The Enchanted Life of Adam Hope - By Rhonda Riley Page 0,100

Jennie was doing in heaven, debating the merits of celestial activities as they collected things to take to the grave—a pretty ribbon, a dead butterfly, stale cookies.

Gracie, more womanly each day, bounced back and forth between a brooding darkness that cut her off from us and a tender solicitousness toward all her sisters. Every time she was alone with me, she told me of her dreams of Jennie.

Rosie, still a stick of a tomboy at thirteen, threw herself into school and the horses. Seldom mentioning Jennie directly, she talked constantly of college, never able to make up her mind if she should become a doctor or veterinarian. In spite of her efforts and interests, her grades flagged. Lack of concentration, her teachers said.

One afternoon, as I carried a basket of folded laundry down the hall, I passed Gracie and Rosie’s room and heard Gracie say, “It’ll be okay. They’ll never know. I can fix it. See?”

Rosie answered her, “I don’t want to. I bet nobody’s asking him to put makeup on.”

“You want Momma and Daddy to know?”

There was a pause.

“Okay, okay. Go ahead.” Rosie sighed.

I made certain to be nearby when they came out of the room. Rosie had a thick swatch of makeup above her left eye, awkwardly blended into her hairline. I pretended I hadn’t seen it.

We made it through supper without comment. Adam didn’t notice. The scrape across her hand wasn’t worth a comment. Minor injuries were part of the stables for her.

Later that evening, when I heard Rosie get out of the shower, I went into the bathroom. She tried to turn her face away, feigning sudden interest in drying her feet. But I waited until she sighed and turned to face me. The bruise on her face was bright blue, an ugly shiner, but there wasn’t much swelling, and her eyes were clear. Another bruise darkened her shoulder.

“Gracie made me put the makeup on,” she said.

“Put ice on it when you go to bed. It’ll keep it from swelling.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And no more fights. Ignore what people say.”

“I couldn’t just stand there and let him say things about Daddy.”

“What did he say?”

Her eyes darted around the bathroom.

“Tell me, Rosie.”

“He said that Daddy hurt his momma. He claimed Daddy had to be ‘of the devil’ to hurt people while they were in church. He wouldn’t shut up.” Tears filled her eyes.

I put my arms around her and discovered that she had to bend slightly to lay her head on my shoulder. I remembered John Thompson’s car veering toward the telephone pole after Addie spoke to him. “Be careful, Rosie. We don’t need anything else to deal with right now.”

She stiffened in my arms, broke our embrace. “I don’t like people looking at us like that.” Her voice hardened.

I touched her forehead, under the bruise. I felt as lacking in explanations as A. had been when he first arrived. A tender shame filled me; I had nothing to offer her. I could see no way to translate what I knew of her father into something her young hands could hold. Solemnly, she watched me as I lifted her hand to kiss her scraped knuckles.

“And the boy, how does he look?” I asked.

“Worse.” She smiled.

I couldn’t help myself. I smiled back.

I heard Rosie and Gracie in the bathroom later. Every morning, until the bruise dimmed to a barely visible yellow, Gracie covered it up, saving face.

After her bruises were gone, Rosie stayed constantly by Adam’s side in the stable or on horseback. I wondered how Adam’s dark grief might alter her affection for him. Part of her, I’m sure, yearned to ride away from the weight of familial grief and love.

Adam, I left to himself. I had little choice. Jennie’s death had sharpened something in him and, to be honest, in me, too. We did not argue or have any direct conflicts, but contact seemed to involve small, invisible cuts. Each was not too painful, but the accumulation stung.

And so we all continued. We did our work. The girls finished the school year. The alfalfa and the garden came in well.

Several times after the funeral, Marge had called to see how we were doing and tell me little bits of Clarion gossip. Her voice had the slightly hushed tones of taboo violation and genuine concern, but she never mentioned the Sunday night gathering of musicians at her and Freddie’s house. And she never referred directly to Adam.

He hadn’t played his fiddle or his guitar since the funeral. One day