Running Barefoot (28 page)

The silence was strained, and I longed to escape. Nearing his grandparent’s house he spoke again.

“You ran in the wrong direction.”

“What?”

“You ran west this morning - away from the sun. The Navajo always run east - into the sun, greeting the sun. Lift up your face and let the Sky Father shine down a blessing upon you as you run towards him.”

I didn’t know how to respond. I’d always had to twist Samuel’s arm to tell me anything about his Navajo traditions. Now he was sharing legends and stories with absolute comfort. He had changed.

Samuel’s eyes were grave. “Changing Woman is called Changing Woman because she grew up so fast. The legend claims she became a full grown woman in only twelve days. She wasn’t a child for very long. I guess in that way you are just like her. You weren’t a child very long either. At thirteen you were far wiser and more mature than anybody I knew, except for my Grandma Yazzie.” Samuel paused, his eyes drilling down into mine. “Changing Woman is also called Changing Woman because she is responsible for the ever moving cycle of life - but in her heart, in her spirit, she is as steady and constant as the sun she loves.”

I shook my head, bemused.

“The truth is, Josie,” Samuel began his sentence just as I had several minutes before. “You’re a full grown woman now. But I don’t think you’re really all that different here.” Samuel lightly touched the smooth skin exposed by the open V of my t-shirt, laying his knuckles against my heart. “I think you’re still you. And I’m still the Samuel you knew.” His fingers were warm on my skin, and I fought myself not to reach up and cover his hand with my own.

Then he dropped his hand, and it was his turn to walk away.

Over the last few years I’d raised my prices and made a name for myself as a piano teacher. In the summer, I taught piano lessons almost exclusively and made decent money doing it. I’d never had to resort to house calls. I was by far the best pianist around, and I had no children, no husband, no other demands on my time and attention. I had students as far north as Provo, and as far south as Fillmore, almost an hour away in each direction, and they came to me. At home, my piano still stood faithfully in the exact same place it had since I purchased it through the Penny Pincher ad, but even after Dad had gone back to work after his stroke, I hadn’t taught lessons on it. I still used the room in the church for that. I loved the old building; I’d even been entrusted with my very own key. Dad and I needed a quiet place to come home to, without the endless stream of students and the necessary noise that accompanied their learning.

When fall came and school started, schedules changed and my lessons filled the after school hours from 3:00-6:00. From September to May, I spent my mornings down at Louise’s shop listening to gossip and cutting hair. Louise had a steady clientele; being the only shop in town for twenty years has its advantages. Over the last couple of years she’d been more then happy to shoo a few folks my way, though more often then not, she kept her women clients, who had become attached to her as women are prone to do with their hairstylists. I mostly cut the children’s hair, the men’s hair, and had once even trimmed Iris Peterson’s miniature poodle, Vivvi.

September is typically a beautiful month throughout the West - the light is softer, the temperatures abate, the sky is often impossibly blue, and a hint of color starts to tempt the trees with autumn. August had left Levan with an angry huff, leaving heat in its wake, and I was ready for September’s cooler head to prevail. Fall was my favorite season, and I was eager to smell it and feel it on my skin. Unfortunately, as I walked the mile to Louise’s that morning I saw no sign of it. The yellow sundress I had put on that morning (because it reminded me of yellow autumn leaves) now mirrored a persistent summer sun, and I picked up my pace to escape its rays.

I slammed into the shop with a sigh, the screen door whooshing behind me, Louise’s bell tinkling above me. The cool air that hit me felt like salvation, and I closed my eyes and lifted my damp blonde curls off my neck so the fan whirring by the door could blow directly on my skin.

“Good mornin’, Sunshine,” Louise drawled, with a smile in her voice.

“Good morning, Louise,” I sighed again, my eyes still closed and my head still bowed in grateful worship to the humming fan.

“When yer done prayin’ you can say hello to Nettie and Samuel, too.”

My head jerked up, and my eyes flew open at the mention of Samuel’s name. Nettie was sitting in Louise’s pink swivel chair, patiently reading a magazine with Julia Roberts on the cover while Louise rolled her hair in little pink pin curlers.

“Good morning, Nettie,” I said lightly, my eyes darting to see Samuel leaning against the wall next to the swinging doors that led into the general store.

“Good morning, Samuel,” I said, striving again for lightness. Instead my voice squeaked a little, and Louise looked at me quizzically.

Samuel dipped his head slightly, and Nettie spoke up, never lifting her eyes from the glossy pages. “Samuel wants a trim, Josie, if you don’t have anything scheduled right away.”

