Running Barefoot

16. Modulation



Tara blew into the shop like a hurricane one afternoon - pink hair, red lips, flashing smile, hugging everyone and squealing as if she’d been gone for a century instead of three months. She showed up now and then, got her ‘Mom’ fix, and was gone again in a whirl. She threw herself into my swivel chair and proceeded to tell me everything, down to the last detail, that had happened to her since she’d last seen me. All at once her eyes narrowed on my face and she pursed her crimson lips in speculation.

“I like your hair.” She said it with such surprise in her voice that I laughed out loud. “No! I do!” She insisted. “You’re letting it grow out and the curls are all soft and flow-y.” I had had Louise cut my hair boy short after starting work with her in the shop. It had been so tortured and teased after living through a year of experimentation by Tara that I had just told Louise to “take it off.” Louise had clucked her tongue the whole time she cut it. She kept asking me, “What were you thinkin’ girl, lettin’ Tara have her way with your hair?”

I touched the hair that hung past my shoulders self consciously. “I guess it’s just longer. I haven’t really styled it any special way.”

“Are you dating anybody?” She queried, and then she laughed like she had just told a hilarious joke. “Who would you date? Everybody’s either 16, married, or loooong gone!”

Louise spoke up from her station where she was cutting Penny Worwood’s hair. “Oh, I don’t know ‘bout that. A few days ago, Nettie Yates came in here with her grandson. Now that is one goodlookin’ man!”

“Nettie’s grandson? You mean Tabrina’s son? That man is as homely as a mud fence! You’re gettin’ desperate in your old age, Mom!”

“Not Tabrina’s son! You’re right, you couldn’t pick that boy out in a pen of pigs! No, I’m talking about Michael’s son!” She said triumphantly.

“Who is Michael?” Tara was completely bewildered.

“Tabrina’s older brother.”

“I didn’t even know Tabrina had an older brother!”

“Yep. He died when you were just a baby, which is why you probably never heard about him. Michael Yates was one tall drink of something yummy!” Louise sighed. “He was more religious than the rest of his family, and went on a two year mission for the church, though nobody else in his family had ever gone. He was kind of a quiet guy, but yum, yum, yum, he was something to look at! His poor little sister Tabrina got what was left over, bless her heart, and her kids ’er even uglier than she is!”

“Mom! Focus!” Tara laughed. “So this guy Michael? He had a son?”

“Yep. He lived here with his grandparents for a while when he was in high school. He’s part indian or something. I can’t believe you don’t remember him. What’s his name again, Josie?”

“Samuel.” I turned and made myself busy cleaning my worktable, not wanting to look at Tara, fearing I would give something away that I was not yet ready to discuss.

“Samuel....” Tara scrunched up her face trying to remember. “Oh yeah! Hey Josie, wasn’t he the kid you had to sit by all year long on the bus in seventh grade?” She shivered dramatically. “I thought for sure he was gonna kill his grandparents in their sleep!”

“Tara!” I turned and glared at her. “Why would you say something like that?”

“What?” She protested. “He was intimidating! He never said two words to anyone, and he always had a scowl on his face. He wore his hair long, and I swear he carried a tomahawk strapped to his leg. I don’t know how you stood it. I would have peed my pants if Mr. Walker had assigned me to sit by him.”

“I liked him,” I said simply. “We actually became friends. He was quiet and kind of intense, but I’ve been accused of that myself.” I looked at Tara pointedly.

“Wasn’t he the guy that clapped in church that one time?” Penny Worwood piped in with her two cents.

Louise whirled around and pointed her comb at me, waving it wildly and dancing around like she had ants in her pants. “It was him! He stood up and clapped for you after you played your solo! At the time, I just thought maybe he was trying to stick it to his grandparents a little, embarrass them, be a smart aleck, ya know? I didn’t realize you two actually knew each other! Woo! Hoo! Man, that was really something when he did that! I still remember the look on your face, Josie Jo! You coulda died and gone straight to heaven right then.”

“So…this Samuel guy…why’s he back in town?” Tara interrupted her mom’s giddy monologue.

“Well, Nettie told me he’s come back to help her and Don get things in order.” Louise responded. “They don’t really have anybody else, ya know, and they’re gettin’ on in years. Tabrina and her husband are no help - those two together are about as smart as a box of rocks.”

“Louise!” I scolded

“Oh okay, Josie. I am bein’ kinda harsh.” She amended with “Tabrina and her husband are about as smart as a box of frogs.” She smirked at me over her right shoulder before she continued.

