Running Barefoot (32 page)

Samuel wore clean Wranglers and a soft chambray shirt rolled to his elbows, exposing his strong forearms. He wore moccasins on his feet, and his short black hair was brushed back from his smooth forehead and prominent cheekbones. He carried a big jug and an even bigger wooden pail. He stopped in front of me, and his eyes swept over my bare toes and upswept hair appreciatively.

“We need music.” He said quietly. I could tell by the speculation in his eyes that he wasn’t certain how I would respond to his request.

“All right.” I replied evenly.

“Debussy.”

“Debussy it is.”

“I’ll be out back.” He turned and walked around the house, not waiting to see if I would do as he said. Samuel had changed in many ways, but he was still a little bossy. I was glad. I walked in the house to find Debussy.

He was sitting in the back yard on the long bench just beneath the kitchen windows when I opened the screen and set the CD player up on the ledge above him. The light from the kitchen spilled out into the rapidly darkening evening and onto his broad shoulders and bowed head. He was cutting into something with a sharp knife, pulling the outer bark-like shell away, exposing a white fibrous root
that looked slick and soapy. Leaning forward, he pulled a big silver bowl from the large wooden pail he’d been carrying. He put the white root into the bowl, picked up the enormous pewter jug he’d been carrying, and poured steamy water over the root. Samuel rubbed the root as if it was a bar of soap, and little bubbles began to form. As the bubbles changed into suds he kept rubbing until the silver bowl was full of thick white lather. Setting the bowl down, he pulled a hand towel and a fat white bath towel out of the wooden pail. He stood from the bench, put the hand towel over his shoulder and laid the bath towel over the bench. Then he turned to me and patted the bench.

“Lie down.”

I had been watching him in fascination, wondering what he was up to. I thought maybe he was going to soak my feet when I saw the big bowl of soapy stuff. I was curious, but I didn’t question him. I arranged my skirt and laid back on the bench. He reached up then and pushed play on the music, flipping through the tracks until he found what he was looking for. He turned the wooden pail over, placed it near my head, and sat on it, using it for a stool. Then, pulling on the towel underneath me, he slid me towards him until my head hung over the edge of the bench and settled in his lap. One by one he pulled the pins out of my hair. His strong fingers ran through my curls, smoothing them over his hands. I belatedly realized that the music that was playing was Debussy’s ‘Girl
with the Flaxen Hair.’

“How very appropriate,” I said softly, the smile apparent in my voice.

“I like it.” He answered easily. “I can’t listen to it without thinking of you.”

“Do you listen to it often?” I asked a little breathlessly.

“Almost every day for ten years,” he answered evenly.

My heart stuttered and stopped, my breath shallow.

He continued quietly as if he hadn’t just confessed something wondrous. “You washed my hair. Now I’m going to wash yours. My Navajo grandmother taught me how to do this. She makes soap from the root of the yucca plant. The root from a young yucca makes the best soap, but the yucca in my Grandma Nettie’s yard was planted many years ago by my father. It’s not indigenous to this area, but when he returned home from his two years on the reservation, he wanted to bring something back with him. I dug up a piece of the root. You have to peel off the outer shell. Then you kind of grind up the white part inside - that is the soap. I wasn’t sure it would lather up, but it did.”

Gently holding my head in the palm of one hand, he reached down and picked up the bowl setting it in his lap that was now covered with the hand towel. He lowered my head into the soapy water, holding it all the while. His other hand smoothed the suds through my hair, the heat
seeping into my scalp, his hand sliding back and forth, pulling my hair through his fist, sinking his fingers deep down to the base of my skull and sliding them back up again. My eyes drifted closed, and my nerve endings tightened. I pulled my knees upward, sliding the soles of my sensitive feet along the rough wooden bench, my toes curling in response to the sweet agony of his hands in my hair.

Samuel continued, the music of his voice as soothing as the warm water. “My grandmother uses the yucca soap to wash the sheep’s wool after she shears it every spring. She says it works better than anything else. Your hair won’t smell like lavender or roses when I’m done - but it’ll be clean. My grandmother says it will give you new energy, too.”

