“You looked like you might.”
“Why?”
“You become excessive when frightened.”
“False.”
“You built a sleigh capable of carrying a bull.”
“You needed transportation.”
Clara smiled.
“Simple grave.”
Henry hated the conversation.
She insisted.
“Near the ridge.”
He looked toward the mountains.
“Why there?”
“I can see the house.”
“You will not be seeing anything.”
Clara raised an eyebrow.
“Must you ruin everything with literalism?”
He laughed despite himself.
“Fine.”
“And no ridiculous inscription.”
“What is ridiculous?”
“Beloved heiress.”
“I would never.”
“Woman of extraordinary courage.”
Henry said nothing.
Clara narrowed her eyes.
“You considered it.”
“Possibly.”
“No.”
“What then?”
She thought.
“Wife.”
Henry stared.
“That's all?”
“And mother.”
“Clara.”
“It is enough.”
He looked down.
She touched his arm.
“You were the first person who used that word as if it made me more myself rather than less.”
Wife.
Henry understood.
“All right.”
On the last night, snow fell.
Of course it did.
Not a blizzard.
Gentle snow.
Clara lay beneath quilts.
Henry sat beside her.
Their children had gone downstairs to rest.
They had been awake for nearly two days.
Clara's breathing was quiet.
Henry held her hand.
Near midnight she opened her eyes.
“Henry.”
“I’m here.”
“Coffee.”
He stared.
“You cannot possibly want coffee.”
“Then water.”
He helped her drink.
She settled back.
For several minutes she watched him.
“You look terrible.”
“So do you.”
“Rude.”
“You married me.”
She smiled.
Henry could not.
Clara whispered, “Don't make my last hours solemn. I spent too much time being solemn in Chicago.”
His eyes filled.
“Don't say last.”
“Henry.”
“No.”
She waited.
The stubbornness that had carried him through decades finally had nowhere useful to go.
He lowered his head.
Clara touched his hair.
“I am not frightened.”
“I am.”
“I know.”
“How are you not?”
She thought.
“Because I was frightened enough before I met you.”
Henry lifted his eyes.
Clara continued.
“I spent years waiting for people to take something.”
“Money.”
“Freedom.”
“Dignity.”
“Choice.”
Her fingers tightened weakly.
“Then you came along.”
“I came along?”
“You were at the station.”
“Technically you came along.”
Clara smiled.
“Still correcting me.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She closed her eyes briefly.
Henry leaned closer.
“Clara?”
“I’m here.”
He exhaled.
She opened her eyes again.
“Do you know what I remember most?”
“What?”
“Not the ladder.”
Henry waited.
“Not Chicago.”
“What?”
“The first morning after we married.”
He frowned.
“What happened?”
“I burned bread.”
“You burned everything.”
“You put salve on the table.”
Henry smiled.
“Bear grease.”
“Yes.”
Clara's eyes filled.
“That was the first kindness in years that asked nothing from me.”
Henry looked down.
“I didn't know.”
“That is why it mattered.”
Silence.
Then Clara whispered, “Kiss me.”
Henry did.
Slowly.
Gently.
When he pulled away, she remained close.