Chapter 15

For me, getting ready for anything is easy. For church and other out of the ordinary functions, I just grab the first shirt in the "special shirt" area of my side of the closet, and a clean pair of jeans. Sometimes, if it's a really fancy occasion – a Christmas service, say – I'll put on a special pair of boots Cecelia got for me a number of years ago. They're handmade, and in place of the usual fancy stitching they've got my initials stitched on 'em. It's a good thing my jeans come down low enough that I walk on the cuffs – it's embarrassing to have that kind of show off stuff on my feet. But it pleases Cecelia, and she knew when she ordered the boots that I wouldn't wear 'em often, so things work out.

For her getting ready is a bit longer process. She doesn't take all day about it, but I was ready that evening before she was. She's got half the closet in our bedroom, and all of the closet in her sewing room. I keep waiting for her clothes to overflow the closets, and fill the rooms, and start flowing out the windows and doors. Her one indulgence is clothes, and she loves them. She doesn't try on 27 different outfits to see which she's going to wear somewhere, but I've seen her modeling things in front of her full-length mirror, and either moving an outfit to the front or consigning it to a clothes closet version of Siberia, depending on what she thinks of it.

On this occasion she had adapted what Muslims call a hijab. As I understand it the word has more to do with modest clothing than a particular style of clothing, but in practical terms, it's gotten standardized into a long-sleeved long dress and head scarf. Cecelia dispensed with the head scarf, not being a Muslim, but the dress, in a rich red and gold brocade fabric, was generally along the lines that I'd seen on female Muslims in Wal-Mart. It fit her loosely, except around the waist where she'd gathered it with a belt of the same fabric, and at the wrists where the cuffs ran three or four inches up her arm. It clearly had the hijab for its inspiration, and except perhaps for its wild colors was perfectly fit for a Muslim woman to wear outdoors, but it was subtly different. It had all the marks of a Cecelia Carpenter creation, and as I looked at her she smiled slowly.

"You seem to enjoy reacting to my outfits in that fashion," she said. "I wonder what you would do if I appeared some day in a tow sack."

"Oh, I'd just tell you it was a burlap bag," I said. "We ain't in the south no more."

"Perhaps not, but – except for your lack of accent – you could easily pass for a redneck in your speech."

"An' even in a tow sack," I said, emphasizing the southern usage with a grin, "you could easily pass for the queen of the Nile or something like that."

"I have been the Queen of Sheba," she replied, "though not necessarily in the sense you mean. But I am pleased that you like this dress; it is my first effort in this direction."

"Shoot, C, you'd look good if you was wearin' a plaid curtain. But you do know how to make clothes."

She smiled, and reached into a pocket. Since she has never owned a purse since I've known her, she puts pockets on all her skirts and dresses – often hidden pockets, which she reaches though almost invisible slits in the fabric. She pulled out her keys and dangled them in front of me. "Put on your jacket and hat, Darvin, and we'll go."

I put on my hat and jacket, and we went.

Jeffrey Benton was an adjunct professor of American literature at the University of New Mexico. I'm not entirely sure what any sort of professor is, other than a guy who – supposedly anyway – teaches at a university. Exactly what an adjunct professor is I don't know, and I've never bothered to find out. Maybe if I'd gone to college I'd care, but I didn't, and if I had I probably wouldn't have as much money as I do. Or I might have more – Cecelia's had more money than I do as long as I've known her, and she's got a degree.

At any rate, Cecelia knew him from other functions she'd been to, poetry readings and receptions and things like that. She's not a social butterfly, but her literary interests keep her circulating to a certain extent. Usually she goes without me, since things like that don't interest me unless there's actually some poetry involved. This time there would be poetry, and so I might have gone even if I hadn't needed the distraction – though as Cecelia had told me, this one she'd planned to skip.

Benton wasn't at the door – it was a woman I'd never seen before, in the sort of Santa Fe New Age chic clothes that bore me stiff or make me laugh, depending on exactly how they look and what mood I'm in. This time it was boredom, which I was able to conceal, having better diplomatic skills nowadays than I did when I met Cecelia. She let us in, looking us over as though she were wondering whether we were rich enough and trendy enough to live on a dirt road, if we were to move to Santa Fe. Up there, in the oldest capitol city in the United States, paved roads are for the peasants.

I knew that we could afford to live in all but the highest priced places in New Mexico, but I sure didn't look it. Cecelia, though, seemed to pass inspection, even though her style isn't that of the Santa Fe trend-followers. In fact, her tailoring and the colors of her hijab-style dress kind of put the lady holding the door to shame. I nodded, took off my hat, and followed Cecelia down a short entry hall. There was a row of pegs on the wall to my left, with a couple of berets and a fedora hanging there. I used one for my bullrider.

Coming out into the living room I saw people in all sorts of states – women in clothes ranging from the most conformist of Santa Fe individuality to the solid black of a couple of goths to the power suits of either professors or executives. The men had a similar range – a few in "cowboy" clothes that wouldn't last five minutes on a horse and which cost more than anything I ever wore in my life, some in suits and ties, some in suits without ties, a couple in baggy pants and loose shirts, and a black guy so light-colored he hardly looked black who was wearing a dashiki and a round brimless hat like a multi-colored fez.