Running Barefoot (2 page)
After a month everyone was sick of pancakes and spaghetti – my brother’s never get sick of chocolate chip cookies - and Louise said her head would explode if she “ever had to do that again,” so I started asking women from church if I could come over and watch them make dinner. I did this every time I needed a new recipe. The women were always kind and patient, taking me through the process, describing the ingredients and where to find them in the store or in the garden. I even drew myself pictures of the cans and the cartons so I wouldn’t forget what everything was. I made myself a vegetable chart with colorful depictions of what the TOP of the vegetable looked like (ie.carrots, radishes, potatoes) so I would know what to pull out of the ground. We didn’t have our own garden the first couple years after Mom died, but Nettie Yates let me raid her garden whenever I wanted. Eventually, she helped me plant my own little vegetable patch that expanded every year. By the time I was in high school, I had a good sized garden that I planted, tended, and harvested by myself.
I learned how to do the wash, separating out the whites from the darks, the grease stained work pants from the regularly soiled clothing. I kept the house cleaned, imagining I was Snow White mothering the seven messy dwarfs. I even pedaled down to the old post office and picked up the mail every day. We didn’t have mailboxes in front of our houses in Levan. Instead, everything was delivered to the post office, and each person in the town had a box and a key. Dad would lay out the things that needed to be sent, and I would make sure they had stamps and were taken to the post office. By the time I was twelve, I knew how to balance a checkbook, and my dad opened a household account for me. From that point on I handled the utilities and the groceries from my account. Dad took care of the farm, and I took care of the house.
The only thing I did not want to do was look after the chickens. My mother had always taken care of the chickens - feeding them, gathering their eggs, and cleaning up after them. I had always been deathly afraid of the chickens. My mom had told me once, when I was just a toddler, the boys had gotten distracted when they were supposed to be looking after me. I wandered out to the barnyard and a particularly ornery red hen cornered me and I was frozen in terror by the time Mom found me. Mom said I wasn’t crying, but when she picked me up I was as stiff as a board, and I had nightmares for weeks afterwards.
Chickens are hard to form attachments to. They are aggressive and ill-tempered and quick to peck and squabble. The first time I gathered eggs after Mom died, I almost hyperventilated I was so terrified. Little by little, the conquering of my fear made me feel powerful, and I began to take pride in caring for the unlovable birds. I named each one and talked to them as if they were my naughty children. With every task I mastered, the more in control I felt, and I became very adept at trudging along in my mother’s footprints.
I liked having a purpose, I liked being needed, and I found that serving my dad and my brothers made me love them more. Loving them more made it easier to live without my mom. I had been a serious child before, more content to be alone than with playmates, but my mother’s death made my solitary nature more solitary still. The more independent I got, the harder it became to act my age; I didn’t climb up in my dad’s lap or demand to be hugged and kissed. I didn’t throw fits when I’d been ignored too long. I suppose I acted like a very small grown-up; loneliness wasn’t something I minded all that much. It was better than other people’s sympathy pressing at me all the time.
There were times, especially the year after my mom’s death, when the grief in our house felt like putting a heavy quilt over your head and trying to breathe. The weight of our combined sadness was claustrophobic, and I found myself grieving away from home as much as I could. When I wasn’t busy with chores, I would get on my blue bike and pump my legs as hard as I could until I reached the little cemetery at the bottom of Tuckaway Hill, about a mile from my house. I would sit by my mom’s grave and let the silence loose the blanket of unshed tears until breathing became easier. I would bring my books and read with my back pressed up against the stone that bore her name. My books were my friends, and I devoured everything I could get my hands on. All my favorite characters became my heroes.
Anne of Green Gables
became my bosom friend
, A Little Princess,
and
Heidi,
sources of strength and example. I relished happy endings where kids like me triumphed in spite of hardship. There was always hardship in the stories, and this realization comforted me. I was inspired by sacrifice in
The Summer of the Monkeys,
and planted a red fern at my mother’s grave for Dan and Ann after reading
Where the Red Fern Grows.
It was on one of these days, reading alone in the cemetery, a little more than a year after Mom died, when a long, white Cadillac slowly slid its way down the dirt road that ran along the west side of the cemetery. There were no white Cadillacs in Levan; actually, there were no Cadillacs at all in Levan, white or otherwise. I watched as it made its way towards me, kicking up dust and drawing my attention from
The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe,
which I had read twice before. It purred by and climbed the lane that led to the Brockbank summer homes on Tuckaway Hill. Maybe a new family had moved in. I was suddenly, overwhelmingly, curious to see where that car was going. I figured I could be sneaky, using the sagebrush as cover if I felt exposed when I got close. The lane was steep, and my skin was itchy with sweat and dust as I leveled out on the top of the hill.
Three beautiful homes had been built on Tuckaway Hill, all owned by a wealthy family named Brockbank. Apparently, the Brockbank sons, who dabbled in contracting and development, had had the idea that the hill would make an ideal summer retreat for the wealthy family and had built an impressive little compound. The Brockbanks and their grown children had visited the different homes at various times, but the houses had been empty now for several years. They’d named the hill Tuckaway, but apparently it was too tucked away, because none of them ever came for very long.
The door to the garage of the largest home stood wide open, and the white Cadillac was parked demurely inside. I couldn’t see anyone around - no boxes or moving van, no children’s toys abandoned haphazardly on the walk.
