Romance Through the Ages

by Amy Harmon

  “My big green dictionary,” I repeated, smiling with him. “I also pulled out the Bible we kept in the bookcase. I read verses 4 through 9, over and over, looking up every word, even the ones I knew. I wanted to have a perfect understanding of every word. Those verses are like the most incredible poetry! To me it was even better than just a beautiful collection of words though, because it was the truth! I could feel the truth of it when I read it. When I was finished, I wrote verses 4-9 on my ‘Wall of Words’ and read it every night before I went to bed. I had it memorized pretty quickly.”

  “Your Wall of Words?” Samuel’s eyebrows shot up.

  “You don’t know about my Wall of Words?!” I whispered in mock horror. “I can’t believe I never told you about my Wall of Words!” I leaped off the bench and pulled him up, my hands still clasped in his. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

  I went inside, Samuel trailing behind me, and climbed the little staircase to my attic room. Samuel’s shoulders looked huge in the narrow passageway. At the top of the stairs, I stopped.

  “Wait! I forgot Dad’s rules! No boys allowed in my room. Darn! I guess I’ll have to take a picture of my wall and show it to you later.” My lips twitched, and my eyes widened with laughter. I acted like I was going to descend the stairs again.

  Samuel’s arm shot out and secured me around the waist. “I’ll stand in the doorway.”

  I laughed, enjoying the flirtation, and walked into the little room that had been mine since I was old enough to traverse the stairs. Samuel followed behind me and, true to his word, leaned his shoulder against the doorframe. His eyes scanned my masterpiece.

  I looked at my wall with new eyes, remembering the books where I had found each word. I pointed out the spot where I’d written 1 Corinthians, Chapter 13. “Here it is ...written before you and I ever discussed the definition of true love.” I turned and looked at him. He moved from the door, walking toward the wall to read the small print. He ran his hands over the wall, like I had done many times before, feeling my words.

  “So much knowledge…and it’s all in here now,” he said tenderly, reaching over to gently knock on my forehead. He walked to the window and looked out, pointing down the street to where the lights of his grandparent’s house shone in the darkness.

  “It’s strange to think of you at thirteen, up here in this room reading, while I was just a few blocks away.” He hesitated for a moment, carried away, remembering. “That year changed me. I thought about you all the time, had arguments with you in my head, and cursed you when I couldn’t read anything without a damn dictionary.” We both burst into laughter. After a few seconds he continued. “Sometimes I was angry with you because you made me question what I thought I knew. I started thinking maybe I didn’t know anything at all. Half the time I wanted to shake you, the other half I just wanted to be with you, and that made me even angrier. When I left Levan, I swore I wouldn’t come back until I could teach you a thing or two or I could prove you wrong, whichever came first.”

  I remembered what he said to me the night he had made me listen to “Pavane for a Dead Princess.” Sadness and regret trickled down my throat and made my stomach turn over. “Now you’re here. And here I am. Not quite what you remember.” I tried to laugh, but it got caught and sounded more like a hiccup.

  He turned from the window, his thumbs hooked in his front pockets, and slowly closed the few steps between us. He gazed down at me intently. I looked down at my hands and then tucked my hair behind my ears. My hair was mostly dry now and curling around my shoulders. I stifled the need to run my fingers through it, and held myself still under his scrutiny.

  “No, you’re right. You’re not the same. Neither am I. You’re not thirteen anymore, and I’m not eighteen. It’s a damn good thing.” He reached for me then, cradling my face in his hands, pulling me to him. Ever so softly, he brushed his lips across mine. Then again. And again. His breath was the barest caress across my sensitive mouth. He never increased the pressure, never stepped any closer. Deep inside my soul I felt something rumble and quake, and I ran my hands up his arms, wrapping them around his wrists where he held my face in his work-roughened palms.

  “Will I see you tomorrow?” he whispered, lifting his mouth from mine.

  I wanted to exclaim that he would see me more tonight, but bridled my pounding emotions. He seemed to know where he was going, and I had no idea.

  “All right,” I breathed, and I stepped back from him, trying to retain my dignity. “I’ll walk you out.”

