Running Barefoot (30 page)

“Was it really so hard to believe?” I slipped off my sandals and stretched my arches, my toes with their pink toenails pointing and flexing in relief.

“Yes.” He clipped, with no embellishment.

“Why?” I almost laughed in disbelief at the tightness in his eyes, the grim set to his mouth.

“Did you always want to work at “Ballow’s Doos?”

I was hurt by the mockery I heard in his voice and didn’t answer him.

His shook his head, and there was frustration in his expelled breath.

“Do you remember Ravel’s
Pavane for a
Dead Princess
?”

I laughed in disbelief. “I can’t keep up with you Samuel!” I cried. “One moment you are being snide about my work, and the next you’re asking me about classical music!”

“Do you remember the piece?” He insisted.

“Yes! But I’m a little surprised that you do!” It was my turn to be snide, and I felt childish in my attempt. “It was a favorite of mine,” I added in a more conciliatory tone. He glowered at me for a minute.

“Come here.” Samuel grabbed my hand tightly, yanking me to my feet. Then he was striding across the grass, pulling me behind him.

“Samuel! My shoes!” I yelped as I tried to keep up with him. As we neared the gravel he swept me up and into his arms, marching across the sharp rocks without a hitch in his step. I sputtered and squeaked, clinging to his neck for purchase. His truck was parked in front of his grandparent’s house across the street about half a block down. I felt ridiculous being carried down the middle of the road. He opened the passenger door to his black Chevy truck, slid me in unceremoniously, and shut the door with a bang.

He climbed in and backed out, gravel spitting up behind us, and roared down the street towards the mountain that jutted up into the sky not a mile from town.

I stared at him in wonder. “Can I ask where we are going without my shoes?”

For once his eyes were not glued to my face, but were fixed intently before him as he began to ascend into the pretty little canyon with the unattractive name we called Chicken Crick.

He didn’t answer me but drove until he found a little turnoff that looked out over the town. The teenagers in the valley regularly used it as a trysting spot. The ledge wasn’t high, and the town lay just below us, surrounded by the patchwork quilt of farmland, softened by the burnished glow of the approaching twilight seeping over the mountains to the west. The big wheeled sprinklers ran in long rows across the gold and green fields, the water from their spray creating little rainbows in the setting sun. Samuel rolled to a stop facing the breathtaking view, and silence flooded the cab of his truck. He sat for a minute, contemplating the rosy splendor before us. He reached over and pushed some of the buttons on his console. I recognized
Pavane for a Dead Princess,
immediately. I should have known. The music spilled out of the speakers, tip-toeing up my arms and legs, raising gooseflesh on my arms. So beautiful, so melancholy, so.... intrusive. I folded my arms across my stomach and held myself tightly. I was intensely grateful when Samuel spoke.

“I think I told you that my Navajo grandfather was a Marine in World War II. He was a code talker. He lied about his age when the recruiter came to the reservation. He had heard about the
special program they were experimenting with, using the Navajo language to create a code that could not be cracked by the Japanese or the Germans. He was only 16-years-old when he signed up, but spoke relatively good English, so he was a shoe-in. The Navajo code talkers actually created the code using Navajo words to describe military operations - like the word for bombs was
a-ye-shi
, which meant eggs in Navajo. The word they used for the United States was
ne-he-mah
, which means ‘our mother.’ They also created a code alphabet by taking an English letter, thinking of an English word that started with that letter, and then using the Navajo word that means the same thing. For instance, ant stood for the letter “A”. The Navajo word for ant is
wol-la-chee.
So the word
wol-la-chee
meant “A” in the code. The word for “B” was
shush
, which meant bear in English. The language of the Navajo was so unique that it just sounded like gibberish to the code crackers.”

“I never knew this!” I said in wonder. I had never heard of the Navajo code talkers.

“The Navajo code talkers were asked to keep quiet about the code, in case it was needed in future wars, so after the war, the American population knew very little about their role in the battles throughout the Pacific.”

