Chapter 7

Darlia was indeed in the shed where Cecelia keeps her weight machines, and the free weights that she'd given to Darlia. When I'd met her Cecelia was still using those free weights, but she'd switched to machines when we put the shed in, turning what had been her weight room into my study ... which become her sewing room nearly a year ago, when she remodeled the garage to become my new and much roomier study.

Darlia looked up as I came in. She didn't speak, though – her mouth was clamped shut with effort as she did two-handed curls ... or whatever the proper name is. Under prodding I once proved that I could bench press my own weight a couple of times, but that's about all the weightlifting I've ever done. I got my muscles digging in caliche, punching cows, building fence, and moving freight as a child, high school student, and high school graduate. I got a little softer when I moved to Oklahoma and became a cop, but I've never really gotten out of shape. It's just that I don't move chunks of metal around just for the muscles.

I sat on Cecelia's bench press machine and watched. Darlia's just 11 years old, but she's stocky and tall for her age, a real serious chunk of girl. Her hair is a dark blonde with natural lighter streaks in it, waist long or a bit longer now, and today she hadn't braided or tied it back. When she was born it had been curly, showing Cecelia's African contribution, but as it had grown longer its weight had flattened out the curls into a gentle wave. All it's had over the years is a trim now and then, and unless Darlia suddenly changes her mind it looks like it'll keep growing till it reaches the ground.

Finally she lowered the bar to the floor, finally allowing herself to pant with effort. She was shiny with sweat, but unlike Cecelia that's never stopped her from being affectionate. She dashed over and gave me a hug, getting my chest all wet. "How you doin', Daddy?" she asked me.

"Tired," I told her, "but up and running."

"I'm working out. Mommy says that if I do exactly what she says, I can do this by myself."

I didn't mention that I knew this already. "And are you doing exactly what Mommy says?"

"Of course! I don't want to have to stop!"

I grinned at her. "Did you know you're cute, 'Lia?"

She giggled. "Usually you tell me I'm beautiful."

I looked at her for a moment, noting her square face, unlike Cecelia's narrow features or my own rounder looks. Her skin is a natural golden brown, a mixture of my white and Indian, and Cecelia's black, and tans very well, almost without her going into the sun. "Yes," I said, "you are a very beautiful girl. You're going to be a beautiful woman, too. But just now you're cute."

She considered that. In her younger years she'd been almost frighteningly precocious, but more recently she'd seemed to become a little backward, not quite up to her age. Lately she'd been catching up, as it were, acting more like an 11-year-old than someone three or four years younger. "I guess right now cute is more likely. I'm all sweaty an' I guess it's hard to be beautiful when you're all gooky like that."

I laughed. "If Mommy heard you talk like that she'd call you on it."

"I know," she said smiling. "But you know how I like to talk."

"I do – and so does she, for that matter. She doesn't mean anything by it when she gigs you."

"Well, she does a little, Daddy. She wants me to talk like she does."

"Okay, it's true. But you know, 'Lia, that she's willing to let you talk a little loose if you know how to do it right."

"Yeah – but..."

"But what, 'Lia?"

"Nothing, Daddy. I was going to say something dumb, that's all."

"We all do that." I saw that she was breathing normally now. "You done here, or you got more to do?"

"I'm almost done. I'm rested now so I need to go do the next thing. Want me to tell you its name?"

I laughed. "Weightlifter, if you have to ask, I'm gonna wonder who you are and what you've done with my daughter."

She laughed too, in her husky low voice. "I don't gotta ask, Daddy. Now go kiss Mommy or something."

I thought about a retort, but realized that I'd lose that battle of wits too – Darlia gets her smarts from her mother. I got up and went out, and headed for the house to kiss Cecelia, or something.

Inside, Cecelia was sitting on the sofa. She'd set aside Faulkner and had something in Spanish in her hand, though she wasn't reading at the moment. "Sit down here, Darvin. I have formulated a plan."

"A plan?"

"To test my abilities."

"Oh, that. I got Darlia on the brain."

She smiled. "That child does intrude on one's mental processes. Were I to find myself suddenly a widow, I believe that the necessity of caring for Darlia would ease my sorrow as much as anything could; she merits complete attention."

"Yeah, she does. So, what's the plan?"

"Step one – send Darlia over to Sandra." That's a friend of ours – mostly of Cecelia's – who lives on the other side of Inez Park and loves watching our daughter. "Step two – proceed somewhere for lunch. Step three – visit someone I know in the South Valley, who speaks even less English than you do Spanish."

"Sounds good, especially the lunch part. I take it you've already talked to Sandra."

"I have, and she is agreeable – though the times she has not been so I can count on the fingers of my hand."

"Then I'll go shave and get dressed, and I'll be ready whenever you are."