Running Barefoot
Page 33

“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.”