Running Barefoot
Page 70
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“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-”
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-”
