Micah made the call himself, in the morning, with his voice kept low and even. He asked Agnes Whitfield to come to the house, and he did not dress the request up with explanations or apologies on Walter behalf. He said Walter wanted to see her, and he said Walter had something he wanted to say, and he said Agnes should come when she was ready, and take her time on the walk over. Agnes was quiet on the other end of the line for a long moment, and Micah could hear her breathing, and he could hear the small sound of a clock in her house. She said she would come. She did not ask what Walter would say. She did not ask whether she would be welcome. She said she would come, and Micah thanked her, and he put the phone down gently, as if the call itself were a fragile thing.
Agnes arrived in the afternoon, with no flowers and no food and nothing in her hands to hide behind. She wore a plain coat, and her hair was neat, and her face was pale in the way of a person who has not slept well. Micah opened the door, and he stepped back to let her in, and he did not offer small talk. Rosa was in the doorway of the living room, and she nodded once, and Agnes nodded back, and the two women looked at each other for a moment with an honesty that needed no words. The living room was warm and quiet, and the light fell across the rug in a long, soft band. Walter sat in his wheelchair near the window, with the letter board on his lap and the pointer in his left hand. His right side was still and weak, and his face was tired, but his eyes were clear and steady when they found Agnes.
Walter lifted the pointer. His hand shook a little, and then it steadied, and he pointed at the first letter. F. He paused, and his eyes moved across the board, and he pointed at the second letter. O. Agnes watched, and her hands were clasped in front of her, and her knuckles were white. Walter pointed at the third letter. R. The word was forming slowly, and the room seemed to hold its breath with each movement of his hand. G. I. V. E. Rosa read the letters softly, one by one, in a voice that was barely above a whisper, and when the last letter was pointed to, she said the whole word aloud, plainly and gently. Forgive. Agnes closed her eyes, and her shoulders shook once, and she did not speak. Walter lowered the pointer for a moment, and rested, and then he lifted it again.
The second word took longer. Walter pointed at the first letter, and his hand trembled, and he had to start again, and Rosa did not rush him, and Micah did not move from his place by the wall. S. O. M. E. Rosa said the word aloud, in the same soft voice. Some. Walter looked at Agnes, and Agnes looked back at him, and the two words sat between them, complete and honest and without decoration. Forgive some. Not everything. Not all at once. Not a pardon that erased what had happened, and not a lie that pretended the past had not hurt. A part. A beginning. A truth spoken by a man who had to fight for every letter, and who had chosen those letters with care. Agnes understood, and her face crumpled a little, and she did not try to make it into more than it was.
Agnes knelt then, slowly, and she took Walter left hand in both of hers. Her hands were cold, and Walter hand was warm, and the contrast seemed to steady them both. She did not make a speech. She did not explain herself, or ask for more, or promise things she could not keep. She held his hand, and she bowed her head, and she stayed there, kneeling, while the clock ticked and the light moved across the floor. Rosa watched from the doorway, with tears she did not wipe away, and Micah watched from the wall. The moment was small, and it was enough. It needed only the man in the wheelchair, the woman kneeling before him, and the words spelled one finger at a time.
When Agnes stood up, her legs were unsteady, and she held onto the arm of Walter chair for a moment to find her balance. She looked at Rosa, and she looked at Micah, and she nodded, and neither of them spoke. She walked to the door slowly, and Micah opened it for her, and she stepped out into the afternoon light without looking back. The door closed softly behind her, and the house was quiet again, and Walter sat with the letter board still on his lap, and his hand still resting on the pointer. Rosa came and stood beside him, and she put her hand on his shoulder, and Micah came and stood on his other side, and they stayed like that for a long time, saying nothing. Agnes left changed and quiet, and the house kept the change the way a room keeps warmth after a fire has gone out. No grand speech had been made. Only eight letters, and then four more, spelled with patience, and received with grace.
Chapter Nineteen
The Funeral With No Military Honors And One Short Mention Of A Video