Running Barefoot

4. Progression



I decided our little book club was incomplete without the 1828 Webster’s dictionary, so every day I lugged the monstrous book to and from school for use on the bus. Samuel had rolled his eyes when I had pulled it out of my oversized bag the following morning. Every time he forgot himself and said in frustration “What does that mean?” I would nod my head towards the big green book lying between us. He would sigh and look up the word in question while I spelled it out for him. There were also words I wasn’t sure of, and would make him look those up as well - though I was pretty certain if I didn’t know what they meant, neither did he.

A week went by, and I read morning and afternoon as he sat quietly and listened. One afternoon as I was reading, I became engrossed in the story, and forgot to read out loud.

Samuel’s brown, long-fingered hand suddenly lay over the page my attention had been captured by. I realized I had been reading silently for at least several seconds.

“Whoops!” I giggled. “Sorry about that.”

He reached over and took the book from my hands. “My turn,” he said without rancor. He found the place where my imagination had quelled my voice and began reading out loud in his deep baritone. I had always been the one to read, so I was taken aback at his sudden willingness to be the reader.

He spoke English perfectly, but his voice had a different cadence, the words delivered almost in a rhythm - and his tone stayed constant and unvaried, without the rise and fall that a storyteller adopts to convey emotion. I found myself listening to his voice, being pulled into it as I had, just moments before, been pulled into the story.

“Josie? Are you going to look up that word?”

I shook myself out of my reverie, not wanting to admit I hadn’t the faintest idea which word I needed to look up.

“Spelling?” I said evasively, to cover my ignorance.

“Where are you today?” He said. “Your mind is everywhere.”

“I was listening to your voice,” I flushed at my confession and inwardly cursed the constant blushing that gave me no privacy.

“No you weren’t. You haven’t heard anything I’ve read.” He countered mildly.

“I was listening to your voice,” I insisted again. He lowered his eyebrows in a scowl, not understanding me.

I tried to explain to him how his voice didn’t seem to rise and fall in the same patterns as mine did. When he didn’t respond, I thought perhaps I had made him angry. Samuel was very sensitive about being different, flaunting his Navajo heritage one moment, growing angry if someone took notice of it in the next.

He seemed thoughtful as he spoke. He chose his words carefully, as if he’d never considered them before. “The Navajo language is one of the most complex languages on Earth. From ancient times, it was only a spoken language, not a written language. If you don’t learn it as a child, it is almost impossible to master. Every syllable means something different. We use four tones when we speak - high, low, rising, and falling. When the voice rises or falls, in Navajo, it can mean a completely different word. For instance, the words ‘mouth’ and ‘medicine’ are pronounced the same, but they are said with different tones. The same word, but…not the same word at all. Do you understand? Maybe that is why, when a Navajo speaks English he says each syllable with the same intonation, because no intonation is stressed.” He thought about what he’d said for a moment. Then he asked me, almost as if knowing the answer would cause him pain, “Do I sound strange to you when I speak?”

My heart twisted a little at his vulnerability. I shook my head emphatically. “It’s very slight…I don’t think most people would notice it at all. I guess I have an ear for music, and the rhythm of your voice sounds like music to me, that’s all.”

I smiled up at him, and for the first time, he smiled back.





There was a big crowd gathered after school on the wide open field that separated the junior high from the high school. I ignored the excited shouts and the kids rushing to get in on the action. I couldn’t see who the crowd had gathered around, but the bus had not arrived, so I found a spot next to the bus stop to wait, setting my backpack down on the patchy grass and sitting on it so I wouldn’t get my rear-end cold and wet. The early snowfall had melted during a stretch of warmer days, and tufts of grass stuck up here and there between icy patches. It was cold enough to be unpleasant, the wind was always worst at the mouth of the canyon where the two schools sat. Utah weather is the most sporadic, unpredictable weather in the country. Folks complain about how you can plant your crops in late spring, only to have to replant twice more because it keeps freezing and killing everything off. We’ve had snow in June and none in December in the same year. It was November now, and Mother Nature had teased us with snow in October, only to have November be sunny and dry, with icy winds shaking the bare trees and mocking the winter sun.

I had no desire to go wading into the manic fray, and sat shivering, wishing the bus would come. Tara, on the other hand, had wiggled her tiny self into the middle of the action, witnessing the fist fight firsthand.

