The Enchanted Life of Adam Hope - By Rhonda Riley Page 0,22

the cows. Becky turned in her stall to face him.

For the first time, he seemed oblivious to my presence. Solemnly, he studied the cow, running his hands along her back and shoulders. Then he went to her ears and face. The cows, particularly, were not patient when waiting to be fed, but they were quiet as he went to them one by one. Without complaint, they let him touch them—hooves, tail, ears, and muzzle. I moved closer with the lantern. The planes of his face reminded me of my mother’s family.

An expression of complete absorption and concentration filled his face. The sound of rain pelting the roof dominated, but I felt a steady, barely audible drone beneath it. Becky snorted softly, straining toward him, and he went to her. He lifted his face and shut his eyes. She rubbed her head against his, sniffing him loudly.

He moved into shadows as he circled Becky. Then he reappeared and gently combed his hands through her mane. He sighed deeply, then stepped back, smiled at me, and opened his hands. The barn fell completely still and I realized that the humming drone had ceased. “Show me how,” he said.

I did. We fed, watered, shoveled, and combed. His study of the cows and Becky seemed to have sobered him, but when we got to the milking, he grew more excited. He squatted beside me, so close he could have suckled the cow. When the first squirt of milk hit the bucket, he squawked and rolled back onto his heels.

“It’s just milk,” I said.

“Milk!” His mouth hung open in surprise. He leaned back and eyed the cow respectfully. Just then one of the other cows farted loudly. Still open-mouthed, he swirled toward the second cow, then glanced quizzically at me. I started laughing and could not stop. I giggled and guffawed in waves until I cried. All the strangeness of the last days uncoiled from my diaphragm.

He just watched me, a patient smile on his face. Clearly, I was a benign, interesting idiot.

When I finally stopped laughing and wiped my eyes, he sat up straight, cocked his head, and said, “You okay?” He touched a tear on my cheek.

“Great,” I said.

He held his hands out as if ready to take over the milking. I showed him how to hold the udders. I wrapped my hands around his so he could feel the pressure as I pulled and squeezed. His hands were warm and the same size as mine. When I let go, he continued the milking. He was a quick study.

On the way back from the barn, the downpour soaked us. Lester’s old clothes hung bedraggled on him. I offered him a shirt of mine. As he changed, I saw that he had a heaviness in his hairless chest, his nipples were puffy, the way some boys are as they change into men. Maybe I had overestimated his age. He did not need any help with the shirt. I scooted out the door when he started taking his pants off, which he did without bothering to turn from me.

In the evening, the rain continued washing over the house. I taught him how to make corn bread. While it baked, I prepared the beans and ham. He stood at the big kitchen window, peering out one side and then the other, taking in as much of the view as he could and giving me a rare chance to watch him unobserved. Beyond him, the horizon was dark and cloud-banked. The way he lifted his chin and swiveled his head—I’d seen my mother do that, her hand on the sill like that as she surveyed her backyard.

He looked healthy and good. He could have been one of the boys from town, his facial features still a little fuzzy in some way I couldn’t put my finger on, but very normal. A little feminine. His skin was now as smooth as mine. No sign of a beard. No sign at all that he had ever looked so strange.

He was like the cicada expanding into itself—a normal face and skin emerging from his muddy, ugly surface. My anxiety about his unnatural transformation still rested under my diaphragm. But I felt the same sense of privilege studying him as I had when I watched the cicada.

At the dinner table, he saw me observing him and put his fork down to look back at me. I had no doubt anymore: he was not foreign at all. He smiled. Lord, he had