Running Barefoot (7 page)

“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, remarried, 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 into 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 into 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.

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 childlike wonder, I ended up hurt and alone. My ankle screamed 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 into 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.