Running Barefoot
Page 65

“I never knew this!” I said in wonder. I had never heard of the Navajo code talkers.
“The Navajo code talkers were asked to keep quiet about the code, in case it was needed in future wars, so after the war the American population knew very little about their role in the battles throughout the Pacific.”
“That is fascinating! Your language helped save our country! What an incredible honor!” I had forgotten the pain of the beautiful music, which had changed to ‘Traumerei’ by Schumann.
His mouth turned up slightly as he looked at me, listening to my glowing response. “Yes, it was an honor... I didn’t think so when I was an angry young half-breed. I thought the belegaana, the white man, just used my grandfather and others like him. Used them, and then spit them back out when they were done - out of sight, out of mind. I asked my grandpa why he was so proud of his service. He told me this country is the country of his forefathers. His ancestors lived here long before the white man - it is our country as much as any man’s and we have to defend her. He also said he made many friends among the white marines. He had a belegaana bodyguard…someone assigned to him to look out for him and keep him alive, because it was so critical that he not be killed or captured by the enemy. Without the code talkers, there wasn’t a safe way to communicate, and the enemy would have loved to get their hands on one of them and torture them to reveal the code. He said this belegaana Marine saved his life over and over again, at risk to his own. That is why I was named Samuel. I was named after Samuel Francis Sutorius, a Marine from the Bronx, who my grandfather could not speak of without weeping.”
Again we sat silent - moved by the story, lulled by the music.
So......your middle name is Francis?” I snickered and pinched him affectionately.
“Yes, Josie JO Jensen, it is.”
“Ahhhh,” I moaned theatrically, “You would wound the small-town girl who longs for a classic name?”
Samuel smiled softly, but his voice was grave when he spoke. “You were never small-town, Josie.” He shook his head to underscore his words. “You always had this light that made you seem like royalty... such an incredible mind, such beauty and humility. You took my breath away, time after time, day after day, on that smelly old school bus.”
The lump in my throat made it impossible for me to speak, and I blinked away the wetness in my eyes. He continued:
“The day of the rainstorm, when you realized it was me, your big blue eyes lit up, and I wanted to swing you around and laugh. I couldn’t wait to talk to you and listen to you, and see what you’d read, and finally hear you play again.”
Samuel stopped talking, and his eyes locked on mine. “But you were so sad ... and I felt the loneliness pouring off you when you put your arms around me - it was as wet as the rain, and I knew you were changed somehow. You were different.
“I was angry with you when I heard that silly music that you listen to while you run. I was angry that you seemed so resistant to the things that had once made you so radiant. And today! There you are, working in that little shop, cutting people’s hair, ignoring your gift! Here in this small town that keeps you hidden . . . a princess acting like a pauper, and I just can’t figure it out.”
My face flushed, and I felt as if I’d been slapped. “Is that what this is about, Samuel? ‘Pevane for a Dead Princess!’ So, I’m the dead princess? Am I not good enough for you anymore? Where would you have me go, Samuel? What do you want me to do?” I cried out in wounded disbelief. “I loved music and books partly because I wanted to escape, to leave this town for bigger and better things. But I can’t let my music to take me away from everything I love, everything I have left!”
“So what changed, Josie?!!” Samuel’s voice was as impassioned as my own. “You’ve just turned off the music? You used to say that Beethoven made you feel alive, made the mysteries of God seem attainable. You said you could feel your mother when you listened to your music. Like you knew she was out there somewhere, living on. Has that changed? Don’t you want to feel your mother anymore?”
“When I listen to beautiful music, I can’t just feel my mother now. I feel other things, too,” I groaned out the words and pressed my hands to my feverish cheeks.
“I don’t understand!” Samuel pulled my hands from my face and pulled my chin up, forcing me to meet his glittering gaze. “Why is that a bad thing?”
“The music makes me feel too much! It makes me long for things I will never have! Don’t you see? The music makes it so much harder to forget.”
“Samuel’s hand dropped from my chin and understanding washed over his features. “What things? Tell me what things you can never have.”
I didn’t want to share any more. I felt cornered. None of this was any of his business. I was suddenly very tired, and I closed my eyes, refusing to answer him.
Samuel lifted my chin again, waiting until I lifted my eyes to his once more. “So that’s it, you’re just done at twenty-three? What about school? I seem to remember you had big plans to travel the world, playing the piano.”
I twisted my head away, pulling my chin from his hand. He was so…infuriating! I didn’t remember that side of him. I tried for nonchalance.
“I was set to go. I had a full-ride music scholarship to Brigham Young University.” I had won the Outstanding Musician Scholarship, allotted to one high school senior in the state of Utah each year. I remembered the thrill of winning, of seeing my career as a concert pianist, composing music in my spare time, stretched out before me. The dream was faded now and buried under layers of responsibility.