Clara’s father resisted.
“I don't want to intrude.”
Clara said:
“You're living two hundred yards away.”
“Still.”
“Elias likes you.”
Nathan looked skeptical.
Elias signed behind Clara:
Sometimes.
Nathan did not know enough sign to understand.
Clara laughed until she had tears.
Two years later, a child came into their lives.
Not through birth.
A mining widow named Sarah Cole died of pneumonia, leaving a six-year-old daughter, Annie.
No nearby family.
The church planned to send her east.
Clara returned home after hearing.
She did not need to explain much.
Elias saw her face.
He wrote:
Child?
Clara nodded.
Needs home.
Elias stared.
Then:
Ours?
Clara’s throat closed.
She nodded.
Annie arrived carrying one small bag.
Frightened by Elias initially.
Most children were.
Then she discovered he let her braid his beard.
Fear disappeared quickly.
He taught her sign.
Within months Annie communicated faster with Elias than Clara could.
Sometimes father and daughter deliberately signed things Clara had not learned.
Clara would glare.
Annie giggled.
Elias pretended innocence.
Their home grew louder for Clara.
Still silent for Elias.
Yet he somehow always knew when Annie was approaching from behind.
Floor vibration.
Shadow.
Movement.
Or perhaps fathers simply learn.
Years later, Annie asked Clara:
“Did you marry Papa because Grandpa owed fifty dollars?”
Clara nearly dropped a bowl.
“Who told you that?”
“Mrs. Dorsey.”
Of course.
Clara sat.
Annie waited.
“Yes.”
“Kind of.”
“Did Papa buy you?”
“No.”
Clara answered instantly.
“He paid the debt before I decided anything.”
“He told me I could say no.”
Annie thought.
“Then why did you say yes?”
Clara looked across the yard.
Elias repaired a fence.
Gray beginning in his beard now.
Still enormous.
Still beautiful to her.
“Because he looked at me like the choice belonged to me.”
Annie frowned.
“That's it?”
“At the time?”
“Yes.”
“Later there were other reasons.”
Annie grinned.
“Gross reasons?”
Clara stared.
“Go feed chickens.”
Annie ran laughing.
Elias looked up.
Question.
Clara signed:
Your daughter.
He signed:
Your daughter.
Clara narrowed her eyes.
Marriage.
Years after Horace Bell died in prison, Blackwood erected a memorial for the eleven miners.
Names carved into stone.
Not numbers.
Not “unregistered workers.”
Names.
Elias attended reluctantly.
Clara beside him.
Annie between them.
Reverend Ames spoke.
Elias could not hear.
Annie signed the speech.
Her small hands moved rapidly.
Elias watched.
At the end, a second plaque was revealed.