Running Barefoot

by Amy Harmon

  The next day I faked sick. My dad didn’t question me too hard. In fact, he didn’t question me at all. I never faked sick, so when I said I didn’t feel well and wasn’t going, he just shrugged his shoulders, felt my head, and asked me if I needed him to stay home from work to be with me.

  “Uuggh! “Please no!” I thought desperately. Then I would have to fake sick all day. I told him I would just sleep and that I would be fine all by myself. He didn’t need much convincing. I spent the day playing the piano until my back and neck ached, and my fingers kept playing even after I stopped.

  At 3:30 the doorbell rang. I was back on the piano playing Fur Elise, my feet bare, wearing my favorite old jeans and the soft blue BYU sweatshirt Jared had given me for Christmas. I ran my fingers through my hair and walked to the door, expecting Tara.

  Samuel stood on the porch, his hands pushed down into his pockets, his head uncovered, his silky black hair blowing in the cold January wind. He didn’t have his backpack, so I assumed he’d gone home first. I wondered what excuse he’d made in order to come see me. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could see it -

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?” His voice held no anger, but there was a tightness around his mouth that I hated.

  I moved aside and opened the door wider, indicating he come inside. He seemed hesitant to enter, but must have realized we couldn’t sit out on the porch in the cold for very long - plus, his grandpa or someone might drive by, and explaining would be weird. People in small towns saw things and talked....if someone saw Samuel sitting on my front porch with me, tongues would start wagging, and that would not be good.

  Samuel stepped inside, and I shut the door behind him. He didn’t sit down, but stood stiffly a few steps from the door. I resumed my perch on the piano seat. I curled one leg up under me and stared down at the black and white keys, waiting.

  “Are you sick?” Samuel asked bluntly.

  “No.” My voice was a whisper.

  “Why didn’t you go to school today? And where were you yesterday after school?” His voice was flat.

  I tried to speak around the giant lump in my throat and had to swallow a few times to get the words to come out. “I was afraid to see you.” He seemed surprised that I would just come right out and admit it.

  “What did you think I would do?” He asked sharply.

  “It’s not what you would do,” I answered miserably, the lump in my throat growing, choking me. “It’s how you would act. I can’t stand it - you being so mad at me. You looked at me yesterday like you wished I were dead, and I just couldn’t face you, knowing how much you hated me!” I folded my arms around myself, willing the pain in my heart to subside.

  “I was mad…but I could never hate you.” His voice was soft, and I felt the tightness in my chest ease just enough to make breathing easier.

  “I wish you hadn’t done that, but a part of me was glad that you did; I think that makes me even more ticked off - I hate it that part of me is thankful for what you did.... It’s weak to need or want someone to speak for me.” He paused for a minute and I shifted on the piano bench so that I could face him. He glared down at me, his jaw set, his eyes wet. “You can’t do that again, Josie. I don’t want you to take care of me. I know you did it because you do care….but don’t take my pride from me.”

  “Is pride more important than friendship?” I said sadly.

  “Yes!” Samuel’s voice was harsh and emphatic.

  “That is so ridiculous!” I threw my arms wide in frustration.

  “Josie! You are just a little girl! You don’t know how helpless and weak and stupid it made me feel to stand there while you arranged my life like I was some kind of charity case!” Samuel fisted his hands in his hair, and growling, turned towards the door.

  “I am not a little girl! I haven’t been a little girl for years…for ever! I don’t think like a little girl, I don’t act like a little girl. I don’t LOOK like a little girl, do I? Don’t you dare say I am a little girl!” I pounded down on the piano keys - playing a violent riff, reminiscent of Wagner himself. Now I knew what Sonja meant by letting out the beast! I wanted to throw something, or smash something, and scream at Samuel. He was so impossible! Such a stubborn, mule-headed jerk! I played hard for several minutes, and Samuel stood at the door, dumbfounded.

  Suddenly Samuel sat down beside me on the piano bench and put his hands over the top of mine, bringing the din to a halt.

