Running Barefoot

9. Coda



I had given Samuel all the tapes I made for him when he returned from the reservation in March. I had lined them up neatly in a shoe box and written down each song title along with its composer, making a reference card to fit into each cassette. He said he listened to a different one every night before he went to sleep. I did the same, and I often looked out my window and down the street, to where I could see his grandparent’s house, wondering what composer was keeping Samuel company that night. He would be leaving soon, and I wanted to give him a graduation present – something to remember me by.

Sonja was the one who actual ended up giving me the idea. She was recording my lessons and playing them back to me so I could critique myself, my finger speed, my musical phrasing, my timing. I suddenly knew what Samuel would like better than anything else I could give to him.

For the next week I perfected the piece I had written for him, making sure it was exactly right. The night before school got out, I asked Sonja if I could have a brand new tape. She acquiesced, and I told her that I wanted to record my composition. She was eager to comply and lifted the lid on the grand piano to its greatest height and held her little microphone in its gaping mouth to record my effort. I played with all the feeling I could muster, our imminent parting accentuating my emotions.

When I was done, Sonja was staring at me oddly. She turned to push stop on the recording before she spoke.

“My dear, if I didn’t know better I’d think you’d fallen in love.” There was amusement in her tone, but also a hint of apprehension. Her back was to me, and I was grateful for it, as I felt a flush crawl hotly up my neck. She rewound the cassette and slid it into the case.

“I made myself a copy as well, if you don’t mind.” Sonja changed the subject smoothly and we didn’t end up discussing falling in love for several more years. Regrettably, I never told Sonja about Samuel. He remained a very closely guarded secret until it was too late to tell her, until she no longer had the capacity to care.





Samuel didn’t want to go his graduation ceremony - he said he had earned the diploma whether they handed it to him or not, but Nettie and Don insisted that he go. Johnny was graduating as well, so my family went to the ceremony. It was pretty boring, full of all the trite platitudes about success and making a difference. There were a few lame musical numbers, and the graduating class sang the school song, which frankly could have used a little zip. The Nephi school colors are crimson and gold. The guys get to wear the crimson gowns, and the girls wear the gold. The gold was a little bit mustard in color, and the girls looked mostly washed out.

Samuel was on the back row due to his height and the alphabetical placement of his last name. The crimson looked vibrant next to his warm skin, and I watched him surreptitiously throughout. He showed little emotion when his name was called, and he took his diploma and shook hands with Principal Bracken. Samuel’s big moment had come in the school awards ceremony earlier that week, when Ms. Whitmer had named him her 12th grade English ‘Student of the Year.’ She said he’d shown such marked improvement and desire to learn over the course of the year that he had truly earned the award. The student body probably didn’t care, but Samuel was quietly proud when he told me about it after school.

After the ceremony, parents were snapping pictures and kids were posing with their classmates. Nettie and Don were wrapped in conversation, and my dad was busy wielding the camera. I found Samuel standing to the side, his cap and gown removed and turned back in to the senior class advisor. He wore the black slacks and white shirt he’d worn at the Christmas Eve church service. His black hair was brushed back off his face. It wouldn’t be long before his long hair would be buzzed military short. His recruiter had told him to cut it before he reported for boot camp, but so far Samuel had refused.

His grandparents were driving him to San Diego the following morning. Don and Nettie wanted to make a leisurely trip of it; neither had spent much time outside of Levan. They planned on taking the ‘scenic route.’ Samuel would report at the Marine processing station on Monday morning.

“I have something I want to give to you,” I said awkwardly, trying not to be overheard or draw attention, but wanting to arrange a meeting. “Are you going home afterwards?” There was always a big school celebration after graduation, but I doubted Samuel would stick around for the festivities.

“Nettie and Don want to take me to Mickelson’s Restaurant for an early dinner, but after that we’ll be home.” He gazed down at me for a moment. “I have something for you, too.” His eyes shifted away, detaching himself from me with his body language. “Do you know the big tree that’s split in two?”