I didn’t dare knock, and peeking through windows when someone was home was far too brazen for my cautious nature. I turned to go when a violent noise startled me into dropping my bike and yelping in surprise. Belatedly, I realized someone was playing the piano with serious gusto. I didn’t recognize the song, but it wasn’t pretty. It was crashing and intense and reminded me of the kind of music that would be in a scary movie - a scary movie where the little girl who is snooping on someone else’s property gets murdered by the crazy owner. I was seriously spooked and picked up my bike, only to discover that the chain had come off when I’d dropped it. I squatted down and quickly began trying to force the greasy chain back around the sprocket - this had happened to me before, and I knew how to get it back on.
As I worked, I listened nervously to the powerful music pouring out of the house. All at once the music changed and morphed into something equally powerful, but infused with joy in every note. The music swelled in my heart and had tears filling my eyes and overflowing onto my cheeks. I wiped at them in amazement, leaving a streak of grease down the side of my face.
Music had never made me cry before. And these weren’t sad tears. The music I was hearing made me feel the way I sometimes felt in church when I sang songs about God or Jesus. But it made me feel that way without any words. I loved words. I was surprised that the music could talk to me without speaking. I listened as long as I dared, and when the song seemed to near its soaring conclusion, I picked up my bike and sped away, pedaling in time with the music that now filled my head.
“It’s a retired doctor and his wife,” my dad told me at dinner time that night when I relayed the story of the white Cadillac. “Name’s Grimwald, or something or other.”
“Grimaldi,” Jacob corrected with his mouth full of mashed potatoes. “Rachel and her mom helped clean the house before they moved in.”
Rachel was Jacob’s girlfriend. Rachel’s mom was the president of the women’s organization at our little church, and duty made her a busy woman. It also provided an opportunity for firsthand knowledge of all the town’s goings-on, although she wasn’t the type to abuse her position.
“Rachel said the doc’s wife insisted on paying them,” Jacob continued. “She got kinda feisty when they refused. Rachel said her mom kept saying they were glad to help and wanted to serve. The doc’s wife finally gave in, but said that if Rachel wanted to come back she would pay her to clean once a week.” Jacob settled back with a satisfied burp.
“Why did they move to Levan?” I questioned. “Are they related to somebody?” Levan was a far cry from St. George, three hours south, where retirees commonly moved to soak up sun and enjoy easy winters.
“Rachel says the old man is writing a book and he wants peace and quiet,” Jacob said matter-of-factly. “The doc’s wife said they are old friends of the Brockbank’s, and Levan seemed like a good place to find it.”
I thought of the loud and passionate music of earlier that day. It definitely hadn’t been quiet then. I resolved to wheedle Rachel into taking me along when she went to clean again. And that was how I met Sonja Grimaldi.
Rachel was a tiny, pretty redhead who was good-natured and very hardworking. She was always moving and doing. She referred to everything as a thingy or a dilly, and she would probably never gain a pound, as she worked as fast as she talked and never seemed to tire. I loved her, but too much time in her presence made me long to sit down and drown in a deep book. She was a perfect compliment to my laid back, slow talking oldest brother, and I was grateful that someday she would probably be a Jensen and I would have a sister.
That Saturday she was happy to let me tag along to the Grimaldi’s, and I found myself looking forward to hearing more music, hoping that whoever had played before might do so again. The Grimaldi’s were nowhere to be found when we arrived, though Rachel didn’t seem concerned and immediately got to work. I tried to help her clean, but she shooed me away good-naturedly, saying she didn’t want to share her profits. I tiptoed through the kitchen and into the room where I thought the piano must be. The piano was an enormous, black, shiny showpiece, the lid raised high, the seat a long smooth slash of ebony. I desperately wanted to sit down and run my hands across the keys. So I did. I slid onto the bench and rested my hands gently on the glistening whites. I played each one very, very softly, enjoying the individual sounds, the clear tones.
“Do you play?” A voice said behind me.
My heart jumped out of my chest and tumbled to the floor as I sat frozen, my hands still on the keys.
“You touch the keys so reverently, I thought you must play,” the voice continued.
My heart returned to my chest, pounding loudly to let me know I was still alive. I stood and turned guiltily. A bird-like woman, not much taller than me, stood just behind me. Her silver hair was fashioned in an updo, all swooped the way Jane Seymour had worn hers in ‘Somewhere in Time’. She wore black horn rimmed glasses on her very long nose and a deep purple pantsuit with matching purple gems that I later learned were called garnets at her ears, hands, and throat.
“I’m Josie,” I stammered. “Josie Jensen. I came with Rachel. I don’t play…but I wish I could.”
She glided past me and set herself regally on the black bench I had vacated.
“Who is your favorite composer?” Her glasses slid down her nose as she tipped her face forward, peering at me above the rims.
“I don’t know any of the composers,” I confessed sheepishly. “Most of the music I know I hear at church or on the radio. I do love to hear the organ play the hymns.” Thoughts of Jane Seymour moments before brought a memory to mind. “There was this music in a movie I saw once. It was my mom’s favorite, and she cried whenever she watched it. The movie was called ‘Somewhere in Time’ ... do you know it?” I rushed on when she didn’t respond. “There was this beautiful song that kept playing.”