  Just before he descended the stairs, Samuel turned and looked again at my wall. “I remember a few of those words. Some of those words are our words.” He looked at me with tenderness.

  We walked down the stairs and through the back door. He gathered the big bucket, the bowl, and the towels, putting the now empty water jug inside with everything else. The music had long since ended. We walked around to the front of the house, silent. I wished he wouldn’t go.

  “Goodnight Josie,” Samuel said quietly.

  I didn’t respond. I thought I might reveal my desperate disappointment that the night was ending. I tried to smile and then turned and began walking back towards the house. I heard a guttural groan behind me. I heard the pail and the silver bowl hit the ground with a jarring twang. When I turned, Samuel was striding towards me, and I gasped at the vehemence in his face. I was suddenly gripped tightly in his arms, the force of his embrace lifting me off my feet. Then Samuel’s mouth was on mine, his hands buried in my hair. His lips were demanding, his hands holding my head firmly beneath the onslaught of his kiss. My hands gripped his head in return, fisting in his hair, pulling him into me, feeling his arms around me, holding me to him, breathing him in, triumphant. The kiss was endless and infinitesimal all at once. He pulled his reluctant mouth from my lips and rested his forehead against mine, our combined breath coming in harsh pants. He pulled away just as suddenly as he had embraced me, his hands steadying me. Then he let me go, his eyes on my swollen lips.

  “Goodnight, Josie.”

  “Goodnight Samuel,” I whispered. He backed away, black eyes on blue, and then turned and picked up the items he had thrown to the ground. Then he slowly walked home, turning every now and then to watch me watching him. Then I listened to his footsteps fade as he moved beyond where my eyes could follow.

  * * *

  That night I tried to lose myself in Shakespeare and ended up staring at my Wall of Words. The writing had changed over the years from the large, loopy letters with heart-dotted i’s, to the neat script of a practiced hand. I quizzed myself absentmindedly, defining every word my eyes focused on.

  fractious: tending to be troublesome; hard to handle or control

  insipid: dull, uninteresting

  docent: teacher, lecturer

  immanent:

  My eyes stopped on the word, as a memory resurfaced. I remembered the day, many years ago, that I had discovered its meaning.

  Samuel and I had been attacking some of Shakespeare’s sonnets for his English homework. I had been reading aloud and had come across the word immanent. I stopped, the usage not consistent with the word I thought I knew.

  “You know... imminent, meaning it’s about to happen... it could happen any minute,” Samuel had volunteered.

  “I don’t think that’s it…or it’s spelled wrong, if it is. Look up immanent, with an ‘a’ instead of an ‘i’ in the middle.”

  Samuel had sighed and opened up the dictionary, quickly skimming the pages until he found the word. He’d read it to himself and then looked up at me, shaking his head in wonder.

  “You were right. It is a different word. You have a good eye...or maybe it’s those elfin ears,” he said dryly.

  Completely aghast, my hands had flown to cover my ears. I had absentmindedly tucked my hair behind my ears as I read, and I anxiously pulled the hair down again so it shielded them. I hated my ears! They weren’t big, and they didn’t stick out from my head, but they were slightly pointed at the very
tips. And to make matters worse, the tips turned out just a bit, giving me the look of one of Santa’s holiday helpers. When I was little, my mother had told me they made me look like a wood sprite. My brothers, of course, said they made me look more like a troll, and I had been hiding them ever since.

  Samuel must have seen the dismay his words had caused. The blood rushing to my cheeks had made my face pound in concert with my heartbeat. I gripped the book in my lap tightly and asked him what immanent meant, eager to distract him from my crimson countenance.

  He was quiet for several seconds, holding the dictionary, his eyes cast down. Then he reached up and gently tucked my hair back behind the ear closest to him. I froze, wondering if he was teasing me or poking fun at me.

  But when he spoke there was no mischief in his voice. He said, “I like your ears. They make you look like a wise little fairy. Your ears help give you an immanent beauty.” His words were sincere, and I felt my curiosity peak. My expression must have conveyed my question, for he quickly supplied the answer.

