The Enchanted Life of Adam Hope - By Rhonda Riley Page 0,79

the corral they went, Rosie leaning back against Adam’s chest, her face solemn and attentive.

The time with Rosie and the sorrel was the first time I heard that sudden percussion and command in Adam’s voice. Except for our pleasure in bed, I’d seldom heard his unique voice. Sometimes, usually during a rare, unexpected moment of quiet at the table or when we tucked the girls in for the night, I felt rather than heard a low hum in the room, warm, content, and seemingly without source, like the vibrations of a motor running in another part of the house. Occasionally, at Marge and Freddie’s, Momma’s, or the church, I sensed a subtle shift in the room. I would look at him for confirmation, and he would simply smile back.

Whatever charms Adam had with animals, he had with people, too. Carolina blue-collar folk and farmers in the 1950s and ’60s were not a people inclined to physical contact. But, as it had been with Addie, people liked to touch Adam. Children crawled into his lap.

With women, he had the advantage of an unnatural understanding. They turned toward him when he walked near. Old women smoothed his collar or plucked lint off him as if he were their son. At church suppers, women pressed their fried chicken and beans on him, gratified by his appreciation and the gusto with which he ate. He sucked the juices off the rib bones. He had delivered his own daughters and would go elbow-deep into a mare to deliver a foal, all without flinching. Nothing of the body made him turn away. Not every woman knew all of this about him, but they could all read the musk of it on him.

Most men liked him as much as the women did, slapping him on the back or shaking his hand when they met him. Younger men sparred with him, punching and jabbing in mock fights. A few of the younger husbands seemed uncomfortable near him, stiffening in resolve when he was near, but that ceased as they got to know him.

I still expected someone to sense how truly different he was, to step forward and point a finger. But no one ever seemed to suspect anything. In the crush of our family and daily life, weeks could pass without me thinking of the difference. Except at night in bed. Always then his voice filled me, reminding me of what set him apart. As I listened to the last vibration of it vanish, I did not know him as an ordinary man.

I listened to our daughters, too. At times of contentment, they made soft, purring moans that were endearing but not out of the ordinary. As babies, both had an unusually high-pitched scream that, when they were very upset, rose almost to the limits of human hearing and bounced back painfully from the corners of the room. Gracie rarely got to that point, but Rosie’s tantrums rose straight to the peak volume, especially when Gracie took one of her toys. When this happened, Gracie would quickly return the toy and flee. But for both of them, the power and pitch of that scream seemed to diminish as they grew from toddlers to little girls, and I’d heard nothing that sounded like Adam’s voice.

I looked for other signs, too, examining their bodies for any changes beyond normal growth, indications that their facial features or genitals were slipping out of form. I felt twinges of guilt, as if such inspections showed a lack of gratitude, an affront to Adam’s and their obvious perfections.

I found nothing. They were normal, healthy girls. Beautiful and round-faced. They were slim and muscular, with masses of curly red hair. Within months of birth, their blue eyes changed to shades of green. Except for Rosie’s colic, they had suffered nothing more than a few mild winter colds. They, like their sisters who followed, were preternaturally agile and fast learners, but nothing stood out beyond that. In fact, I could see little of Adam’s—or Roy Hope’s—features in them. They looked like my baby pictures.

One night, after I had put the girls to bed, Adam and I heard the stabled horses neighing in alarm. He ran out with a flashlight to see what had spooked them. I followed in my nightgown, holding Hobo and the new dog, Gabby, back by their collars.

An owl, luminous in the moonlight when Adam opened the stable door, turned its smooth, heart-shaped face toward us. It skipped sideways and fluttered a few