Romance Through the Ages

by Amy Harmon

  “Josie?” Samuel’s voice prodded, and I realized he had asked me a question.

  “Hmm?” Samuel was looking down at me with one eyebrow peaked, patiently waiting for my response.

  “What are you doing today?” he repeated.

  I glanced at the clock. “I go into the shop at 11:00, work until 2:30, and then I walk over to the church and teach piano lessons until 7:00ish. What about you?”

  “Kick around with my grandpa until you’re done at seven-ish.” His eyes crinkled a little, hinting at a smile and softening his assumption that I would be at his disposal as soon as lessons were over. My heart skipped wildly, and I resisted the urge to glance down at my chest to see if the skipping was noticeable under my thin shirt.

  The back door off the kitchen swung open, and I jumped guiltily, although Samuel stood several feet away. My dad stuck his white head around the door frame, standing a few steps down on the back stoop. “Hey, Jos?”

  “Yeah, Dad?”

  “I don’t think I told you, me ‘n Jacob are headin’ out to the Book Cliffs this weekend. Jacob drew out a tag in the bow-hunt out there. We’ve got some days comin’ now that shut-downs are done at the plant, so we’re gonna take the trailer and the horses and go see if we can get us an elk.”

  The Book Cliffs were in Moab, about five hours southeast of Levan. They were named the Book Cliffs because that’s what the mountains looked like, books lined up in a bookshelf. It was breathtaking country, and every hunting tag in that area was hard to come by and highly coveted. The only thing my dad liked as well as horses was hunting, and I knew he must be tickled pink about Jacob drawing out.

  “Are Jared and Johnny going too?”

  “Jared hasn’t been given permission,” my dad grumbled, referring to Tonya’s position as head of the household. “Johnny’s afraid to leave with the twins being so close to comin’, so it’s just Jake and me. I think Marv might come with us, though.” Marv was Jacob’s father-in-law. Marv didn’t miss many hunts, either.

  “When are you leaving?”

  “I’m thinking we’ll head out later on today and probably be gone til’ next Thursdee or Fridee,” my dad hemmed and hawed, as if I would complain about him being gone the six or seven days he was suggesting.

  “Sounds fun.” I shrugged.

  “You can come,” my dad offered insincerely.

  “Ha, ha, ha, Daddy,” I said sarcastically. “Now what if I said I wanted to, what would you do? Whose bed in the trailer would I take?” I laughed at his chagrined expression. I walked to him and kissed his scratchy cheek. “No thank you, but have a lovely time. And thank you for giving me the heads up. Actually, while you’re gone, I think I will play the piano until all hours of the night and eat chocolate cake for every meal,” I teased.

  My dad eyed me soberly for a moment. “That’d be real nice, Jos. It’s been a while since I’ve heard you play. Maybe you could play a little somethin’ for me when I get back; I sure do miss it.” He said the words softly, searching my face as he spoke them. I flushed, realizing Samuel was hearing the exchange.

  “It’s a date, Dad,” I said lightly, patting his cheek and turning from him.

  I expected Samuel to comment on my dad’s request, but he let it rest, kneeling to greet Yazzie as he lumbered into the kitchen from his bed in the washroom. Yazzie didn’t sleep in my room anymore. He was ten years old, an old-timer in dog years, and he didn’t like climbing stairs, although every once in a while I would wake with him sprawled across my feet. I think sometimes he missed the old days. I missed them too, although on his rare visits I awoke to no feeling in my legs and feet.

  “Hey Samuel,” my dad swung his gaze to where Samuel crouched. “You’re welcome to come along. I wouldn’t mind seein’ some real shootin.’ We got room for one more man.” My dad glanced at me apologetically as he clarified “one more man.” Apparently, my dad had learned a little something about Samuel’s expertise at the barbeque on Sunday.

  “No thank you, Sir,” Samuel said politely. “I’ve done all the hunting I want to do for a while.” A flicker of embarrassment crossed Samuel’s face as if he had spoken without thinking.

  My dad grinned as if Samuel had said something funny and ducked his head back around the corner without further comment, the screen door banging behind him.

