The Enchanted Life of Adam Hope

by Rhonda Riley

  The four girls stared in through the driver’s-side window. Their faces came apart in recognition. I heard heavy footsteps, and Frank peered in my window.

  Adam roared.

  He leapt out of the truck. In one motion, he grabbed Frank by the throat and threw him. Frank bounced against the stable wall. Adam yanked him up again by his throat, Jennie’s blood on both of them now. Frank’s feet dangled inches from the ground. Purple-faced, he clawed at Adam’s hands.

  “Daddy!” Sarah rushed Adam.

  Adam’s shoulders crumpled and he let go. Frank scrambled toward the driveway and ran as Adam sunk to his knees.

  Lil stood at the open door of the truck, staring at Jennie, her face equally white. I took her head in my hands and forced her to look away. She turned to me, open-mouthed with horror. I pressed her against my chest. I could not save her from what she saw.

  Chaos enveloped the silence at the center of that day. Momma and Daddy arrived as the coroner drove up. Someone—I never found out who—moved the tractor, covered the blood, and cleaned the truck.

  The girls vacillated between inconsolable silence and bursts of weeping. Adam stared at the floor, looking up only when one of the girls approached him. Then, he held them, his face vacant. Through my tears, his features had that same not-quite-held-together look that the girls all had when they were born.

  That night, Sarah and Lil were already in the bed with me and Adam when we heard crying. “Is that Gracie or Rose?” Adam asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  He left the bed and came back with both of them. We slept, the six of us in a dense tangle, as if in the crowding we would not miss the one who was gone.

  I woke more than once in the middle of that night, rising to the surface of consciousness and then falling back into oblivion. Near dawn, I surfaced a final time, forgetting for a moment and basking in the familiarity of the touch and smell of my family. Legs, elbows, breath, and hair. I reached down and touched someone’s leg. Warm, youthfully smooth skin. One of the girls sighed and shifted. One by one we all moved, each reacting and adjusting to the others in a ripple across the bed.

  Then I woke fully and remembered why we were all there. The questions crushed into my chest: Why hadn’t I called her away from the tractor? Why had I turned back to the sheets? To the meaningless push of cloth over a wire line?

  Everything broke up into pieces. The days after Jennie died were a series of faces; among them, Adam’s face always dead-still and faraway or completely naked and mobile in his cries. I’d never, and have never since, seen a man weep so. It wrenched me, and all who saw him. Most men looked away or offered him whiskey. A few bear-hugged him as if to squeeze out his grief. The women touched him, offering him food and handkerchiefs. To me, his skin was hot, searing.

  And the girls, their faces wide-eyed, were stricken with sorrow one minute, then lapsing into their ordinary expressions the next. Lil, particularly, seemed lost. I could not protect them, could not soften or mitigate anything. I could only hold them close.

  Every time I sat down, Sarah, who was only six years old and otherwise seemed to be enjoying the attention and commotion, crawled into my lap and silently sucked her thumb, something she had not done since she was a toddler. Momma seemed to be everywhere. She answered the phone. She laid out the bowls of food brought in by neighbors.

  I pressed my jaw firmly shut and did not scream or vomit. I touched my daughters and my husband when they were near.

  The field waited for the alfalfa seed. The horses leaned out the open stable windows and watched with curiosity as the yard filled with cars and the house filled with the faces of Clarion.

  For two days before the funeral, everyone we knew passed through our home. The faces of mothers and fathers who had lost children were the hardest and the easiest to look into.

  When people gather after a death, they usually discuss the dead—youthful adventures, funny stories, the arc of an illness or a life. They may recall similar deaths. It is a macabre yet humane thing to do. We keep ourselves from drowning by offering each other small cups of water.

  None of the regular condolences applied. No one could say that it was a blessing, that her pain or suffering had ended. No one could say she’d had a long, good life and it was just her time. Many did credit the Lord’s will. Adam flinched every time he heard that.

  The second night, I stood in front of the open refrigerator, mindless before the gleaming bowls of food wrapped in shiny aluminum foil, the butter dish in my hand. Momma took it out of my hands and wedged it into a bottom shelf.