I nodded my head. I called the tree and the others around it Sleepy Hollow. Sleepy Hollow was where three huge trees grew in a triangle about half a mile up the road from Samuel’s grandparent’s home, just before the turnoff to the cemetery and beyond that, Tuckaway Hill. Lightening had struck the tallest of the three trees, splitting it in two about half way down its trunk. Interestingly enough, the tree didn’t die, but simply forked into two trees supported by one massive trunk - like nature’s version of Siamese twins. The upper branches, now angled at 45 degrees, had created boughs, curving into the two other trees across the clearing. The lower branches were twisted and deformed by the strike, causing them to grow sideways instead of up, like leafy arms stretched out in supplication. In the late fall when the tree lost its leaves, the thick gnarled branches appeared like skeletal arms with claw-like fingers curled menacingly, inspiring the name Sleepy Hollow. But in the spring, as the trees donned their leafy adornments, this branched oddity, combined with the other two trees in the gully, created a thick green hideaway - a natural enclosure completely hidden from the dusty lane that ran close by.

“Can you meet me there later, say 8:00?” Samuel seemed uncomfortable but determined, and I agreed immediately. The sun didn’t go down until almost nine o’clock as the looming summer days stretched daylight later and later, and I would be free until dark.





I arrived before Samuel and stood in the shelter of the trees, holding my gifts. I’d decided at the last minute to give Samuel one more treasure, something I hated to part with, something that had been a gift to me, but something I knew would be especially meaningful to him.

Samuel rode up on horseback, holding something in his arms. He slid off the horse and looped the reins over a convenient branch. The horse immediately commenced grazing, and Samuel came around her, revealing his furry bundle. A pure white face and a wet black nose wedged into view under the concealment of his folded arms. I gasped.

“Samuel! Oh my gosh!” I gushed, rushing to him. The puppy in his arms was fat with very white fur, like a little polar bear. “Where did you get him?”

“Hans Larsen said I could have a pup when he found out his dog, Bashee, was expecting. My grandpa and Hans help each other out with their herds. I’ve moved Hans’ herd a time or two.

“Is it a Lab?” I guessed, looking at his handsome doggy face.

“Half,” Samuel replied. “In his case, half-breed looks a lot like the original, huh?” His voice was light, and I let the half-breed comment go without censure.

“What’s the other half?” I stroked the silky head and tickled the tiny chin.

“Hans Larsen says the dog’s mother is an Akbash - that’s where the name Bashee came from.”

“Akbash? I’ve never even heard of that.”

“That’s because they are sheep dogs native to Turkey. Hans has used the Akbash to guard his sheep for years. He says they aren’t as hyper as your average sheep dog. In fact, they really don’t herd sheep at all. They are considered guardians. They are very calm, and it is their nature to simply lie with the flock. Hans has a sheepdog to help him move the herd, and the Akbash to keep watch and live with the flock. He says this pup’s momma thinks the herd belongs to her.”

“So how did the Lab half come in to the mix?”

Samuel put the warm body in my arms, and I rubbed my cheek along its back.

“Hans had corralled the herd close to home during that week of bad storms in January. The Stephenson’s big white Lab came over for a friendly visit, much to Hans’s disappointment. Hans had arranged to breed his dog with another pure bred. The Lab just got there first.”

I giggled a little and sank to the soft dirt and grass, folding my legs and letting the pup waddle around me. “She looks like a Lab to me…but she’s so white!”

Samuel squatted down on his haunches, reaching out to the little dog, letting his fingers smooth his snowy fur. “The Akbash is very white - and it looks like the Lab through his snout and head, but its legs are longer and it has a feathery curved tail. This guy’s got his daddy’s tail.” Samuel patted the tiny rump. “He’ll be a big dog. In fact, full grown, he’ll probably weigh more than you, but he’ll look out for you when I’m gone.” Samuel’s voice was quiet and serious. “After all, when I saved your life, I became responsible for you, remember?” He smiled a little to lighten the seriousness of his words.

“He’s for me?”

Samuel chuckled a little, “I can’t take him with me, Josie.”

