Running Barefoot (8 page)

Sonja had begun teaching me how to conduct
music as if I were conducting a live orchestra. She would put a record on, put the score in front of me, and I would conduct, keeping time with my waving arms, bringing in the imaginary instruments and cueing the dynamics as if I were the one in control.

I left my lesson that day with my head full of music. Sonja had been in a flamboyant mood, and the music still poured out of the house behind me as I made my way down the hill. She had turned on Ravel’s Bolero and I had conducted it joyfully. It had a wonderfully insistent, repetitive melody, and it was perfect for a novice conductor like myself to practice “bringing in” the instruments, as they were continually added, sections at a time.

It was times like these when the music felt like a thrumming, pulsing power inside of me. I was practically levitating as I spread my arms and spun in dizzy circles down the snowy hill. The speed of my descent made me laugh as I recklessly conducted the internal orchestra swelling my heart to near bursting.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t ACTUALLY levitating, and I began to stumble, heavy boots tangling and arms flailing. The fog of musical euphoria abandoned me mid-flight. I cart wheeled down the length of the hill, landing in deep snow bank, two thirds of the way down. I acted like a child so rarely that it was strangely ironic that when I truly lost myself in child-like wonder, I ended up hurt and alone. My ankle hurt with a sickening, stomach churning agony that had me whimpering
and crawling on my hands and knees trying to escape the pain.

My piano books were scattered down the hill, marking my flight path. There was no way I was leaving them behind. I started crawling up the hill to collect them, realizing as my hands sunk in to the snow that I had also managed to lose my gloves and my glasses. Without the assistance of my boots, I kept sliding down when I tried to inch upwards. I tried valiantly not to cry as I reprimanded myself on my idiotic behavior, talking myself through the ordeal of gathering up the books closest to me and praying for the books I couldn’t get to. Going back up the hill to Sonja’s was out of the question. I slid down the rest of the way on my rear end, clutching my few books to my chest and slowing my descent with my good leg.

Once I arrived at the bottom, I faced the puzzle of how I would get home. Riding my waiting bike was completely out of the question; my ankle wouldn’t bear any pressure at all. I didn’t trust my balance most of the time
without
an injury, forget hopping and pushing the bike home. Looping my piano bag around my shoulders and pulling my coat sleeves down over my hands I began to crawl home. The darkness was settling around me, and I knew I was in trouble. I wasn’t going to be able to go two miles on my hands and knees. Thoughts of my family finding me frozen solid at the side of the road had me crying in self-pity. I wondered if Samuel would miss me. I
wished I could see him again before I died. Maybe he would cut his arm like the Comanche Indians had done whenever they lost someone, so their arm would show a scar for each loved one lost.

I had asked him how he knew about the Comanche tradition when he was a Navajo. He had told me many of the tribes had many stories and legends in common, and his grandmother had told him it was the Comanche way of reminding yourself of a loved one without speaking their name.

I was startled out of my morbid thoughts by the sound of a sheep baaing from somewhere to my left. He sounded as lost and unhappy as I was. The sheep bellowed mournfully again, and I could make out his black nose and feet against the snow where he was huddled beside a scrubby enclosure of brush and juniper trees. I crawled towards it, thinking maybe I could huddle there with it, wool was warm wasn’t it? The sheep had other ideas. My approach made him complain even louder, throwing his head back and demanding that I stay away. “BAAAAAAACK,” he seemed to say, and I half giggled, half sobbed at the futility of it all.

“BAAAAAAAA!” He yodeled again.

Somewhere in the distance a dog barked. The sheep cried out in response. The dog barked again. Maybe someone was looking for the sheep. I didn’t have much hope that anybody would be looking for me. My dad and brothers liked my cooking, but I had no real hope that they would think much of my
absence until it was marked by many hours. The dog seemed to be getting closer; an occasional yelp indicated his progress in our direction. The sheep would bleat back when he heard the dog and I waited hopefully for a canine rescue. I was very cold and a little wet from my tumble in the snow, and my hands were aching almost as much as my ankle. I huddled inside my beautiful blue coat and prayed for deliverance.