  “I’m sorry, Josie,” Samuel said softly. I was crying, tears dripping down onto the keys, making them slippery. I was a terrible beast, not fierce at all - just a blubbering, baby beast. Samuel seemed at a loss. He sat very still, his hands covering mine. Slowly, his hands rose to my face and gently wiped the tears from my cheeks.

  “Will you play something else?” He requested softly, his voice remorseful. “Will you play something for me...... please?”

  I wiped my tears off of the piano keys with the bottom of my sweatshirt. He waited patiently beside me, letting me regain my composure. I was still hurt and frustrated, and I didn’t understand him at all. But I had never been able to hold onto anger very long ... and I forgave him immediately, giving in with a soggy sigh.

  “You know I love “Ode to Joy’ but I don’t really want to play that right now…” My voice was a little gravely from crying, and I looked up at him.

  “Have you ever heard Mozart’s Piano Concerto Number 23 in A Major?”

  “Ummm, I really wouldn’t know if I had.” He smiled ruefully as he looked down at me, shaking his head and wiping a stray tear from my cheek.

  “It’s my favorite song . . . today.” I smiled a little. “I have different favorites on different days. But today is a Mozart day.”

  His hands fell to his lap as I began playing. I plucked out the lilting melody, trilling through the notes, fingers flying though the rolling chords, coaxing every last bit of aching sweetness from the wistful concerto. How I loved this music! How it healed me and filled me and soothed me.

  The last musical phrases were so soft, so faint, that Samuel leaned in to hear the very last high, clear, notes as my fingers grew still on the keys. I looked up at him then. He was staring down at my hands resting on the now silent keys.

  “Play more,” Samuel urged softly. “Play the one you played at Christmas ... the second one.”

  I acquiesced immediately, my heart swelling at his response, his sincere enjoyment.

  “Does it have a name?” He said reverently, when I finished.

  “Ave Maria.” I smiled. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? It was written by Franz Schubert. He was only 31-years-old when he died. He died completely broke, not knowing that his music would be treasured by people forever.”

  “And you know this because….?” Samuel raised his eyes to mine in question.

  “My piano teacher, Mrs. Grimaldi, tells me all about the composers when I play their music. She says to be a great composer, I have to love the great composers, and if I don’t know them, how can I love them?”

  “Which one do you love the most?”

  I giggled a little. “It’s kind of like my favorite song. It changes all the time, depending on what kind of mood I’m in. Ms. Grimaldi says I am a very mercurial musician.”

  “I think I’m going to have to go look that word up.”

  “The dictionary says it means active, sprightly, full of vigor.” I laughed. “I had to look it up as soon as she said it, but I think Mrs. Grimaldi meant always changing, unpredictable.”

  “So who is your favorite composer today?”

  “Lately, I have been enamored with Frederin Chopin.”

  “Does enamored mean in love with?”

  I giggled again. “More like captivated by.”

  “Why are you captivated by him?”

  “He was handsome,” I answered promptly, and felt like a silly idiot when Samuel raised his eyebrows and smirked. “But mostly it was because he wrote mainly for the piano ...more than any other composer i
n history. I am a pianist, so....I like that. He was also very young when he died - only 39 years old. He died of Tuberculosis. He also had a torrid love affair with a famous writer. He was filled with guilt because he never married her, and he was certain he was going to go to hell because of it. He ended their relationship before he died, trying to repent of his sinful behavior, but it’s so romantic. He was such a tragic figure.”

  “So play something by Chopin,” Samuel demanded.

  I had the first portion of Chopin’s Nocturne in C Minor memorized, and I loved the dramatic rhythm of the low - high, low - high pattern throughout the beginning. It was a moody piece, and it appealed to my romantic nature when suddenly it became sweet and melodic, full of nostalgia and tenderness. I had not memorized the incredible difficulty of the final movement, tying it all together in a triumphant and impressive finish, so I improvised a little to end it before I got there.

