The Enchanted Life of Adam Hope - By Rhonda Riley Page 0,49
myself wandering off into the woods. She drew me into the world of Clarion. Certainly, I would not have gone to Freddie and Marge’s on Sunday evenings without her.
So we lived our daily lives, each being who we were, identical and vastly different. Working together during the day and tangled in each other at night. I felt sinful, but uncertain which was the greater of my sins—lying about Addie or lying with her.
Secrecy might seem to be the ultimate privacy, but in truth it is the antithesis of privacy. A social solitude. Secrets are only necessary when others are present. I was more alone in my secrecy than I had ever been in my actual solitude.
Despite the tensions of secrecy, the time with Addie had a kind of peace to it, an exciting tranquility, like stillness of the first snow—clear, fresh, and new. Only later would I realize how fortunate I was to have that time between being the daughter of my parents and becoming the parent of my daughters.
Still, from the moment I bundled the seemingly formless Addie and carried her in from the cold, I had sensed a tidal wave in the distance, something large approaching, just outside my peripheral vision, impossible to really see but coming nonetheless, large and unstoppable. All I could do was wait, hoping I would hear the far-off rumble of it as it came into sight, hoping that, by then, I would know how to swim or surrender.
My brother, Joe, married his sweetheart, Mary, in the spring of 1949. They had known each other most of their lives—probably knew each other a little too well late that winter of ’48–’49. Their engagement was suspiciously short. At the wedding, Mary cradled a large bouquet of yellow roses at her waist. Joe seemed stunned and not nearly old enough to be doing what he was doing, but happy.
Everyone teased me for letting my little brother beat me to the altar. I reminded folks that he was barely a younger brother, more like a delayed twin, the two of us being born in the same year, me in the first weeks of it, him in the last. That was one race I didn’t mind losing.
Yet the boys were interested—in both of us—and most often approached us in pairs, walking us home from Momma’s or church or inviting us on double dates. But there was no one in particular that either one of us wanted to keep seeing. The men who fought in the war were either shell-shocked or they had an unsettling urgency about them. The boys who had been too young to go to war or had not made it to the action, seemed naive, more boy than man.
All of them took Addie’s direct gaze as an invitation. But they were like house cats stalking a wild turkey, confident and focused at first, then shying away as they got closer and saw that she was not the jay or wren their instincts and abilities were prepared for.
Once some mill-village boys borrowed an old car and drove me and Addie west for a picnic, a rare midday Sunday excursion outside the county and Addie’s first time in the mountains. I saw one of the boys kiss Addie. The heat of jealousy bolted up my gut through my chest and coiled there painfully for the day. That was all that happened, as far as I knew, and Addie seemed no different. New mountain landscape seemed to impress her much more than the kiss did.
Months later, Baby Bud, the first grandchild in the family, arrived only seven months after Joe and Mary’s wedding. Babies often came early then and were, without the benefit of medical intervention, miraculously healthy and well-formed in their premature state.
Thanksgiving dinner at Momma’s house was Baby Bud’s big debut. When I passed through on my way to the bathroom, I found Mary sitting on the bed, her back to the door as she nursed Bud.
“Come here, Evelyn.” She patted the bed. Little Bud had just finished feeding, his eyes rolled back, and his full lips parted, showing the small nursing blister. Mary was still exposed, her big pink nipple flattened and wet.
“Look at him. It’s like there’s a sleeping potion in my milk,” she whispered. “He does this every time, passes right out. Here, hold him. You’re the only one who hasn’t yet. Go on, he won’t bite.”
He felt surprisingly light and warm in my hands. He sighed and squirmed. I felt the strength