Running Barefoot (8 page)
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 lifelong 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 had he 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.
The only church in Levan was built in 1904. 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.
Sonja taught me to play the organ in that lovely little chapel. On the day of my first lesson, I had shown up in blue jeans, only to have Sonja send me home to change into a dress.
“This is a place of reverence and worship,” she had said sternly. “We do not wear casual clothes when we enter the chapel!” .
Christmas was coming, and I was going to be performing ‘Oh Holy Night’ on the piano for the annual Christmas Eve service. Everyone in town came to the Christmas Eve service, whether they came regularly to church or not. It was the spiritual highlight of the Christmas season for townsfolk. The choir would perform sacred Christmas songs, Sonja would accompany them on the organ, and the bells would be rung. The story of the Christ Child would be read at the pulpit by Lawrence Mangelson, who possessed a rich, deep, orator’s voice. It was my favorite tradition, and my musician’s heart was overflowing with thoughts of debuting at such an event. I had taken piano lessons, Monday through Friday, for three years, and had yet to play for anyone but Doc, Sonja, and my family.
Originally, the church choir director, married to the aforementioned Lawrence Mangelson, had denied Sonja’s request to let me play in the special worship service. She was kind, but she worried that my ability at thirteen would not be worthy of the occasion. Sonja had taken me to Mrs. Mangelson’s home and insisted that she listen.
I played a powerfully moving and difficult rendition of ‘Oh Holy Night’ on the piano in her little sitting room, and when I finished, the sweet old lady humbly asked for my forgiveness, begging me to take part in the program. Mr. Mangelson said it would be the best Christmas Eve Service ever and suggested we keep my piano solo a secret.
Christmas Eve fell on a Sunday that year, and I attended the 9:00 a.m. church services without my family. Because the congregation would be returning that evening for the Christmas Eve service, the morning services were shortened. I had let my Aunt Louise and Tara in on my little secret, so later that afternoon, Aunt Louise came over and styled my hair, smoothing my natural curl into shining waves and applying light makeup on my eyes, cheeks, and lips. Sonja said musicians often perform in classic black but had thought white might be more age appropriate. She had driven to Provo, a city about an hour north of Levan, and found a simple yet elegant, long-sleeved, white, velvet dress. When I thumped down from my attic room, coiffed and wearing my new dress, my one foot in a heel and the other in a walking cast, thanks to my tumble down Tuckaway Hill, my dad’s weathered face softened and his lower lip trembled.
“You look like an angel, honey. I’d hug you but I don’t want to muss ya up.”
The night was cold and still, snow running in deep drifts along the edge of the poorly plowed roads. We made our way to the church which was lit up and welcoming in the moonlight. Sonja sat at the organ and played magnificent prelude music, softening hearts and moistening eyes before the program had even begun. We sat in our regular pew, with Rachel coming to join us to sit with Jacob. They were engaged to be married in the spring, and with Jared home from college for the holidays, we were all together. Everyone was scrubbed and solemn in their holiday best, hair slicked and ties tied.
The program began, and my stomach was in knots as it neared the moment of my solo. I was seated at the end of our bench to provide easy access to the aisle, which was a straight shot up to the stand where the piano was waiting, lid opened, choir members seated on the dais around it. Lawrence Mangelson’s voice soared with the spirit as he spoke of the angels that heralded the birth of the King. Suddenly, it was my turn to play, and I rose on shaking legs and walked to the piano. There was a murmur through the congregation. The service always stayed close to tradition with little variance in narration or music. This was a surprise, and again, no one really knew I played.
I sat down and closed my eyes in silent prayer, asking for the nerves to stay in my legs and not my hands. My knees could knock harmlessly without hurting my performance. Softly, I began to play, tuning into the beauty of the sound, the soaring reverence of the melody, the magnificence of the musical phrasing. The audience faded around me as I joyously submitted to the song, and when it was done I slowly descended back to earth. I rose from the piano on steady legs, having forgotten my nerves, and looked out over the silent congregation.
My dad’s face was streaked with tears, and my brothers’ faces shone with pride. Aunt Louise and Tara smiled broadly, and Tara even waved excitedly before her mother noticed and pulled her hand down. Sonja was dabbing her eyes with a lacy hanky, her horned rims in one hand.
Then, from the back of the room, someone began to clap. Mormons don’t clap in worship services. The chapel is a reverent place, and speakers end sermons with an ‘amen’, followed by an ‘amen’ from the congregation. When someone sings or plays, even ‘amens’ are not given. The choir or performer knows how well they have been received only by the level of silence and attention that is afforded them.