  “I can see why you are enamored,” Samuel teased. He was relaxed and his mouth was curved in pleasure. “Now play me something you’ve written.”

  I froze in discomfort. “I am not a composer, Samuel,” I said stiffly.

  “You mean you haven’t made up any songs? Mozart was - how old did you say? Four or five?...when he started making up…what are they called?”

  “Minuets,” I supplied.

  “You haven’t even tried to compose a little?” He prodded.

  “A little,” I admitted, embarrassed.

  “So... let me hear something.”

  I remained unmoving, my hands in my lap.

  “Josie....all I know about music, I’ve learned from you. You could play something by Beethoven, say it was yours, and I wouldn’t know better. I will think whatever you play is wonderful, you know that, right?” He urged me gently.

  I had been working on something. A few months back, a melody had shivered its way into my subconscious and I hadn’t been able to place it. It had lurked, pestering me, until finally I had hummed it for Sonja, fingering it on the piano, creating chords out of the single notes and embellishing the melody line. She had listened silently and then asked me to play it again and again. Each time I added more, layering and building until she stopped me, touching my shoulder softly. When I looked up at her from the piano, there was awe in her face, almost a spiritual glow.

  “This is yours, Josie,” she had said.

  “What do you mean?” I had asked, confused.

  “I’ve never heard this music. This isn’t something you heard…this is something you created.” She had beamed, joyfully.

  I thought of the music now as Samuel sat next to me, waiting patiently, hoping I’d concede. The music had come to me after we’d quarreled about Heathcliffe and the meaning of true love. When I thought of the music, I thought of Samuel.

  I brought my hands to the keys and exhaled slowly, letting the music seep into my fingers. I played intently - there was a yearning in the melody that I recognized as my own loneliness. The music never became powerful, but moved me in its simplicity and in its clarity. I brushed the keys gently, coaxing the song from my timid soul. It was a humble offering, not nearly worthy yet of Mozart even at a young age, but it echoed with the passion of a sincere heart. When the last note faded and Samuel had still not spoken, I peered up at him apprehensively.

  “What is it called?” He whispered, bringing his ebony eyes to hold mine.

  “Samuel’s Song,” I whispered back, staring at him, suddenly brave and unapologetic.

  He turned his face away from me abruptly, and he seemed unable to speak. He stood and walked to the door. He paused there, with his hand on the doorknob, his head bowed.

  “I need to go, now.” Samuel looked at me then, and there was a battle being waged in his eyes, turmoil on his face. “Your song…That is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.” His voice was filled with emotion. And with that, he opened the door and walked out into the icy stillness, shutting the door softly behind him.

  7. Dissonance

  The last week in February, Samuel didn’t come to school. On Monday, I thought maybe he was sick or something, but after a few days I was worried about him. By Thursday, I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I came up with a plan to see him. Nettie Yates had given me a recipe for chocolate chip zucchini bread when we were canning the summer before. She’d shredded the zucchini into freezer bags and taped the laminated recipe to the pouches so that I could “just whip some up whenever I wanted to!” I had yet to make it. Zucchini and chocolate chips seemed like an odd combination.

  I was grateful now for an excuse to go see her and, hopefully, find out what was up with Samuel. I pulled some shredded zucchini out of the freezer, made up a couple loaves of the chocolate chip zucchini bread, and headed out into the icy February evening, a loaf of the hot bread wrapped in a dish cloth and held against me, keeping my fingers warm.

  Nettie Yates answered the door after a couple knocks and seemed glad to see me.

  “Josie,” she exclaimed happily. “How nice to see you! Come in, come in! Oh, it’s miserable out there! Did you walk?”

  “It’s not far, Mrs.Yates,” I said trying to talk between my chattering teeth. “I made zucchini bread from that recipe you gave me and thought maybe you’d like to try it, maybe give me some pointers,” I lied smoothly.

  “What a perfect day for warm zucchini bread! I’d love some! Come into the kitchen. You can put your coat and boots back in the mud room by the back door.”

