Running Barefoot (30 page)

“So…this Samuel guy…why’s he back in town?” Tara interrupted her mom’s giddy monologue.

“Well, Nettie told me he’s come back to help her and Don get things in order.” Louise responded. “They don’t really have anybody else, ya know, and they’re gettin’ on in years. Tabrina and her husband are no help - those two together are about as smart as a box of rocks.”

“Louise!” I scolded

“Oh okay, Josie. I am bein’ kinda harsh.” She amended with “Tabrina and her husband are about as smart as a box of frogs.” She smirked at me over her right shoulder before she continued.

“Anyhow, this Samuel - and he is a fine specimen now, Tara, no matter what you thought when you were in seventh grade - he’s come back to do some legal work for them, help them get their sheep sold, sell some land, stuff like that. Don’s health isn’t great, and it’s just time to stop workin’ so hard.”

“You said he was doing some legal work for them. Is he some kind of lawyer?” Tara piped in with interest. Lawyers meant money to Tara, and money was number one on the top of her marriage-must- haves.

“No, he’s a Marine.” I volunteered.

“He’s a Marine, all right, but Nettie says the Marines helped pay for his college and then he went to officer’s training, and now he’s going to attend law school. He’s on some kind of leave right now.”

I gasped right out loud. Samuel, becoming a lawyer? I felt a little weak in the knees, and then I felt 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. Nettie 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. Combine that with his built up forearms, and 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, his head tilted to the side, regarding me quietly.

I looked back down, anxiously trying to find a weed within arm 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 days 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 shutdowns 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, and 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.

“Alright,” 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 replied 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.”