Running Barefoot (31 page)

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.

“It’s strange to think of you at thirteen, up here in this room reading while I was just a few blocks away.” He hesitated for a moment, carried away, remembering. “That year changed me. I thought about you all the time, had arguments with you in my head, and cursed you when I couldn’t read anything without a dictionary.” We both burst into laughter. After a few seconds he continued, “Sometimes I was angry with you because you made me question what I thought I knew. I started thinking maybe I didn’t know anything at all. Half the time I wanted to shake you, the other half I just wanted to be with you, and that made me even angrier. When I left Levan, I swore I wouldn’t come back until I could teach you a thing or two, or I could prove you wrong - whichever came first.”

I remembered what he said to me the night he’d made me listen to
‘Pevane for a Dead Princess
.’ Sadness and regret trickled down my throat and made my stomach turnover. “Now you’re here. And here I am. Not quite what you remember.” I tried to laugh, but it got caught and sounded more like a hiccup.

He turned from the window, his thumbs hooked in his front pockets, and slowly closed the few steps between us. He gazed down at me intently. I looked down at my hands and then tucked my hair behind my ears. My hair was mostly dry now and curling around my shoulders. I stifled the need to run my fingers through it, and held myself still under his scrutiny.

“No, you’re right. You’re not the same. Neither am I. You’re not thirteen anymore, and I’m not eighteen. It’s a damn good thing.” He reached for me then, cradling my face in his hands, pulling me to him. Ever so softly, he brushed his lips across mine. Then again. And again. His breath was the barest caress across my sensitive mouth. He never increased the pressure, never stepped any closer. Deep inside my soul I felt something rumble and quake, and I ran my hands up his arms, wrapping them around his wrists where he held my face in his work roughened palms.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” He whispered, lifting his mouth from mine.

I wanted to exclaim that he would see me more tonight, but bridled my pounding emotions. He seemed to know where he was going, and I had no idea.

“Alright,” I breathed, and I stepped back from him, trying to retain my dignity. “I’ll walk you out.”

Just before he descended the stairs, Samuel turned and looked again at my wall. “I remember a few of those words. Some of those words are our words.” He looked at me with tenderness.

We walked down the stairs and through the back door. He gathered the big bucket and the bowl and the towels, putting the now empty water jug inside with everything else. The music had long since ended. We walked around to the front of the house, silent. I wished he wouldn’t go.

“Goodnight Josie,” Samuel said quietly.

I didn’t respond. I thought I might reveal my desperate disappointment that the night was ending. I tried to smile and then turned and began walking back towards the house. I heard a guttural groan behind me. I heard the pail and the silver bowl hit the ground with a jarring twang. When I turned, Samuel was striding towards me and I gasped at the vehemence in his face. I was suddenly gripped tightly in his arms, the force of his embrace lifting me off my feet. Then Samuel’s mouth was on my mine, his hands buried in my hair. His lips were demanding, his hands holding my head firmly beneath the onslaught of his kiss. My hands gripped his head in return, fisting in his hair, pulling him into me, feeling his arms around me, holding me to him, breathing him in, triumphant. The kiss was endless and infinitesimal all at once. He pulled his reluctant mouth from my lips and rested his forehead against mine, our combined breath coming in harsh pants. He pulled away just as suddenly as he had embraced me, his hands steadying me, and then letting me go, his eyes on my swollen lips.

“Goodnight, Josie.”

“Goodnight Samuel,” I whispered. He backed away, black eyes on blue, and then turned and picked up the items he had thrown to the ground. Then he slowly walked home, turning every now and then to watch me watching him. Then I listened to his footsteps fade as he moved beyond where my eyes could follow.