“Anyhow, this Samuel - and he is a fine specimen now, Tara, no matter what you thought when you were in seventh grade - he’s come back to do some legal work for them, help them get their sheep sold, sell some land, stuff like that. Don’s health isn’t great, and it’s just time to stop workin’ so hard.”

“You said he was doing some legal work for them. Is he some kind of lawyer?” Tara piped in with interest. Lawyers meant money to Tara, and money was number one on the top of her marriage-must- haves.

“No, he’s a Marine.” I volunteered.

“He’s a Marine, all right, but Nettie says the Marines helped pay for his college and then he went to officer’s training, and now he’s going to attend law school. He’s on some kind of leave right now.”

I gasped right out loud. Samuel, becoming a lawyer? I felt a little weak in the knees, and then I felt ridiculously like crying. I was suddenly, euphorically, proud of him. I hadn’t read far enough in the letters obviously, and he’d said nothing about it. But when had he really had the opportunity? Each of our conversations had been riddled with emotional grenades and catching up had just not come up. I felt ashamed that I had asked him so little about himself.

“Earth to Josie!” Tara was waving her hands in my face. “You look like you’re gonna cry, you okay?”

I brushed away her questions, smiled brightly, and wished the day were over. I needed to go find Samuel, regardless of whether or not he believed the “princess was dead.”

Samuel was not home when I knocked on Nettie Yates’ screen door later that evening. I’d baked some cookies as an excuse for stopping by. I’d also filled a basket of vegetables from my garden. Nettie had stopped planting a garden in recent years, complaining that she was just too “brittle to work in the dirt anymore.” It was sweet irony that she had shared with me and my family from her garden for so many years and had shown me how to plant one and care for one, and now I could share my garden’s bounty in return.

Nettie was crocheting something, and she invited me in to sit and chat a minute. “Samuel and Don went to bring the cows down from the mountain early this morning. I didn’t want Don to go; I worry about him sittin’ a saddle all day, but he wouldn’t hear nothin’ of it. I didn’t fight ’im too hard. He’s been bringing the cows home from Mt. Nebo every fall since he was old enough to tie his shoes, and this will probably be the last time. We’re sellin’ off the cattle and the sheep, ya know. Don’s relieved, but it’s hard for him, too. Samuel bein’ here helps take the weight off his shoulders a little.

When Samuel came to live with us all those years ago I didn’t know what to think. He never talked to us much, and he seemed so angry at first. But then slowly he started changin’- don’t really know why, but I’m grateful for it. He’s grown up to be a real good man and a blessing to us now when we need him. He says he’ll stay until we’ve got things buttoned up.”

I was terrible at small talk and didn’t quite know what to say to keep the conversation flowing. I decided I would just come out and ask for the information I sought.

“When will they be back?” I ventured casually.

“Oh they should be pullin’ in any time.” Nettie looked at me curiously.

I changed the subject quickly and asked her if I could do anything for her before I left. She hemmed and hawed, not wanting me to bother, but ended up confessing she needed help with the flower beds in the front yard. Before long, I was on my hands and knees in the dirt. I actually liked pulling weeds. Call me crazy, but there’s something immensely therapeutic about yanking the noxious things from the cool brown soil. I got busy and made short work of the flower bed on one side of the front walk and was working my way down the other when I heard a truck crunching over gravel. I had hoped to be cool and composed when I saw Samuel again. Instead I was on my knees with my rear in the air, pulling dandelions out from among the marigolds.

“Well hello, Miss Josie!” Don Yates stepped stiffly out of the pickup, approaching me with a slightly bow-legged gait. He’d been tall once but had become stooped and shrunken in his later years. He’d been a bull-rider in his younger days, and he’d been beaten up and put back together a time or two. Nettie said he’d broken every bone in his hands by the time his career was over. His fingers were as big around as sausages, his palms thick and muscular. Combine that with his built up forearms, and he looked a little like Popeye - all arms, no butt, and bowed legs.

“Hello, Mr. Yates.” I brushed my hair back from my face and wiped my hands on the skirt of my now dirty pink dress. “How was the cattle drive?”

Samuel was behind him and without a word he knelt beside me in the flower bed and started pulling weeds.

“It was long, Miss Josie! Woo Wee! I’m gonna go in and have mother make me a cup of coffee. If I don’t keep walkin’ I might fall right over. I’m way too old for cattle drivin’ anymore. You want me to send some lemonade out for the two ‘a ya, or somethin’?”

“Not for me, thanks.” I glanced at Samuel in question.

“Go on in, Pop. I’ll just help Josie finish up.”

A few minutes later the screen door slammed behind Don Yates, and Samuel and I worked in silence. I figured it would be easier to talk if my hands were busy, so I took a deep breath and jumped right in.

