Romance Through the Ages

by Amy Harmon

  Then one morning, about two weeks after he left, I climbed on the bus, and he was sitting there waiting for me like he’d never been gone. I rushed to him and sat down, grabbing his hand in mine and holding on for all I was worth.

  “You’re here!” I was whispering, trying to be discreet, but I felt like laughing out loud and dancing. He turned his face toward me, and I saw that the left side of his face, from his eye to his chin, was covered with a mottled green and yellow bruise, most likely a few days old.

  “What happened? Oh, Samuel, your face!”

  Samuel let me hold his hand for a moment, clasping mine tightly in his as well. Then he gently extricated his fingers and folded his hands together, like he was afraid he might take my hand again.

  “I’m here until I graduate, which is going to be harder than it would have been two weeks ago. I have to go to my teachers and beg them to help me. I missed mid-terms and big assignments in every class. I have to read Othello.” He grimaced and looked at me. “I might need your help with that.” I nodded my head willingly as he continued. “When I graduate, my grandparents are going to take me to San Diego for Marine boot camp. I don’t think I’ll be going back to the rez any time soon.” Sorrow bracketed his mouth and his lips turned down slightly.

  I reached up with my right hand and gently touched his bruised cheekbone. “What happened?” I asked again, hoping he wouldn’t pull away.

  “Complements of my mom’s husband.”

  “He hit you?” I whispered, shocked.

  “Yeah. I hit him, too. Don’t look so alarmed. I gave as good as I got. In fact, I had to hold back a little because he was so drunk it really wasn’t a fair fight.” Samuel’s voice and face were smooth and untroubled. I wasn’t really buying it.

  “Your mom lets him hit you?”

  “Mom doesn’t have much control over anything at this point. She drinks way too much too, and she’s scared of him. But she’s more scared that he’ll leave and even more scared that I will be the reason he does. It’s better for everyone if I go and stay gone.”

  “But…I thought your mom wanted you back home. That’s what your grandparents said.”

  “My mom doesn’t want me to be a Marine and get myself killed in some white man’s war. My mom doesn’t understand why I want to go. She says she never should have married my father. She says I am leaving her because I am ashamed I am half Navajo. The funny thing is, she wants me gone, but she doesn’t want me to go.”

  I felt his helplessness and didn’t know how to comfort him. I didn’t understand the relationship he had with his mother, or the difficulty in being of mixed race, from mixed cultures, full of mixed emotions.

  “What made you decide to come back?” I didn’t think I would have had the courage to leave my family.

  “I spent some time with my grandmother. During the winter the sheep are corralled close to home, and my grandmother works almost non-stop at her loom. She makes these amazing rugs and blankets. She says her ability to weave is a gift from Spider Woman.” He looked at me, a faint smile lurking around his firm lips. “Spider Woman is not related to Super Sam or Bionic Josie.” He quirked his eyebrows at me and then continued, serious again. “Spider Woman is considered one of the Holy People—kind of like the Gods of the Navajo people.

  “My grandmother never went to school. Her parents were suspicious of the schools of the white man. They hid her in the cornfield when the social service people came to enforce the education laws on the reservation. There were boarding schools for the children then. The children were sent away, and they weren’t allowed to speak Navajo. Her parents worried that school would change her. They told her the sheep would provide for her and give her everything she needed.

  “The funny thing is, they were right. My grandmother is very independent. She cares for the sheep, and they provide for her. She knows how to shear, wash, card, and spin the wool into yarn. From the yarn she makes the rugs and blankets to sell. The Navajo name for sheep means ‘that by which we live.’ She says she is grateful for the gift of weaving from Spider Woman, and for her sheep, for her hogan, for her life…but she wishes she had been able to go to school.

  “When I was there she told me to study hard, to be proud of my heritage and not be afraid of myself. She said I was Navajo, but I was my father’s son as well. One heritage was not more important than the other.”

  Samuel grew quiet, and I sat next to him in contemplative silence.

  “I’ll help you, Samuel.”

  “I know you will Josie. And Josie?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Remember when I told you that you were the furthest thing from a Navajo?”

  I laughed a little, remembering the derision with which he had made the statement. “Yep, I remember.”

  “I realized something when I was with my grandmother.” He paused, smiling faintly. “You remind me of her. Funny, huh?”

  I pondered that for a minute. Samuel continued, apparently not expecting me to answer.

  “She sang me a healing song before I left. Usually the chants and the songs are sung by the old men, but she said the words are like a prayer, and prayer is for everyone.” The words of the song are:

  There is beauty behind me as I walk

  There is beauty before me as I walk

  There is beauty below me as I walk.

  There is beauty above me as I walk.

  In beauty I must always walk.

  “You always walk in beauty, Josie. You are constantly looking for it. I think you are secretly a Navajo after all.” Samuel took my hand in his this time.

  “Can I have a secret name?” I teased, but I was touched by his sentiment.

  “I’ll think about it.” Samuels’s lips twitched and merriment flitted across his stern features. “By the way, Nettie and Don said you came looking for me. They said you were acting strange and talking about umbilical cords.” Samuel’s eyes danced with laughter.

