Running Barefoot
Page 64
He studied me for a moment before he spoke, which was his way. “Lady Josephine, there is nothing to forgive.” I laughed a little as the memory of my childish wish resurfaced.
“Thank you, Sir Samuel,” I curtsied deeply, and with clippers in hand, finished trimming his hair in silence. When I was done, he tipped me well, offered his grandmother his arm, and left without a word.
I walked wearily home from the church that evening after teaching piano lessons to some very uninspired and obstinate children. There was no joy in teaching unwilling students. I thought of the quiet house that would greet me. Dad would be on shutdown shift for one more week - and the evening ahead would be spent alone. I felt unusually melancholy at the prospect, and was cheered by thoughts of the leftover chocolate birthday cake from my “party” Sunday evening. I felt twenty-three going on fifty.
As I neared my house I saw Samuel sitting on my porch in the shadow of the overhang. He rocked slowly in the big wooden swing my dad had fashioned for my mom many years before. I tamped down the telltale flip of my traitorous heart as I approached him. I didn’t have the energy for Samuel right now. Exhaustion descended on my soul and I considered feigning sickness. But in light of my apology earlier that day, I did not want to seem hostile. I sat down next to him on the swing and greeted him with a tired smile.
“Why do you cut hair, Josie?” Samuel said without preamble.
“Why not?” I was immediately flustered - couldn’t he just say ‘hello’ like a normal person?
“When I drove my grandmother to the beauty shop today I had no idea you would be there. Imagine my surprise when I saw you walk in. Then my grandma says to you “Samuel needs a haircut,” as if you work there. I was completely floored. You walked back and put the apron on, and I almost thought the three of you were having a little fun at my expense. But then you looked back at me, and I could see you weren’t kidding.”
“Was it really so hard to believe?” I slipped off my sandals and stretched my arches, my toes with their pink toenails pointing and flexing in relief.
“Yes,” he clipped, with no embellishment.
“Why?” I almost laughed in disbelief at the tightness in his eyes, the grim set to his mouth.
“Did you always want to work at “Ballow’s Do’s?”
I was hurt by the mockery I heard in his voice and didn’t answer him. His shook his head, and there was frustration in his expelled breath.
“Do you remember Ravel’s Pavane for a Dead Princess?”
I laughed in disbelief. “I can’t keep up with you Samuel!” I cried. “One moment you are being snide about my work, and the next you’re asking me about classical music!”
“Do you remember the piece?” He insisted.
“Yes! But I’m a little surprised that you do!” It was my turn to be snide, and I felt childish in my attempt. “It was a favorite of mine,” I added in a more conciliatory tone. He glowered at me for a minute.
“Come here.” Samuel grabbed my hand tightly, yanking me to my feet. Then he was striding across the grass, pulling me behind him.
“Samuel! My shoes!” I yelped as I tried to keep up with him. As we neared the gravel he swept me up and into his arms, marching across the sharp rocks without a hitch in his step. I sputtered and squeaked, clinging to his neck for purchase. His truck was parked in front of his grandparent’s house across the street about half a block down. I felt ridiculous being carried down the middle of the road. He opened the passenger door to his black Chevy truck, slid me in unceremoniously, and shut the door with a bang.
He climbed in and backed out, gravel spitting up behind us, and roared down the street towards the mountain that jutted up into the sky not a mile from town.
I stared at him in wonder. “Can I ask where we are going without my shoes?”
For once his eyes were not glued to my face, but were fixed intently before him as he began to ascend into the pretty little canyon with the unattractive name we called Chicken Crick.
He didn’t answer me but drove until he found a little turnoff that looked out over the town. The teenagers in the valley regularly used it as a trysting spot. The ledge wasn’t high, and the town lay just below us, surrounded by the patchwork quilt of farmland, softened by the burnished glow of the approaching twilight seeping over the mountains to the west. The big wheeled sprinklers ran in long rows across the gold and green fields, the water from their spray creating little rainbows in the setting sun. Samuel rolled to a stop facing the breathtaking view, and silence flooded the cab of his truck. He sat for a minute, contemplating the rosy splendor before us. He reached over and pushed some of the buttons on his console. I recognized Pavane for a Dead Princess, immediately. I should have known. The music spilled out of the speakers, tiptoeing up my arms and legs, raising gooseflesh on my arms. So beautiful, so melancholy, so.... intrusive. I folded my arms across my stomach and held myself tightly. I was intensely grateful when Samuel spoke.
“I think I told you that my Navajo grandfather was a Marine in World War II. He was a code talker. He lied about his age when the recruiter came to the reservation. He had heard about the special program they were experimenting with, using the Navajo language to create a code that could not be cracked by the Japanese or the Germans. He was only 16-years-old when he signed up, but spoke relatively good English, so he was a shoe-in. The Navajo code talkers actually created the code using Navajo words to describe military operations - like the word for bombs was a-ye-shi, which meant eggs in Navajo. The word they used for the United States was ne-he-mah, which means ‘our mother.’ They also created a code alphabet by taking an English letter, thinking of an English word that started with that letter, and then using the Navajo word that means the same thing. For instance, ant stood for the letter “A”. The Navajo word for ant is wol-la-chee. So the word wol-la-chee meant “A” in the code. The word for “B” was shush, which meant bear in English. The language of the Navajo was so unique that it just sounded like gibberish to the code crackers.”