  “Hey, boy.” Samuel didn’t do the baby talk thing when he talked to Yazzie. His voice was mild and low, and he spent another minute scratching and stroking the big dog. Yazzie yawned widely, leaning into Samuel’s big hands, his eyes rolling back in his noble head and his tongue hanging out in sheer delight.

  Eventually, Samuel looked up at me and said simply, “I’ll see you later.”

  Yazzie and I followed him to the front door. Samuel waved a hand and stepped outside, striding across the lawn and up the street toward his grandparents’ house. Yazzie and I watched him forlornly, identical expressions on our mugs.

  “Oh for goodness sake!” I laughed, looking down at Yazzie. Yazzie ruffed back at me, as if to say “look who’s talking,” before he shuffled away to find breakfast.

  * * *

  Samuel must have tested all the doors and found the one that was unlocked, because he was waiting outside the church’s little side entrance when I walked my last student out to her bike. I was ridiculously glad that I didn’t have to make friendly small talk with a waiting parent. Or introduce Samuel. I’d had some well-meaning friends try to fix me up in the last few years, and I had had to get downright obstinate with a few folks who just couldn’t stop playing matchmaker. I had refused every date they had arranged. Imagine how the tongues would wag when I was seen with Samuel. All bets would be off, and I would have no excuse. I would be lined up with every cousin, brother, and sister’s roommate’s uncle from now ‘til Christmas. I shuddered at the thought.

  Samuel walked toward me as little Jessie Ann Wood pedaled away. I double-checked to make sure I had gotten the light and pulled the door closed, sliding the key into the lock.

  “That’s your bike, isn’t it?” Samuel halted beside me, nodding his head toward my old-fashioned bike leaning up against the side of the church. I felt goose bumps dance up my arms. He didn’t invade my space or reach out and touch me, and I wondered if the kisses last night had been a fluke, an impulse brought on by too much moonlight and sweet remember-whens.

  “Yes. I rode this morning. It was easier than walking. My legs are shot from our run. I’m not used to running that fast. You’ve pushed me hard twice this week, and my legs are like jello.” I smiled up at him wryly.

  “In that case, I know just what you need.”

  Samuel picked up my bike and began walking toward his borrowed black pick-up, lifting it up and setting it in the bed of the truck.

  “What do I need?”

  “You’ll see. Are you hungry?”

  “Always,” I admitted honestly, and Samuel looked at me and chuckled. “Well let’s go put a little meat on those bones.”

  He opened the door, and I stepped up into the passenger side, smoothing my violet skirt around my legs as I sat. Samuel reached out and fingered the crinkly material gently. “You wear skirts a lot. I like that. You don’t see a lot of women who enjoy being feminine. It’s nice.” His hand dropped from my skirt and shut the door before I could respond with more than a smile.

  Samuel climbed in and turned the key. Immediately the sounds of Tchaikovsky’s “Octobre—Chant D’Autumne” slid into the space around us. I forced myself to relax into the leather seat, hearing the music and letting it in. We drove for a few minutes, listening, before Samuel spoke.

  “In Iraq it’s hot more often than not, and the sand is this constant presence. I used to dream of Autumn, of the cool mornings with my grandmother herding sheep away from home, waking before the sun rose and actually being chilled, sitting by the campfire and eating jerky and cornmeal cakes and Navajo tea.”

  “Is that why you’re listening to ‘The Autumn Song’?” I smiled.


  “Exactly.”

  “Tchaikovsky was paid to create a short piece for each month of the year. He named the entire work “The Seasons.” He had to have an assistant remind him when it was time to write another ‘month.’ He joked that there are two kinds of inspiration: one that comes from the heart, and one that comes from necessity and several hundred rubles.”

  “She’s ba-ack,” Samuel said under his breath in a sing-song voice, and I giggled like a little kid.

  “I used to play ‘Octobre’,” I sighed dreamily. “It always made me think of fall, too.” I shifted my attention back to Samuel, “I could feel it in the air this morning when we ran.”

  “Is that why your face lit up, and you smiled that great big smile? You looked like you were about ready to take flight. I thought I was going to have to hold onto you to keep you with me,” Samuel teased, his eyes touching mine briefly.