  I giggled and covered my mouth with my free hand.

  “Samuel?” He looked at me in response. “I think I have a new code word for music.”

  His forehead creased “What?”

  “Sheep.”

  “Why?”

  “Because music is ‘that by which I live.’”

  “Bee’iin’a at’e?”

  “Wow. Is that how you say it? That’s even better.”

  And we listened to Mozart’s ‘Requiem’ in peaceful companionship.

  Deceptive Cadence

  I told Samuel that I would help him read Othello, but it proved difficult for me. I was not a stranger to Shakespeare’s language, but the themes of jealousy, racism, and betrayal were not ones I enjoyed. I found myself increasingly anxious for Othello, and frustrated by the ease in which he fell for Iago’s machinations. I desperately wanted a happy ending, and I wasn’t going to get one.

  Samuel seemed to take the story in stride, enjoying the plot and the complex Shakespearean prose. The play was not overly long, and by the end of the week we were in Act V, Scene 2. Samuel was reading the scene intently, and I was listening to his fluid voice relay the intricate tale without a single stumble or trip. I would have enjoyed just listening to his melodic cadence if it weren’t for poor Desdemona’s impending doom. I tried to hold my tongue and listen patiently, but found myself continually interrupting.

  “She is innocent! Why is it so easy to believe she would betray him?” I was truly appalled.

  Samuel looked up at me calmly and replied, “Because it’s always easier to believe the worst.”

  I looked at him in disbelief. “It is not!” I sputtered. “I can’t believe you would say that! Wouldn’t you give the benefit of the doubt to someone you claimed to love?” The ease in which Othello accepted her betrayal was completely foreign to me. “And why would Othello believe Iago over Desdemona? I don’t care how honest they think Iago is! Emilia even told Othello she thought he was being manipulated and tricked!”

  Samuel sighed and tried to read to the
end of the scene. I jumped in again. I couldn’t help it. My sense of outrage was on overdrive.

  “But he said, ‘I loved not wisely, but too well!’“ I was dismayed. “He had it totally backwards! He did love wisely! She was worthy of his love! She was a wise choice! But he didn’t love well enough! If he had loved Desdemona more, trusted her more, Iago wouldn’t have been able to divide them.” I longed once again for Jane Eyre, where righteousness and principle won out in the end. Jane got her man, and she did it with style. Desdemona got her man, and he smothered her.

  Samuel closed the book, slid it into his backpack, and looked at me affectionately. “It’s over and done Josie, you never have to read it again.”

  “But...I want to understand why...why would he kill her? The one he is supposed to honor, protect, and defend.” I was honestly devastated by the whole play. I felt a lump rising in my throat. To make matters worse, Samuel seemed outrageously unperturbed. I dug through my bag, looking for my Walkman. I shoved my earphones on and pushed the play button savagely. Then I sat back, squeezed my eyes shut, and tried to concentrate on the music. Chopin’s ‘Berceuse in D-flat’ floated out of the earphones. After a few moments, I groaned in despair as the lovely melody seemed to underline the horror of innocent Desdemona’s fate.

  Samuel plucked the earphones off of my head, causing my eyelids to flutter open, and I stared at him stonily.

  “What?” I mumbled.

  “You are taking this too seriously,” he said simply.

  I jumped right back in with both feet. “Othello was so proud, and he was so accomplished! Yet, he was so easy to manipulate!” I argued passionately.

  Samuel deliberated for a minute. “Othello was a man who’d had to fight and scrape to get where he was. He probably felt like at any moment his ship could spring a leak, and if it did? He would be the first one thrown overboard, even though it was his ship.”

  “So Othello was an easy target?” I muttered. “Easy because his pride was really a front for his insecurity?”

  “Insecurity...past experience... life, who knows? His pride demanded that he seek justice. He had worked too hard to be mocked by those closest to him.”

  “So he was destroyed by his pride. Not Desdemona!”

  “Ahhh, irony.” Samuel smirked at me then and cuffed me lightly on the chin.

  He handed me back my earphones, twisting his side outward so we could share Chopin. I studied the strong lines of his face, his black eyes growing unfocused as he zoned into the music. He was so striking, and his face grew serene as he listened. I felt increasingly bereft as the music played on, and I continued to watch his face, a face that had become so precious to me.

  The bus chugged violently and jerked to a stop. Being the last ones on in the morning meant we were the first ones off every afternoon, as Mr. Walker worked backwards through his route. Samuel pulled his earphone off, handed the headset to me, and picked up my bag so that I could shove them inside. We swayed on unsteady legs down the vibrating aisle and down the steep steps into the late March sun. It bounced blindingly off the melting snow, and as Samuel started on his way I called after him, squinting against its brightness. He turned, eyebrows raised, swinging his backpack over one shoulder.

  “Is love really so complicated?” I asked desperately. “Is it really so hard to trust? I don’t understand.” My mind flickered back to 1 Corinthians, Chapter 13. “Did Othello even love Desdemona to begin with?”

  Samuel looked at me then, and there was a wisdom and understanding in his gaze that made me feel incredibly naive.

