Running Barefoot (35 page)

“What happened to Kasey?” Samuel was very still, his eyes moving from me to the road, and back again.

“You don’t mince words, do you?” I murmured, tucking a stray curl behind my ear.

“My Grandma Yazzie says it’s the Navajo way not to hurry. We have all the time in the world . . . we move deliberately, take our time, and do things precisely. Life is all about harmony and balance. It’s probably the reason I’m a good sniper. I can outwait anybody. But I don’t feel like I have all the time in the world anymore, not now. I don’t want to waste any of the time I have with you.” Samuel’s expression was unflinching, and I flushed at his bluntness.

“He rolled his car not too far from here,” I pointed out my window, at the long narrow highway we were driving on, “He had just dropped me off. It was the morning after we graduated from high school.”

Samuel remained silent - waiting for me to continue.

“I used to marvel at the irony that I had wanted him to spend an extra 20 minutes with me that morning, taking me home, instead of remaining in Nephi like he’d planned. I had another ride, you know . . . he never would have been driving back into Nephi at all if it weren’t for me. I traded an extra 20 minutes with him for a lifetime. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“Have you ever thought that he might have rolled the car there in Nephi just as easily, and if he hadn’t taken you home you wouldn’t have had even those last 20 minutes? There are many ways to die, Josie. You didn’t necessarily place him in death’s only path.” Samuel’s voice and face were blank, like he was discussing the height of the wheat in the fields we drove past, or the way the mountains in front of us looked purple beneath the sky.

“There was a guy I served with in Iraq. His mom didn’t want him to go . . . she was scared to death of him going. Of course, he went anyway. He’d signed up for it, and he went. His younger brother, who still lived at home, was killed in a car accident while he was gone. My friend came home from Iraq without a scratch. That’s irony.”

I didn’t know how to respond, so I didn’t respond at all. I knew the truth of what Samuel said - but sometimes a little guilt was a good distraction from sorrow. The sorrow had faded through the years, but somehow the guilt remained.

We rolled into Nephi, and I wondered if Samuel would pull into Mickelson’s Family Restaurant. It had good food and it sat at the edge of town by the freeway off-ramp, making it accessible to thru-traffic and town’s folk alike. I wondered if I would see anybody I knew inside - someone who would come up and get the scoop and an introduction on the pretense of giving two hoots about how I was doing. I hated making small talk and avoided people in the grocery store and other places just so that I wouldn’t have to think of things to say. I liked people, I cared about them, and I wanted to be a good person, but don’t make me chat idly on the telephone or make pleasant conversation just for the sake of being polite. We neared the restaurant and Samuel kept driving. I breathed a little easier and wondered aloud where he was taking me.

“My grandpa told me an interesting story about a pond in this area. I thought we’d have a picnic. Grandma Nettie packed it - it should be full of good stuff.”

“Burraston’s Pond?”

“That’s the one.”

Thoughts of Kasey filled my head. He and his friends would swing out of a huge tree and into
the pond. Some of the branches extended far out over the water. Some kids had built a rickety platform high up in the same tree to jump from. The platform was about two feet by two feet, and it was a wonder nobody had been killed. They had never been able to talk me up into the tree. I was way too sensible. So with my heart in my throat, I had watched them climb high into the uppermost branches, steady themselves on the little platform, and then hurl themselves out and over the water, screaming with terror and delight.

We took the old Mona road and at the turnoff to the pond, veered west on the dirt road pocked with deep grooves and tire tracks. Since school was back in session the campsite was empty, and the little lake was completely void of people and boats. There was no wind, and the setting sun shimmered on the still water, coloring the water a deep amber edged in ebony shadows. I hadn’t been to Burraston’s since before Kasey had died, but felt no overpowering melancholy at returning. This had been a hangout, a place to play, and except for sharing our first kiss here, it was not a spot I was especially nostalgic about.

Looking at it now, I realized how lovely it was. Quiet and abandoned, it seemed to bloom in its solitude. We bounced over the bumpy road and took the fork that took us up and around the pond.

