Chapter 11

Here in New Mexico you don't hardly have to say "chicken enchiladas" – if you've got enchiladas, they're chicken. The only question is "red or green," which I believe is actually the official state question. Do you want red chili on your whatever, or green chili? I don't want either, usually, not having a cast iron mouth; La Victoria green taco sauce is about as hot as I can take it without feeling genuine pain.

As for the enchiladas, at our house they're beef. Cecelia knows I don't much care for chicken, so she buys beef and shreds it herself, and makes the enchiladas using her own recipe. Being from southern Alabama she didn't grow up with Hispanic cooking, but she's lived in Albuquerque since 1989 and has adapted any number of New Mexican recipes to suit her.

We sat down in our places – Darlia setting her books on the coffee table in the living room and moving across the table so that I could have my seat – and dug in. Between the enchiladas, and the fruit salad, and Cecelia's homemade tortillas, and plenty of iced tea, we packed ourselves full. But we did have room for desert – Cecelia dished out mint chocolate chip ice cream for us, the only thing in the meal she hadn't made from the scratch. As we were eating the ice cream she looked at me and said, "Are you planning anything for tomorrow evening?"

"Nothing that can't wait," I said. "What gives?"

"There's going to be a poetry reading at Dr. Sanders' house, and though I hadn't planned to attend I thought you could use the diversion."

"You not go to a poetry reading? You gettin' like me all of a sudden?" I grinned at her, for we both know that she's as literary as I'm not. I might be the poet in the family, but she's the one who reads literary journals and even occasionally writes articles for one or another of 'em. I've got a copy of a college literary journal in my study, her college, which contains a review she wrote of a poem I'd published years ago. It wasn't that great a poem, and she tore it apart. She didn't know me then, but she sure knew the holes in that poem. Independently I'd seen the holes too, and have since rewritten it – but she wrote the review, one that a literary journal published. I can still remember the day, when we'd been married a couple of years, when she realized that the poet she'd demolished was now her husband.

Cecelia smiled at me, and I could hear ships launching all across New Mexico – and we don't have any oceans either. "I am like you in some ways, and unlike in others. But in our love for poetry we are certainly matched, though I couldn't write a good poem if my life required it. I had thought not to attend simply because I desired to remain at home – I have been to three similar functions this month already." It was true – she'd been atypically busy with parties and such, though she's always been more involved in that than I have.

"Well, I think I'll go, provided we can find someone to watch Darlia." I grinned at our daughter. "You know that monster – she needs someone like Godzilla or King Kong to take care of her or she'll tear down the city."

Darlia lifted a spoon of ice cream, but before putting in her mouth she said, "Mommy, you need to quit inviting strange men to eat with us. This one said I'm a monster."

Cecelia burst out laughing. I watched her gleefully – she smiles a great deal, grins often, and chuckles occasionally, but her full-blown laughter is a rare thing. She is one of those people who don't laugh easily, but laugh with everything they have. One of the things I've made it a point to do from time to time is provoke her into a full bore fit of laughter at moments she considers inappropriate. This time, though, Darlia had set it off, and I grinned at her. "You got her good, 'Lia," I said.

"Yeah!" And she held out her hand, palm up, for me to give her five. I did, and she returned it – I've never cared for the "high five" fashion and haven't taught it to Darlia, though surely she's learned it elsewhere.

When Cecelia calmed down she turned to me and said, "Darvin Carpenter, you are a most evil man."

"Me? I didn't do it this time!"

"No – you simply imparted your genetic tendency toward anarchy and chaos to your daughter."

"As I recall, C, both of us were there at the time."

I once ran into a bigot who swore up and down that blacks can't blush. I thought of him as I watched Cecelia's face get noticeably darker. "Darvin, your daughter is listening!"

"Yeah – and I didn't mean to be inappropriate. I didn't think I was. Sorry if I put my foot in it."

She shook her head. "I think I am just overly sensitive. You are no more a vulgar man than I am a member of the Ku Klux Klan. And you were right – it did require DNA from both of us, and involved mutual participation, to create this wonderful child. However," she said, and pointed her finger at me, "I shall not allow mere reality to sway me from my opinion. You are the most evil man I have ever known, and I hold you responsible for Darlia's penetration of my armor."

I pushed my bowl away, for I had finished my ice cream. "Evil is relative, C."

"Not my relative, Darvin."

Now I burst out laughing. And I saw Darlia and Cecelia giving each other five. I don't know that Cecelia had planned it that way, but she'd gotten me back good. When I could speak again, I said, "I think I'll go to that poetry reading. I might as well see what the competition's up to."

"And change the subject in the process," Cecelia observed serenely. "Speaking of the competition, it's been several years since you've published more than the occasional piece in a magazine here or there. Do you have anything you might think about collecting between covers?"