“That is fascinating! Your language helped save our country! What an incredible honor!” I had forgotten the pain of the beautiful music, which had changed to ‘Traumerei’ by Schumann.

His mouth turned up slightly as he looked at me, listening to my glowing response. “Yes, it was an honor... I didn’t think so when I was an angry young half-breed. I thought the
belegaana,
the white man, just used my grandfather and other’s like him. Used them, and then spit them back out when they were done - out of sight, out of mind. I asked my grandpa why he was so proud of his service. He told me this country is the country of his forefathers. His ancestors lived here long before the white man - it is our country as much as any man, and we have to defend her. He also said he made many friends among the white marines. He had a
belegaana
bodyguard…someone assigned to him to look out for him and keep him alive, because it was so critical that he not be killed or captured by the enemy. Without the code talkers, there wasn’t a safe way to communicate, and the enemy would have loved to get their hands on one of them and torture them to reveal the code. He said this
belegaana
Marine saved his life over and over again, at risk to his own. That is why I was named Samuel. I was named after Samuel Frances Sutorius, a Marine from the Bronx, who my grandfather could not speak of without weeping.”

Again we sat silent - moved by the story, lulled by the music.

So......your middle name is Frances?” I snickered and pinched him affectionately.

“Yes, Josie
JO
Jensen, it is.”

“Ahhhh,” I moaned theatrically, “You would
wound the small-town girl who longs for a classic name?”

Samuel smiled softly, but his voice was grave when he spoke. “You were never small-town, Josie.” He shook his head to underscore his words. “You always had this light that made you seem like royalty... such an incredible mind, such beauty and humility. You took my breath away, time after time, day after day, on that smelly old school bus.”

The lump in my throat made it impossible for me to speak, and I blinked away the wetness in my eyes. He continued:

“The day of the rainstorm, when you realized it was me, your big blue eyes lit up, and I wanted to swing you around and laugh. I couldn’t wait to talk to you and listen to you, and see what you’d read, and finally hear you play again.”

Samuel stopped talking, and his eyes locked on mine. “But you were so sad ... and I felt the loneliness pouring off you when you put your arms around me - it was as wet as the rain, and I knew you were changed somehow. You were different.

“I was angry with you when I heard that silly music that you listen to while you run. I was angry that you seemed so resistant to the things that had once made you so radiant. And today! There you are, working in that little shop, cutting people’s hair, ignoring your gift! Here in this small town that keeps you hidden . . . a princess acting like a pauper, and I just can’t figure it out.”

My face flushed, and I felt as if I’d been
slapped. “Is that what this is about, Samuel? `Pevane for a Dead Princess!’ So, I’m the dead princess? Am I not good enough for you anymore? Where would you have me go, Samuel? What do you want me to do?” I cried out in wounded disbelief. “I loved music and books partly because I wanted to escape, to leave this town for bigger and better things. But I can’t let my music to take me away from everything I love, everything I have left!”

“So what changed, Josie?!!” Samuel’s voice was as impassioned as my own. “You’ve just turned off the music? . . . You used to say that Beethoven made you feel alive, made the mysteries of God seem attainable. You said you could feel your mother when you listened to your music. Like you knew she was out there somewhere, living on. Has that changed? Don’t you
want
to feel your mother anymore?”

“When I listen to beautiful music, I can’t just feel
my mother
now. I feel other things, too,” I groaned out the words and pressed my hands to my feverish cheeks.

“I don’t understand!” Samuel pulled my hands from my face and pulled my chin up, forcing me to meet his glittering gaze. “Why is that a bad thing?”

“The music makes me feel too much! It makes me long for things I will never have! Don’t you see? The music makes it so much harder to forget.”

“Samuel’s hand dropped from my chin and
understanding washed over his features. “What things? Tell me what things you can never have.”

