there in minutes – though we'd have worried about her getting across Indian School. No doubt there's a crossing guard there, though in all the years I've lived in Hoffmantown I've not driven through that intersection when he's working. It's not that I've avoided it, it's just that the occasion has never arisen. There are a lot of things I might do, and have no objection to doing, but which I've never done simply because the occasion's never come up. And there are things which I'd not want to do, and so I'm glad those occasions have never arisen.

I'd eaten pretty well, so I didn't nose around looking for something to snack on. I stowed away the leftovers from my little pseudo-picnic, and grabbed a Coke, and went out on the patio to drink it. But that turned out not to be a great idea. During the summer the big old tree that shades the patio is a welcome thing, but with fall coming on and the day heading toward sundown, shade wasn't a good thing. I went back inside and settled down on the sofa, putting my boots up on the coffee table and grabbing my book. The Stolen Blue is one of the Claire Reynier mysteries, and while I'm not as fond of her as I am of Van Gieson's other character, Neil Hamel, she's fun enough and the books have Albuquerque as their setting, which pleases me.

Cecelia wasn't long getting home, since Darlia usually has some homework – not a lot, usually, since she's young yet – and on weekdays has to get to bed so she can get up for school the next day. Since I'd seen her last Cecelia had put on a white blouse with ruffles at the collar and down the front, and a cream-colored skirt with quetzals embroidered on it. That skirt was purely a labor of love – she'd made it, and done all the embroidery too, and it had taken forever. She knows that though I've never seen a live quetzal, I love the birds with their resplendent green and red plumage, and she knew I'd love the skirt – and she was right.

Cecelia claims that her clothes are her one indulgence, and she's right, but that's not the whole story. She's not the only one who loves her wardrobe. I don't care for anything fancy for myself, and in fact never felt comfortable in a suit even when I wore one to work every day. But I love seeing her in her clothes, which are endlessly inventive and invariably elegant ... except, that is, when she's working out, and one of these days if she wears a sweatshirt with embroidery on it the surprise won't be great, for she loves making clothes as much as she does wearing 'em.

Darlia came running over to the sofa and jumped up in my lap. I got a patented slobbery kiss, and watched her laugh at me while I wiped it off. When she's 29 she'll still be doing it, I expect. She had on a pair of jeans and a cotton shirt that Cecelia had made, with her name under the left pocket in midnight blue thread that stood out against the white of the cloth. Cecelia doesn't make as many clothes for Darlia, since the girl grows out of 'em so rapidly. Kids, they tell me, have a habit of doing that.

Cecelia bent down to give me a kiss, and rested her hand on my shoulder for a moment. "It's time to start your homework, honey," she said to Darlia, and went into the kitchen.

Darlia hopped down from my lap and picked up her backpack, and headed for her room. I dogeared the book and followed Cecelia into the kitchen. "What's for supper, C?"

"I've been contemplating that matter," she said. She leaned her back against the stainless steel of the refrigerator as she spoke, and crossed her arms. "I could eat beans, but to cook them properly requires a day, and it's too late to start them now. I had thought of biscuits and gravy, but now that the time has arrived I find that I'm not in that sort of mood. It occurs to me that we might cook a pizza."

"Now that would be cool." It would, too. Since our wedding day, when I'd moved in and we'd had pizza together for our first meal together as husband and wife, Cecelia's learned to make it. Usually she'll bake one or two right then, and freeze half a dozen others for later. I knew that we had pizzas in the freezer, and tried to remember what sort they were.

"We have one each pepperoni and cheese," Cecelia said, "and two 'Mexican' pizzas."

"I wish I knew how you read my mind, lady," I said. "I'd turn the technique on you."

"Then I shan't ever reveal the secret to you. It is a law of marriage that wives must be in control, which requires that they – and not their husbands – possess the ability to read minds."

I shook my head. "I guess you've got me trained pretty good, 'cause I ain't a-gonna fight with you about it."

"'Witch oo?' What language is that, Darvin? It certainly isn't English – at least, it's not any variety of English they teach in school."

"I may, however, go upside your head with one of them pizzas." I laughed. "If you don't know how I talk by now, Cecelia, you ain't ever gonna learn."

"What truly frightens me, Darvin, is that I do know how you talk – and I understand you perfectly." She shook her head, and her grin was dazzling. "Clearly I have descended from my previously learned heights into a morass somewhat resembling the Dead Marshes."

"'Cept they ain't gonna be no dead faces under the water while I'm around. And while I might conceivably pass for Gollum, you're much too beautiful to be either Frodo or Sam."

"What sort of pizza do you want?"

"Oh, you're quitting? You mean I win?"

"Darvin, I can always best you in a battle of wits. You are as intelligent as I am, but I possess the talent for slicing. However, in a battle of literary allusions, you will almost always prevail; I studied literature in college, but you are in some ways a walking university library. You possess neither scholarly knowledge nor a scholarly temperament, but your experimental knowledge of good writing is encyclopedic. Now – what kind of pizza do you prefer?"

I know enough to quit while I'm ahead, even though usually I find that I'm not ahead, but way behind. "I think I like pepperoni tonight."

"Very well. Will you please ask Darlia what she prefers?"

"Surely." And I headed down the hall to Darlia's room.

It turned out that Darlia wanted what we call Mexican pizza, with peppers and two or three kinds of cheese and pieces of tortilla chips on it. It's not, of course, any more Mexican than I am, but "pseudo-Hispanic pizza" just doesn't roll as tripplingly off the tongue.

Cecelia had been of my persuasion, so she baked up both the pepperoni and the cheese, which we shared, and one of the Mexican pizzas for Darlia. Darlia ate half her pizza, and Cecelia and I had each taken one piece from it after finishing our own, so the leftovers were scant – and I just might eat 'em later on, or in the morning.

For I was going out that night. After we cleared the plates away, I told Cecelia, "I gotta go review the troops tonight, C."

"I had wondered how long you would leave your people by themselves. It isn't like you to forsake people."

"Nor am I forsaking 'em – as you can see by watching the back of my front as I head out the door in a few."

She giggled. "The back of your front, as you call it, strikes me as the least intriguing part of you. I much prefer the front of your back. I do wish, though," she said, "that Darlia were older, for I would like to accompany you."

"You wanna go with? What for? You don't dig my work anymore than I dig sewing."

"Nor shall you 'dig' it – I won't let you within arm's reach of my needles and thread, lest you create a new Gordian knot. No, it's not that I desire to encroach on your work, but that I simply wish to be with you. And I confess that seeing Rudy would be nice."

"If he didn't love Sara, and you didn't love me, I might worry 'bout y'all two," I said with a smile. I looked at my watch. "But he's not on duty yet, though he will be soon. How 'bout I just tell 'im you said 'hey'?"

"If you tell him I said that, he'll know you're lying; I do not speak as casually as you do, and he knows it. Instead, why not tell him 'La Cecelia te echa de menos'? It is true, and much more in character."

"'Cecelia misses you' – that I can tell him."

"Then do so, my husband, and I shall miss you too, until you return. Meanwhile..." And she took my face in her hands and kissed me.