The darkness was complete as Don Yates’ black and white collie mix, Gus, trotted up to the lost sheep. Not far behind him, Samuel trudged, bundled against the snow in a black ski cap and his sheepskin coat, having traded his moccasins in for a pair of laced work boots. I cried out to him in gratitude and he stopped in surprise.

“Josie?”

“Samuel! I’ve sprained my ankle, and I can’t ride my bike home. I tried to crawl,” I stuttered out, my teeth chattering, “But my gloves are missing and it was just too far.”

Samuel hunched down next to me and pulled his hat from his head and pulled it down on mine. The sudden warmth and my relief at his presence made the tears I had been trying to control stream down my face. Samuel grabbed my hands in his and started rubbing them briskly.

“Why are you out here?” He sounded angry and his hands rubbed harder in concert to his harsh words. My tears flowed faster.

“I take piano lessons every afternoon from
Mrs. Grimaldi. She lives at the top of Tuckaway Hill.” I didn’t tell him how I had gotten carried away in the music and rolled down the hill.

“How did you end up on your hands and knees half frozen to death?” He barked out incredulously.

“I slipped,” I said defiantly, pulling my hands from his and wiping the tears from my icy cheeks. Samuel yanked his gloves off and grabbed my hands back insistently. Forcing my hands into the gloves he rose to his feet and reached down for me, lifting me to my feet.

“Can you walk at all if I help you?” His voice was a little less confrontational now, and I tried to take a step forward. It was like someone took an ice pick and rammed it into my leg. I fell in a heap at Samuel’s feet. The pain made me nauseous and the contents of my stomach rose up in rebellion and I retched just to the right of Samuels’s work boots. Luckily I’d had only an apple and half of a sandwich for lunch many hours ago, and there wasn’t much left to throw up, but puking with an audience was worse than the pain in my ankle, by far. I moaned in mortification as Samuel kicked snow over the steaming remains of my lunch and squatted down beside me again. He handed me a handful of snow to clean my mouth and I thankfully wiped and “rinsed” my mouth, my hands shaking.

“Did you say you rode your bike here?” Samuel’s voice was gentle.

“It’s at the base of the hill, back there.” My
voice wobbled dangerously and I stopped speaking abruptly, not wanting to disgrace myself any further.

Samuel stood and walked away from me, in the direction that I’d come. A few minutes later he was back, pushing my bike beside him.

“I’m going to help you get on-”

“I can’t push the pedals, Samuel,” I interrupted, my voice cracking again as the swell of tears clogged my throat.

“I know,” Samuel replied calmly. “But the seat is long. I can ride behind you and pedal.”

The bike was fine for me, but Samuel was over 6’0. This was going to be interesting. Samuel held the bike with one hand and pulled me to my feet with the other. Moving the bike close to where I was teetering, he straddled the bike and helped me climb on in front of him.

“Can you put your feet up in front of you?” The bars made a big U shape providing a good spot for my feet when I wanted to coast. Samuel helped me raise my hurt leg and I gingerly scooted as far forward on the seat as I could as he braced the bike with me on it. With a little shove, grunt, and a wobble we were off. The bike wove precariously, snow and gravel making it extremely treacherous. I squeezed my eyes shut and bit down on the yelp that escaped. Samuel used his legs to propel us forward until we established enough forward motion for an attempt at pedaling.

“What about the sheep?” I said suddenly,
having forgotten about my partner in peril.

“Gus will get him home. At this rate, they might get there before we do.” I looked behind us, peering carefully over Samuel’s shoulder as to not disturb the equilibrium of the bike. Sure enough, the sheep was waddling down the road, Gus nipping at his heels.

I relaxed as well as I could, my head resting in the curve of Samuel’s shoulder as his arms and legs braced me from falling off the narrow seat. I couldn’t comfortably reach the handlebars with my legs out in front of me, so I loosely held onto his arms just above the elbow. The silly song about a bicycle meant for two jumped into my head.
We won’t have a stylish marriage, I can’t afford a carriage . . .

When the gravel road finally joined the black top, I felt Samuel relax a little. The ride was suddenly made much smoother. Still, he couldn’t be comfortable. I imagined how we must look, riding down the moonlit road, not a soul in sight, like a creature with eight legs and two heads. I giggled a little despite my throbbing ankle and my wounded pride.