“Where’s the best spot?” Samuel looked to me for guidance.

Burraston’s Pond was actually Burraston’s
Ponds, with a few little water holes that broke off the biggest part.

“Keep going around until we’re on the furthest side of the main pond.” Trees were thick in some spots, sparse and others, and I directed him to the famous ‘big tree’ overlooking the water. Samuel pulled off the dusty road and grabbed a coarse blanket and a little cooler from the back of the truck as I climbed out and gingerly climbed my way down to a little clearing at the water’s edge where I thought we could picnic.

The silence was broken only by the crickets warming up for their evening symphony, and an occasional buzz of a mosquito flitting over the water. I had never been to Burraston’s when it was deserted. It was not surprising to me that I liked it much better this way. Samuel spread the blanket out, and we sat watching the water lap up against the rocks and twigs that littered the shore at the base of the big tree.

“So what’s the story your grandpa told you?” I leaned back against the blanket, propping my head in one hand and looking up at him.

“It wasn’t about the pond, I guess. It’s more about the town. I didn’t ever come to Mona when I lived here. I never had reason to - so when I asked my grandpa if there were any good fishing spots around here, and he mentioned this pond, I asked him about the town. He said Burl Ives, the singer, was once thrown in jail here in Mona. It was before his time, but he thought it was a funny story.”

“I’ve never heard about that!”

“It was the 1940’s, and Burl Ives traveled around singing. I guess the authorities didn’t like one of his songs - they thought it was bawdy, so they put him in jail.”

“What was the song?” I snickered.

“It was called Foggy, Foggy Dew. My grandpa sang it for me.”

“Let’s hear it!” I challenged.

“It’s far too lewd.” Samuel pulled his mouth into a serious frown, but his eyes twinkled sardonically. “All right you’ve convinced me,” he said without me begging at all, and we laughed together. He cleared his throat and began to sing, with a touch of an Irish lilt, about a bachelor living all alone whose only sin had been to try to protect a fair young maiden from the foggy, foggy dew.

One night she came to my bedside

When I was fast asleep.

She laid her head upon my bed

And she began to weep

She sighed, she cried, she damn near died

She said what shall I do?

So I hauled her into bed and covered up her head

Just to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew.

“Oh my!” I laughed, covering my mouth. “I don’t think I would have stuck Burl Ives in jail for that, but it is pretty funny,”

“Marine’s are the lewdest, crudest, foulest talking bunch you’ll ever find. I’ve heard much, much worse. I’ve sung much, much worse. I tried to remain chaste and virtuous, and I still have the nickname Preacher after all these years - but I have been somewhat corrupted.” He waggled his eyebrows at his ribaldry.

“I kind of liked that song…” I mused, half kidding. “Sing something else, but without the Irish.”

“Without the Irish? That’s the best part.” Samuel smiled crookedly. “I had a member of my platoon whose mom was born and raised in Ireland. This guy could do an authentic Irish accent, and man, could he sing. When he sang
Danny Boy
everybody cried. All these tough, lethal Marines, bawling like babies. He sang this one song called ‘An Irish Lament’ that I loved so much I memorized it. In fact, when I saw you in the rain a couple weeks ago, it was the first thing that came to my mind.” The smile had gone out of Samuel’s expression, and his eyes narrowed on my face. His moods were so mercurial, I found myself challenged to keep pace with him. There was now intensity in his gaze where moments before he’d been singing a ‘bawdy’ tune in a borrowed brogue.

I stared back, trying to wait him out. After a few moments I caved.

“You aren’t going to sing me
An Irish Lament,
are you?”

“It depends,” he countered.

“On what?”

“On whether you will play for me when I take you home tonight.”

It was my turn to become moody. I was not blind to my feelings for Samuel. Where this would all lead, and whether either of us could or wanted to go there was what had me digging in my emotional heels. I knew the incredible power of music and the mood it could set. Exhibit A - the kisses we had shared the night before after Debussy wove his spell. I didn’t trust myself with a large helping of Samuel sprinkled with symphonies. I didn’t know if my heart could take another love lost.