“Mr. Bracken is coming!” A frantic shout went up across the field. Mr. Bracken was the principal of the high school and was a pretty genial and likeable sort, but no one doubted that anyone found fighting would be expelled upon discovery. The kids scattered immediately, not wanting to be questioned or reprimanded, and descended upon the bus stop in droves. The bus lumbered to a stop and a hasty lined formed, kids shoving and jostling for position. I was not aggressive enough to maintain my place in the line, and fell back to wait until the writhing mass thinned.

Tara came running towards me, backpack bobbing, hands hanging onto her thick shoulder straps to keep it in place.

“Oh my gosh!” Tara gushed when she was still several feet away. “That indian kid was fighting three different boys. Joby Jenkins and a couple of his friends were calling him half-breed and he went crazy. Joby’s friends tried to hold his arms but he just let loose, swinging at all of them. One guy has a chipped tooth and Joby has a bloody nose. The Indian kid must have caught his hand on the kid’s tooth because his hand was all bloody!”

Tara was using too many pronouns, so I wasn’t sure which injury belonged to whom, and which guy had done most of the swinging, but my stomach lurched at the mention of “the Indian kid.” That could only be Samuel.

“Where are they now?” My eyes scanned the area where the circle around the fighters had formed, not seeing Samuel, Joby, or Mr. Bracken, for that matter.

“When someone yelled that the principal was coming, Joby and his friends took off towards the junior high. The indian kid picked up his backpack and headed this way with everybody that was running towards the bus. I don’t know where he went…” She looked around, jumping up and down to gain enough height to see over the swarm of kids. “I don’t know if Mr. Bracken was actually even coming - somebody might have yelled that just to stop the fight.”

“So you never saw Mr. Bracken?” I hoped Samuel wouldn’t end up expelled. Word usually made its way around, news of the fight would fill the halls tomorrow, but maybe if he made it home without being caught, the principal might not get wind of it until after the fact, making expulsion less likely.

The bus had quickly inhaled her anxious passengers, and Tara and I climbed up the steep steps, Tara chattering all the way.

“There was so much blood! The indian kid -”

“Samuel! His name is Samuel,” I interrupted her.

“Whatever!” Tara gestured impatiently, obviously not caring what his name was.

When I climbed to the highest stair and was able to see down the aisle, my eyes rushed to my seat. Samuel was there, eyes glued out the window, probably watching to see if he’d make it home free. Tara continued talking, but I was no longer listening. I wondered how he’d gotten past the bus driver without detection. I teetered down the aisle and swung in next to Samuel, my heavy pack sliding to the floor.

“Are you okay?” I asked breathlessly. Samuel had pulled his arm out of the sleeve of his t-shirt, and buttoned his coat over his t-shirt. I could see blood on his pants, and as I tried to get a good look at his face, I realized his lip was swollen and split as well.

“I’m fine,” Samuel said tersely, keeping his face averted.

“If you don’t stop the bleeding you’re going to give yourself away,” I insisted.

Samuel sighed in exasperation and, with one hand, unbuttoned his jean jacket. He’d wrapped his hand in the bottom of his t-shirt, baring his toned brown stomach. The light blue cotton was completely soaked through with blood.

“Oh my gosh!” I sounded like Tara, but I couldn’t help it. He must have laid his knuckles open. “I’ll be right back!” I headed back up the aisle. The bus was now in motion and Mr. Walker barked at me to sit down. I ignored him, walking purposefully, holding onto the seats to stay upright on the swaying bus.

“Mr. Walker, the kid sitting next to me has a bloody nose. Do you have a first aid kit or some paper towels?”

“Why is his nose bleeding?” Mr. Walker looked at me suspiciously.

“I don’t know - it just started bleeding,” I said nonchalantly, and felt ridiculously obvious. I was a pretty pathetic liar. Acting was definitely not in my future.

“Harrumph,” Mr. Walker grumbled, pointing to where a small tin box with a red cross emblazoned across the front was velcroed above the big front windows.

I unstrapped the box and made my way back to Samuel. He’d put the jacket back up over his hand, hiding the bloody state of his t-shirt from the nosy kids around him. All it would take was one kid seeing the blood, shouting out to Mr. Walker, and Samuel would be ousted.