  “Momma, why do we do the things we do? Why? I could have called her when I saw her near the field. I know Frank drinks.”

  “It’s not your fault, Evelyn. Everyone has Frank fixing their cars and everyone knows he drinks. He’s dented up cars, but never anything like this. No one could have foreseen this.”

  “But I did see, Momma. I saw her go over and speak to Frank. I was right there. I thought she was safe. What was he thinking trying to give her a ride on the tractor? I went back to the laundry. If I had just . . .”

  Momma shook me by the shoulders and made me look at her. “Evelyn, you cannot think that again. Your girls have been near the tractor, the disk, and Frank before and nothing ever happened. But sometimes terrible things occur. The Lord has mysterious ways we can’t understand.”

  I looked away and, shaking my head, wept.

  The night before the funeral, Momma stayed at the house after everyone left. She’d tucked the girls in and had, I thought, turned in for the night. But when I returned from my bath, I found her in our bedroom, kneeling in front of Adam, who sat on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees. She held his face in her hands, directing his gaze at her, just as Granny Paynes had held mine when I gave birth.

  “We may not understand how this could be, but it did happen. It was the Lord’s will and we have to accept it.”

  “You can have the will of your Lord then,” he growled.

  She let her hands fall from his face. “You have four other daughters. They will need you. Bitterness will do them no good. Frank Roe is a stupid, indecent man who drinks too much.”

  “I don’t want Frank at the funeral. I don’t want to see him, ever again.” His voice fell ragged and soft.

  “Ever, I can’t take care of. But the funeral I can. He will not be there and none will begrudge you.”

  As we drove to the church, past the familiar homes and hills, the sky hung high and clear above us. The spring-bright fields and woods seemed to mock us with their greenery. I remembered being a child under such fresh canopy, alone in the woods. I longed to be there again, feral, unaware of my solitude, untouched by grief.

  We walked into the church for the funeral service, down the aisle of faces turned toward us. Hands touched us. Comforting whispers broke around us. Hours, it seemed, we sat on that hard pew with Jennie laid out in front of us. Stands of flowers were propped up on either side of the pulpit and her coffin. The odor of chrysanthemums thickened the air.

  Only numbness kept me from screaming. Sorrow and confusion came off the girls like smoke, their innocence burning away. Beside me, Adam, with Sarah curled almost fetal in his lap, vibrated. I kept my hand on his leg, not to comfort him but to press down what I felt rising in him, something sharp and dense. I pressed harder and harder till finally he reached under Sarah and took my hand in his. We will make it through this day, I thought.

  At last, the service ended, Reverend Paul finished up, and we stood for a final hymn. My throat closed on the notes. Beside me, Adam stood with Sarah in his arms, his lips pressed shut.

  Our friends and neighbors lined up to pay their final respects. The immediate family would be last. As Momma passed by us, she reached over Sarah’s head to touch my arm. For a second, I met her eyes. My family began to file slowly past the coffin. Momma paused and laid her hand over Jennie’s until Daddy whispered, “Come on, Lily Mae,” and steered her away. Adam, the girl
s, and I stepped up to the coffin.

  Jennie looked the same—the same perfect child she had been alive, but so still. Completely still.

  The girls clutched at me and Adam. The rest of the congregation filled the aisles. Stragglers spread out in the pews behind us. I heard the low mutter of voices, the shuffle of shoes on wood floorboards.

  Wordless, beside me, Lil stared down at her sister. I took a last, wrenching glance at Jennie and pulled Adam and the girls toward the door. In the press of the girls around me, I felt Adam let go of my hand. The warmth of him gone.

  He turned back to the coffin. His lips parted. I heard that familiar deep sigh and felt the vibration of him, faint and tender, wash toward me. No one else seemed to notice, but the girls exchanged looks.

  Adam’s suit jacket tightened across his back. He gripped the coffin’s edge. The timbre of his voice flattened abruptly into a mournful resonance. Spreading, filling the room.

  My throat clenched. Anchored by the girls, I could not move fast enough.

  “No, Adam. No!” I shouted.

  A loud, plosive sob burst from him. For a heartbeat, the church fell silent. Then, as everyone moved again, leaving Adam to mourn, he took a deep, shuddering breath.

