Loyal grimaced and looked at his father, who was staring down at the table in front of him. Delphy could see the longing in the boy’s eyes—could see how badly he wanted his father to stay with them. He tapped Creed’s arm and, when he looked up, signed, You stay with his eyebrows high and a hopeful look.
Creed furrowed his brow, then his expression cleared. He pointed at himself and made the sign for “stay” with a question in his own eyes. Loyal nodded, rising from his seat with excitement.
“Delphy, I think the boy wants me to stay.”
She frowned. “Did you just use sign?”
“Did I?”
“That was the sign for ‘stay.’ Where did you learn that?”
A slow smile spread across Creed’s face. “Loyal showed me.”
Delphy pressed her lips into a thin line. She did not want to let her anger go, and yet it was good to see this man she still loved in spite of herself making an effort to connect with his son. “Well, that’s a start.” She looked from man to boy, opened her mouth, then closed it again. She sighed. “Stay if you want to.”
Loyal clapped his hands, and she made a shooing motion—one he didn’t need to know sign to understand. It was bedtime, and she’d had all she could stand for one evening. Loyal kissed her cheek and then kissed Creed’s, as well. Delphy could tell the gesture had taken them all by surprise. But then what was one more surprise in a day like this one?
Creed wanted to press his fingers to the spot where his son had pressed his lips, but didn’t dare while Delphy watched so closely. Something had shifted in his world today. His son had come to him for help. And then they’d communicated. Not just with lip-reading and words scratched in the dirt, but with Loyal’s own language. Before today, Creed hadn’t given much thought to the fact that there were other people in the world who used that language. It wasn’t just something Loyal made up. He watched Delphy, her back stiff as she tidied up the kitchen, knowing he wasn’t welcome here. Eventually, he headed up the stairs to his son’s room. Loyal, brown hair spiky from a quick wash, had changed into striped cotton pajamas and was about to climb into bed. He must have sensed someone coming, because he turned and raised his eyebrows.
Creed froze. He felt ridiculous. But no, it had been good to use his son’s language. He spoke carefully, shaping the words with his lips. “Show me your name.”
Loyal frowned. He pointed at himself, then stuck out the first two fingers on each hand and brought the right-hand fingers down on the left all while looking a question.
“Does that mean name?” Creed repeated the motion and pointed at his son. “Show me.”
The boy’s face lit up like Christmas morning. He began moving his right hand much too fast for Creed to follow.
“Whoa there. Slow down and show me again.”
Loyal nodded, taking a deep breath. He slowly moved his fingers into a series of shapes, most of which Creed saw looked like the letters of his son’s name—especially the L. Creed tried it, and Loyal made a sort of clicking sound. Creed figured that meant he was pleased. He did it several times until he was sure he could remember. He licked his lips, trying not to feel foolish. Pointing at himself, he made the correct sign with both hands again while saying, “Now show me my name.”
Loyal crowed, and Creed flinched, then managed to smile and laugh a little. “Guess you like that,” he said.
Loyal nodded and grabbed his father’s hand. He began to move it into shapes that again made sense except for the r. He couldn’t think why twisting his index and middle finger together made an r. He repeated the motions until Loyal seemed satisfied with his performance. He thought to ask how to shape Delphy but decided not to.
“That’s enough for tonight,” he said. Loyal smiled and slid between the bedsheets. Creed reached out and smoothed the boy’s hair where a cowlick made it stick up in back. It felt good, being with his son at bedtime. He swallowed hard and turned, pressing the button for the electric light as he moved past the door. He heard Loyal sigh and rustle under the covers. He paused to listen, marveling at the gift of being able to hear, as well as the gift of being able to communicate with someone who couldn’t.
He eased down the stairs, noticing every creak and groan of the old wood, along with the sigh of the wind outside an open window and even a voice somewhere down the street. Sounds of Delphy finishing her chores came to him as well, and he realized that it all made a melody he hadn’t listened for in far too many years.
Stepping into the kitchen, he had the urge to take his wife in his arms but stopped himself. He doubted she would welcome his embrace. Not after the tensions of the day. Not to mention the years. He drew nearer and heard another sound—a gulp and a sniffle.
“Are you crying?”
She swiped at her eye with the back of her wrist. “I am, and I don’t expect you to do a thing about it, so don’t let it worry you.” She wrung out her dishrag and hung it on a hook. “You know he disobeyed me by going to the river. He should never have been there in the first place. And then when he got into trouble, who did he go to? His father.” She turned away from him and snatched up a basket of laundry, folding shirts and britches like they’d done her wrong.
Creed stepped closer and grasped her wrist, stilling her angry motions. “I’m sorry.”
She snorted, but it sounded weak. “Sorry for what?”
“Everything.”
She jerked away and picked the basket up, holding it between them like a shield. “Well, that’s not enough,” she said and marched toward the stairs. “You’re welcome to sleep on the sofa. I’m sure Loyal will be glad to see you in the morning.” She snapped off the lights as she went until Creed was left alone in the dark, keenly aware of the soft sounds of the house settling . . . and his wife weeping.
He knew he’d handled himself all wrong. He’d been so excited by his sudden connection with his son that he’d thought all sorts of past hurts were on the mend. He flopped down on the sofa and worked his boots off, then flipped an embroidered pillow over so he wouldn’t risk getting the needlework dirty. Settling back, he stared at the ceiling trying to think what he needed to do to fix his family.
Then he lifted one hand into the air so he could see his fingers by the shaft of light coming through the front window and shaped his son’s name over and over until sleep swept him away.
four
When Loyal woke, he wanted to rush downstairs to make sure Father was still there, but as he swung his feet to the floor, he saw the comb he’d left on his bedside table. He picked it up and examined it more closely. It was a swirly brown color with gold in it, and there were flowers carved along the top edge. He’d seen his mother wear combs to keep her hair back and out of her face. He flipped the comb over and noticed an R and a W scratched into its back. For Rebecca Westfall? Was this proof that she’d been there when the stranger was shot and killed?
Loyal slowly moved around his room, folding his pajamas and getting dressed. He’d planned to show his father the comb and tell him about seeing the Westfall kids. But the more he thought about it, the more he was afraid he’d get them in trouble. He didn’t mind so much about Michael, but he liked Rebecca. Finally, he dug out a pair of itchy wool socks, pushed the comb into the toe of one, and buried them in the back of a bureau drawer. Maybe, if Father stuck around, Loyal would ask him what to do. For now, though, he’d keep the comb to himself.