I slid down next to him, pulling the little first aid kit open and rifling through the contents. There were several good sized band aids and antibacterial wipes, as well as some gauze and some white surgical tape. I pulled my backpack up onto the seat behind me, scooting forward until I was barely sitting on the seat. I turned sideways and effectively blocked Samuel from view. I stacked his backpack on top of mine and made a little wall that would be useless if someone in front of us or behind us stood up and looked over the seat. But it was the best I could do.

“Let me see your hand,” I insisted softly.

Samuel unwound his right hand from the bloody t-shirt and held it out to me. Fresh blood immediately rose from the deep slice across his knuckles and spilled onto his fingers. I slapped a thick white gauze pad over it, pushing it down into the cut to stop the flow.

“Hold that!” I ordered him, grabbing some little butterfly sutures that I’d seen Johnny use when he’d split the bridge of his nose during football practice. I pulled the tabs off and at my command, Samuel lifted the gauze pad and I swooped in, pulling the side of the gash together with the butterfly band aid. I put another one on, and the blood slowed to an ooze at the slit. I put the gauze pad over the top and again asked Samuel to hold it there.

“What happened?” I questioned lightly as I wrapped some stretchy gauze around the pad.

“Joby Jenkins needed a fist in his face,” Samuel replied shortly.

“Why?” My eyes flickered up to his.

“I got tired of his half-breed jokes.” Samuel’s well-shaped mouth was drawn into a tight hard line. “What is it with some people?”

I yanked off a piece of surgical tape with my teeth and proceeded to secure the gauze. I wasn’t very good at this, but at least he wouldn’t bleed all over himself.

“What do you mean?”

“Some people just can’t keep their mouths shut. Joby is constantly shooting his mouth off.” Samuel watched as I cleaned the blood off the fingers poking out from my makeshift mound of gauze and tape.

I completely agreed with him about Joby. “Joby picks on whomever he perceives as weak,” I replied, absentmindedly wiping.

“If he thinks I’m so weak, why did he come at me with two other guys?” Samuel retorted angrily, misunderstanding my words. “Why didn’t he fight me one on one?”

“I didn’t mean physically weak,” I protested. “You’re different, so you’re an easy target. Other kids don’t know you, so it’s easier for him to talk trash and turn them on you. He was embarrassed when you pushed him off the seat. I think he’s just been bidding his time, don’t you?”

“Probably. I broke his nose. I’m going to be expelled. It’ll be just like the reservation school. I got the half-breed comments there too, only at the reservation I was too white.” His voice was bitter, his mouth drawn down at the corners.

“Didn’t you grow up with all the kids you went to school with on the reservation?”

He dipped his head in a slight nod.

“So what was the big deal with being half white…I mean, was your skin color really an issue after all that time?”

“For most kids it wasn’t,” he admitted then, somewhat begrudgingly. “I had friends, a girlfriend.” His eyes shifted to me briefly.

“I think most people aren’t really so biased if you let them get to know you,” I volunteered.

“It’s not my job to make sure people know me or like me,” Samuel said proudly.

“Well that’s naïve,” I huffed.

Samuel’s eyes flashed and he clenched his jaw.

“I’m not exactly what you would call outgoing,” I continued. “I kind of prefer being by myself, but I can’t expect anyone to want to get to know me if I purposely keep myself separated.” I paused as his face remained stony. “Mrs. Grimaldi says you can’t build walls and then be mad when no one wants to climb over them.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Samuel sneered as his eyes flew over my blond hair and then met my blue eyes with a black glower.

“Oh, please Samuel!” I huffed. “I may not have brown skin, but I am plenty peculiar,” I rebutted. “And don’t pretend you haven’t noticed it.”

Samuel shook his head in disgust and pulled his hand from mine. I was finished anyway, and I gathered the bloody towlettes and wrapped them in several paper towels.

“How many other kids have you talked to since you came here?” I asked Samuel quietly, “besides me?”

Samuel didn’t respond, and I didn’t really expect him to.

“People can be jerks - Joby is a creep, and he probably had that broken nose coming to him,” I soothed, “But don’t just assume that people don’t like you because you look different. I, for one, like the way you look.”

I blushed furiously and grabbed the first aid box and escaped to the front of the bus to return it to the velcro straps, throwing the bloody wipes away while I was at it.

“Everything under control?” Mr. Walker questioned me as I stuck the box back where it belonged.

“Huh?”

“The bloody nose?” Mr. Walker prodded.

“Oh, yeah. All done - it stopped,” I stammered.