“I’m proud of you, Samuel.” I pulled weeds faster, my hands keeping pace with my galloping pulse.

Samuel looked up at me in surprise. I met his black gaze and quickly looked down to make sure I didn’t start yanking out marigolds with nervous zeal.

“There was some talk today at the shop.” I smiled sheepishly. “Well, there’s always talk at the shop. But today I actually found it to be of interest to me.”

Samuel had stopped pulling weeds, his head tilted to the side, regarding me quietly.

I looked back down, anxiously trying to find a weed within arm distance. “I heard you’re going to law school.” I paused, the pride I felt in him swelling in my heart, just like it had earlier. I looked up at him, swallowing to keep my emotions in check. “I can’t tell you how I - I felt when I heard. I just wanted to cheer out loud…and.....jump for joy all at once. I’m just so....so ......well, I’m just so proud of what you’ve accomplished.” I kept my eyes on his, and he seemed to be considering my words.

“Thank you, Josie. You have no idea with that means to me.” His eyes remained on mine for a moment, and then he resumed pulling weeds until the last stubborn trespasser was removed from the flower beds.

“And Samuel…thank you for the letters….I haven’t had a chance to read them all, but I will.” I struggled to express myself honestly without getting too personal, but gave up when I realized I couldn’t. “It almost made me feel like I was there with you. Most of all, it made me feel like maybe I wasn’t alone all those nights I cried for you and missed you.” My voice was choked, but I remained composed. I made a move to rise from the flower bed, but Samuel’s hand shot out and curved around my bare arm, just above my elbow, detaining me.

“I’m sorry, Josie.” Samuel’s voice was husky and low. “I’m sorry for what I said that night. For making you feel like I was disappointed in you. There’s nothing wrong with who you are and what you do.” He reached up and ran the back of his fingers lightly along the side of my face. “I just hate to see you suffering. I handled it all wrong. Will you let me make it up to you? Will you let me do something for you?” His voice was almost pleading.

I wanted to close my eyes and press my face into the palm of his hand. His touch was feather light, but his eyes were heavy on mine. I nodded my consent, realizing that I didn’t really care what the something was, just as long as I could be in his company a little while longer. He stood and reached down for me, pulling me to my feet.

“I’ve got a days worth of sweat and horse ground into me, and I need to shower. I’ll come by in about 30 minutes if that’s okay?”

I nodded again and turned to walk away.

“Josie?” His voice stopped me. “Is your dad home?”

My heart lurched a little at the implied intimacy of his question.

I shook my head this time and found my voice. It came out smooth and easy, for which I was grateful. “He’s on shutdowns for one more night.”

“I’ll be by.” He turned and walked into the house. I tried hard not to run, but ended up sprinting down the middle of the street like a silly kid.





I was waiting for Samuel on the front porch swing when he came walking down the road half an hour later. I had slipped into the tub and washed the dirt from the flower beds off of my arms and legs. I’d traded my soiled pink summer dress for a skirt and a blue fitted t-shirt that I happened to know was the exact color of my eyes. The skirt was white eyelet, and it was comfortable and pretty. I didn’t put any shoes on my feet. My calves and feet were brown from the recent summer days, and the lack of shoes made my preference for skirts a little less formal. I rarely wore pants and only wore shorts when I was running. I liked the feel of pretty, feminine clothes, and had stopped caring whether or not anyone thought I was old-fashioned. I hadn’t had time to wash my hair, so I pinned it up, fixed my makeup, and put a little bit of lavender on my wrists. I felt silly waiting for him - but I waited all the same.

Samuel wore clean Wranglers and a soft chambray shirt rolled to his elbows, exposing his strong forearms. He wore moccasins on his feet, and his short black hair was brushed back from his smooth forehead and prominent cheekbones. He carried a big jug and an even bigger wooden pail. He stopped in front of me, and his eyes swept over my bare toes and upswept hair appreciatively.

“We need music,” He said quietly. I could tell by the speculation in his eyes that he wasn’t certain how I would respond to his request.

“Alright,” I replied evenly.

“Debussy.”

“Debussy it is.”

“I’ll be out back.” He turned and walked around the house, not waiting to see if I would do as he said. Samuel had changed in many ways, but he was still a little bossy. I was glad. I walked in the house to find Debussy.