“Your wise grandmother . . . I think about her every time I feed my chickens.”

“Why?” There was a smile in his voice.

“Well, you told me once how she had names for all her sheep, and she had so many! I named the chickens when I was a little girl, after my mother died. Somehow, it made it easier to take care of them if I named them. I gave them names like Peter, Lucy, Edmund, and Susan after the characters in the
Chronicles of Narnia
. But your grandmother named her sheep names like ‘Bushy Rump’ and ‘Face like a Fish,’ and it always made me laugh when I thought about it.”

“Hmm. The names do sound a little more poetic in Navajo,” Samuel replied, chuckling softly. “Sadly, I think ‘Bushy Rump’ and ‘Face like a Fish’
have died, but she has a new one named ‘Face like a Rump’ in honor of both.”

I let out a long peel of laughter, and Samuel’s finger’s tightened in my hair.

“Ahhh, Josie, that sound should be bottled and sold.” He smiled down at me when I looked up at him in surprise.

He looked away and picked up the jug, sloshing the hot water over my hair and into the bowl of suds, starting the process over.

“My mother is the only other person who has ever washed my hair,” I offered drowsily, the slip and slide of his fingers through my hair leaving me loose and relaxed. “It was so long ago. I took for granted how wonderful it feels.”

“You were a child. Of course you took it for granted,” Samuel answered quietly.

“I know why my mother washed my hair,” I said, brave behind my closed eyes, “But why are you washing my hair, Samuel? I’ve washed a lot of people’s hair down at the shop. Not one of them has ever come back and offered to wash mine in return.”

“I’m washing your hair for the same reason your mother probably did.”

“Because my hair is dirty and tangled after playing in the barn?” I teased.

“Because it feels good to take care of you.” His voice was both tender and truthful.

My soul sang. “I’ve taken care of myself for a long time,” I replied quietly, incredibly moved by
the sweetness of his answer.

“I know, and you’re good at it. You’ve taken care of everybody else for a long time, too.”

He let it go at that, and I didn’t pursue the conversation. It took too much energy, and I felt myself lulled by the music, the spell of the night, and his firm hands.

The sound of Debussy’s ‘Reverie’ slid through the inky darkness as the light pooled just beyond us, leaving our faces in shadows. Samuel held my wet tresses in his hand, twisting the thick sections around his fingers tightly, pulling my head back, and arching my throat as he forced the excess water out of my hair. I heard him set the bowl down and felt him stand, still supporting my head in one hand. He drizzled hot water down the soapy lengths, rinsing them over and over, hands combing through my dripping hair until the water ran clear.

Again he wrapped his hands in my hair, twisting and wringing and then swathed my head in the towel he’d laid on his lap. Samuel left me momentarily and straddled the bench below my raised knees. Leaning forward, he grasped my hands and pulled me up towards him until I was sitting, my legs on either side of the bench, my forehead resting on his chest. He took the hand towel and lightly dried my damp curls, kneading my scalp in his hands, blotting the water from my hair. The hand towel fell to the ground as he lifted my face towards his. His hands smoothed my hair back, away from my forehead and cheekbones. My
breath caught in anticipation of a kiss, but instead, he threaded his left hand into my hair once more. Lowering his head, he rubbed his slightly rough cheek back and forth against the silkiness of my own, the heat of his breath tickling my neck. The gesture was so loving, so gentle, and my eyes stayed closed under his simple caress. I held my breath as he ran his lips along my forehead, kissing my closed eyelids. I felt him pull back, and I opened my eyes. His eyes held mine in the dark. I wanted desperately for him to lean in and kiss my lips.

Samuel’s hands framed my face, and he seemed not to breathe for an eternity. Then his palms and fingers traveled lightly down my arms and over my wrists until he held each of my hands in his. Clair de Lune whispered through the breeze and lightly trickled down my skin, creating little rivulets of desire where his hands had just been.

“Do you remember the first time I held your hand?” His voice was thick.