Samuel had his arm back in his sleeve when I returned, his jacket buttoned back up to cover the stained shirt underneath. He had Wuthering Heights opened on his lap. I sat down and he began reading without preamble. I pulled out the big green dictionary and that was the end of our discussion, for the time being.





“What kind of name is Heathcliffe anyway?” Samuel grumbled, as we labored through another day of reading. We had less than five pages left, and it had been tough.

“I think his name is one of the nicest things about him,” I said sincerely. “At least it isn’t something boring like Ed or Harry. It’s kind of a romantic name.”

“But that’s his only name…no last name, no middle name - just Heathcliffe. Like Madonna or Cher.”

I was a little surprised that Samuel knew who Madonna and Cher were. It didn’t seem like his type of music, though I had no idea what his type was.

“I think the fact that he didn’t have a surname was the author’s way to signify that he really didn’t belong to anyone…he was alone in the world,” I mused thoughtfully. “Everybody had these full English names, and Heathcliffe was a gypsy without roots, without family, without even a name of his own.”

“Yeah, maybe...” Samuel nodded his head in agreement. “Names are a big deal to the Navajo. Every Navajo child is given a secret Navajo name when they are born. It is known only by the child, the family, and God. You don’t share it with anyone else.”

“Really?” I asked in awe. “So what’s yours?”

He looked at me with exasperation. “You. Don’t. Share. It. With. Anyone. Else,” he said slowly.

I blushed and looked down at the book. “Why?”

“My grandma says if you do your legs will turn hard…but I think it’s more a tie that binds the people together, keeps tradition alive, that kind of thing. My mom told me it’s sacred.”

“Wow. I wish I had a secret name. I’ve never really liked Josie Jo very much. It’s kind of silly and babyish,” I said wistfully.

“What name would you rather have?” Samuel actually looked interested in my response.

“Well...my mom really wanted us to all have ‘J’ names. I guess it was her way of binding us together, kind of like your family. So maybe I could just pretend it’s Josephine and everyone can still call me Josie for short. Josephine is so much more dramatic and ladylike.”

“All right. From now on, I will refer to you as Lady Josephine,” Samuel said with the faintest of smiles.

“No.... how about I just make it my secret Navajo name and only you and I will know it,” I said, conspiratorially.

“You are the furthest thing from a Navajo ...” Samuel scoffed.

“Well, what if a beautiful Navajo woman had adopted me when I was just a baby? Would she have given me a Navajo name? Even if I had blond hair and blue eyes?”

Samuel stared at me for a minute, frowning. “I really don’t know,” he confessed. “I’ve never known a Navajo who adopted a white baby. I’m the closest thing most Navajo get to a white baby.” Samuel’s countenance darkened. “Luckily, every Navajo child that is born belongs to his mother’s clan, so I am a Navajo, no matter who my father was.”

“Did you ever know your father?” I asked quietly, not liking that I might make him angry, but not fearing it either.

“I was six years old when he died. I remember things about him. He called me Sam Sam, and he was tall and kind of quiet. I remember my life before he died and then after he died when we went to the Indian Reservation. I hadn’t lived on the reservation before. It was very different than the little apartment we’d been living in. I spoke Navajo because my mother had spoken it to me exclusively. I spoke English too, which made school easier when I started at the school on the reservation. My mother never talked much about my father after he died.”

“Do you think it made her sad?” I ventured, thinking about my own mother’s death and how hard it had been for my dad to say her name for the longest time.

“Maybe. But it was more about tradition than anything. The Navajo believe that the only thing that is left behind when a person dies is the bad or the negative parts of their spirit. They call it chidi and when you talk about the dead it invites the chidi. So…we never talked about him much. I know she loved him and missed him. When I was really young, she read to me from the Bible that my dad had given her. I think it made her feel close to him without talking about him. She became a Christian when she married my dad, but within a year or so after his death she rejected it. She has become very angry and bitter. She didn’t know how to live off the reservation without my dad, and when he died, she went back, remarried, and I’m sure she’ll never leave.”

“I don’t know what I would do if I could never talk about my mother...” I whispered. “Talking about her helps me remember her. It makes me feel close to her.”

“Your mother died?” Samuel’s voice rose in surprise.

“Yes.” I was a little stunned that he didn’t know. I had just assumed that he knew what his grandparents knew. “She died the summer before third grade. I was almost nine years old.” I shrugged a little, “I guess I’m just lucky I had her for that long. I remember lots of things about her. Like the way she smelled, the way she covered her mouth when she laughed, the way she said “Josie Jo, to and fro” when she pushed me on the swing.”

