At sixty-five he could no longer trap long routes.
At seventy, his hands shook sometimes from age.
Once Lavinia caught him staring.
“What?”
“They shook the first time I touched you.”
“Yes.”
“Now again.”
She took his hand.
“Different reason.”
“Still annoying.”
She kissed knuckles.
Black Hollow school expanded.
Students came from three states.
A memorial archive preserved Beaumont papers and Crane evidence.
Historians eventually wrote books.
Most got details wrong.
Amos refused interviews.
Lavinia gave one.
Reporter asked:
“What changed Mr. Vale’s life?”
Expected answer:
Exoneration.
Truth.
Justice.
Lavinia said:
“A broken axle.”
Reporter laughed.
She did not.
“Sometimes entire life depends on one piece of metal failing.”
Amos read article.
“You made me sound sentimental.”
“You are.”
“Lie.”
“You keep my hairpin.”
He froze.
“What hairpin?”
“The one on your shelf.”
“No idea.”
She smiled.
“Liar.”
At seventy-two, Lavinia became ill.
Not suddenly.
Heart.
Doctors could manage only so much.
Amos hated medicine because it introduced problems he could not repair.
He sat beside her bed in Redstone.
She teased:
“You're staring.”
“Yes.”
“Uncomfortable.”
“Good.”
One evening she asked:
“Do you regret mountain?”
“What?”
“Twenty-three years.”
He looked toward window.
“That is too large a question.”
“Try.”
He thought.
“I regret men I did not save.”
“Eli.”
“Yes.”
“My father?”
Amos hesitated.
“I regret hating him more simply than he deserved.”
Lavinia nodded.
“What about solitude?”
Amos stared at her.
“I survived because of it.”
“Then nearly died because of it.”
She smiled.
“That sounds about right.”
He took her hand.
“I regret not meeting you earlier.”
“Impossible.”
“Still.”
“If we met earlier, I might not have liked you.”
“You barely like me now.”
“True.”
She squeezed.
“I do not regret finding you late.”
Amos looked down.
“Neither.”
She died six months later.
He was holding her hand.
For first time in decades, Amos returned mountain alone.
Everyone assumed he would stay.
He lasted twelve days.
Then Thomas came.
Found him chopping wood.
“Pa.”
Amos kept chopping.
Thomas waited.
“You coming home?”
“This is home.”
“You know what I mean.”
Amos set axe down.
“Your mother is dead.”
Thomas swallowed.
“Yes.”
Amos continued:
“I don't know what Redstone is without her.”
Thomas stepped closer.
“Still ours.”
Amos looked away.
The mountain offered silence.
But now he understood silence could heal or consume depending on why one sought it.
He packed.
Before leaving he removed the faded blue ribbon from wall.
Eliza’s ribbon.
His first wife.
A truth Lavinia had learned years before.
Eliza had died of fever before Black Hollow disaster.
Amos’s isolation had not begun with one wound.