My thoughts were slow and heavy, my mind soft from his ministrations, but after a moment I responded thoughtfully. “It was after we argued about Heathcliffe. You were mad at me . . . You didn’t talk to me for days,” I replied, remembering my hurt and confusion, wanting him to be my friend again. “I wished I hadn’t said anything. You just made me so mad.” I laughed a little, thinking about how Samuel had seemed intent on proving my every theory wrong.

“You were thirteen years old! A thirteen-year-old who was beautiful, wise, patient…and infuriating! I just kept thinking, ‘How does she know these things?!’ You quoted that scripture like you’d studied it just for the purpose of teaching me a lesson. Then you got up and walked off the bus! I was so blown away that I missed my stop. I was still sitting there when everyone else was gone. I ended up having to walk home from the bus driver’s house. Mr. Walker got nervous and thought I was up to something. I guess I can’t really blame him, I was acting pretty strange.”

I looked down at our clasped hands, goose bumps skipping up my arms as his thumbs made slow patterns on my skin.

“1 Corinthians, Chapter 13 . . . how did you know?” His voice contained a note of wonder. “I don’t care how brilliant you were, thirteen-year-old girls don’t quote scripture off the cuff like that.”

I shook my head a little and smiled. “A few weeks before you and I had our ‘discussion,’ I was sitting in church with my Aunt Louise and my cousins. My dad didn’t go to church very often, but Aunt Louise drug her bunch to church every week. She always said she needed all the help she could get...and I liked church.”

Samuel groaned, interrupting me. “Of course you did.”

“Shush!” I laughed, and proceeded to defend myself. “Church was quiet and peaceful, the music was soothing, and I always felt loved there.
Anyway, that particular Sunday someone stood and read 1 Corinthians, Chapter 13. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to find it again because, you’re right, I wasn’t very familiar with scripture. I told Aunt Louise I was sick and ran home, repeating “1 Corinthians, Chapter 13, 1 Corinthians, Chapter 13” all the way to my house so I wouldn’t forget it. When I got home I pulled out my-”

“-big green dictionary?” Samuel finished for me, grinning.

“My big green dictionary,” I repeated, smiling with him, “and the bible we kept in the bookcase. I read verses 4 through 9, over and over, looking up every word, even the ones I knew. I wanted to have a perfect understanding of every word... those verses are like the most incredible poetry! To me it was even better than just a beautiful collection of words though, because it was the truth! I could feel the truth of it when I read it. When I was finished, I wrote verses 4-9 on my ‘Wall of Words’ and read it every night before I went to bed. I had it memorized pretty quickly.”

“Your wall of words?” Samuel’s eyebrows shot up.

“You don’t know about my Wall of Words?!” I whispered in mock horror. “I can’t believe I never told you about my Wall of Words!” I leapt off the bench and pulled him up, my hands still clasped in his. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

I went inside, Samuel trailing behind me, and
climbed the little staircase to my attic room. Samuel’s shoulders looked huge in the narrow passageway. At the top of the stairs, I stopped. “Wait! I forgot Dad’s rules! No boys allowed in my room. Darn! I guess I’ll have to take a picture of my wall and show it to you later.” My lips twitched, and my eyes widened with laughter. I acted like I was going to descend the stairs again.

Samuel’s arm shot out and secured me around the waist. “I’ll stand in the doorway.”

I laughed, enjoying the flirtation, and walked into the little room that had been mine since I was old enough to traverse the stairs. Samuel followed behind me, and, true to his word, leaned his shoulder against the doorframe. His eyes scanned my masterpiece.

I looked at my Wall with new eyes, remembering the books where I had found each word. I pointed out the spot where I’d written 1 Corinthians, Chapter 13. “Here it is …written before you and I ever discussed the definition of true love.” I turned and looked at him. He moved from the door, walking towards the wall to read the small print. He ran his hands over the wall, much like I had done many times before . . . feeling my words.

“So much knowledge . . . and it’s all in here now,” he said tenderly, reaching over to gently knock on my forehead. He walked to the window and looked out, pointing down the street to where the lights of his grandparent’s house shone in the
darkness.