“Why are you lucky you had her that long? I think that makes you unlucky. She died and you don’t have a mother.” Samuel’s face was stormy and his lips tightened a little as he waited for me to respond.

“But I did have her for those nine years, and she loved me, and I loved her. Look at people like Heathcliffe. He had no mother and no father.”

“Yeah, I guess he had a right to be a jerk.”

“I guess he had reason to be, at least in the beginning, but that doesn’t make me like him any better. He was hateful and angry all the time. The first time I read the book, I kept waiting for him to change, to develop some character…but he never did. I just despised him for it. I wanted him to be lovable, even just a little bit, so that I could like him.”

“People didn’t like him because he had darker skin and he looked different than they did!” Samuel was angry again.

“Maybe that was true to a point, in the beginning. But the father, Mr. Earnshaw, loved him best of all…better than his own children. Heathcliffe never did one thing with that love. Catherine loved him, too. What did he do?”

“He went off and joined the military or something, right? He made something of himself, improved how he dressed, and how he looked!” Samuel defended Heathcliffe like he was Heathcliffe.

“But he never changed WHO he was!” I cried back passionately. “I wanted him to inspire me! I just ended up feeling sorry for him and thinking ‘What a waste!’”

“Maybe he couldn’t change who he was!” Samuel’s face was tight and his hands were clenched.

“Samuel! I’m talking about him changing on the inside! Nobody that loved him cared that he was a gypsy! Don’t you get it?”

“Catherine loved him despite of what he was on the inside!” He fought back still.

“Their version of love damned them both in the end! They were two miserable people because they never figured out what true love is!”

“Why don’t you tell me what TRUE LOVE is then, Lady Josephine, since you are so wise at thirteen-years-old!” Samuel sneered at me and his arms were folded across his chest.

My cheeks were flaming, and my finger poked him in the chest with every syllable I recited. “‘True love suffereth long, and is kind; true love envieth not. True love vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up. True love does not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil. True love rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth. True love beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things!’” I stopped for a breath and one emphatic push against Samuel’s chest. “1st Corinthians, Chapter 13. Check it out.”

And with that I picked up my big green dictionary and my overflowing book bag and staggered up the aisle. The bus wasn’t at my stop yet, but I was out of there.





Samuel didn’t say much the morning following our heated Heathcliffe discussion. I asked him if he wanted to read the final five pages. He said he already had, and left it at that. He looked out the window the whole way into school, and I sat uncomfortably without anything to read. I wound up going ahead in my math book and doing the next day’s lesson. The ride home was much the same. Luckily it was Friday.

Monday morning I arrived at our seat first. I wasn’t carrying the dictionary anymore, having no reason to lug it with me if we were done. Samuel wasn’t far behind and he said “scoot” when I sat down. I shifted over against the window, and he sat down next to me. “Scoot” was the only thing he said the whole way into Nephi. This time I was prepared, and I buried my nose in Jane Eyre. Jane Eyre was like comfort food to me, and I was feeling a little rejected.

After school, I climbed on the bus, dreading the half hour I would sit next to Samuel in silence. I missed the reading and the discussion. I even missed him a little.

Samuel was already seated, and he watched me come towards him down the aisle. There was a strange look on his face when my eyes met his. He looked almost triumphant. I sat down and he held out a thin plastic folder.

“I guess you know something about true love after all. At least Ms. Whitmer thinks so,” he said vaguely.

My eyes quickly scanned the cover page. It was Samuel’s report on Wuthering Heights. He had titled it ‘True Love or Obsession?’ Ms. Whitmer had written the words “Brilliant!” across the page in bold red print. I yanked the cover page over, my eyes flying down the page. Samuel had taken 1 Corinthians Chapter 13, replacing the word ‘charity’ with ‘true love’ as I had done, and basically written a paper on the difference between true love and obsession, using examples from the book. His final sentence was wonderful, and it was all his own. He said “Where true love would have redeemed them, obsession condemned them forever.”

I whooped loudly, only to have kids turn and stare at me curiously.

“Samuel! This is so cool! Did she say anything to you?” My smile felt like it was going to split my face in half, but I couldn’t help it.

My excitement must have been contagious, because he grinned at me briefly - his smile a quick flash of white teeth.