  His voice slashed through the church, all sweetness gone. A new, searing wail. Jagged and dark. A blade. Through wood and bone it cut. Then it held steady, a vise of static and pain crushing my head and chest.

  The girls froze beside me. The hairs on my neck and arms stood up. I pressed my hands to Sarah’s ears.

  Momma squinted over her shoulder, one hand out, shielding herself, the other over her heart. Daddy drew his shoulders up. His step faltered. Glaring at Adam’s back, a man wrapped a protective arm around a child who huddled against him. Beyond them, a woman bent, hugging her swollen, pregnant belly, stepped between two pews, and retched. A baby sobbed, red-faced, its cries drowned by Adam’s.

  Adam reached into the coffin. The instant his hand touched her, a second, harsh wave lashed the room. The floorboards vibrated under my feet.

  The coffin trembled.

  Sarah peeled my hands from her ears. The girls dashed to Adam, hugging his waist and legs. Immediately, his cry softened, shifting higher in tone. It rose higher still, and then, like a hand lifting from us, vanished. The pain in my chest and head released. The air suddenly vacant, benign.

  Gasping coughs filled the church. Dismay rippled through the remaining congregation. A single rush of footsteps, a door shut. Through the open windows, I heard the sound of someone gagging.

  Adam’s hands relaxed. He turned to the girls, touching their heads. His shoulders slumped. He stared, sightless, as the girls took his hands and led him from the coffin.

  I slipped my arm through his and shepherded the girls ahead of us. Everyone, even Momma and Daddy, stepped back. No one offered condolences. No one touched us as we passed. A baby cried, full-throated. Someone moaned. Fear and anger were palpable. Odors of sweat and vomit leached through the air.

  My skin scorched. Sarah reached back and took my hand. Gracie glanced back over her shoulder at me and her father, her chin quivering. I nodded for her to continue. Rosie looked straight ahead and never hesitated. Lil fumbled for her hand. Adam was solid, inert. The eyes of everyone I knew were on us.

  I understood, then. This was more than the end of Jennie’s life.

  The graveside service was brief and very quiet. Few came with us. I didn’t look at any faces other than my daughters’. Words were said, but I did not hear them. Numbly, we witnessed Jennie’s coffin being lowered into the ground.

  At the farm afterward, Mildred and the other churchwomen who’d left the service early to help with the meal, welcomed us somberly. They’d spread the dining table with bowls and trays of food that people had brought by earlier. The chairs had been pulled away from the table so everyone could serve themselves buffet-style. The smell of ham, sweat, and pies filled the room, which felt too quiet.

  Adam sat down in a chair against the wall, his face empty, his hands hanging mute in his lap. The girls gathered around him. Gracie and Rosie seemed to be standing guard, on either side of his chair. Gracie with one hand on his back as she gazed blankly at the floor. Rosie’s eyes darted around the room. Lil and Sarah bunched up between his knees. Adam patted Lil’s head and stroked her long curls as he stared out the window. Her slender hands traced the buttons on his shirt. Sarah bumped against Adam’s thigh and stared vacantly at the food-laden table as she sucked her thumb.

  I stood stupefied in the middle of the room, paralyzed until Sarah took her thumb out of her mouth and waved to me as if I was far away. When I took the few steps that brought me to her side, she patted my hip and fingered the cloth of my skirt.

  Reverend Paul, Momma, Daddy, Joe, Bertie, and Rita stood awkwardly on the far side of the dining room, as if huddled against some contagion, breaking apart only to make way for the bustling churchwomen. One of the women dropped a ladle. Rita startled and gasped, covering her mouth. Her head swiveled in Adam’s direction. Bertie patted her on the back and whispered something to Momma. I understood then that Momma was responsible for all of them being there.

  Joe pulled me into the kitchen. “Bud took his momma home. Mary wasn’t feeling up to . . .” he whispered. His eyes shifted to Adam, then back to me.

  “It’s okay, Joe. I understand.” I forced my voice to a normal volume. I had no idea what to say or how to hold my face.