  He closed the few steps between us. “Othello loved Desdemona. He was crazy about her. That was never the problem. Othello’s problem was that he never felt worthy of Desdemona in the first place. He was the ‘black Moor’ and she was the ‘fair Desdemona.’” Samuel’s tone was conversational, but there was a certain wistfulness in his face. “It was too good to be true, too sweet to be reality for too long, so when someone set out to destroy his belief in her, it made more sense to doubt her than to believe that she had truly loved him in the first place.”

  “But she did!”

  Samuel shrugged his shoulders a little, dismissing this. He turned away again.

  “Samuel!”

  “What Josie?!” The other kids that got off at our stop were trudging home and out of earshot by now, but he seemed reluctant to continue the conversation.

  “But she did!” I insisted again, enunciating each word.

  Samuel’s eyes rested on my face, and I realized I was clenching my jaw tightly, my chin jutting out, daring him to deny it.

  “I believe you, Josie,” he said at last. He turned then and walked away, his gait smooth and unhurried, his moccasins quiet on the hard packed snow.

  I felt relieved that we seemed to understand one another. It wasn’t until I read the play again, many years later, that I realized we hadn’t been talking about Desdemona and Othello at all.

  * * *

  The school year was drawing to a close. Samuel grew distant and withdrawn again, much like he had been in the beginning. He had been in constant touch with his recruiter and was mentally almost gone. He was swimming well enough now. He’d attacked the sport with a vengeance and was certain he would be okay throughout training, even if he wasn’t the strongest swimmer. He had been running every night as well, trying to be as ready as he could be for boot camp. He told me that he wanted to get a perfect score on the fitness test. He had gotten all his medical records when he’d left the reservation. He had needed a series of shots that he’d never gotten, as well as some tests that were required. He was grim and testy the last month of school, ready to graduate, ready to move on.

  I didn’t really understand why he was so anxious to leave. Boot camp sounded horrible to me…and wouldn’t he miss me at all? I couldn’t imagine not seeing him every day, listening to music, reading together. As he grew increasingly more agitated and short-tempered, I grew steadily more forlorn. I wanted to give him a gift for graduation. He had made the honor roll, which he seemed proud of. He was Ms. Whitmer’s new favorite student. She was so impressed with him that she had given him the Outstanding Senior English student award. But all this didn’t seem to assuage his restlessness.

  One morning on the bus I offered my earphones to Samuel, only to have him push my hand away irritably. I stifled the girlish instinct to cry from my hurt feelings. Sonja said women have many emotions, but only one physical response. When we’re angry we cry. When we’re happy we cry. When we’re sad we cry. When we’re scared, you guessed it, we cry.

  “What’s wrong, Samuel?” I said after several moments of tense silence.

  “I just don’t want to listen, that’s all,” he said tersely.

  “Okay. But why did you push my hand away? Am I bothering you?”

  “Yes.” Samuel lifted his chin as he said this, jutting it at me, like he said the word purposely to hurt me and make me angry.

  “What am I doing that’s bothering you?” I again fought the wet that threatened to undermine my dignity. I spoke each word distinctly, focusing on the shape and sound instead of the sentiment.

  “You are so...” His smooth voice was layered with turbulence and frustration. Samuel rarely raised his voice, and didn’t do so now, but the threat was there. “You are so… calm, and accepting, and NAIVE that sometimes…I just want to shake you!”

  I wondered what in the world had brought on this vehement attack and sat in stunned silence for several heartbeats.

  “I bother you because I’m calm...and accepting?” I said, my voice an incredulous squeak. “Do you want me to be hyper…and, well, intolerant?”

  “It would be nice if you questioned something, sometime.” Samuel was revving up to his argument. I could see the animation in his face. “You live in your own happy little world. You don’t know how it feels to not belong anywhere! I don’t belong anywhere!”

  “Why do you think I created my own happy little world?” I shot back. “I
fit in perfectly there!” I hated it when he tried to start a fight with me.

  “Come on, Samuel. Everyone feels like they don’t belong sometimes, don’t they? Mrs. Grimaldi even told me that Franz Schubert, the composer, said that at times he didn’t feel like he belonged in this world at all. He created amazing, beautiful music. He had this enormous gift, yet he often felt out of place, too.

  “Franz Schubert? He was the guy that wrote the song you played at Christmas, right?”

  “Yes!” I smiled at him like a proud teacher.

  “It’s not quite the same thing Josie. I don’t think Franz and I have much in common.”

  “Well I hope not!” I said saucily. “Poor Franz Schubert never made any money from his music and was completely broke and mostly destitute when he died from Typhus at only thirty-one years old.”

  Samuel sighed and shook his head. “You always seem to have an answer for everything, huh? So tell me what to do, Josie. My mother keeps calling me. She calls me late at night, and she’s so drunk all she can do is cry and swear. My grandparents are trying to stay out of it, but I know her calling like that, at all hours, is upsetting them. She says I will never find hozho in the white man’s world. Can you believe she is using the Navajo religion to make me feel guilty while she is a complete mess?”

  I realized none of Samuel’s angst had anything to do with me.

  “What’s hozho?” I plied him gently.