“She said it was so impressive that she’s not just going to pass me, she’s going to give me a B.”

I whooped again and threw my fisted hands skyward in victory. This time half the bus turned and stared. Tara even stopped mid-sentence, eight seats up, and gave me a “What the heck?” look. I ducked my head and stifled a giggle. Samuel shook his head and rolled his eyes, but he was laughing, too.

“Lady Josephine, you are something else,” he said softly and reached over and took my hand in his. His hand was big and warm - his beautiful skin golden brown against my own. My hand felt very small as it lay in his, and my heart felt like a tiny hummingbird fluttering in my chest. Samuel held my hand for a second more, and then gently slid his hand away.





It got dark quickly now that winter had gripped the valley. Getting up the hill to the Grimaldi’s had become more difficult with the snow, but I never complained, and whenever Sonja raised the issue of being concerned over the weather or the dwindling daylight, I just smoothed it over. My panic at missing a lesson must have been evident, because she never pressed me to postpone lessons until spring thaws made my way a little more hospitable. I had stopped riding my bike up the hill. The hill was so icy the tires couldn’t get any traction. I would just ride to the base of the hill and then trudge up it, along the side of the road where the snow was piled and I wouldn’t slip.

Sonja had begun teaching me how to conduct music as if I were conducting a live orchestra. She would put a record on, put the score in front of me, and I would conduct, keeping time with my waving arms, bringing in the imaginary instruments and cueing the dynamics as if I were the one in control.

I left my lesson that day with my head full of music. Sonja had been in a flamboyant mood, and the music still poured out of the house behind me as I made my way down the hill. She had turned on Ravel’s Bolero and I had conducted it joyfully. It had a wonderfully insistent, repetitive melody, and it was perfect for a novice conductor like myself to practice “bringing in” the instruments, as they were continually added, sections at a time.

It was times like these when the music felt like a thrumming, pulsing power inside of me. I was practically levitating as I spread my arms and spun in dizzy circles down the snowy hill. The speed of my descent made me laugh as I recklessly conducted the internal orchestra swelling my heart to near bursting.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t ACTUALLY levitating, and I began to stumble, heavy boots tangling and arms flailing. The fog of musical euphoria abandoned me mid-flight. I cart wheeled down the length of the hill, landing in deep snow bank two thirds of the way down. I acted like a child so rarely that it was strangely ironic that when I truly lost myself in childlike wonder, I ended up hurt and alone. My ankle screamed with a sickening, stomach churning agony that had me whimpering and crawling on my hands and knees trying to escape the pain.

My piano books were scattered down the hill, marking my flight path. There was no way I was leaving them behind. I started crawling up the hill to collect them, realizing as my hands sunk into the snow that I had also managed to lose my gloves and my glasses. Without the assistance of my boots, I kept sliding down when I tried to inch upwards. I tried valiantly not to cry as I reprimanded myself on my idiotic behavior, talking myself through the ordeal of gathering up the books closest to me and praying for the books I couldn’t get to. Going back up the hill to Sonja’s was out of the question. I slid down the rest of the way on my rear end, clutching my few books to my chest and slowing my descent with my good leg.

Once I arrived at the bottom, I faced the puzzle of how I would get home. Riding my waiting bike was completely out of the question; my ankle wouldn’t bear any pressure at all. I didn’t trust my balance most of the time without an injury, forget hopping and pushing the bike home. Looping my piano bag around my shoulders and pulling my coat sleeves down over my hands I began to crawl home. The darkness was settling around me, and I knew I was in trouble. I wasn’t going to be able to go two miles on my hands and knees. Thoughts of my family finding me frozen solid at the side of the road had me crying in self-pity. I wondered if Samuel would miss me. I wished I could see him again before I died. Maybe he would cut his arm like the Comanche Indians had done whenever they lost someone, so their arm would show a scar for each loved one lost.

I had asked him how he knew about the Comanche tradition when he was a Navajo. He had told me many of the tribes had many stories and legends in common, and his grandmother had told him it was the Comanche way of reminding yourself of a loved one without speaking their name.

I was startled out of my morbid thoughts by the sound of a sheep baaing from somewhere to my left. He sounded as lost and unhappy as I was. The sheep bellowed mournfully again, and I could make out his black nose and feet against the snow where he was huddled beside a scrubby enclosure of brush and juniper trees. I crawled towards it, thinking maybe I could huddle there with it, wool was warm wasn’t it? The sheep had other ideas. My approach made him complain even louder, throwing his head back and demanding that I stay away. “BAAAAAAACK,” he seemed to say, and I half giggled, half sobbed at the futility of it all.

