Chapter 1

This story takes place from November of 2010 to March of 2011

It had been a long time since either of us had been to Santa Fe for fun, and we'd never gone together just for enjoyment, so we took the Railrunner north. The last time I'd gone up just to look at Santa Fe the Railrunner hadn't existed yet, and so I'd driven. And when I've gone up on business – I'm a private detective in Albuquerque, but sometimes following a trail leads me out of town – I've driven because it's a lot more convenient to drive around than walk around, especially in high summer. Cecelia's done the same thing, though she hasn't been in business for years now – she gave up her own financial consulting outfit, or whatever it was – in order to spend more time with Darlia, who was still young at the time. I've given up asking her to explain what she did for a living when we met, and did for some extra income for a while after we got married – she swears her explanations are crystal clear, but I can barely balance a checkbook and they just confuse me.

Anyway, we'd paid for parking downtown, there being no convenient buses in Albuquerque unless you live real close to Central Avenue, and got on the train. I'd never been on a train before, and mentioned it to Cecelia as we climbed to the top level.

"I have not traveled by rail either," she said, from her position in front of me, the stairs being too narrow for us to go side-by-side. "One of my cousins whom you've not met – Edward, Great-aunt Lucresha's son from Dothan – 'rode the rods' as he called it, in his youth, but until I went to college, on the Greyhound bus, I never traveled at all. And by the time I had my degree, I had obtained my driver's license and bought a car."

We came out onto the floor – deck? – of the top level of the car, and Cecelia led us to seats about halfway down. As we sat across from each other, so we'd each have a good view, I said, "You mean you didn't learn to drive until you were out of high school?"

"Oh, I knew how to drive," she said with a smile that lit up her narrow face. "I drove Daddy's truck in the fields, and even into town – you'll remember that one of the things you didn't have to teach me was how to use a stick shift – but I never bothered to obtain a license. It is not contrary to law to drive without a license on private property, and the sheriff's deputies were not likely to cite a child doing an errand for her father ... though I did know of instances of DWB." She meant driving while black, something that's never been in the legal code but has, in various places, constituted unofficial probable cause for stopping someone.

"Sometimes I forget just how country you was when you was little," I said.

"But I can never forget that your use of English is approximately on a par with your knowledge of Martian."

"You don't use words accidentally," I said with a grin. "You knew exactly what you was doin' when you spoke of 'use' an' 'knowledge'."

"You are no fool, though you sound much like one." She reached across and put her hand on my knee, her dark skin and thin fingers resting briefly on the denim of my jeans. "And I shall never cease from my attempts to teach you to speak in a fashion that matches your intellect and knowledge."

I reached over and caught her hand. There are calluses on it from hard work and years of lifting weights, and the veins and tendons stand out. But it was warm, and the skin on the back of her hand was soft, and I thought briefly of leaning over and kissing it. But the position was just awkward enough that I decided not to, and besides I knew it would embarrass her in public. So I just said, "You can keep tryin' all you like, C – I ain't a-gonna be no different than what I always been."

She withdrew her hand, and held it up. "If I were wise, I would employ this extremity as a weapon to beat sense into your head ... or perhaps not. It would require something rather more substantial to penetrate your skull – a jackhammer, perhaps."

"I know that's right."

"Yes, you do know dat's right. Sometimes, Darvin, you sound exactly like a black preacher, down to the accent and intonation. And yet you certainly don't look black."

Nor do I – I'm half white and half Indian, though the white genes are the only ones that show. I'm naturally pale, but where the sun gets to my skin – my hands and forearms, and from my shirt collar up to my eyebrows – I've got a dark permanent tan. My tendency to tan at the slightest touch of the sun, and to retain the tan even in winter, is the only visible reminder that my dad was a full-blooded Lahtkwa Indian.

Cecelia, on the other hand, looks pretty black. Her face, it's true, is all edge – even her lips are thin, the heritage of some white or Indian ancestry, "a honky in the woodpile" as she sometimes jokingly puts it. But she's got the skin, and the kinky hair, and the broad flat nose that came all the way from Africa. And when she wants to, she can bring back the rural Alabama accent that she worked hard in college to get rid of, just as she'd worked in junior high and high school to enlarge her vocabulary.

I might have said something – I've got a smart mouth even if my brain is only middling good – but the conductor or whoever did such things made an announcement just then that the doors were closing. I kept my mouth shut, therefore, and looked out the window. But out of the corner of my eye I saw Cecelia grinning. She knew that, for whatever reason, I'd given up our battle of wits, and she was enjoying the victory.