I didn’t want to share any more. I felt cornered. None of this was any of his business. I was suddenly very tired, and I closed my eyes, refusing to answer him.

Samuel lifted my chin again, waiting until I lifted my eyes to his once more. “So that’s it, you’re just done at twenty-three? What about school? I seem to remember you had big plans to travel the world, playing the piano.”

I twisted my head away, pulling my chin from his hand. He was so…..infuriating! I didn’t remember that side of him. I tried for nonchalant.

“I was set to go. I had a full-ride music scholarship to Brigham Young University.” I had won the Outstanding Musician Scholarship, allotted to one high school senior in the state of Utah each year. I remembered the thrill of winning, of seeing my career as a concert pianist, composing music in my spare time, stretched out before me. The dream was faded now and buried under layers of responsibility.

“And?” Samuel demanded.

“And Kasey died, and then my dad had a stroke.” I started listing things, my voice rising with irritation, frustrated that I had to defend myself. “Then Sonja was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, and I was needed here! Okay?” I threw my hands up in frustration. “I was needed here, so I stayed.”

“I’ve seen you with your family, Josie. You kind of take care of everyone. You’re good at being needed, that’s for sure.”

“”What is that supposed to mean?” I was very angry now.
How dare he?!
“My dad had a major stroke a week before I was supposed to leave for school. I decided to defer my scholarship for a while to take care of him. Dad couldn’t work and someone had to. I did what I had to do. Dad started getting better, but the medical bills had piled up, and he still couldn’t work full time, so I decided to wait a little longer. Then Sonja was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and Doc Grimaldi passed away not long after we put her in a home, and I couldn’t just leave her. Nobody else cared, Samuel. And by then the scholarship was long gone, anyway….” I was babbling, and I forced myself to stop talking. My breathing was haggard, and my throat felt raw with pent up emotion. Samuel was staring out the window, listening, reminiscent of the boy I had once befriended.

There was nothing more to say. Samuel seemed at a loss, and I was drained. After a moment, he started the truck and we backed out, turning sharply onto the road, turning our backs on the grandeur of the gloaming.

When we pulled off onto the gravel outside my house, he slowed to a stop and came around to my door. I had opened it and put one bare foot down on the rocks, curling my toes under to protect my sensitive arch from the sharp gravel. Samuel
gently swung me up in his arms again, cradling me like I was something precious. He walked easily to the grass and set me down carefully. His big hands came up and framed my face, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones in a brief caress. I shivered involuntarily. He searched my face for several heartbeats.

His voice was low as he spoke. “It’s not too late, Josie.” And with that, he withdrew his hands and left me. I remained standing, barefoot in the grass and buried in introspection, until the sky was cloaked in darkness, and the stars blinked back to life.

16. Modulation

Tara blew into the shop like a hurricane one afternoon - pink hair, red lips, flashing smile, hugging everyone and squealing as if she’d been gone for a century, instead of three months. She showed up now and then, got her ‘Mom’ fix, and was gone again in a whirl. She threw herself into my swivel chair and proceeded to tell me everything, down to the last detail, that had happened to her since she’d last seen me. All at once, her eyes narrowed on my face and she pursed her crimson lips in speculation.

“I like your hair.” She said it with such surprise in her voice that I laughed out loud. “No! I do!” She insisted. “Your letting it grow out and the curls are all soft and flow-y.” I had had Louise cut my hair boy short after starting work with her in the shop. It had been so tortured and teased after living through a year of experimentation by Tara, that I had just told Louise to “take it off.” Louise had clucked her tongue the whole time she cut it. She kept asking me, “What were you thinkin’, girl? Lettin’ Tara have her way with your hair?”

I touched the hair that hung past my shoulders self consciously. “I guess it’s just longer. I haven’t
really styled it any special way.”

“Are you dating anybody?” She queried, and then she laughed like she had just told a hilarious joke. “Who would you date? Everybody’s either 16, married, or loooong gone!”