“Oh my gosh, Samuel!” I breathed, looking with new appreciation at the adorable creature before me. I had never even thought about having my own dog. Between chickens and horses and the various scrawny cats that ended up on our back porch, we had always had plenty of animals to care for. Suddenly, the thought was incredibly appealing. I scooped my new friend into my arms, cuddling him like an infant, cooing as his wet nose brushed my cheek.

“Do you think your dad will let you keep him?”

His question gave me a moment’s pause. And then I considered how little I truly asked for. My dad wouldn’t hesitate for a minute. If I brought him home and told my dad I wanted him, he would be mine to keep. “My dad won’t mind a bit.”

We watched the little dog toddling around, sniffing at this and that.

“What are you going to call him?” Samuel questioned, sinking down from his haunches into the grass, spreading his long legs out in front of him.

“Hmmm,” I pursed my lips thoughtfully. “I named all my chickens after literary characters, so maybe Heathcliffe? That would definitely remind me of you!” I laughed, shaking my head as I recalled all those days with Wuthering Heights on the bus. I immediately felt a rush of melancholy, reminded of Samuel’s impending departure.

“Heathcliffe is that fat cat that likes lasagna in Grandpa Don’s Sunday comics,” Samuel argued. “He needs something more canine....plus, we both agreed we didn’t especially like Heathcliffe.” He studied my face, and I saw a flicker of my own melancholy mirrored back at me.

“You’re right. Maybe I should call him Rochester for Jane’s true love. I could call him Chester for short.” I thought on it a moment and then rejected it out loud. “No.” I shook my head. “I want to name him for you. But I don’t want to name him Samuel - that would be weird.” I thought for a moment, staring off. “I know.” My eyes swung back to him. “Yazzie.”

Samuel’s lips quirked and he looked down fondly into my upturned face. “Yazzie is perfect. Grandma Yazzie would like it too. One guardian named after another.”

The newly named Yazzie climbed into my lap and plopped down with a tired huff. He laid his head on his paws and immediately began to doze.

“I have something for you too.” I retrieved one of the packages lying next to me. I handed him the cassette first. I’d wrapped it in plain brown butcher paper. Samuel was not the ribbons and bows type.

He ripped off the paper easily, holding the cassette up in the fading light, made all the darker by the shadowy enclave. “Samuel’s Song,” he read out loud. “You recorded it?” His voice rose with excitement. “This is the song you played for me that day? Your song?”

“Your song,” I replied shyly, pleased by his response.

“My song,” he repeated, his voice just above a whisper.

“Here.” I handed him the other present. He didn’t have to open it to know what it was. He shook his head as he pulled the paper from the big green dictionary we had forged our friendship upon. He smoothed his hand over the cover and his eyes remained lowered as he protested my gift.

“This is yours, Josie. You don’t want to give this away. You love this book.”

“I want you to have it,” I insisted, leaning across him to open the cover where I had written:

To my friend Samuel,

A Navajo bard and a person of character.

Love,

Josie

“A Navajo what?” His eyebrows rose in amusement.

“Bard. Look it up!” I bossed, laughing.

Samuel sighed mightily, playing his put-upon student role once again. He flipped through the pages quickly. “Bard: the trappings of a horse,” he intoned.

“What?” I cried, reaching for the book.

Samuel laughed freely, momentarily shedding his persistent gravity. He moved the book out of my reach. “Oh, maybe you mean the other definition. A bard is a poet,” he reported, his eyebrows again climbing in question as he looked up from the dictionary.

“And that is what you are - a Navajo poet. Gifted with beautiful thoughts and the ability to share them,” I pontificated seriously.

“You’re good at that, you know,” Samuel said quietly.

“Good at what?”

“Making me feel special instead of like an outcast, making me feel important.”

“You are important, Samuel,” I said sincerely.

“See, you’re doing it now,” he retorted. “Here,” he said suddenly, reaching up and untying the thin leather strip he wore around his neck. “You gave me something that was yours. I want to give you something that is mine.” The turquoise rock swung from the black leather cord, and he held his necklace out to me. I’d never seen him without it. I shook my head in protest as he had done moments before.

