Chapter 12

I dropped Cecelia off at Sandra's house to get Darlia, and drove the Blazer on home – neither of them would want to ride in a vehicle for that short a distance. I'm the real walker in the family – I've walked 15 miles in a day just for the fun of seeing things – while Darlia loves her weights, and Cecelia lifts weights and runs, but they both enjoy walking as long as they're not trying to stick with me on one of my long tramps. Cecelia can outrun me in about three feet – but I can walk her into the ground if I put my mind to it.

I parked in my usual spot, and unlocked the house. I had my bullrider hat on the rack, and was sitting on the sofa prying my boots off, when they walked in. Darlia sprinted over to give me a hug and a kiss – not one of the slobbery ones she used to plant on me just so she could laugh while I wiped 'em off, but a regular 11-year-old daughter's kiss – and then carried her backpack into her room. Cecelia went into the kitchen, no doubt to start whipping something up for supper. We'd eaten, but Darlia would be hungry, and the day Cecelia and I turn down food we'll be in our coffins ... and even then we might rise up for one more meal.

I went down the hall to Darlia's room, and found her door closed. I knocked – she, like Cecelia and I, uses a closed door for privacy – and waited a minute like she told me. When she opened the door she'd changed from her school clothes into a tank top and a pair of overalls – overhauls, the clerk had called them when we bought them in a store in Oklahoma, passing through the year before on our yearly visit to Cecelia's parents. It was a mispronunciation that I was used to, for I'd lived in rural Oklahoma for four years, back when I was young.

"What you want, Daddy?" Darlia asked as she began pulling books out of her backpack.

"Well, for one thing I thought I'd see what you got for homework."

She spread the books out on her table. "Spanish, an' English, an' science, an' I gotta write a report on the Laws of the Game, an' I need to practice a song." The Laws of the Game are the soccer rules that FIFA, the international soccer body, puts out, and Darlia's been playing soccer for a year or more now at school. She's also taking music lessons at school – just plinking on a piano, and it may not get any further than that when it comes to musical instruments, but singing quite well.

But... "Spanish?" I said. "You speak Spanish like a Chicana."

"Yeah, but this year Mommy and I decided that I should learn it right, too."

I probably had known of that at the time, but if so I'd forgotten about it. "So you're learning it the way the educated Spaniards speak it?"

"Yeah. Daddy, don't they ever write Spanish books the way Latinoamericanos speak it?"

"I dunno, Weightlifter. From what I've read, I think there's an outfit in Spain that determines proper Spanish all over the world, but I can't swear to it."

She frowned a little, just enough to draw her heavy eyebrows – just slightly darker than her hair – together. "If that's the case..." she said. "But you said 'for one thing.' What's the other thing?"

"Mommy and I want to talk to you, if you've got time right now. We came home early to do it, in fact."

"Is Mommy busy?"

I grinned. "You know her – she invented multi-tasking."

"Yeah, she can cook an' talk an' think all at once."

"While I have trouble walking, never mind chewing gum too." I grinned again. "Let's go multi-task her a bit."

We walked out to the dining room, where Cecelia was stirring something in the king skillet. We sat on stools on our side of the counter, and watched.

"I'm stir frying some shrimp with various vegetables – carrots, broccoli, some leftover rice, potatoes. It's based on something I've seen Miss Kim do."

I took off on a tangent. "Why is it, C, that you an' her just can't get along?"

She banged the spoon she was using on the skillet. "If I knew that, Darvin, I could perhaps eradicate this pointless dislike from my system. I do not like her, at all – and it is so irrational that even in my deepest ruminations I can't even guess at the reason."

I rubbed my face, and smoothed my mustache with thumb and forefinger. "Sorry, C, I didn't mean to irritate you. Me an' Darlia are ready to talk."

"That's 'I and Darlia, ' or more gracefully, 'Darlia and I.' And you know that, Darvin."

I raised my eyebrows – I had irritated her. "I know, C – an' you know how I talk. How 'bout let's leave off the fighting till we got our talkin' out the way."

She banged the spoon down on the stove top, and turned to glare at me. "The fact that you are quite right does not make me any less unhappy with you, Darvin Carpenter. You know what that sort of ungrammatical trash does to me when I'm in this sort of mood, and you do it anyway. Is it your intention to see how far you can push me before I place my knuckles where they will cause you the most pain?"

I just looked at her. I might be right, but I wasn't entirely right – and I've slowly gotten smart enough that I sometimes know when to keep my fat mouth shut.

She took in a lot of air, and let it out slowly. "I'm sorry, darling. It is true that I simply can't abide Miss Kim, however well she cooks, and that your mention of her, and my irrational dislike, ignited my temper. But it is also true that you had no intention of causing me irritation, and that I had no right to flare up at you as I did. Please forgive me."

It was my turn to take a deep breath and let it out. "You ain't the only one in this, C – you aren't the only one in it. I asked the first question without thinking, and talked the way I always do without thinking. And I should have thought. I put my foot in it pretty thoroughly – it's that reflex of mine, the one you're familiar with. I'm sorry, Cecelia."

She came toward the sink, and reached over it and the counter to take my hand. "We forgive each other, then." It was a statement – she didn't need to ask, not after all the years we've been married. "I apologize to you as well, Darlia," she said. "I had no right to engage in that sort of bickering in front of you."