“BAAAAAAAA!” He yodeled again.

Somewhere in the distance a dog barked. The sheep cried out in response. The dog barked again. Maybe someone was looking for the sheep. I didn’t have much hope that anybody would be looking for me. My dad and brothers liked my cooking, but I had no real hope that they would think much of my absence until it was marked by many hours. The dog seemed to be getting closer; an occasional yelp indicated his progress in our direction. The sheep would bleat back when he heard the dog and I waited hopefully for a canine rescue. I was very cold and a little wet from my tumble in the snow, and my hands were aching almost as much as my ankle. I huddled inside my beautiful blue coat and prayed for deliverance.

The darkness was complete as Don Yates’ black and white collie mix, Gus, trotted up to the lost sheep. Not far behind him, Samuel trudged, bundled against the snow in a black ski cap and his sheepskin coat, having traded his moccasins in for a pair of laced work boots. I cried out to him in gratitude and he stopped in surprise.

“Josie?”

“Samuel! I’ve sprained my ankle, and I can’t ride my bike home. I tried to crawl,” I stuttered out, my teeth chattering, “But my gloves are missing and it was just too far.”

Samuel hunched down next to me and pulled his hat from his head and pulled it down on mine. The sudden warmth and my relief at his presence made the tears I had been trying to control stream down my face. Samuel grabbed my hands in his and started rubbing them briskly.

“Why are you out here?” He sounded angry and his hands rubbed harder in concert to his harsh words. My tears flowed faster.

“I take piano lessons every afternoon from Mrs. Grimaldi. She lives at the top of Tuckaway Hill.” I didn’t tell him how I had gotten carried away in the music and rolled down the hill.

“How did you end up on your hands and knees half frozen to death?” He barked out incredulously.

“I slipped,” I said defiantly, pulling my hands from his and wiping the tears from my icy cheeks. Samuel yanked his gloves off and grabbed my hands back insistently. Forcing my hands into the gloves he rose to his feet and reached down for me, lifting me to my feet.

“Can you walk at all if I help you?” His voice was a little less confrontational now, and I tried to take a step forward. It was like someone took an ice pick and rammed it into my leg. I fell in a heap at Samuel’s feet. The pain made me nauseous and the contents of my stomach rose up in rebellion and I retched just to the right of Samuels’s work boots. Luckily I’d had only an apple and half of a sandwich for lunch many hours ago and there wasn’t much left to throw up, but puking with an audience was worse than the pain in my ankle, by far. I moaned in mortification as Samuel kicked snow over the steaming remains of my lunch and squatted down beside me again. He handed me a handful of snow to clean my mouth and I thankfully wiped and “rinsed” my mouth, my hands shaking.

“Did you say you rode your bike here?” Samuel’s voice was gentle.

“It’s at the base of the hill, back there.” My voice wobbled dangerously and I stopped speaking abruptly, not wanting to disgrace myself any further.

Samuel stood and walked away from me, in the direction that I’d come. A few minutes later he was back, pushing my bike beside him.

“I’m going to help you get on-”

“I can’t push the pedals, Samuel,” I interrupted, my voice cracking again as the swell of tears clogged my throat.

“I know,” Samuel replied calmly. “But the seat is long. I can ride behind you and pedal.”

The bike was fine for me, but Samuel was over 6’0. This was going to be interesting. Samuel held the bike with one hand and pulled me to my feet with the other. Moving the bike close to where I was teetering, he straddled the bike and helped me climb on in front of him.

“Can you put your feet up in front of you?” The bars made a big U shape providing a good spot for my feet when I wanted to coast. Samuel helped me raise my hurt leg and I gingerly scooted as far forward on the seat as I could as he braced the bike with me on it. With a little shove, grunt, and a wobble we were off. The bike wove precariously, snow and gravel making it extremely treacherous. I squeezed my eyes shut and bit down on the yelp that escaped. Samuel used his legs to propel us forward until we established enough forward motion for an attempt at pedaling.

“What about the sheep?” I said suddenly, having forgotten about my partner in peril.

“Gus will get him home. At this rate, they might get there before we do.” I looked behind us, peering carefully over Samuel’s shoulder as to not disturb the equilibrium of the bike. Sure enough, the sheep was waddling down the road, Gus nipping at his heels.