  “I’m always pretty eager for autumn to get here.” I tried to be matter-of-fact as I confessed the reason why. “Both Kasey and my mom died when summer was just beginning…and I guess summer brings back bad memories. I’m always glad when it’s over.” I twiddled my thumbs uncomfortably in my lap. “Fall has always felt like a chance to start over. I know nature hasn’t designed it that way, that it’s actually the opposite. The leaves fall off the trees, the flowers die, and winter rolls in…but I love it all the same.”

  “What happened to Kasey?” Samuel was very still, his eyes moving from me to the road and back again.

  “You don’t mince words, do you?” I murmured, tucking a stray curl behind my ear.

  “My Grandma Yazzie says it’s the Navajo way not to hurry. We have all the time in the world. We move deliberately, take our time, and do things precisely. Life is all about harmony and balance. It’s probably the reason I’m a good sniper. I can outwait anybody. But I don’t feel like I have all the time in the world anymore, not now. I don’t want to waste any of the time I have with you.” Samuel’s expression was unflinching, and I flushed at his bluntness.

  “He rolled his car not too far from here,” I pointed out my window, at the long narrow highway we were driving on, “He had just dropped me off. It was the morning after we graduated from high school.”

  Samuel remained silent, waiting for me to continue.

  “I used to marvel at the irony that I had wanted him to spend an extra twenty minutes with me that morning, taking me home, instead of remaining in Nephi like he’d planned. I had another ride, you know. He never would have been driving back into Nephi at all if it weren’t for me. I traded an extra twenty minutes with him for a lifetime. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  “Have you ever thought that he might have rolled the car there in Nephi just as easily, and if he hadn’t taken you home you wouldn’t have had even those last twenty minutes? There are many ways to die, Josie. You didn’t necessarily place him in death’s only path.” Samuel’s voice and face were blank, like he was discussing the height of the wheat in the fields we drove past or the way the mountains in front of us looked purple beneath the sky.

  “There was a guy I served with in Iraq. His mom didn’t want him to go; she was scared to death of him going. Of course, he went anyway. He’d signed up for it, and he went. His younger brother, who still lived at home, was killed in a car accident while he was gone. My friend came home from Iraq without a scratch. That’s irony.”

  I didn’t know how to respond, so I didn’t respond at all. I knew the truth of what Samuel said, but sometimes a little guilt was a good distraction from sorrow. The sorrow had faded through the years, but somehow the guilt remained.

  We rolled into Nephi, and I wondered if Samuel would pull into Mickelson’s Family Restaurant. It had good food and it sat at the edge of town by the freeway off-ramp, making it accessible to thru-traffic and town’s folk alike. I wondered if I would see anybody I knew inside, someone who would come up and get the scoop and an introduction on the pretense of giving two hoots about how I was doing. I hated making small talk and avoided people in the grocery store and other places just so that I wouldn’t have to think of things to say. I liked people, I cared about them, and I wanted to be a good person, but don’t make me chat idly on the telephone or make pleasant conversation just for the sake of being polite. We neared the restaurant and Samuel kept driving. I breathed a little easier and wondered aloud where he was taking me.

  “My grandpa told me an interesting story about a pond in this area. I thought we’d have a picnic. Grandma Nettie packed it, so it should be full of good stuff.”

  “Burraston’s Pond?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Thoughts of Kasey filled my head. He and his friends would swing out of a huge tree and into the pond. Some of the branches extended far out over the water. Some kids had built a rickety platform high up in the same tree to jump from. The platform was about two feet by two feet, and it was a wonder nobody had been killed. They had never been able to talk me up into the tree. I was way too sensible. So, with my heart in my throat, I had watched them climb high into the uppermost branches, steady themselves on the little platform, and then hurl themselves out and over the water, screaming with terror and delight.