  “Immanent: dwelling in nature and the souls of men.” His eyes met mine seriously.

  After a moment, I slowly raised my hand and tucked back the hair on the other side, uncovering my other ear. I then continued on with the reading and nothing further was said on the topic.

  When I got home from school that day, I wrote immanent on my wall and looked it up for myself. In addition to the definition Samuel had given me, immanent meant having existence only in the mind. I had laughed to myself and decided if the beauty of my ears existed only in Samuel’s mind, it was good enough for me.

  Smiling, I reached out and touched the word as I let the memory warm me. I was strangely soothed and suddenly very sleepy. I turned to my bed, climbed in, and fell instantly into a heavy and dreamless sleep.

  Rubato

  Samuel was waiting for me in front of my house when I slipped out into the rising sun the next morning for my run. Somehow, I had known he would be. We hadn’t arranged it, but there he was. Today he wore sneakers and mesh shorts, his long brown legs muscled and lightly furred with dark hair. He wore another USMC T-shirt in soft grey. It fit snugly, clinging to his V shaped back and narrow torso. Yum. I walked toward him, not quite knowing what to say. Last night’s kiss was very fresh in my mind.

  “Hi,” I said lightly. “Are you coming with me?”

  Samuel looked me over silently, his eyes lingering on mine. He was never in a hurry to reply. I had forgotten that about him. He always took his time when he talked, and I tamped down my urge to fill the silence. That was Samuel’s way. He might not reply at all. After all, he was obviously coming with me. The question was pretty rhetorical.

  “I’m really hoping you’ll come with me,” he finally said softly, his voice deep and a little rough from sleep, indicating these were probably the first words he had spoken out loud since we’d parted the night before.

  It was my turn to study him in silence, not sure what to make of his comment. He met my perusal with steady black eyes. We were quite the pair, standing in the middle of the road, staring at each other for long stretches, not talking. I laughed suddenly at our owlish behavior.

  I threw my hands toward the mountains. “Lead on, Super Sam,” I said gallantly. “Wherever you want to go, I’ll follow.”

  Samuel’s expression lightened at the old nickname, but he didn’t smile. “I’m going to hold you to that, Bionic Josie.”

  Samuel started off at a pretty brisk pace, and I wasn’t naive enough to think he was trying to impress me. I knew better. The man was fit, and he knew how to run. I kept up pretty well, finding a rhythm and settling in. We didn’t converse at all, just ran in quiet companionship, our feet drumming and our breath echoing the cadence. We ran east a couple of miles, climbing higher and higher as we neared the base of the canyon, until the fat orange sun had shoved off its mountain perch and hovered heavily just above us in the early morning sky. Then we turned, with its rays nudging at our backs, and ran back toward town. We picked up our feet as gravity pulled us forward, gaining speed as we hurtled back down into the valley.

  Fall was in the air. The light changes in the autumn. Even at sunrise the angle is different, the intensity softened, muted, like looking through a painting under water. The air was just a few degrees cooler than it had been on previous mornings. I felt a sudden weightlessness, a burst of joy, and I looked at Samuel and let myself smile with it, let it pour out. I felt better than I had in a very long time. I felt whole, I realized. Complete. How was it possible that in two weeks I could undergo this radical shift? Like somehow I had discovered the key to the secret garden, a place that had been there all along, but had become overgrown with neglect. I had unlocked the door and stepped inside, and I was ready to pull weeds and plant roses.

  Samuel must have felt it too, because his white teeth flashed back at me as his grin stretched wide in his strong golden face. My eyes lingered on his face appreciatively, and then I turned again to the dusty dirt road in front of me. I knew better than to look away from the road ahead for too long. I ran face first into horse butt when I did that.

  As we neared the end of our run, my muscles protested the downshift in speed, having become accustomed to the flying sprint we had maintained for the last mile of the home stretch. I needed to run with Samuel every morning; he made me push myself, big time. No more lazy morning jog for this superhero.