“I think the
Irish Lament
might scare you away.” The sun had lowered itself discreetly behind the western hills. Samuel’s voice was as smooth and quiet as the deepening shadows around us.

“Maybe so…” I avoided his gaze and reached for Nettie’s basket, needing sustenance to keep my wits with Samuel.

Nettie had packed thick turkey sandwiches on homemade bread and chocolate chip cookies (thankfully no lemon squares). She’d included a few peaches from her big tree, and Samuel had added a couple Diet Cokes and a bottle of water. We dug in without further discussion, except for an occasional moan from me.

“Everything okay?” Samuel smiled after a particularly gusty sigh.

“Food just tastes so much better when I didn’t prepare it.”

“You’re a great cook -”

“Yes, I am,” I agreed without artifice, “but there’s something about having someone make you a sandwich. It just tastes better - I can’t describe it.”

“Being a Marine has given me a new appreciation for making my own dinner - chow hall isn’t so bad when it’s available, but boxed lunches, no thank you - at boot camp we used to call them ‘boxed nasties.’ I prefer to know what’s in my food - and the only way that happens is if I make it myself.”

“Have you become a control freak, Samuel?” I teased, biting into my peach.

“Hmmm. Yeah, I guess I have.” Samuel looked off across the inky water. “When you realize there’s so much you can’t control, you get pretty stingy with what you can.”

We finished off our meal in silence as the shadows grew and grew and eventually touched, crowding out the light, until all traces of the sun were banished, and the stars began to glimmer overhead.

“I can’t believe I’m here.” Samuel sighed, his arms crossed beneath his head, his long frame stretched out on the scratchy army blanket.

“Why?”

“A month ago I was in Iraq. Suited up, day in, day out, camo, boots, flak jacket, glasses, helmet. And I never, ever, went anywhere without my weapon and plenty of ammo strapped on me. This feels surreal.” He paused for a few seconds.
“Let’s go swimming.”

“What?” I laughed, and then choked as my laughter caused me to inhale some of the juice from the peach I had been enjoying.

“I want to swim. Look how the stars reflect on the water. It almost looks like we’re looking down into space.”

“You should see it from up in the tree,” I said without thinking, and wished suddenly I hadn’t suggested it.

“Really?” Samuel eyed the big tree speculatively. Instantly, he started shucking off his boots and undoing his pants.

“Samuel!” I felt heat envelop me, and I wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment or a genuine curiosity about what I was about to see.

“I’m going to climb the tree and jump off into the water.”

I sighed. It must be a man thing. Why did every guy I knew feel compelled to climb that tree and jump?

“Come with me, Josie.” Samuel narrowed his eyes at me, holding his shirt in his hands. His chest was broad and well-defined, his shoulders and arms corded with muscle, his abs rippled down into his boxer shorts. I looked down at my hands as I spoke so I wouldn’t gawk.

“Uh-uh. The furthest I’ve ever gotten was a few branches up, just so I could see the effect of the stars reflecting on the water.”

“This morning you said you would follow me
wherever I went.” His voice was cajoling and light. “Please?”

I was wearing a black tank, and I supposed my black panties combined with my tank top would be as modest as a swimsuit. I didn’t let myself think about it too long. I had always been too practical, too sensible, too boring, for my own good. I was going swimming. I slid my skirt down my thighs, stepping out of it and my sandals. I reminded myself to breathe. I looked at Samuel and squared my shoulders as if I did this sort of thing every day.

“If I fall and kill myself you’re going to be very sad,” I said, trying to be brave.

As if sensing my discomfort, Samuel’s eyes didn’t linger on my scantily clad form. He turned and hoisted himself up into the tree like it was as simple as climbing a few stairs. I cringed, thinking about how in the world I was going to get up there and retain any dignity. He stood in the broad base, where the branches spread and lifted away from the trunk. He leaned down towards me, extending a long brown arm.