Chapter 14

I didn't want to waste time on the investigation, but I didn't want to waste time I could spend with my family either, especially since it was a real possibility that we'd miss our Lanfair Valley trip and wind up sending Darlia off to the rez. She loves it there, and she loves her Uncle Memphis and Aunt Kim – my brother and his wife – who are traditional members of the Lahtkwa Nation ... though Miss Kim is only an honorary member, since she's Korean. But if we did miss the desert trip in August it would be the first time in her life that we hadn't gone, and if it was going to happen I wanted to make it up to her ahead of time.

And if we didn't miss the trip, I still never regret a day with my family. I married Cecelia because I couldn't stand to live without her, and though we never planned to have – or, for that matter, to not have – children, the only way you'll take Darlia from us is if you walk over our corpses first.

So, torn between two desires – and thinking of that when I got up Tuesday morning, I remembered a song by Mary McGregor that I'd heard ages ago on KDWN out of Las Vegas – I decided as I made my upon-awakening visit to the bathroom that we'd take time as a family today. It was early – we'd gone to bed early, finding that our wandering in the South Valley sun had tired us somewhat – and for once Cecelia wasn't in the kitchen. She was wrapped in her enormous white terrycloth robe, sitting on the sofa and holding her Bible in her hand. She must have heard me coming, or more likely heard the toilet flush, for she was looking down the hall, her head turned back over her left shoulder. She'd already pulled her hair back into its strict ponytail, and her face shone unadorned and perfect in the light from the living room window.

"You have interrupted me," she said. "I was just preparing to read God lecturing Job on exactly who is in charge of reality."

I sat down next to her, on her left, for she was on "my" end of the sofa just then. "Job can be a tough book," I said. "But I've told you before what I find its message to be."

"Yes," she said. "In your words, we are to learn from it to 'Shut up and worship.' It is indeed a lesson which sounds harsh, but it is also one I find that I need to learn on occasion. I can, darling, complain quite vociferously to God, and at times He has to remind me that my whining is not a factor in His plans."

I grinned. "Well, maybe He takes it into account – in the sense that the more you whine, the less He does what you want. It sure seems that way sometimes, don't it?"

I gently pressed down on the Bible so that it came to rest in her lap, and took her left hand. My thumb rubbed over the prominent knuckles, the thin fingers, and the network of veins that her years of hard physical work and lifting weights have created. "I propose, C, that when Darlia wakes up we pack her into the Blazer, and just go sightseeing."

"A 'Darlia Day, ' beloved? I cannot oppose the notion – it has been a while, and I do love such occasions."

"Coolness." I looked at the clock that hangs above the living room window. "It's early yet, so there's no rush about getting underway. But 'cause I got to sleep so quick last night, I'm hungry. You got any munchies handy?"

"I believe I could find something to suit you ... you'll have to relinquish my hand, Darvin."

I hadn't realized I was holding on. "Sure. Here it is."

"Thank you, my very wonderful husband. It is a pleasure to have tangible evidence of the fact that you will never seek to replace me; I know it, but I shall never object to further proof." She leaned over, caught her Bible so it couldn't slide off her lap, and kissed me. It's an interesting sensation kissing those thin lips, which surely came from some white ancestor back along the line. "I'll see what's available in the kitchen, if you'll replace this in its proper spot." And she handed me her Bible after tucking the ribbon in to mark her place.

While Cecelia rummaged, I put the Bible back in her sewing room. Until recently she'd kept a desk in the living room, along the left wall as you face front, behind what we call the company chair. But now that the third bedroom was her sewing room she'd moved her desk in there, computer and all, and that's where she keeps her Bible.

Having done that duty, I walked back out to the kitchen, where I found Cecelia setting out crescent rolls – not croissants, for we're both older than that term – that she'd apparently had in the microwave, for they were steaming gently, and chunks of goat butter that she buys from a guy in Placitas. What she doesn't make herself, she has sources for. The butter was perfectly and absolutely white, and I knew that however rough it looked – for the guy doesn't bother forming it into neat little sticks – it would taste like the butter they eat in heaven.

Without saying a word I walked around the counter and sat down on one of the high chairs. Cecelia put a plate in front of me with two of the crescent rolls on it – big ones that she'd made from scratch – and the container of butter. I tore a roll apart, and sliced off a bit of butter and spread it on the fluffy, flaky surface of the roll. She must have gently nuked the butter too, for it was soft enough to spread, something that's not true right out of the refrigerator. I bit into the roll, and without thinking I made an ecstatic sound of delight.