A Good Idea After All
Adam chuckled as he reined his chestnut to an easy gait. In the distance, the sight of the rich yellow and red blossoms summoned a gentle, familiar voice from the depths of his memory. The lilting shades of the voice coupled with the budding rose bushes conjured a picture in his mind, and he smiled as the plump cheeks and dazzling blue eyes of his younger brother, Hoss, flashed across his vision. His smile broadened along with the once forgotten scene, and he laughed quietly as he recalled the little boy perched on his knees, his trousers rolled to the bottoms of his thighs, his hands and arms caked with fertile, Ponderosa soil . . .
"Another scoop, please, chérie," she'd said as she waited patiently for Hoss to comply. "Doucement, mon petit," she'd reminded the young boy. "Gently."
With his tongue wiggling against the insides of his cheeks, Hoss had mustered all the precision his five-year-old hands could manage as he gathered a mound of freshly dug soil, cradled it in his palms, and lifted it toward the moat surrounding the plant's exposed roots. "Yessim," he replied, his eyes never wavering from the task at hand . . .
The bushes they'd planted on the east side of the ranch house that warm, June afternoon some four years ago had flourished in the lush soil and blossomed under the vigilant, tender care of both Marie and Hoss. And today, as Adam drew nearer to his destination, he delighted in the profusion of color and the scent of the sweet roses that he and his father had planted on either side of Marie's headstone. His smile cowered, giving way to the wealth of bittersweet memories and often asked what-ifs that had plagued his father, Hoss, and himself since Marie's untimely death just one year ago. Adam stopped a respectable distance from the grave, and after securing his mount, he leaned his forearms heavily against the sun-warmed, hand-woven Indian blanket extending from beneath his saddle. He rested his forehead between his hands, closed his eyes, and struggled to compose his thoughts. His horse shifted and Adam raised his head, lifting his face toward the caressing heat of the sun.
Bird song sparked his attention, but the sound, though pleasant and bright, failed to tempt him, even momentarily, from the undertaking he'd felt both obliged and privileged to perform. With reverence befitting the setting, Adam removed his hat and slowly approached the tall, marble stone. Standing stiffly, his hat hanging in both hands at his knees, Adam bowed his head, his mind void of memories, his eyes drifting quickly into a haunting stare. Without direction, his right hand wandered to the bridge of his nose, and he clenched his eyes as he drew in a deep, determined breath.
"I don't know how to do this," he admitted aloud, his hand slipping to the side of his neck. "Maybe it was a mistake to come here."
A gentle breeze skidded through the thick blades of lilting grass and whistled softly between the needles of the pines. The shrill cry of a mountain bluebird captured his fancy, and Adam craned his neck, still rubbing against the tension beneath his fingertips as he searched the tree tops, eventually spotting the elusive bird.
"Your favorite," he whispered, grinning into the nearly blinding sunshine as the bird took flight and disappeared into the forest, "and his, too." Adam sat alongside the grave, crossing his legs and perching his hat atop his left knee. He swallowed, his suddenly parched mouth providing no relief to the expanding lump forming in his throat. "I'm not so good at this," he admitted, staring blindly at the tall, etched stone. "I came up here to . . . What I mean to say is, I rode here today to . . . Well, I was hoping you'd be able to hear . . ." Adam clenched his eyes against the emotional wave rolling upward from inside. He wiped his hands back and forth along his thighs, forcing his breathing to follow their rhythm. "If you can hear me," he continued, "and Pa says you can, well, you know today's Little Joe's birthday. He's five and . . . Well, you would know that, but what I mean to say is . . . It's his first birthday without . . . without you, Marie. And I came here to tell you, in case you can only see us from here and not at the house like Pa says you can . . . Well, I wanted you to know that Little Joe is all right."
The call of the bluebird echoed in the trees and when his potential mates replied and a noisy conversation ensued, Adam gladly took the respite he'd been offered. Leaning forward, he yanked sharply at several tufts of overgrown weeds, tossing the undesirables across the way. Moments later, when the bittercress and catchweed had been removed and the birds had traveled beyond earshot, Adam steeled himself to finish what he'd set out to do.
"For a long time, Little Joe would ask for you, Marie. He cried a lot, 'cause he's too little to understand about . . . well, about dying. But he doesn't cry anymore, and now, when he asks about you or hears Hoss or me talking, he runs on those short little legs of his and gets your picture and holds it while we talk. We won't let him forget you, Marie, I promise. We tell him stories about you all the time. Like the time the four of us were playing hide and seek and Hoss and Joe hid so good, I mean so well, that we couldn't find them and they both fell asleep in the hen house where they were hiding!" Adam chuckled as he remembered finding chicken feathers in Hoss's trouser pockets a whole month later. "Oh, and Hoss is all right, too. He still misses you. A lot. It's not 'cause he loves you more than Little Joe does, but because he's older and remembers more and well, Hoss doesn't know that I know, but he still cries sometimes, late at night. I think he does it then 'cause he doesn't want Pa to know he's sad."
Adam jerked, dropped his shoulders, and sighed.
"Dadburnit," he whispered angrily. "I got kinda excited, telling you about Little Joe and Hoss and all, and I . . . I hadn't planned on telling you about Pa." Adam roughly snatched a handful of grass letting the silky strands trickle through his fingers. "Pa misses you," he said. "But if you can see us at the house, then you already know that. Sometimes, when everyone is supposed to be asleep, I hear him get up and go into Little Joe's room. I'm not sure what he does in there, but I can guess, 'cause sometimes, he does it during the day when Joe's napping. Pa just sits there next to Joe's bed and watches him. I think I know why, 'cause one day when Pa was in town, I tried it, just to see what Pa was looking at." Adam coughed, fighting the mounting swelling in his throat. He inhaled and exhaled, shaking his head at the stinging in his eyes. "I saw what Pa sees. Sometimes, the way Joe's mouth curves and the way his nose scrunches, well . . . it's you. I guess that's why Pa sneaks into his room sometimes. To see you."
The chestnut nickered, pawing restlessly at the ground. Adam reached into his jacket pocket, carefully removing the pocket watch that Marie and his father had given him on the occasion of his last birthday.
"I'd best be getting back now," he said, brushing the loose soil from his trousers as he stood. "Hop Sing is making all of Little Joe's favorites for his birthday dinner. And there's going to be chocolate cake, too. Hop Sing asked Little Joe what kind to make, and he let Hoss pick, and chocolate is . . . well, you know. Little Joe is a handful most of the time, but the kid does nice things like that all the time." Adam laid his hand across the top of the cold marble. "Well, I'd best be leaving now. I just wanted you to know that Little Joe is okay. And Hoss. And . . . and me. And Pa, well, we'll take care of him, and he'll be all right, too."
Adam walked the short distance to his horse, slapped his hat atop his head, grabbed the reins, and swung himself into the saddle. He tipped the brim of his hat and smiled. "I'll be back soon, and next time, I'll bring Hoss and Little Joe. And maybe even Pa." He spurred his horse to a slow trot until he was a respectable distance from the grave. As the Adam sped toward home, he smiled. "Guess it was a good idea after all."