“Not sensibly.”
“Did people laugh?”
“Yes.”
The child frowned.
“Why?”
Clara looked toward the photograph.
“Because people often laugh when they see something outside what they expect.”
“Were you sad?”
“Sometimes.”
“Were you brave?”
Clara smiled.
“No.”
The child looked disappointed.
“No?”
“I was afraid constantly.”
“Then how did you do things?”
Clara considered.
“Fear is information.”
“Not always instruction.”
The little girl stared.
“That sounds like something from your book.”
“Then I’m repeating myself.”
The child touched the photograph.
“Was Ethan brave?”
Clara smiled.
“Also afraid.”
“Of you?”
“Very.”
The girl giggled.
Clara continued.
“He was afraid I’d leave.”
“I was afraid he’d send me away.”
“Most of our early problems were two frightened people guessing what the other thought instead of asking.”
“What fixed it?”
“Talking.”
The child looked unimpressed.
“That’s boring.”
“Yes.”
“Most useful things are.”
Clara died the following winter.
Snow again.
Wyoming apparently lacked imagination.
Her family gathered.
The photograph sat beside the bed.
The white dress remained in the cedar chest.
The carved chair near the window.
Clara’s breathing became shallow during the final evening.
Lucy, now gray-haired herself, held her hand.
Mary sat nearby.
Jacob stood near the fireplace.
Grandchildren filled the hallway.
Clara opened her eyes.
“Window.”
Lucy laughed through tears.
“Three minutes?”
Clara smiled faintly.
“Five.”
The window opened.
Cold air entered.
Clara breathed.
Then noticed the photograph.
“Bring it.”
Lucy did.
Clara turned it over.
The handwriting had faded badly.
She did not need to read.
“Your father was wrong.”
Lucy leaned closer.
“About what?”
“He said he had little.”
Lucy’s eyes filled.
Clara looked toward the house.
The family.
The land beyond the dark window.
“He had room.”
“For what?”
Clara smiled.
“Me.”
Silence.
Then:
“And I was a lot of woman.”
Everyone laughed through tears.
Good.
Clara would have hated a room that became too solemn.
She closed her eyes.
A few minutes later, she whispered:
“Make sure the museum doesn’t write anything stupid.”
Lucy laughed harder.
“I promise.”
“Good.”
Then Clara slept.
She died before sunrise.
The funeral was held in the school that contained the Samuel Dawson Reading Room because the church could not comfortably hold everyone.
That irony would have amused her.
Lucy spoke.
Not about weight first.
Not about the famous photograph.
She spoke about flour ledgers.
Tax files.
Three-minute windows.
How Clara could identify bad interest terms faster than most bankers.
How she adopted children by refusing to let them choose based on what was easiest for adults.
How she never stopped hating embroidery.
Then Lucy looked toward the crowd.
“People often tell Clara’s story as though its great romance was that a cowboy loved a very large woman.”