Running Barefoot Page 22

  I gasped right out loud. Samuel, becoming a lawyer? I felt a little weak in the knees, and then ridiculously like crying. I was suddenly, euphorically, proud of him. I hadn’t read far enough in the letters, obviously, and he’d said nothing about it. But when had he really had the opportunity? Each of our conversations had been riddled with emotional grenades, and catching up had just not come up. I felt ashamed that I had asked him so little about himself.

  “Earth to Josie!” Tara was waving her hands in my face. “You look like you’re gonna cry, you okay?”

  I brushed away her questions, smiled brightly, and wished the day were over. I needed to go find Samuel. Regardless of whether or not he believed the “princess was dead.”

  Samuel was not home when I knocked on Nettie Yates’ screen door later that evening. I’d baked some cookies as an excuse for stopping by. I’d also filled a basket of vegetables from my garden. Nettie had stopped planting a garden in recent years, complaining that she was just too “brittle to work in the dirt anymore.” It was sweet irony that she had shared with me and my family from her garden for so many years, and had shown me how to plant one and care for one, and now I could share my garden’s bounty in return.

  Nettie was crocheting something, and she invited me in to sit and chat a minute. “Samuel and Don went to bring the cows down from the mountain early this morning. I didn’t want Don to go; I worry about him sittin’ a saddle all day, but he wouldn’t hear nothin’ of it. I didn’t fight ’im too hard. He’s been bringing the cows home from Mt. Nebo every fall since he was old enough to tie his shoes, and this will probably be the last time. We’re sellin’ off the cattle and the sheep, ya know. Don’s relieved, but it’s hard for him, too. Samuel bein’ here helps take the weight off his shoulders a little. When Samuel came to live with us all those years ago I didn’t know what to think. He never talked to us much, and he seemed so angry at first. But then slowly he started changin’- don’t really know why, but I’m grateful for it. He’s grown up to be a real good man and a blessing to us now when we need him. He says he’ll stay until we’ve got things buttoned up.”

  I was terrible at small talk and didn’t quite know what to say to keep the conversation flowing. I decided I would just come out and ask for the information I sought.

  “When will they be back?” I ventured casually.

  “Oh they should be pullin’ in any time.” Nettie looked at me curiously.

  I changed the subject quickly and asked her if I could do anything for her before I left. She hemmed and hawed, not wanting me to bother, but ended up confessing she needed help with the flower beds in the front yard. Before long, I was on my hands and knees in the dirt. I actually liked pulling weeds. Call me crazy, but there’s something immensely therapeutic about yanking the noxious things from the cool brown soil. I got busy and made short work of the flower bed on one side of the front walk and was working my way down the other, when I heard a truck crunching over gravel. I had hoped to be cool and composed when I saw Samuel again. Instead I was on my knees with my rear in the air, pulling dandelions out from among the marigolds.

  “Well hello, Miss Josie!” Don Yates stepped stiffly out of the pickup, approaching me with a slightly bow-legged gait. He’d been tall once, but had become stooped and shrunken in his later years. He’d been a bull-rider in his younger days, and he’d been beaten up and put back together a time or two. Betty said he’d broken every bone in his hands by the time his career was over. His fingers were as big around as sausages, his palms thick and muscular. Combined with his built up forearms, he looked a little like Popeye - all arms, no butt, and bowed legs.

  “Hello, Mr. Yates.” I brushed my hair back from my face and wiped my hands on the skirt of my now dirty pink dress. “How was the cattle drive?”

  Samuel was behind him and without a word he knelt beside me in the flower bed and started pulling weeds.

  “It was long, Miss Josie! Woo Wee! I’m gonna go in and have mother make me a cup of coffee. If I don’t keep walkin’ I might fall right over. I’m way too old for cattle drivin’ anymore. You want me to send some lemonade out for the two ‘a ya, or somethin’?”

  “Not for me, thanks.” I glanced at Samuel in question.