  Cole trudged into the kitchen from the back porch, holding a huge platter with a whole turkey. His wife, Eloise, close behind with their little daughter, Tina. Their two boys stood patiently, each holding folded metal chairs. Their eldest son, a little younger than Gracie, gave me his normal, self-conscious nod.

  Eloise took the turkey platter from Cole and wedged it onto the table. Cole hugged me. “I am so sorry for your loss, Evelyn.” I bit my lip and nodded, grateful for the simple words and natural embrace. Without hesitation, Cole stepped into the moat of silence surrounding Adam and wordlessly patted his shoulder. Then I realized that Cole and his family must have left the service early, to pick up the food and chairs. I ignored the question on his face as he looked around the nearly empty room. Eloise gave all her attention to carving the turkey. A current of envy went through me. She had a normal husband, an ordinary life.

  Momma waved to the boys. “Thank you for the turkey and the folding chairs.” She turned to the boys. “Y’all take those back outside. We’ll bring them in as we need them.”

  For a moment, the clatter of the chairs being stacked on the porch covered the silence inside the house. The churchwomen hovered nearby, rearranging the food, their voices dropping to puzzled murmurs as it became clear no other people were coming.

  As if on cue, the three younger girls slipped single-file around the islands of adults and disappeared down the hall without a whisper, little blond Tina in the lead, pulling Lil and Sarah behind her. Gracie followed them with her eyes, but did not move. Rosie raised her chin up as if against a strong wind.

  The screen door bumped gently behind me and Freddie walked in. I was nearly faint with gratitude to see his face. A normally aloof man, he let me hug him. I hoped to see Marge with him. Or at least one of the gang from the Sunday picking parties. But no one followed him in.

  “Reverend?” Momma said.

  The room went still. Every head but Adam’s bowed.

  The reverend, his arms raised stiffly, asked for the blessing and forbearance of God. Then the eating began.

  Everyone collected their food from the side of the table opposite Adam. Everyone, even Momma and Daddy, ate standing, holding their plates, talking in strained whispers.

  Gracie filled a plate for Adam. He took it, but did not eat. After a few moments, he leaned over and set the untouched plate back on the table. He did not look up, not even when Freddie walked up to him.

  “Buddy. I’m sorry,” Freddie said.

  All other conversation in the room ceased. Rita grimaced and
scurried out of the room, her heels thumping on the wood floor. Adam turned a blank and brittle face up to Freddie. I fought the impulse to flinch.

  Freddie acknowledged Adam’s silence with a nod.

  Rosie put her hand on Adam’s shoulder. “Thanks for coming by, Freddie.”

  The low murmur of conversation continued around us. Everyone ate and quickly left. With each departure, I felt heavier, as if gravity pulled stronger, as there were fewer of us left in the house.

  Soon, only Momma remained. Daddy had taken her big casserole dish out to the truck and stayed there, smoking. The stunned smile affixed to Momma’s face since the funeral had vanished. She turned around in my empty kitchen, a puzzled, fearful expression on her face, a dishrag limp in her hand.

  “It’s okay, Momma. You can . . .” The word “go” cracked in my throat. I covered my mouth against what I wanted to say: “Please stay and help me.” I froze, frantic to have her stay and wanting her to leave as quickly as possible.

  Her glance bounced around the room, and she pressed her lips together in a shallow, tight smile. She nodded, then left.

  I listened to their truck pull away. Immediately, I wanted the girls and Adam. I spun around, suddenly aware that I didn’t know where they were. I ran from room to room. Panic flushed through me and I sprinted through the house again, convinced suddenly that death had taken not one but all of them. I ran to the front porch, calling their names. Nothing. Then the back porch. A flash of white among the woods that flanked the fields caught my eye.

  Beyond the apple tree and the twins’ playhouse, in a small clearing of the trees, Adam squatted, his back to me. The girls, quietly pressed around him, did not see me.

  I passed the spot where I’d first found Adam and stopped several yards from them. To my right, the field lay still unturned. I felt, then heard, his voice radiate. Loving, sad, and exquisite. Adam extended his arm and touched his fingertips to the middle of Gracie’s chest. Her eyes glistened and grew wide. A tremulous smile crossed her lips.