“Thank you, Sir Samuel,” I curtsied deeply, and with clippers in hand, finished trimming his hair in silence. When I was done, he tipped me well, offered his grandmother his arm, and left without a word.
I walked wearily home from the church that evening after teaching piano lessons to some very uninspired and obstinate children. There was no joy in teaching unwilling students. I thought of the quiet house that would greet me. Dad would be on shutdown shift for one more week - and the evening ahead would be spent alone. I felt unusually melancholy at the prospect, and was cheered by thoughts of the leftover chocolate birthday cake from my “party” Sunday evening. I felt twenty-three going on fifty.
As I neared my house I saw Samuel sitting on my porch in the shadow of the overhang. He rocked slowly in the big wooden swing my dad had fashioned for my mom many years before. I tamped down the telltale flip of my traitorous heart as I approached him. I didn’t have the energy for Samuel right now. Exhaustion descended on my soul and I considered feigning sickness. But in light of my apology earlier that day, I did not want to seem hostile. I sat down next to him on the swing and greeted him with a tired smile.
“Why do you cut hair, Josie?” Samuel said without preamble.
“Why not?” I was immediately flustered - couldn’t he just say ‘hello’ like a normal person?
“When I drove my grandmother to the beauty shop today I had no idea you would be there. Imagine my surprise when I saw you walk in. Then my grandma says to you “Samuel needs a haircut,” as if you work there. I was completely floored. You walked back and put the apron on, and I almost thought the three of you were having a little fun at my expense. But then you looked back at me, and I could see you weren’t kidding.”
“Was it really so hard to believe?” I slipped off my sandals and stretched my arches, my toes with their pink toenails pointing and flexing in relief.
“Yes,” he clipped, with no embellishment.
“Why?” I almost laughed in disbelief at the tightness in his eyes, the grim set to his mouth.
“Did you always want to work at “Ballow’s Do’s?”
I was hurt by the mockery I heard in his voice and didn’t answer him. His shook his head, and there was frustration in his expelled breath.
“Do you remember Ravel’s Pavane for a Dead Princess?”
I laughed in disbelief. “I can’t keep up with you Samuel!” I cried. “One moment you are being snide about my work, and the next you’re asking me about classical music!”
“Do you remember the piece?” He insisted.
“Yes! But I’m a little surprised that you do!” It was my turn to be snide, and I felt childish in my attempt. “It was a favorite of mine,” I added in a more conciliatory tone. He glowered at me for a minute.
“Come here.” Samuel grabbed my hand tightly, yanking me to my feet. Then he was striding across the grass, pulling me behind him.
“Samuel! My shoes!” I yelped as I tried to keep up with him. As we neared the gravel he swept me up and into his arms, marching across the sharp rocks without a hitch in his step. I sputtered and squeaked, clinging to his neck for purchase. His truck was parked in front of his grandparent’s house across the street about half a block down. I felt ridiculous being carried down the middle of the road. He opened the passenger door to his black Chevy truck, slid me in unceremoniously, and shut the door with a bang.
He climbed in and backed out, gravel spitting up behind us, and roared down the street towards the mountain that jutted up into the sky not a mile from town.
I stared at him in wonder. “Can I ask where we are going without my shoes?”
For once his eyes were not glued to my face, but were fixed intently before him as he began to ascend into the pretty little canyon with the unattractive name we called Chicken Crick.
He didn’t answer me but drove until he found a little turnoff that looked out over the town. The teenagers in the valley regularly used it as a trysting spot. The ledge wasn’t high, and the town lay just below us, surrounded by the patchwork quilt of farmland, softened by the burnished glow of the approaching twilight seeping over the mountains to the west. The big wheeled sprinklers ran in long rows across the gold and green fields, the water from their spray creating little rainbows in the setting sun. Samuel rolled to a stop facing the breathtaking view, and silence flooded the cab of his truck. He sat for a minute, contemplating the rosy splendor before us. He reached over and pushed some of the buttons on his console. I recognized Pavane for a Dead Princess, immediately. I should have known. The music spilled out of the speakers, tiptoeing up my arms and legs, raising gooseflesh on my arms. So beautiful, so melancholy, so.... intrusive. I folded my arms across my stomach and held myself tightly. I was intensely grateful when Samuel spoke.
“I think I told you that my Navajo grandfather was a Marine in World War II. He was a code talker. He lied about his age when the recruiter came to the reservation. He had heard about the special program they were experimenting with, using the Navajo language to create a code that could not be cracked by the Japanese or the Germans. He was only 16-years-old when he signed up, but spoke relatively good English, so he was a shoe-in. The Navajo code talkers actually created the code using Navajo words to describe military operations - like the word for bombs was a-ye-shi, which meant eggs in Navajo. The word they used for the United States was ne-he-mah, which means ‘our mother.’ They also created a code alphabet by taking an English letter, thinking of an English word that started with that letter, and then using the Navajo word that means the same thing. For instance, ant stood for the letter “A”. The Navajo word for ant is wol-la-chee. So the word wol-la-chee meant “A” in the code. The word for “B” was shush, which meant bear in English. The language of the Navajo was so unique that it just sounded like gibberish to the code crackers.”