  Samuel continued on with me past his grandparents’ house, and we slowed to a walk as we arrived at mine. My dad was sitting out on the front porch, feet up on the rail, a Diet Pepsi in his hand. My dad liked his caffeine cold. He called it cheap whiskey and claimed there was nothing better then the burn of that first long pull after he popped the tab. I was my father’s daughter, and I couldn’t agree more, though I favored Diet Coke.

  “Looks like ya got yerself a runnin’ partner, Josie Jo,” my dad called out in greeting as we walked across the grass toward him. Like every girl does, I felt a flash of relief that my dad seemed fine with the fact that I had male company.

  “Morning, Daddy.” I leaned over the porch rail and grabbed his drink, stealing a swig of ice-cold fire.

  “Sir.” Samuel nodded toward my dad and stuck out his hand. My dad’s boots fell heavily to the porch as he grasped Samuel’s hand in his own.

  “I’m glad you’ve got someone to run with, for the time being at least, huh, Josie? I always worry a little with you running all alone. Even in a little place like Levan, ya just never know.”

  I shrugged off my dad’s worry. On my morning runs I had never seen anything but chipmunks, birds, livestock, and the neighbors I’d known all my life.

  “Samuel, come on in and I’ll get us something cold to drink, since I’m sure Dad doesn’t really want to share.” I smiled at my dad, and Samuel followed me, excusing himself with another polite “Sir” to my dad. I liked that.

  “The manners, is that a Marine thing?” I said over my shoulder as we walked through the living room into my cheery kitchen. “Water, orange juice, milk, or caffeine?”

  “Orange juice. And yeah. Definitely a Marine thing. I couldn’t not say “yes ma’am” or “no sir” if my life depended on it. You live around it for ten years, and it becomes pretty ingrained.”

  I poured Samuel a tall glass of orange juice and handed it to him. Then I gulped down my requisite 8 oz of water before I let myself pop the tab on a cold can of caffeine. We leaned against the counter together, nursing our drinks in thirsty silence.

  “So what comes next?” I propped my hip against the counter, turning to face him. “I mean, as far as the Marines?”

  “I honestly don’t know.” Samuel’s face was contemplative. “I just got back from Iraq three weeks ago.”

  “Three weeks?” I yelped, stunned that he had so recently returned. “How long were you there?”

  “All told, except for some leave stateside, I’ve spent almost three years in Iraq. Two twelve month tours, with the last one being extended by six m
onths. It was time to come home, whatever that means.”

  “Whatever that means?” I repeated, puzzled.

  “I didn’t really have a home to come home to,” Samuel said matter-of-factly. “I have been in the Marine Corp since I was eighteen years old. I did two tours in Afghanistan after 9/11, and then did the two tours in Iraq. When I haven’t been deployed, I’ve either been receiving specialized training, or stationed at Camp Pendleton, or on a ship. Anyway, once I was through debriefment, my platoon was given a month’s paid leave. I’ve stored up more than that in the last ten years; I haven’t taken much. I borrowed that truck from a member of my platoon. I don’t own any wheels. No house, no wheels, all my possessions fit in a suitcase. Anyway, it’s been two weeks since I got here, and I have about two weeks more.”

  “And then what?” I couldn’t imagine going back to Iraq for round three. I was exhausted just listening to him.

  “And then I have to decide.” Samuel’s eyes met mine.

  “Decide?”

  “Decide whether I want something else.” Samuel was being cryptic again.

  “You mean, something besides the Marine Corp?”

  “Yeah.” Samuel set his glass down and pushed away from the counter. “What are you doing today?”

  He changed the subject abruptly, as if his future was not something he wanted to discuss, and my brain spun with thoughts of his last ten years, wondering at his experiences, his losses and triumphs, his friendships…his life. Somehow, because his letters had dwindled after boot camp, I had always imagined him in the context of that environment, in the relative safety of a military base with drill instructors watching his every move. In actuality, he had spent most of the last ten years in very hostile environments, in very dangerous places. I shuddered a little bit, and shook my head in wonder. Even when his Grandma Nettie had marveled at his sniper skills and his prowess as an ‘assassin,’ I had not processed the fact that he had most likely spent the majority of his time as a Marine in different war zones.