“Lift up your hair,” Samuel commanded. I obeyed, lifting my blond curls off of my shoulders and leaning towards him. His hands were warm and gentle as he tied the leather ends together around my neck. Then, ever appropriate and respectful, he leaned away from me. The stone was warm from lying against his skin, and I was overcome with my desire to keep him near, to beg him not to leave in the morning.

My voice was choked as I confessed my dread. “I wish you didn’t have to go.” I felt the tears brimming and could not hold them back. I wiped at them furiously, willing them to stop, only to have them mount a new attack. “You are the best friend I’ve ever had.”

“If I stayed, you and I couldn’t remain friends.” Samuel’s voice was measured and he maintained his customary distance, but his back was rigid, attesting to his own inner tumult.

“Why?” I cried, scrubbing at my cheeks, my tears halted by his blunt reply.

“Because our age difference is a problem. I shouldn’t be here with you now. I only wanted to say goodbye....because the truth is, you are the best friend I have ever had too, and best friends don’t leave without saying goodbye.”

Samuel rose to his feet and leaning down, offered me his hand. I gathered Yazzie to my chest with one arm and put my other hand in his, letting him pull me to my feet beside him.

“Will you come back?” I asked woodenly, feeling the numbness of denial seeking to shield me from the finality of the moment.

“I hope so,” Samuel said wistfully. “When I do, maybe things will be different.”

I studied my feet, my mind frenzied, looking for a reason to delay him, to elongate the end of goodbye. I felt his sudden nearness, and I looked up into his face, which was now mere inches from my own. His eyes were very black in the twilight, and his breath was warm on my wet cheeks. He leaned down cautiously, his eyes never leaving mine, until our faces became so close that shape and color blurred. He tipped his face slightly to the right, and I lifted my mouth to his in the briefest hint of a kiss that never was. His lips fluttered lightly by and came to a firm standstill on my forehead. His kiss lingered there as my eyes swept closed and my sigh slipped out. And there we remained for several long seconds. And then he stood apart from me. He held my gifts in his arms and my heart in his hand.

“I won’t ever forget you, Josie.” His voice was low, his face devoid of emotion, and he turned and walked out of the little clearing. The horse whinnied in greeting, and Samuel swung into the saddle, gathering the reins. He prodded the horse with his heels and rode away, a black outline against the dying violet dusk. I followed slowly behind him, holding Yazzie against me, his head on my shoulder.





When I got home, I told my dad the truth about Yazzie; I told him that he had belonged to Don and Nettie’s grandson who was going into the Marine Corps, and he had given him to me because he couldn’t keep him. Truth without embellishment, although one could argue that it was slightly abbreviated. My dad didn’t seem to care where I’d gotten him.

“I’ve been thinking about getting a dog around here.” My dad cooed as well as a gravely cowboy can. “He’s a good boy, oh yes he is! He’s a little beauty!”

What was it about babies and puppies that made everyone talk with their lips pushed out in that kissy-faced way? I left Yazzie in my dad’s enthusiastic care and climbed up to my room. I untied Samuel’s necklace from around my neck and held it in front of me, watching the turquoise stone sway gently from the thin leather strip. My dad hadn’t cared about the puppy, but he would eventually notice if I was wearing the big turquoise rock. The pup and the rock together might set off alarms, and I was wise enough, even at thirteen, to grasp how others might perceive the relationship.

I rubbed the stone against my face, closing my eyes and thinking of our ‘almost’ kiss. I found myself wishing Samuel weren’t so careful and so honorable. I would have liked a real kiss from Samuel - for my very first kiss to belong to him. Almost immediately, I felt ashamed of my wistful criticism. If Jane Eyre could walk away from Mr. Rochester’s kisses, despite her own feelings, even though nobody would be harmed, and no one would really care, and do it out of principle, then I should expect no less of myself. That is what Samuel had done tonight at Sleepy Hollow.

I tucked his necklace into the little jewelry box I kept on my desk. A bracelet strung with silver hearts that had been my mothers, a sunflower pin that Tara had given me one birthday, and a green CTR (choose the right) ring from Sunday School crowded around my newest treasure. I shut the lid gently and trudged down the stairs, back to my roly-poly guardian.