Chapter 5

When I walked in the door Cecelia wasn't exactly waiting up for me. She was stretched out on the sofa, her white terrycloth robe that's about two sizes too big wrapped around her, snoring gently. I hung my hat on the rack by the door and walked over, staring at her. She never wears makeup – I can't think of more than two or three times since I've known her, and then it was just a bit of lipstick and eyebrow pencil which she wiped off before the day was over – but just then, lying there with her lips slightly parted, she looked young enough for her mother to still be forbidding her to paint her face. If I hadn't known she was 43 years old, I would never have guessed it – just then I'd have been tempted to say 12 or 13, for her scant figure and the bulky robe made her look like a child.

I sat down on the coffee table, knowing that the marble slab which serves as its top would bear my weight. Leaning down, I kissed her very gently on the lips, and when that didn't wake her I kissed her more firmly. Her hand came up and held the back of my head, and she returned my kiss. She released me and I saw that her eyes were open now, bright and black in their tilted sockets. "I had intended to be awake when you returned," she said.

"It's late, C – no shame in falling asleep. Or I guess I should say it's early, since it's closer now to three than to two. You didn't have to wait, you know."

"I do know it," she said as she sat up so easily that I could have imagined her weightless. "And usually I don't wait, knowing as I do that your schedule varies according to the whims of the case and your sources. But this time I found that I couldn't sleep, so I brought my book out here—" she gestured at a copy of The Sound and the Fury that lay on the coffee table "—and proceeded to read. But eventually I obviously could sleep," she said with a smile, "and thus you found me."

I smiled back. "I've tried Faulkner," I said, "and I can tell he was a good writer, but if I'm gonna read a trillion-word sentence I think I'd prefer it to be Edwards or Owen or some such."

"Ah, yes – your theology. I enjoy reading those books, but I find much of them over my head; you're the theologian in the family, and I am, I suppose, the Faulknerian."

"You've got the degree," I said in agreement. "So what did you neglect to fix me for supper?"

Her finger in my ribs surprised me. You'd think that after 13 years of marriage I'd be able to anticipate it, but I never can. "The neglect is on your part; you left your wife and daughter at home alone, fending for themselves in the midst of the night."

"Shoot, C, someone's got to earn a living around here."

She smiled for sure now, the smile that Helen of Troy is insanely jealous of. "Were I to return to remunerative employment, Darvin, I would so speedily surpass you in my income that you would fall at my feet begging to know my secrets."

"Oh, I know your secret," I said. "You got that college degree, and you got more brains than four of me. So what's for supper?"

She shook her head. "Your daughter is halfway to her majority, and you still act like a growing boy. But you are my darling boy, and I shall feed you in spite of your manifold faults. Come." And she took me by the hand, rising and pulling me with her, and leading me into the kitchen.

"So I'm your darling boy, am I?"

She took my joke seriously. "You are indeed, Darvin. I have not spent these years with you because I find you tolerably amusing – though you are that. I married you, and remain with you, because in your absence my heart would wither and die."

I nodded. "I didn't mean it quite that solemnly," I told her, "but since you took it that way I won't complain. You say it prettier than I do, but what you said is what I mean."

She nodded, standing there in front of the refrigerator and now holding both my hands in hers. "I know that you choose, because of your congenital informality, to speak a less elegant version of the language than I prefer. But I also know, beloved, that your heart has but one earthly object for its love, and however much I may find it a puzzlement that you love me, I shan't regret it, for loving you and being the object of your love is the greatest joy I find outside the worship of the Lord. And of all the faces I have seen or hope to see, only one will give me greater joy to behold than I feel when I see yours. And as for your supper, all that is necessary is for you to utilize the prepared ingredients, for I knew you would wish quick and easy fare."

Cecelia can change subjects on a dime and give you back change. I looked at what she was pulling out of the fridge – sliced pastrami and corned beef; tomatoes, lettuce, and onions ready to go; and the mustard that I like to slather on sandwiches. While I uncovered everything and got a plate out of the cabinet, she had opened a ziploc bag of what we call her heavy rolls, because they're not as light and fluffy as rolls usually are. She sliced three open, and passed them to me; I put on the fixings and closed 'em up into sandwiches.

"Do you wish to eat at the table or the counter? As a factor in your decision, I would like to stand for a while, having been supine for three hours or so."

"I'll sit at the counter," I said, and walked around it to do that. The counter separates the kitchen from the dining room – it holds the deep sink where we wash dishes, there are cabinets above it suspended from the ceiling, and on the dining room side we've got half a dozen stools where we sit when we're eating informally or just chatting with whoever's in the kitchen.

I sat, and chomped, and looked up to see my wife watching me. "Like what you see?" I asked.