Clara looked toward him.
He signed:
REMEMBER?
Clara smiled.
UNFORTUNATELY.
He pointed toward the steps where the fifty-dollar bill changed hands.
Then toward her.
WOULD YOU?
Would she marry him again?
Clara thought.
Signed:
NOT THAT WAY.
Elias nodded.
She continued.
YOU? YES.
His expression softened.
Clara pointed toward him.
YOU?
Elias pretended to think.
Far too long.
Clara slapped his arm.
He laughed.
Then signed:
YES. EVEN BURNED BISCUITS.
She glared.
Ten years.
He still remembered.
Clara signed something improper.
Their daughter saw.
“Mother!”
Clara pointed at Elias.
“He taught me.”
Elias looked horrified.
The children sided with nobody.
At fifteen years, Elias’s uncle died.
The man who had raised him after his parents were gone had never spoken much about what happened.
He had believed the fever story.
His guilt became enormous once truth emerged.
Before dying, he told Elias:
“I should’ve asked more.”
Elias read Clara’s transcription.
Then wrote:
You gave me home.
The uncle cried.
That was enough.
At twenty years of marriage, old ear pain returned during a winter storm.
Elias woke pale.
Clara’s body reacted before her mind.
Copper.
Blood.
Fireplace.
Tweezers.
She insisted on a doctor.
Elias protested.
She ignored him.
At Silver Junction, the physician found no foreign material.
Only scar tissue inflamed by cold.
On the ride home Elias wrote:
YOU WORRY TOO MUCH.
Clara answered:
YOU NEARLY DIED BECAUSE EVERYONE TOLD YOU PAIN WAS NORMAL. I WILL WORRY EXACT AMOUNT I PLEASE.
Elias read.
Folded the paper.
Put it inside his coat.
Years later Clara found that note preserved among his most important things.
Love sometimes looked ridiculous after enough time.
Not flowers.
Not poetry.
A medical argument.
A warning about ice.
A grocery list with COFFEE underlined three times because Elias once forgot.
A note saying:
North gate broken. Don’t trust bull.
Clara began keeping those.
Not all.
Enough.
When their daughter turned eighteen, she wanted to study medicine.
The nearest program accepting women was far away.
Elias opposed it immediately.
Not because she was a woman.
Because she would leave.
He offered practical objections.
Money.
Travel.
Safety.
Housing.
Clara listened.
Then asked:
“Are those really the reasons?”
Elias looked offended.
She waited.
His shoulders dropped.
He signed:
FAR.
Clara nodded.
“There.”
Elias glared.
She continued.
“You’re afraid she won’t come back.”
He signed:
SHE MAY NOT.
Clara smiled sadly.
“That is true.”
Elias looked toward the window.
Their daughter was outside saddling a horse.
He signed:
I HATE TRUE.
Clara laughed.
“So did my father.”
Elias looked at her sharply.
She softened.
“I’m not saying you are him.”
Then:
“I’m saying fear can make good people build fences.”
Elias looked toward his daughter.
Long silence.
The next morning he gave her money for tuition.