He was sitting in the back yard on the long bench just beneath the kitchen windows when I opened the screen and set the CD player up on the ledge above him. The light from the kitchen spilled out into the rapidly darkening evening and onto his broad shoulders and bowed head. He was cutting into something with a sharp knife, pulling the outer bark-like shell away, exposing a white fibrous root that looked slick and soapy. Leaning forward, he pulled a big silver bowl from the large wooden pail he’d been carrying. He put the white root into the bowl, picked up the enormous pewter jug he’d been carrying, and poured steamy water over the root. Samuel rubbed the root as if it was a bar of soap, and little bubbles began to form. As the bubbles changed into suds he kept rubbing until the silver bowl was full of thick white lather. Setting the bowl down, he pulled a hand towel and a fat white bath towel out of the wooden pail. He stood from the bench, put the hand towel over his shoulder and laid the bath towel over the bench. Then he turned to me and patted the bench.

“Lie down.”

I had been watching him in fascination, wondering what he was up to. I thought maybe he was going to soak my feet when I saw the big bowl of soapy stuff. I was curious, but I didn’t question him. I arranged my skirt and laid back on the bench. He reached up then and pushed play on the music, flipping through the tracks until he found what he was looking for. He turned the wooden pail over, placed it near my head, and sat on it, using it for a stool. Then, pulling on the towel underneath me, he slid me towards him until my head hung over the edge of the bench and settled in his lap. One by one he pulled the pins out of my hair. His strong fingers ran through my curls, smoothing them over his hands. I belatedly realized that the music that was playing was Debussy’s ‘Girl with the Flaxen Hair.’

“How very appropriate,” I said softly, the smile apparent in my voice.

“I like it,” he answered easily. “I can’t listen to it without thinking of you.”

“Do you listen to it often?” I asked a little breathlessly.

“Almost every day for ten years,” he replied evenly.

My heart stuttered and stopped, my breath shallow.

He continued quietly as if he hadn’t just confessed something wondrous. “You washed my hair. Now I’m going to wash yours. My Navajo grandmother taught me how to do this. She makes soap from the root of the yucca plant. The root from a young yucca makes the best soap, but the yucca in my Grandma Nettie’s yard was planted many years ago by my father. It’s not indigenous to this area, but when he returned home from his two years on the reservation, he wanted to bring something back with him. I dug up a piece of the root. You have to peel off the outer shell. Then you kind of grind up the white part inside - that is the soap. I wasn’t sure it would lather up, but it did.”

Gently holding my head in the palm of one hand, he reached down and picked up the bowl, setting it in his lap that was now covered with the hand towel. He lowered my head into the soapy water, holding it all the while. His other hand smoothed the suds through my hair, the heat seeping into my scalp, his hand sliding back and forth, pulling my hair through his fist, sinking his fingers deep down to the base of my skull and sliding them back up again. My eyes drifted closed, and my nerve endings tightened. I pulled my knees upward, sliding the soles of my sensitive feet along the rough wooden bench, my toes curling in response to the sweet agony of his hands in my hair.

Samuel continued, the music of his voice as soothing as the warm water. “My grandmother uses the yucca soap to wash the sheep’s wool after she shears it every spring. She says it works better than anything else. Your hair won’t smell like lavender or roses when I’m done - but it’ll be clean. My grandmother says it will give you new energy, too.”

“Your wise grandmother…I think about her every time I feed my chickens.”

“Why?” There was a smile in his voice.

“Well, you told me once how she had names for all her sheep, and she had so many! I named the chickens when I was a little girl, after my mother died. Somehow it made it easier to take care of them if I named them. I gave them names like Peter, Lucy, Edmund, and Susan after the characters in the Chronicles of Narnia. But your grandmother named her sheep names like ‘Bushy Rump’ and ‘Face like a Fish,’ and it always made me laugh when I thought about it.”

“Hmm. The names do sound a little more poetic in Navajo,” Samuel replied, chuckling softly. “Sadly, I think ‘Bushy Rump’ and ‘Face like a Fish’ have died, but she has a new one named ‘Face like a Rump’ in honor of both.”

I let out a long peel of laughter, and Samuel’s finger’s tightened in my hair.

“Ahhh Josie, that sound should be bottled and sold.” He smiled down at me when I looked up at him in surprise.

He looked away and picked up the jug, sloshing the hot water over my hair and into the bowl of suds, starting the process over.

“My mother is the only other person who has ever washed my hair,” I offered drowsily, the slip and slide of his fingers through my hair leaving me loose and relaxed. “It was so long ago. I took for granted how wonderful it feels.”

“You were a child. Of course you took it for granted,” Samuel answered quietly.

“I know why my mother washed my hair,” I said, brave behind my closed eyes, “But why are you washing my hair, Samuel? I’ve washed a lot of people’s hair down at the shop. Not one of them has ever come back and offered to wash mine in return.”

“I’m washing your hair for the same reason your mother probably did.”

“Because my hair is dirty and tangled after playing in the barn?” I teased.

