Chapter 27

As dusk fell that night I supervised Darlia while she squirted lighter fluid over the pile of cholla wood. I'd dug a pit for it earlier – not deep, but deep enough that once it was coals they'd not go rolling across the country – and since we didn't need a bonfire, just something to give us coals, it wasn't a big pile. Darlia's face was concentrated as she made sure not to get any of the lighter fluid on herself or on the ground outside of the fire pit. When she figured she was done she looked up at me, and I nodded, so she folded the spout down and handed the can to Cecelia, who was standing there with us.

None of us smoke, and the only time we light things is when we're making a fire, so I don't carry a lighter with me. Cecelia took a box of kitchen matches out of her pocket, and I took a piece of paper out of my pocket. I'd torn it earlier out of the cheap Wal-Mart composition book we carry in the Blazer just for this purpose, and now I rolled it into a spill, which Cecelia lit with her match. Kneeling away from the wood, with the breeze at my back, and leaning in with the spill in my outstretched arm, I thrust it among the pieces of wood. We've taught Darlia not to soak the wood, just wet it down a bit, so it took a moment, but then it caught, and the fire began to take hold. I got up, and saw that Darlia had, on her own, picked up the entrenching tool we'd use to bury the fire if it got out of hand, and most definitely when we were done with it. You don't get big fires in the desert the way you do in wetter areas with lots of vegetation, but we had no desire to burn anything other than these few pieces of wood ... and maybe a marshmallow or two.

While Cecelia watched Darlia and Darlia watched the fire, I went into the shed and found our marshmallows and "roastin' irons," as I'd whimsically named them a few years back. The irons were just metal coat hangers, straightened out and by now well-used. Somewhere along the line, I couldn't remember just where now, I'd wrapped duct tape around one end of each of the irons, to provide a better grip and prevent a case of hot hand, though in fact you don't hold a coat hanger in the fire long enough when roasting a marshmallow to really heat it that much. We could tell which one was Darlia's, for I'd give her a longer grip, so that she could use two hands. She still did, or she had last year anyway, even though she was now a few years older than she'd been the first time we'd trusted her to roast her own marshmallow.

And at that we'd been watching her very carefully, and would still keep an eye on her. There's a line between micromanagement and proper supervision, and we try to stay on the right side of it. The problem is that the line keeps moving as Darlia grows. And of course Darlia herself has notions of where the line is, and though she's never yet been rebellious she equally isn't shy about letting us know when she thinks we're hovering too much. I suppose all parents go through the same thing, at least parents who truly love their kids. And I suppose all kids survive it, at least those who have decent parents, for every adult was a kid once – though some of 'em seem to have forgotten that fact. Me, I figure that growing up isn't all that some people crack it up to be. When I was a kid I just had fun, and I try to still have fun, even though I've got things to do that aren't so enjoyable, like paying taxes and washing dishes and getting up on the roof to fix leaks.

Although I'd washed dishes as a kid too. That's actually why I do it for Cecelia sometimes – to me it's an onerous task, and therefore, though I don't brag of it to my wife, doing the dishes for her is something that makes me feel like I'm being truly helpful. And it's true that she appreciates it, though she's a housewife by free choice and doesn't mind doing the dishes herself.

But when the fire's burning and the marshmallows are waiting, such thoughts aren't really the kind you want running through your head. And I'd burn out my brain if I kept it up anyway. I'm about as profound as cotton candy, though not nearly as sweet. My notions of deep thinking are along the lines of 2+2=5, and Cecelia tells me that's not the right answer to the equation anyway. I'll take her word for it. Words I can work with, and guns, and pimps and hookers and drug addicts and pushers and such, but when it comes to math I make a very good ignoramus.

I took the entrenching tool from Darlia, now that the fire was beginning to reduce the wood to coals, and she went and got the lawn chairs. At 10 she's certainly strong enough to lift them, but they're awkward jobs and she decided to content herself with dragging 'em. She'd gone about five feet with the first one when I hollered, "Fold it up, 'Lia!"

The fire created enough light so that I could see her shoot me a look. I could guess what she was thinking: I would have thought of that eventually, Daddy, but I'm never going to admit that I didn't think of it till you said it. I've had the same kinds of thoughts myself at various times. She folded the chair up, and then lifted it onto her head, and balancing it there, brought it easily over to the fire. She brought it down, unfolded it, and very pointedly gave it to Cecelia, who grinned at me as she sat down.

"Gotta make sure the weaker vessel gets a seat first, lest she collapse," I said to the fire or perhaps to the night in general.

"I will collapse, Darvin, at approximately the same time you put on a tuxedo."

"In that case, I must be getting ready to put one on now – though I can't feature why I'd ever want to wear a monkey suit."

"Perhaps for your daughter's wedding?"

I produced an exaggerated shudder. "Comes the time, for Darlia I'll actually wear a suit and tie if she wants it. But I won't never wear no tux, an' if they try to bury me in one, I'll rise up and haunt 'em."

"I know that you're somewhat in jest," Cecelia said, "for while I have no doubt that if Darlia wishes it you will wear a suit at her wedding, I equally do not doubt that your belief in spooks is something less than sincere."

"Are you sayin' that I don't believe in spooks?"

I could see her teeth gleaming in the firelight. "You don't believe in spooks, you don't believe in spooks, you don't you don't you don't believe in spooks."

"Well, at least I ain't the cowardly lion."

"No, my husband, you are more like an inarticulate mouse."

"Mouse, my left foot. I'm at least a tarantula."

Now she was giggling. "But I am a tarantula hawk, and my children are very hungry."

I changed the subject, rather than go down to defeat in a battle of wits. "I ain't seen a tarantula hawk this trip."

"They are around, of course, but I've not spied one either."

"Maybe tomorrow." I would have said more, but Darlia was sitting down in the second lawn chair she'd brought over. "Hey, Weightlifter, where's mine?"

"Oh, did you want to sit down, Daddy?"

I dropped the entrenching tool and grabbed my daughter out of the chair, swinging her around away from the sinking flames. "I just may sit down on your lap, you pest."

"I love you too, Daddy," she said, and grabbed me around the neck and gave me a slobbery kiss. When I put her down to wipe my mouth, she scrambled back into the chair. "Yours is over by the table," she said.