Tending to Grace by Kimberly Newton Fusco Page B

like the way it fills me.

54
    I’m measuring whole wheat flour into the bread bowl, trying not to put in seven scoops of flour rather than six, when the screen door slams with a bang.
    â€œCorney.” Bo hurries into the kitchen, her pants soaked, mud up her arms and across her cheeks. “I need another frog. The race is tomorrow.”
    â€œWh-wh-what happened to the other one?”
    â€œMy brother let it go. I been down the creek for an hour, but I can’t catch anything. I need you to help me get one.” She drops her canvas sack on the floor.
    I look up at the clock. If I want this heavy whole wheat flour to rise, I have to knead it for a full ten minutes. I plunge my arms deep into the dough, pushing it down into a pancake, folding it back on itself, and punching it down.
    â€œI n-n-n-never caught a fr-fr-frog before, Bo.”
    â€œBut with two of us, maybe we could trap one. You promised you’d go to the race with me.”
    I put the dough into a bowl, spread a towel across the top, and set it on the counter in the sun.
    â€œI know,” I say, wiping my hands on a towel.“But I didn’t promise I’d c-c-c-catch a frog.”

55
    Over and over, I run through the water toward Bo and watch a frog jump almost close enough for her to catch in her outstretched arms.
    The water is cold. My waterlogged overalls weigh me down, my body a heavy barrel I pull through the water. A frog jumps close to Bo and this time she dives for it. When she stands, black mud from the bottom of the pond covers her face and plasters her hair.
    â€œB-b-b-bo, this isn’t working at all.” Mosquitoes bite my neck. Each time I swat at them, I leave a muddy handprint behind.
    â€œMaybe not. Let’s go around the other side. Come on.”
    We scramble along the edge of the pond and across the brook where the water enters. Blueberries hang so low at the edge they bob like marbles on the water.
    I see a frog close to me this time and I spring, grabbing the air and landing facedown in the mud. When I stand up, Bo laughs.
    â€œIs that the way you do it in the city?” she asks. “Leapfrog? You’re not supposed to eat the mud.” She laughs so hard I’m sure she’s going to pee her pants. I try to wipe my face with my wet sleeve.
    A car slows and stops. Bo splashes around the blueberry bushes and doesn’t hear. A man walks up to the crest of the hill and looks down at us. I can tell the moment he sees her.
    â€œBo!”
    She looks up at him, her hair hanging in wet strings. “Pa!”
    â€œI never said you could come here,” he says, rushing down the bank and wading toward us. “You expect us to do all your work?”
    I don’t know why he hasn’t seen me. I am standing in a shadow; maybe I am a shadow. But when I take a step forward, he jumps. “Who the hell are you?”
    I recognize him as soon as he speaks. He’s the man from the bank.
    â€œWe were just catching frogs, Pa. That’s all. I finished all my chores before I came.”
    He hasn’t taken his eyes off me. “Who’s this?”
    I take a deep breath. “C-c-c-c ...” Then I stop, unable to go on. I might be standing knee-deep in water, but my face sparks. He reaches for Bo’s arm, misses, and wades closer. He looks at me without blinking.
    â€œWho are you?”
    â€œCor-cor-cor . . .” I stop and start again. “C-c-c-cornelia.”
    He recognizes me; I can see it in his eyes. Then he looks away.
    â€œDimwit,” he says, half under his breath. He drags Bo out of the water, up the hill, and into the car. I sink to a rock and reach up to wipe the mud from my face.

56
    I carry a frog into Agatha’s kitchen a couple of hours later. It squirms so much I keep tightening my fingers around its slender body. It is half the size of the one Bo caught a few days ago. But it is alive and green. I can attest to the fact that it hops