Chapter 15

Some who aren't Christians can see only the differences between churches. And there are differences, just as there are differences between any two groups of human beings. Some of those differences are fundamental, but most, Cecelia and I have found, aren't. The church we go to in Needles has some differences from our church in Albuquerque, MJT Christian Fellowship. But they're not such differences as would drive us away, and what we agree on is greater than where we disagree.

For me "church clothes" means a fancier shirt than I usually wear, and my nice hat, and my church boots. But when we're in the desert I don't bring church clothes, since we only get into Needles once or twice in the month, and what we bring for camping needs to be suitable for dirt and wear. So when I got up I put on a clean shirt and my jeans, and pulled on my scuffed and dusty brown boots, and hung my sweat-stained old brown bullrider on a chair by the door.

For Cecelia elegance is a way of life. She looks like an aristocrat even in her torn and stained sweats, and for her to go to church without dressing up is unthinkable. She always finds a place to pack one church outfit, even if she only wears it once during the whole trip. This year she'd brought a white dress that reached to her ankles, the skirt of which flared very little from her hips, and the top of which – the bodice, perhaps is the word – expanded around her in the billowy fashion she loves. The sleeves were just slightly puffed along her upper arms, and the cuffs came to midway down her forearms, leaving visible muscle and sinew and the veins that her hard work and hard workouts have given her. She tied her hair back with a bit of white ribbon, and on her feet she put a pair of white flats. When she appeared before me ready for church, I felt that clench in my gut that she so often gives me, and just stared for a moment. It seems like that happens every Sunday.

When we went next door to collect Darlia I didn't know what to expect. She can dress up as beautifully as Cecelia, or look as much like a cowboy as I do, and I never know what she's going to do, especially when we're in Needles. This time she had on a pair of jeans, with a frilly pink top that was vaguely western. She'd put her hair into two braids that hung nearly to her waist, and I could see, in that first moment, how she would look in her 20s and 30s – like a Norse Valkyrie, tall and strong and imposing and utterly beautiful.

We each had a Bible, and we each had a room key, so we piled into the Blazer and headed for church. It was a short trip, for Needles has never been a very big city. It's been a river crossing for its entire existence, and if it weren't for people passing through there would be little reason for anyone to live there. But with first US 66, and now I-40, passing through town, there's always a place for gas stations and restaurants, and hotels and motels, and all the other businesses that make a living from travelers.

The pastor at the church knew us, and welcomed us, though he only sees us in August. The ushers were kind, and guided us to a seat where we prefer to sit, in front and either in the center row if there are two aisles, or in the left section if there's just a center aisle. This church just had the center aisle, so we sat third row, left side, on the aisle. We sang, and we prayed, and we followed along in our Bibles during the sermon, and since – as it turned out – they were having a church dinner that day we tramped with the crowd into the fellowship hall and ate. I remembered church dinners in Texas and Oklahoma, where there was always fried chicken, and where there were two pitchers of tea – sweet and unsweet. Here in the southwest things were a bit different, more like New Mexico, with Mexican food and no division of the tea. But I enjoyed it, and so did my family, and we left having proven again that we all know how to eat.

The question then was whether to stay in Needles another night, or go back home. It really wasn't much of a decision, really. Darlia and Cecelia changed out of their church outfits, we threw the clean laundry – we'd done it the evening before – into the back of the Blazer, and headed west. And as we climbed up out of the Colorado River valley, we turned off the air conditioner and let the dry air flow in, and enjoyed being back in real desert again.

While I was driving up the slope to South Pass my phone went off. There weren't that many people who would call us while we were on vacation, and any of them we'd want to talk to, so I pulled the phone out of my pocket – not an easy task with the seat belt on, and while concentrating on driving – and handed it to Cecelia. She checked the caller ID, and told me it was the San Bernardino County Sheriff's Department.

"Call 'em back," I said, for the phone had by then quit ringing – I couldn't hear it for I keep it on vibrate, but I know how many rings it takes before it goes to voice mail. "It's probably about the DB."

She hit the redial button – at least, she only pushed one button and then put the phone to her ear – and waited. "Hello? ... Yes, this is Cecelia Carpenter. Someone at this number called my husband, but he's driving right now ... Yes, he thought it might be ... We've been in Needles for the weekend, but we're on our way back to camp right now ... Very well, I'll pass that on to him." And she closed the phone and set it in the depression in the center console. "That was Sergeant Castro. He said they're done with the scene, have reason to believe it's a crime scene, and would like you to do some tracking for them – forthwith, was his word."