  We took the old Mona road, and at the turnoff to the pond, veered west on the dirt road pocked with deep grooves and tire tracks. Since school was back in session the campsite was empty, and the little lake was completely void of people and boats. There was no wind, and the setting sun shimmered on the still water, coloring the water a deep amber edged in ebony shadows. I hadn’t been to Burraston’s since before Kasey had died, but felt no overpowering melancholy at returning. This had been a hangout, a place to play, and except for sharing our first kiss here, it was not a spot I was especially nostalgic about.

  Looking at it now, I realized how lovely it was. Quiet and abandoned, it seemed to bloom in its solitude. We bounced over the bumpy road and took the fork that took us up and around the pond.

  “Where’s the best spot?” Samuel looked to me for guidance.

  Burraston’s Pond was actually Burraston’s Ponds, with a few little water holes that broke off the biggest part.

  “Keep going around until we’re on the furthest side of the main pond.” Trees were thick in some spots, sparse and others, and I directed him to the famous big tree overlooking the water. Samuel pulled off the dusty road and grabbed a coarse blanket and a little cooler from the back of the truck as I climbed out and gingerly made my way down to a little clearing at the water’s edge where I thought we could picnic.

  The silence was broken only by the crickets warming up for their evening symphony and an occasional buzz of a mosquito flitting over the water. I had never been to Burraston’s when it was deserted. It was not surprising to me that I liked it much better this way. Samuel spread the blanket out, and we sat watching the water lap up against the rocks and twigs that littered the shore at the base of the big tree.

  “So what’s the story your grandpa told you?” I leaned back against the blanket, propping my head in one hand and looking up at him.

  “It wasn’t about the pond, I guess. It’s more about the town. I didn’t ever come to Mona when I lived here. I never had reason to. So when I asked my grandpa if there were any good fishing spots around here, and he mentioned this pond, I asked him about the town. He said Burl Ives, the singer, was once thrown in jail here in Mona. It was before his time, but he thought it was a funny story.”

  “I’ve never heard about that!”

  “It was the 1940’s, and Burl Ives traveled around singing. I guess the authorities didn’t like one of his songs. They thought it was bawdy, so they put him in jail.”

  “What was the song?” I snickered.

  “It was called ‘Foggy, Foggy Dew.’ My grandpa sang it for me.”

  “Let’s hear it!” I challenged.

  “It’s far too lewd.” Samuel pulled his mouth into a serious frown, but his eyes twinkled sardonically. “All right you’ve convinced me,” he said wit
hout me begging at all, and we laughed together. He cleared his throat and began to sing, with a touch of an Irish lilt, about a bachelor living all alone whose only sin had been to try to protect a fair young maiden from the foggy, foggy dew.

  One night she came to my bedside

  When I was fast asleep.

  She laid her head upon my bed

  And she began to weep

  She sighed, she cried, she damn near died

  She said what shall I do?

  So I hauled her into bed and covered up her head

  Just to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew.

  “Oh my!” I laughed, covering my mouth. “I don’t think I would have stuck Burl Ives in jail for that, but it is pretty funny,”

  “Marines are the lewdest, crudest, foulest talking bunch you’ll ever find, and that song isn’t lewd. I’ve sung much, much worse. I tried to remain chaste and virtuous, and I still have the nickname Preacher after all these years, but I have been somewhat corrupted.” He waggled his eyebrows at his ribaldry.

  “I kind of liked that song…” I mused, half kidding. “Sing something else but without the Irish.”

  “Without the Irish? That’s the best part.” Samuel smiled crookedly. “I had a member of my platoon whose mom was born and raised in Ireland. This guy could do an authentic Irish accent, and man, could he sing. When he sang ‘Danny Boy’ everybody cried. All these tough, lethal Marines, bawling like babies. He sang this one song called ‘An Irish Lament’ that I loved so much I memorized it. In fact, when I saw you in the rain a couple weeks ago, it was the first thing that came to my mind.” The smile had gone out of Samuel’s expression, and his eyes narrowed on my face. His moods were so mercurial, I found myself challenged to keep pace with him. There was now intensity in his gaze where moments before he’d been singing a bawdy tune in a borrowed brogue.

  I stared back, trying to wait him out. After a few moments I caved.

  “You aren’t going to sing me “An Irish Lament,” are you?”