“Because it feels good to take care of you.” His voice was both tender and truthful.

My soul sang. “I’ve taken care of myself for a long time,” I replied quietly, incredibly moved by the sweetness of his answer.

“I know, and you’re good at it. You’ve taken care of everybody else for a long time, too.”

He let it go at that, and I didn’t pursue the conversation. It took too much energy, and I felt myself lulled by the music, the spell of the night, and his firm hands.

The sound of Debussy’s ‘Reverie’ slid through the inky darkness as the light pooled just beyond us, leaving our faces in shadows. Samuel held my wet tresses in his hand, twisting the thick sections around his fingers tightly, pulling my head back, and arching my throat as he forced the excess water out of my hair. I heard him set the bowl down and felt him stand, still supporting my head in one hand. He drizzled hot water down the soapy lengths, rinsing them over and over, hands combing through my dripping hair until the water ran clear.

Again he wrapped his hands in my hair, twisting and wringing and then swathed my head in the towel he’d laid on his lap. Samuel left me momentarily and straddled the bench below my raised knees. Leaning forward, he grasped my hands and pulled me up towards him until I was sitting, my legs on either side of the bench, my forehead resting on his chest. He took the hand towel and lightly dried my damp curls, kneading my scalp in his hands, blotting the water from my hair. The hand towel fell to the ground as he lifted my face towards his. His hands smoothed my hair back, away from my forehead and cheekbones. My breath caught in anticipation of a kiss, but instead, he threaded his left hand into my hair once more. Lowering his head, he rubbed his slightly rough cheek back and forth against the silkiness of my own, the heat of his breath tickling my neck. The gesture was so loving, so gentle, and my eyes stayed closed under his simple caress. I held my breath as he ran his lips along my forehead, kissing my closed eyelids. I felt him pull back, and I opened my eyes. His eyes held mine in the dark. I wanted desperately for him to lean in and kiss my lips.

Samuel’s hands framed my face, and he seemed not to breathe for an eternity. Then his palms and fingers traveled lightly down my arms and over my wrists until he held each of my hands in his. Clair de Lune whispered through the breeze and lightly trickled down my skin, creating little rivulets of desire where his hands had just been.

“Do you remember the first time I held your hand?” His voice was thick.

My thoughts were slow and heavy, my mind soft from his ministrations, but after a moment I responded thoughtfully. “It was after we argued about Heathcliffe. You were mad at me. You didn’t talk to me for days,” I replied, remembering my hurt and confusion, wanting him to be my friend again. “I wished I hadn’t said anything. You just made me so mad.” I laughed a little, thinking about how Samuel had seemed intent on proving my every theory wrong.

“You were thirteen years old! A thirteen-year-old who was beautiful, wise, patient…and infuriating! I just kept thinking, ‘How does she know these things?!’ You quoted that scripture like you’d studied it just for the purpose of teaching me a lesson. Then you got up and walked off the bus! I was so blown away that I missed my stop. I was still sitting there when everyone else was gone. I ended up having to walk home from the bus driver’s house. Mr. Walker got nervous and thought I was up to something. I guess I can’t really blame him, I was acting pretty strange.”

I looked down at our clasped hands, goose bumps skipping up my arms as his thumbs made slow patterns on my skin.

“1 Corinthians, Chapter 13…how did you know?” His voice contained a note of wonder. “I don’t care how brilliant you were, thirteen-year-old girls don’t quote scripture off the cuff like that.”

I shook my head a little and smiled. “A few weeks before you and I had our ‘discussion,’ I was sitting in church with my Aunt Louise and my cousins. My dad didn’t go to church very often, but Aunt Louise drug her bunch to church every week. She always said she needed all the help she could get...and I liked church.”

Samuel groaned, interrupting me. “Of course you did.”

“Shush!” I laughed, and proceeded to defend myself. “Church was quiet and peaceful, the music was soothing, and I always felt loved there. Anyway, that particular Sunday someone stood and read 1 Corinthians, Chapter 13. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to find it again because, you’re right, I wasn’t very familiar with scripture. I told Aunt Louise I was sick and ran home, repeating “1 Corinthians, Chapter 13, 1 Corinthians, Chapter 13” all the way to my house so I wouldn’t forget it. When I got home I pulled out my-”

“-big green dictionary?” Samuel finished for me, grinning.

“My big green dictionary,” I repeated, smiling with him, “and 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 leapt 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 towards the wall to read the small print. He ran his hands over the wall, much 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 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’d made me listen to ‘Pevane for a Dead Princess.’ Sadness and regret trickled down my throat and made my stomach turnover. “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.

“Alright,” 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 and 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 my 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, and then letting 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 look 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.