I relaxed as well as I could, my head resting in the curve of Samuel’s shoulder as his arms and legs braced me from falling off the narrow seat. I couldn’t comfortably reach the handlebars with my legs out in front of me, so I loosely held onto his arms just above the elbow. The silly song about a bicycle meant for two jumped into my head. We won’t have a stylish marriage; I can’t afford a carriage . . .

When the gravel road finally joined the black top, I felt Samuel relax a little. The ride was suddenly made much smoother. Still, he couldn’t be comfortable. I imagined how we must look, riding down the moonlit road, not a soul in sight, like a creature with eight legs and two heads. I giggled a little despite my throbbing ankle and my wounded pride.

I felt a responding rumble in Samuel’s chest and swiveled my head to look up at him in amazement. I’d never heard Samuel laugh.

“Hold still!!!” Samuel’s voice raised in alarm as the bike took a dangerous lurch. I’d forgotten to move slowly.

“Sorry!” I squeaked, clinging to his arms as he expertly restored balance.

“Hold still,” Samuel repeated again firmly.

We rode in silence for several minutes until I decided gratitude was in order.

“You saved me,” I said simply. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along. You might have even saved my life. My dad and Johnny might not have noticed I was gone for hours. They aren’t very aware of me.”

“I’m not sure I want to be responsible for saving your life.”

“Why? Don’t you like me at all?” My voice sounded as hurt as I felt.

Samuel sighed. “That’s not what I meant. And yes, I like you.” He sounded a bit uncomfortable at the admission. “It’s just that in many Indian cultures, when you save someone’s life you are responsible for them from that time forward. It’s like you are their keeper or something.”

That didn’t sound bad to me. I kind of liked the idea of having Samuel as my lifelong guardian.

“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have looking out for me.” Somehow honesty was much easier when it was dark and your back was to the one you confessed to. Still I tensed a little, awaiting his response.

No response came. We rode in silence for the remainder of the ride, gliding past the homes of our neighbors until Samuel slowed to a stop in front of my house. Old Brown, Johnny’s truck, was parked carelessly in the gravel in front of the house and my dad’s work truck was parked in the drive. Samuel helped me alight and set the bike down as he pulled me up onto his back, piggy-back style. I wished he’d sweep me up into his arms, like a bride. I felt heavy and awkward sprawled across his long back, and I clung to his shoulders, holding my breath as he climbed the stairs and slid me down his back to knock on the door.

“It’s my house! Just go in,” I said, reaching past him and opening the front door. The sounds of Jazz basketball blared from the TV, and the warmth from the wood burning stove poured over us. Samuel swung me up and carried me unceremoniously to the couch, setting me down as swiftly as he could and backing away as if he thought he would be in trouble for touching me.

My dad sat in his recliner and gaped at us for a minute before he collected his wits. I counted two empty beer cans on his TV stand and another in his hand. I sighed inwardly. Dad was a sweet drunk. He didn’t get mean and ugly, just drowsy and cheerful as he drowned his loneliness in a nightly ritual of Budweiser and ball – football, basketball, baseball, whatever. He hadn’t drunk at all when mom was alive. We Mormons weren’t big drinkers. In fact, Mormons didn’t drink at all if we were living true to the tenets of our faith. Maybe that’s why Dad never went to church or cared if we went. Mom wouldn’t be too happy about that, I was sure.

“What happened?” My dad’s words weren’t slurred; the night was still young.

I proceeded to tell him my abbreviated story involving the sheep, Gus, and including Samuel somewhere in there, too.

“No more piano lessons for you!” Dad grumbled. “It ain’t safe. I knew something was wrong. I was just about to come looking for you.”

“Oh no, Dad!” I cried out hastily, sitting up and swinging my good leg to the floor. “I’ll be more careful. I’m getting ready for the Christmas program. I can’t miss my lessons. Besides Sonja, I mean Mrs. Grimaldi, is going to have me practice at the church for the next few weeks so that she can start teaching me how to play the organ.”

I didn’t believe my dad had even noticed I was gone, nor had he been on the brink of starting out on a search and rescue mission, but I could tell he felt bad that I had been in trouble and he hadn’t had a clue.

Samuel shook Dad’s hand and made a hasty retreat, claiming he needed to go make sure Gus made it back to the corral with the wayward sheep.