Running Barefoot (7 page)

“What kind of name is ‘Heathcliffe’ anyway?” Samuel grumbled, as we labored through another
day of reading. We had less than five pages left, and it had been tough.

“I think his name is one of the nicest things about him,” I said sincerely. “At least it isn’t something boring like Ed or Harry. It’s kind of a romantic name.”

“But that’s his only name . . . no last name, no middle name - just Heathcliffe. Like Madonna or Cher.”

I was a little surprised that Samuel knew who Madonna and Cher were. It didn’t seem like his type of music, though I had no idea what his type was.

“I think the fact that he didn’t have a surname was the author’s way to signify that he really didn’t belong to anyone ... he was alone in the world,” I mused thoughtfully. “Everybody had these full English names, and Heathcliffe was a gypsy without roots, without family, without even a name of his own.”

“Yeah, maybe......” Samuel nodded his head in agreement. “Names are a big deal to the Navajo. Every Navajo child is given a secret Navajo name when they are born. It is known only by the child, the family, and God. You don’t share it with anyone else.”

“Really?” I asked in awe. “So what’s yours?”

He looked at me with exasperation. “You. Don’t. Share. It. With. Anyone. Else,” he said slowly.

I blushed and looked down at the book. “Why?”

“My grandma says if you do your legs will turn hard…but I think it’s more a tie that binds the people together, keeps tradition alive, that kind of thing. My mom told me it’s sacred.”

“Wow. I wish I had a secret name. I’ve never really liked Josie Jo very much. It’s kind of silly and babyish,” I said wistfully.

“What name would you rather have?” Samuel actually looked interested in my response.

“Well... my mom really wanted us to all have ‘J’ names. I guess it was her way of binding us together, kind of like your family. So maybe I could just pretend it’s Josephine and everyone can still call me Josie for short. Josephine is so much more dramatic and ladylike.”

“Alright. From now on, I will refer to you as Lady Josephine,” Samuel said with the faintest of smiles.

“No.... how about I just make it my secret Navajo name and only you and I will know it,” I said, conspiratorially.

“You are the furthest thing from a Navajo ...” Samuel scoffed.

“Well, what if a beautiful Navajo woman had adopted me when I was just a baby? Would she have given me a Navajo name? Even if I had blonde hair and blue eyes?”

Samuel stared at me for a minute, frowning. “I really don’t know,” he confessed. “I’ve never known a Navajo who adopted a white baby. I’m the closest thing most Navajo get to a white baby.”
Samuel’s countenance darkened. “Luckily, every Navajo child that is born belongs to his mother’s clan, so I am a Navajo, no matter who my father was.”

“Did you ever know your father?” I asked quietly, not liking that I might make him angry, but not fearing it either.

“I was six years old when he died. I remember things about him ... he called me Sam Sam, and he was tall and kind of quiet. I remember my life before he died and then after he died when we went to the Indian Reservation. I hadn’t lived on the reservation before. It was very different than the little apartment we’d been living in. I spoke Navajo because my mother had spoken it to me exclusively. I spoke English too, which made school easier when I started at the school on the reservation. My mother never talked much about my father after he died.”

“Do you think it made her sad?” I ventured, thinking about my own mother’s death and how hard it had been for my dad to say her name for the longest time.

“Maybe. But it was more about tradition than anything. The Navajo believe that the only thing that is left behind when a person dies is the bad or the negative parts of their spirit. They call it
chidi
and when you talk about the dead it invites the
chidi.
So . . . we never talked about him much. I know she loved him and missed him. When I was really young, she read to me from the bible that my
Dad had given her. I think it made her feel close to him without talking about him. She became a Christian when she married my dad, but within a year or so after his death she rejected it. She has become very angry and bitter. She didn’t know how to live off the reservation without my dad, and when he died, she went back, re-married, and I’m sure she’ll never leave.”

“I don’t know what I would do if I could never talk about my mother...” I whispered. “Talking about her helps me remember her. It makes me feel close to her.”

“Your mother died?” Samuel’s voice rose in surprise.

“Yes.” I was a little stunned that he didn’t know. I had just assumed that he knew what his grandparents knew. “She died the summer before third grade. I was almost nine years old.” I shrugged a little, “I guess I’m just lucky I had her for that long. I remember lots of things about her. Like the way she smelled, the way she covered her mouth when she laughed, the way she said “Josie Jo, to and fro” when she pushed me on the swing.”

“Why are you lucky you had her that long? I think that makes you unlucky. She died and you don’t have a mother.” Samuel’s face was stormy and his lips tightened a little as he waited for me to respond.

“But I did have her for those nine years, and she loved me, and I loved her. Look at people like Heathcliffe. He had no mother
and
no father.”

“Yeah, I guess he had a right to be a jerk.”

“I guess he had reason to be, at least in the beginning, but that doesn’t make me like him any better. He was hateful and angry all the time. The first time I read the book, I kept waiting for him to change, to develop some character . . . but he never did. I just despised him for it. I wanted him to be lovable, even just a little bit, so that I could like him.”