I felt a responding rumble in Samuel’s chest and swiveled my head to look up at him in amazement. I’d never heard Samuel laugh.

“Hold still!!!” Samuel’s voice raised in alarm as the bike took a dangerous lurch. I’d forgotten to move slowly.

“Sorry!” I squeaked, clinging to his arms as
he expertly restored balance.

“Hold still,” Samuel repeated again firmly.

We rode in silence for several minutes until I decided gratitude was in order.

“You saved me,” I said simply. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along. You might have even saved my life. My dad and Johnny might not have noticed I was gone for hours. They aren’t very aware of me.”

“I’m not sure I want to be responsible for saving your life.”

“Why? Don’t you like me at all?” My voice sounded as hurt as I felt.

Samuel sighed. “That’s not what I meant. And yes, I like you.” He sounded a bit uncomfortable at the admission. “It’s just that in many Indian cultures, when you save someone’s life you are responsible for them from that time forward. It’s like you are their keeper or something.”

That didn’t sound bad to me. I kind of liked the idea of having Samuel as my life-long guardian.

“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have looking out for me.” Somehow honesty was much easier when it was dark and your back was to the one you confessed to. Still I tensed a little, awaiting his response.

No response came. We rode in silence for the remainder of the ride, gliding past the homes of our neighbors until Samuel slowed to a stop in front of my house. Old Brown, Johnny’s truck, was parked
carelessly in the gravel in front of the house and my dad’s work truck was parked in the drive. Samuel helped me alight and set the bike down as he pulled me up onto his back, piggy-back style. I wished he’d sweep me up into his arms, like a bride. I felt heavy and awkward sprawled across his long back, and I clung to his shoulders, holding my breath as he climbed the stairs and slid me down his back to knock on the door.

“It’s my house! Just go in,” I said, reaching past him and opening the front door. The sounds of Jazz basketball blared from the TV, and the warmth from the wood burning stove poured over us. Samuel swung me up and carried me unceremoniously to the couch, setting me down as swiftly as he could and backing away as if he thought he would be in trouble for touching me.

My dad sat in his recliner and gaped at us for a minute before he collected his wits. I counted two empty beer cans on his TV stand and another in his hand. I sighed inwardly. Dad was a sweet drunk. He didn’t get mean and ugly, just drowsy and cheerful as he drowned his loneliness in a nightly ritual of Budweiser and Ball – football, basketball, baseball, whatever. He hadn’t drunk at all when mom was alive. We Mormons weren’t big drinkers. In fact, Mormons didn’t drink at all if we were living true to the tenets of our faith. Maybe that’s why Dad never went to church or cared if we went. Mom wouldn’t be too happy about that, I was sure.

“What happened?” My dad’s words weren’t
slurred; the night was still young.

I proceeded to tell him my abbreviated story involving the sheep, Gus, and including Samuel somewhere in there, too.

“No more piano lessons for you!” Dad grumbled. “It ain’t safe. I knew something was wrong. I was just about to come looking for you.”

“Oh no, Dad!” I cried out hastily, sitting up and swinging my good leg to the floor. “I’ll be more careful. I’m getting ready for the Christmas program. I can’t miss my lessons. Besides, Sonja, I mean, Mrs. Grimaldi, is going to have me practice at the church for the next few weeks so that she can start teaching me how to play the organ.”

I didn’t believe my dad had even noticed I was gone, nor been on the brink of starting out on a search and rescue mission, but I could tell he felt bad that I had been in trouble and he hadn’t had a clue.

Samuel shook Dad’s hand and made a hasty retreat, claiming he needed to go make sure Gus made it back to the corral with the wayward sheep.

5. Virtuoso

The only church in Levan was built in 1901. It was a beautiful light colored brick with a tall graceful steeple and steps leading up to the double oak doors. Not everybody went to church services in Levan, but everybody went to church. That church had been the town gathering place for almost 100 years. It had provided walls for worship, seen the townsfolk marry in its hallowed halls, and absorbed the grief of many a funeral. The beautiful chapel had high arching windows that were two stories tall. The heavy oak pews possessed the patina of time and tender care.