Chapter 14

Thursday and the days following were fairly normal, though we didn't go west when we walked. Not only were they dealing with the crime scene over that way, but none of us really wanted to run across the site where the body had been. It's one thing, I found, to walk through a cemetery, as I like to do on occasion, and another thing to stumble across a body in a place that's been fun and free of stress. Next year we probably wouldn't mind a bit, but for now we avoided that part of the world.

Saturday morning I woke up and sat up, and realized that Cecelia was already awake, her head propped on her hand and her arm propped on the elbow, watching me. I looked into those "cat eyes," as I call them – eyes with tilted sockets, eyes that are as black as space and as bright as light itself. "Can I do something for you, Cecelia?"

"I wouldn't say that it's doing anything for me, Darvin, but I would like to go to church tomorrow."

I didn't mention that usually we didn't to into Needles so early in the vacation, for she knew that – and I knew, as soon as I heard the request, that I agreed. "Sure, C. What time you wanna go?"

"I thought we could leave as soon as you and Darlia are ready. I'm in the mood for a long hot soak in the tub, and something in the way of a burrito."

I grinned, for I knew where she might want to get a burrito – or something in the way of one. I'd introduced her to the place, having grown up with it. "I think that just might work. Do you know if Darlia's up?"

"Not yet." Normally our daughter is a morning person, but in the desert we keep no schedule, and she tires herself out enough that she becomes an early to bed and rather later to rise girl. "I could wake her, but I see no need of it."

"Not me neither," I said. I looked at my wife for a moment, at the lean length of her under the sleeping bag, at the bare skin and defined muscle of her right arm lying along her side with her hand on her hip, at the hard flexed lump of bicep in her left arm. "To forestall a question, I do like what I see."

"And you accuse me of being a mind reader," she said with a smile. "I was on the cusp of making that precise inquiry."

"It's taken me 12 years, C, but I'm learning to know something of how you think."

"Then I shall forthwith alter my mode of thought, for the last thing a wife can tolerate is a husband who understands her. It is my prerogative as a wife to be impenetrable, and your duty to know what I want even when I do not utter an audible wish, and my mind is incomprehensible to you."

"Yeah, you're a wife all right – no other creature in all the universe is so irrationally demanding."

I thought she might poke me with her finger, and watched her hand and prepared to defend myself, but my mind reading abilities weren't up to snuff after all, for her hand didn't move a bit. Instead she smiled lazily and said, "That, Darvin, is perhaps the nicest compliment you have ever paid me – for you have called me a consummate and perfect woman. Perhaps the Lord's return ought to happen now, before you do or say something to ruin the effect."

"Oh, go soak your head," I said politely, and slipped my legs out of the sleeping bag. "I'm gonna get dressed and go look at some cholla or something. At least I can understand that stuff."

"By all means, my husband, examine a cactus. You will find it less prickly than I am." And she reached over with that right hand, not to poke my ribs, but to grasp my hand in hers and bring it to her mouth. She kissed my fingers gently, making it clear by her actions that whatever sharp edges our by-play might have had, she was by no means intent on doing damage. I leaned over and kissed her forehead, and slipped out of the Blazer. And as I pulled on my jeans and shirt and socks and boots, and set my hat on my head, I knew that whatever else happened to me in the future, being with Cecelia for the years we've had was my greatest earthly blessing.

When Darlia woke up she wanted breakfast, and so did Cecelia – the evil people that they are. I settled for some water and a chunk of French bread, which I ate while sitting on the hood of the Blazer watching the desert. There are people who say they love New York City – usually they mean Manhattan, rather than any of the other boroughs – because there's always something happening. I love the desert even when there's nothing going on, just because it's the desert. Cecelia's said, half jokingly, that the desert is my first love, her only rival for my affections, and in a sense it's true. I love Cecelia even when she's snoring and drooling on her pillow, doing nothing exciting, and I love the desert even when the air is still and nothing's stirring and all I can see is the still forms of the Joshua trees and cholla and greasewood.

When my family finished eating they washed dishes, and Cecelia went into the shed to check on our water supply. We'd filled bottles at different cattle tanks and springs as we'd moved around, and when she came out she gave me an OK sign, so I knew we wouldn't have to pack for hauling water. That made things simpler. Stuff that we wouldn't need in town, and that we didn't want weather and animals – and perhaps a stray human – to get at, we moved into the shed, which I padlocked. What we did need in town we put into the Blazer. When we were done, I got in and drove.