  I handed her the loaf, bound tightly like a baby in a blanket and pulled my coat and boots off. I didn’t see any sign of Samuel. I padded through the kitchen on stocking feet, trying to search without looking obvious about it. Samuel’s coat wasn’t hanging on any of the hooks in the mudroom. I turned to hurry back in the warm kitchen, when I heard someone coming up the back steps. The door whooshed open and Don Yates came tumbling in, nose and cheeks red, cowboy hat pulled low. I scurried out of the mudroom into the kitchen, not wanting to be standing there staring if Samuel was right behind him.

  “Woo Wee! It is colder than a witch’s kiss out there!” Don Yates slammed the door closed behind him. I heard him pulling off his boots and unzipping his coat. Samuel wasn’t with him.

  “Josie Jensen is here Don!” Nettie called out from the kitchen. “She brought us some nice zucchini bread. Come on in and I’ll get you some hot cocoa to go with it.”

  Don came tottering in, still bundled in thermals and plaid, rubbing his hands together.

  “Hello, Miss Josie.” Don went to the sink and washed his hands and face while Nettie cut the zucchini bread and spread butter thickly over the top. I sat down, not sure how I was going to get the information I needed. Samuel obviously wasn’t here . . . unless he was sick in his room.

  “Josie, the bread looks wonderful!” Nettie exclaimed. I took a big bite of the slice Nettie set before me, chewing it slowly, trying to buy myself some time to plot. It was really good. Who knew zucchini would work with chocolate chips? You couldn’t taste the zucchini - it just made the bread moist. The bread tasted like thick spicy cake, the chocolate chips imbedded around the edges. I felt a surge of pride that it had turned out so well.

  “It’s gonna be ten below tonight,” Don muttered to himself. I’ve got the horses inside, but it’s gonna be miserable for ’em all the same. I hate February . . . most miserable month of the year,” Don grumbled under his breath.

  “So…Mrs.Yates….I noticed Samuel wasn’t on the bus....is he sick?” I stunk at subterfuge.

  “Oh, heavens no!” Mrs. Yates declared, covering her mouth as she tried to answer between bites. “Samuel went back to the reservation.”

  Time stopped, and I stared at Nettie Yates in horror.

  “For good?” My voice rose with a squeak, and I stared down at my half-eaten slice of bread, my mind spinning. “He’s not coming back?” I said in a more controlled tone, though my heart was constricting painfully in my chest.

  “Well, we don’t know exactly,” Nettie said careful
ly, sharing a meaningful look with Don.

  “What does that mean?” My fear was making me impertinent.

  “Well,” Nettie started every sentence with ‘well’, especially when she was trying to be discreet.

  “Samuel’s mom wants him back home.” Don’s gravely voice was blunt as he wiped the back of his hand over his lips, checking his mustache for crumbs.

  “But....” I tried to proceed gingerly, not wanting to give my feelings away. “Won’t it be hard for Samuel to finish school if he leaves now?”

  “His mom said he doesn’t need to finish if he’s just going to herd sheep. She says they need him there.” I could tell Don was none to happy about the situation. “Samuel is eighteen years old. Legally, he’s an adult, and nobody can make him finish.”

  “But, I thought she was the one who wanted him to come here!” I was angry and confused, and my face probably showed it.

  “She did!” I must have hit a nerve, because Don’s voice rose emphatically. “She talked to him on the phone last week. She said he sounded good and decided he ‘was cured’.” Don lifted up his fingers and waggled them, making quotations in the air as he repeated the words Samuel’s mother had used.

  “But…what about the Marines?” I was trying to keep my composure. I couldn’t let them know how much this conversation was upsetting me. “He’s worked so hard! He’s even learning how to swim!”

  Nettie set down her cup of hot chocolate and looked at me in surprise. “How did you know about the Marines?”

  “Samuel and I are assigned to the same seat on the bus, Mrs. Yates,” I confessed. “I’ve talked to him a little bit. He’s been trying so hard to get good grades, too . . . I can’t believe he’s just going to quit school.”