Chapter 16

Ordinarily when we were doing something special, we'd have eaten at a place called Harry's Eats, which had begun as the diner it sounded like, back in the 40s or 50s, but today had stuff on the menu in French as well as more ordinary food like enchiladas and burgers. But while we don't go there every day, we eat there often enough that most of the wait staff knows us, and I'd promised Cecelia it was strangers for the rest of the day.

But where to eat? There are fancy restaurants in Albuquerque, which isn't surprising since it's the largest city in New Mexico and there are a lot of rich people in town. But Harry's is as fancy as I've ever been in my life, and I don't want to get fancier. On the other hand, a celebration generally means something more than Taco Bell or McDonald's.

Cecelia solved my problem for me. I was aimlessly cruising around, letting Cecelia and Darlia see the sights, when my wife said out of the blue, "I could use a real hamburger today – not something smashed by a machine, but a real patty with heft and size to it."

"So what you thinkin'?" I asked.

"We are on Paseo del Norte, coming up on Jefferson. If you turned left and drove, we would come very near Fuddrucker's. And with some judicious maneuvering, we could arrive there."

"Is that your way of sayin' you wanna go to Fuddrucker's?"

She chuckled. "It is – and I suspect you now feel as Dr. McCoy did."

It took me a second, and then I realized what she meant and quoted Spock's line: "'Random factors appear to have operated in our favor.'"

"'In other words, we got lucky.'" That was McCoy's rejoinder, though Cecelia doesn't sound a thing like DeForest Kelley, the actor who played the role.

"'I just said that, '" I quoted, or thought I quoted – I wasn't sure if those were Spock's exact words.

"I had no idea when I married you," Cecelia said, "that you would turn me into a Trekkie."

"Nor yet did I. But at least you're a Trekkie, not a Trekker."

"What's the difference, Daddy?" came Darlia's voice from behind me. By now I'd turned off of Paseo onto Jefferson, and was following its winding course south.

"A Trekkie is what Star Trek fans originally called themselves. Trekker is what the late-comers came up with so that they wouldn't, as they thought, sound so geeky. But I was there in the old days – well, sort of. I wasn't born till 65, and they canceled the original series in 69. But still..."

"But still, you grew up with no Star Trek but the original, for you were 22 when The Next Generation first appeared." That was Cecelia.

"Daddy," Darlia said, "were you ever 22?"

"You know I was, Weightlifter."

"Yeah, I guess, but I never knew you when you were that old. I've only known you when you were ... let's see, when you were in your 30s and 40s, and I was young when you were in your 30s."

"And I was pretty old then, wasn't I?" I glanced at Cecelia as I spoke, and she was grinning, looking out the window so, I supposed, Darlia couldn't see it.

"Well, you are old..."

"By your standards, yeah. Eleven is all the life you've ever had. But I've been 11, lemme think..."

Cecelia, with her marvelous head for math, interrupted. "Next April will be the 33^rd anniversary of your 11^th birthday."

I shook my head. "I will never understand how you do that," I said, and then realized that in this instance it wasn't much of a feat after all. My next birthday would be my 44^th, and from there the subtraction was easy. It was getting to the point of knowing that which had baffled me.

"Mommy's good at math!" said Darlia from the back seat.

"Yeah, she is," I said. "You've seen what I've seen, 'Lia – she can look at a column of half a dozen numbers, all of 'em three or four digits, and just by looking add 'em and come up with the right answer, and I've never found her wrong when I checked her work."

"I have seen that."

"And now you know," I told my daughter, "why Mommy runs my money as well as hers, and why she's in charge of the checkbook at the office."

"Yep. My Mommy is a genius!"

"Oh, please," said Cecelia in a disgusted tone.

"I think she's right, C," I told her. "Oh, maybe an IQ test wouldn't agree, but at least when it comes to math and money, you do more in your head than a lot of fancy-dancy bankers and such can do with computers."

"I have a particular talent – that makes me, perhaps, an idiot savant, but not a genius."

"You're an idiot like I'm Henry Ford," I said, using the word the way I pronounce the French phrase – I don't speak a word of French and pronounce what few French words and phrases I know the way they look on paper.

She flipped a hand. "I will stipulate that I am not an idiot," she said, emphasizing the French pronunciation. She doesn't speak the language either, but she's finicky with how she says things that English has borrowed from other languages. "But I still contend that a facility in one area, however marked it may be, does not constitute genius."

"Then you're gonna have to explain all these geniuses who are brilliant in their own fields and ain't got the sense to step over a mud puddle," I said, turning right onto the frontage road where Jefferson meets I-25. We were nearly to Fuddrucker's by now.

"I suppose I must concede that point – I am sure you could adduce several people who have demonstrated or received the name of genius in some field, and proven not conspicuously intelligent in an all-around fashion. But I reject the term when you apply it to me. I am good at math, yes, but I am a genius like I am – to steal your comparison, Darvin – Henry Ford."

I grinned. "So, Henry, when you gonna invent the Model T?"

I was turning into the Fuddrucker's parking lot now, and Cecelia was quiet while I found a place to park. As soon as I turn off the ignition I felt her finger in my ribs, and not gently. "My beloved husband, kindly shut your irreverent mouth."

I grinned at her. "If you insist, I'll shut it. But you're gonna have to feed me intravenously then."