“People didn’t
like
him because he had darker skin and he looked different than they did!” Samuel was angry again.

“Maybe that was true to a point, in the beginning. But the father, Mr. Earnshaw, loved him best of all . . . better than his own children. Heathcliffe never did one thing with that love. Catherine loved him, too. What did he do?”

“He went off and joined the military or something, right? He made something of himself, improved how he dressed, and how he looked!” Samuel defended Heathcliffe like he
was
Heathcliffe.

“But he never changed WHO he was!” I cried back passionately. “I wanted him to inspire me! I just ended up feeling sorry for him and thinking ‘What a waste!’”

“Maybe he couldn’t change who he was!” Samuel’s face was tight and his hands were clenched.

“Samuel! I’m talking about him changing on the
inside
! Nobody that loved him cared that he
was a gypsy! Don’t you get it?”

“Catherine loved him despite of what he was on the inside!” He fought back still.

“Their version of love damned them both in the end! They were two miserable people because they never figured out what true love is!”

“Why don’t you tell me what TRUE LOVE is then, Lady Josephine, since you are so wise at thirteen-years-old!” Samuel sneered at me and his arms were folded across his chest.

My cheeks were flaming, and my finger poked him in the chest with every syllable I recited. “‘True love suffereth long, and is kind; true love envieth not. True love vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up. True love does not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil. True love rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth. True love beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things!’” I stopped for a breath and one emphatic push against Samuel’s chest. “1st Corinthians, Chapter 13. Check it out.”

And with that I picked up my big green dictionary and my overflowing book bag and staggered up the aisle. The bus wasn’t at my stop yet, but I was out of there.

Samuel didn’t say much the morning following our heated Heathcliffe discussion. I asked him if he wanted to read the final five pages. He said he already had, and left it at that. He looked out the window the whole way in to school, and I sat uncomfortably without anything to read. I wound up going ahead in my math book and doing the next day’s lesson. The ride home was much the same. Luckily it was Friday.

Monday morning I arrived at our seat first. I wasn’t carrying the dictionary anymore, having no reason to lug it with me if we were done. Samuel wasn’t far behind and he said “Scoot” when I sat down. I shifted over against the window, and he sat down next to me. “Scoot” was the only thing he said the whole way in to Nephi. This time I was prepared, and I buried my nose in
Jane Eyre
.
Jane Eyre
was like comfort food to me, and I was feeling a little rejected.

After school, I climbed on the bus, dreading the half hour I would sit next to Samuel in silence. I missed the reading and the discussion. I even missed him a little.

Samuel was already seated, and he watched me come towards him down the aisle. There was a strange look on his face when my eyes met his. He looked almost triumphant. I sat down and he held out a thin plastic folder.

“I guess you know something about true love
after all. At least Ms. Whitmer thinks so,” he said vaguely.

My eyes quickly scanned the cover page. It was Samuel’s report on
Wuthering Heights
. He had titled it ‘True Love or Obsession?’ Ms. Whitmer had written the words “Brilliant!” across the page in bold red print. I yanked the cover page over, my eyes flying down the page. Samuel had taken 1 Corinthians Chapter 13, replacing the word ‘charity’ with ‘true love’ as I had done, and basically written a paper on the difference between true love and obsession, using examples from the book. His final sentence was wonderful, and it was all his own. He said “Where true love would have redeemed them, obsession condemned them forever.”

I whooped loudly, only to have kids turn and stare at me curiously.

“Samuel! This is so cool! Did she say anything to you?” My smile felt like it was going to split my face in half, but I couldn’t help it.

My excitement must have been contagious, because he grinned at me briefly - his smile a quick flash of white teeth.

“She said it was so impressive that she’s not just going to pass me, she’s going to give me a B.”

I whooped again and threw my fisted hands skyward in victory. This time half the bus turned and stared. Tara even stopped mid-sentence, eight seats up, and gave me a “What the heck?” look. I ducked my head and stifled a giggle. Samuel shook his head and rolled his eyes, but he was laughing,
too.

“Lady Josephine, you are something else,” he said softly and reached over and took my hand in his. His hand was big and warm - his beautiful skin golden brown against my own. My hand felt very small as it lay in his, and my heart felt like a tiny hummingbird fluttering in my chest. Samuel held my hand for a second more, and then gently slid his hand away.

It got dark quickly now that winter had gripped the valley. Getting up the hill to the Grimaldi’s had become more difficult with the snow, but I never complained, and whenever Sonja raised the issue of being concerned over the weather or the dwindling daylight, I just smoothed it over. My panic at missing a lesson must have been evident, because she never pressed me to postpone lessons until spring thaws made my way a little more hospitable. I had stopped riding my bike up the hill. The hill was so icy the tires couldn’t get any traction. I would just ride to the base of the hill and then trudge up it, along the side of the road where the snow was piled and I wouldn’t slip.