  “Go on in, Pop. I’ll just help Josie finish up.”

  A few minutes later the screen door slammed behind Don Yates, and Samuel and I worked in silence. I figured it would be easier to talk if my hands were busy, so I took a deep breath and jumped right in.

  “I’m proud of you, Samuel.” I pulled weeds faster, my hands keeping pace with my galloping pulse.

  Samuel looked up at me in surprise. I met his black gaze and quickly looked down to make sure I didn’t start yanking out marigolds with nervous zeal.

  “There was some talk today at the shop.” I smiled sheepishly. “Well, there’s always talk at the shop. But today I actually found it to be of interest to me.”

  Samuel had stopped pulling weeds and his head was only about a foot away from mine, his head tilted to the side, regarding me quietly.

  I looked back down, anxiously trying to find a weed within arms distance. “I heard you’re going to law school.” I paused, the pride I felt in him swelling in my heart, just like it had earlier. I looked up at him, swallowing to keep my emotions in check. “I can’t tell you how I ....I felt when I heard. I just wanted to cheer out loud...and.....jump for joy all at once. I’m just so....so ......well, I’m just so proud of what you’ve accomplished.” I kept my eyes on his, and he seemed to be considering my words.

  “Thank you, Josie. You have no idea with that means to me.” His eyes remained on mine for a moment, and then he resumed pulling weeds until the last stubborn trespasser was removed from the flower beds.

  “And Samuel…thank you for the letters....I haven’t had a chance to read them all, but I will.” I struggled to express myself honestly without getting too personal, but gave up when I realized I couldn’t. “It almost made me feel like I was there with you. Most of all, it made me feel like maybe I wasn’t alone all those nights I cried for you and missed you.” My voice was choked, but I remained composed. I made a move to rise from the flower bed, but Samuel’s hand shot out and curved around my bare arm, just above my elbow, detaining me.

  “I’m sorry, Josie.” Samuel’s voice was husky and low. “I’m sorry for what I said that night. For making you feel like I was disappointed in you. There’s nothing wrong with who you are and what you do.” He reached up and ran the back of his fingers lightly along the side of my face. “I just hate to see you suffering. I handled it all wrong. Will you let me make it up to you? Will you let me do something for you?” His voice was almost pleading.

  I wanted to close my eyes and press my face into the palm of his hand. His touch was feather light, but his eyes were heavy on mine. I nodded my consent, realizing that I didn’t really care what the something was, just as long as I could be in his company a little while longer. He stood and reached down for me, pulling me to my feet.

  “I’ve got a day’s worth of sweat and horse ground into me, and I need to shower. I’ll come by in about 30 minutes if that’s okay?”

  I nodded again and turned to walk away.

  “Josie?” His voice stopped me. “Is your dad home?”

  My heart lurched a little at the implied intimacy of his question.

  I shook my head this time and found my voice. It came out smooth and easy, for which I was grateful. “He’s on shut-downs for one more night.”

  “I’ll be by.” He turned and walked into the house. I tried hard not to run, but ended up sprinting down the middle of the street like a silly kid.

  I was waiting for Samuel on the front porch swing when he came walking down the road half an hour later. I had slipped into the tub and washed the dirt from the flower beds off of my arms and legs. I’d traded my soiled pink summer dress for a skirt and a blue fitted t-shirt that I happened to know was the exact color of my eyes. The skirt was white eyelet, a
nd it was comfortable and pretty. I didn’t put any shoes on my feet. My calves and feet were brown from the recent summer days, and the lack of shoes made my preference for skirts a little less formal. I rarely wore pants, and only wore shorts when I was running. I liked the feel of pretty, feminine clothes, and had stopped caring whether or not anyone thought I was old-fashioned. I hadn’t had time to wash my hair, so I pinned it up, fixed my makeup, and put a little bit of lavender on my wrists. I felt silly waiting for him - but I waited all the same.

  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 hai
r, 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.”