“She doesn’t,” Louise supplied without hesitation, and she and Nettie looked over at me expectantly.

“Certainly, Samuel,” I tried not to stammer. “Right this way.”

I walked quickly to my station and pulled a black apron over my dress, tying it swiftly and trying to control the nervous heat that pooled in my stomach. I couldn’t understand why I felt so off kilter when he was around me. I hadn’t seen him since we’d ended up running together yesterday morning. Part of me desperately wanted to avoid him, part of me was intensely happy to see him again.

I turned, expecting him to be behind me, and met his gaze across the room where he still leaned unmoving, watching me with an undecipherable expression on his face. In a fluid and easy manner he shifted his weight and walked towards me. Again, I felt the sensation of butterflies dancing in my belly and wished I’d foregone breakfast.

He folded his length into the pink chair, and I levered the chair downward so I could lower his head back into the sink. I made myself busy, not looking into his face. I tested the water temperature and slid a towel beneath his neck so the water wouldn’t drip into his shirt when he sat up. I focused on his thick black hair and the deceptive silkiness of its texture in my hands. The water was warm as it rushed through my fingers and I massaged the shampoo into his scalp. There is something about washing another person’s hair that is very nurturing, and the caregiver in me normally enjoyed the simple act of service. I took pleasure in the sighs of contentment that were invariably expressed. Most people closed their eyes and relaxed under my gentle hands.

Samuel kept his eyes opened and trained on my face. I tried desperately to avoid his gaze. It made the act of molding my hands to his head incredibly intimate, and I longed to shut my own eyes to relieve the tension his perusal was creating between us. I tried to distract myself with thoughts of Kasey. I had never kissed Kasey with my eyes open…I’d never even thought about it. I’d always closed my eyes and enjoyed the sensation of his lips on my lips. I wondered if Samuel would kiss me with his gaze locked with mine. I grimaced inwardly and chastised myself, mortified at the direction of my thoughts. I didn’t want him to kiss me! He was infuriating and inquisitive and exhausting, and I wished he would go away!

I rinsed his hair with fervor and shut off the water with a frustrated yank. Levering furiously, I sat him up and briskly rubbed the towel over his hair.

“You seem angry,” he said smoothly. I wanted to slap him. I
was
angry. Ridiculously and desperately angry. Why did he have to come back? I didn’t want to deal with old feelings that brought fresh pain. I was through loving people who would only leave. I met his eyes furiously in the mirror and saw a humbling compassion in their depths. My anger slipped off me like a soiled silk dress. My hands grew still in his hair, and my eyes held the gaze of my old friend.

“I’m sorry, Samuel. I have behaved very badly since you returned,” I confessed in a whisper. “I can’t seem to get my balance, and I’m not sure why.” I fell quiet, trying to control my unruly emotions. “Will you please forgive me?”

He studied me for a moment before he spoke, which was his way. “Lady Josephine, there is nothing to forgive.” I laughed a little as the memory of my childish wish resurfaced.

“Thank you, Sir Samuel,” I curtsied deeply, and with clippers in hand, finished trimming his hair in silence. When I was done, he tipped me well, offered his grandmother his arm, and left without a word.

I walked wearily home from the church that evening after teaching piano lessons to some very uninspired and obstinate children. There was no joy in teaching unwilling students. I thought of the quiet house that would greet me. Dad would be on shutdown shift for one more week - and the evening ahead would be spent alone. I felt unusually melancholy at the prospect, and was cheered by thoughts of the leftover chocolate birthday cake from my “party” Sunday evening. I felt twenty-three going on fifty.

As I neared my house I saw Samuel sitting on my porch in the shadow of the overhang. He rocked slowly in the big wooden swing my dad had fashioned for my mom many years before. I tamped down the telltale flip of my traitorous heart as I approached him. I didn’t have the energy for Samuel right now. Exhaustion descended on my soul and I considered feigning sickness. But in light of my apology earlier that day, I did not want to seem hostile. I sat down next to him on the swing and greeted him with a tired smile.

“Why do you cut hair, Josie?” Samuel said without preamble.

“Why not?” I was immediately flustered - couldn’t he just say ‘hello’ like a normal person?

“When I drove my grandmother to the beauty shop today I had no idea you would be there. Imagine my surprise when I saw you walk in. Then my grandma says to you “Samuel needs a haircut,” as if you work there. I was completely floored. You walked back and put the apron on, and I almost thought the three of you were having a little fun at my expense. But then you looked back at me, and I could see you weren’t kidding.”

“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 Do’s?”

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.