by Amy Harmon
“Way to go, Daisy - Well done girl!” I cried, clapping softly. I realized I was on my feet and there were tears on my face. I wiped them off hastily as I knelt back down and placed a kiss between Daisy’s sweat slicked ears.
“You did it, Samuel!” I grinned at him, my unhappiness forgotten in light of the triumphant birth.
“I didn’t do anything – it was all Daisy,” he replied, but his tone was mild and I could tell he was pleased that it had gone without incident.
I was happily contemplating Christmas names for Daisy’s baby when the sound of a slamming door and boots on gravel carried back to the barn.
“I hope that’s my Dad!” I cried out, rising and running for the entrance of the barn. Jacob and Dad had parked the truck around the house and were high tailing it towards the barn when I intercepted them with the happy news. My dad was beside himself with worry and rushed ahead of me in to the barn. I followed him in, sharing details of the morning’s miracle, relating Samuel’s role in the excitement as we approached him where he still perched, balanced on his haunches next to the new colt. He rose smoothly to his feet, wiping his blood stained hands on his jeans before extending a hand apologetically to my dad.
“Congratulations, sir. Sorry about the hand.”
My dad grabbed it, completely unconcerned about shaking the proffered hand. Clapping Samuel on the back, he thanked him for coming to my rescue.
They all talked for a few minutes, admiring the new colt, commenting on this and that, rubbing his floppy ears, and enjoying the Christmas surprise.
“Well Josie,” my dad turned to me suddenly. “I think you and Samuel have earned the right to name the colt. Whaddya think?”
I looked at Samuel expectantly, but he just shrugged, dipping his head in my direction as he deferred to me. “Go ahead, Josie.”
“George Frederic Handel,” I said impulsively.
Jacob and my dad groaned loudly in unison and hooted in laughing protest.
“What the hell kind of name is that, Josie?” My brother howled.
“He’s a composer!” I cried, embarrassed and wishing I had taken a minute to think before I blurted out the first thing that came to my head.
A smile played around Samuel’s lips as he joined in the fray. “He wrote the music that Josie played last night at the church service.”
“I just thought the colt should have a Christmas name, and Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus is synonymous with Christmas!” I defended, and cringed as Jacob and my Dad burst out laughing again.
My dad wiped tears of mirth from his eyes as he tried to get control of himself.
“We’ll call him Handel,” he choked out. “It’s a very nice name, Josie.” He patted my shoulder, still chuckling. I felt like I was ten years old.
“Well, my grandparents are going to be wondering where I am.” Samuel extended his hand to my father again. “I’d better get cleaned up and be on my way.”
“Thanks again, Samuel,” my dad called after him. Samuel inclined his head politely to me and Jacob, turned, and strode out of the barn.
I followed him out, my Dad and my brother completely unaware that I was leaving. Samuel had picked up his stride and was a good ways in front of me when I exited the barn. Obviously, he was done here. That was it? He was leaving without more than a nod to me? He would probably be gone the next day without giving me another thought. Suddenly, I was very angry, and more than a little hurt. Impulsively, I bent down and scooped up a big handful of snow, punching it into a sloppy snowball. I launched it as hard as I could at Samuel’s retreating form.
I am not athletic in the slightest, and I can’t throw a ball to save my life, but for once my aim ran true, and the hard-packed snowball plowed right into the back of Samuel’s head.
He turned, stunned, his hand rising to his head and brushing the snow from his short black hair. I picked up another snowball and chucked it at him, too. He ducked, but I had another one ready to go right on its heels. That one struck him in the chest, snow plastering the front of his shirt where his jacket lay opened, and dripping down his neck. Samuel stared at me as if I had lost my mind. I definitely wasn’t laughing.
“Josie! What is wrong with you?” He stuttered in disbelief.
“What is wrong with me?!” I cried back. “Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong with me, since you’re so eager to get away from me!” I shook the snow from my hands and shoved them under my armpits, trying to warm them, the cold ache in my fingers in concert with the sting of tears threatening my eyes. Samuel walked back towards me, closing the distance between us until we stood face to face.
“I thought you were my friend!” I sputtered angrily. “Last night you didn’t even come say hello – today you’ve acted like we’re almost strangers, and now you’re just walking away without so much as a “hey Josie, how are you?” It’s been two years and seven months since you left, and I’ve thought of you every day. I’ve written you dozens of letters.” I shook my head in bewilderment. “We were friends Samuel! We were good friends!”
Samuel sighed heavily and shoved his hands fiercely into his coat pockets. He cocked his head and stared at me for a moment, his expression unreadable. After what seemed like a lifetime he spoke, and his voice was gentle.
“I’m sorry Josie. You’re right. We were friends. Good friends.” He sighed, turning away slightly, and kicked at the snow at his feet. “Do you know how old I am, Josie?” He asked me, looking back at me seriously.
“You’re twenty-one,” I shot back.
“Yep, and you are?”
I waited without answering, knowing what was coming.
“You are sixteen-years-old. It’s inappropriate for me to be anywhere near you.”
I groaned loudly and threw my hands in the air. My physical and intellectual maturity, along with my sensitive nature and my love for English literature should have made me a prime candidate for romantic daydreams and girlish drama. But though I had fallen unabashedly in love with Jane Eyre’s Mr. Rochester and Jane Austen’s Mr. Darcy, the boys I attended school with held little appeal. I felt decades older than my classmates, and I possessed a certain seriousness and reserve that must have made me seem unapproachable and snobbish - Sonja always said I had an “old soul.” I kept to myself for the most part, took care of my dad, read my books, played my piano, and spent time with the Grimaldi’s. When I was forced into the company of my classmates, I kept close to my cousin Tara, who liked me despite my peculiarities, but I’d never felt like I belonged. Hearing Samuel tell me I was way too young to be his friend just made me want to scream.
“What does my age have to do with us being friends?” I repeated aloud. “You don’t just come back after all this time and act like you never knew me. Last night… I couldn’t wait to see you, to talk to you….. and you just….. left! That was cruel, Samuel. You may have outgrown me, but would it have hurt you to say hello, to talk to me for a minute?”
Samuel scrubbed his hands over his face in frustration. “Last night you didn’t look sixteen,” he said tersely.
“What does that have to do with anything?” I replied, aghast.
“I was looking forward to seeing you too, Josie. But…..after seeing you play at the church, I thought it wise to stay away from you, because I care way more than I should,” Samuel bit off reluctantly.
My heart stuttered in my chest, and I stared at him, uncertain how to respond. He stared back at me, hands in his pockets, feet spread wide, brow furrowed. The expression on his face was so precious and familiar that I laughed and reached up to smooth the deep groove between his scowling eyebrows. He jerked back as my hand touched his face, and his hand snaked out and wrapped around my wrist.
“I didn’t lie when I told you I would never forget you, Josie. But it can’t be like it was. I guess you’re right. I’ve outgrown our old friendship.” His mouth twisted wryly, and he dropped my wrist suddenly. “Take care of yourself, Josie. It’s been really nice seeing you.” He turned without furt
her comment and crunched across the snow without looking back.
I watched him walk away and amazingly enough, this time it hurt even worse than when he’d left the first time. This time I had no illusions about the future. There would be no letters and no comfort in delusions. Samuel was as gone to me as my mother was. The next morning his truck was no longer parked in front of his grandparent’s home. I took his letters from my desk drawer and his picture and the necklace he’d given me from my treasure box. I put everything in an old shoebox and put it on the highest shelf in my closet. I slid it to the very back and shut the door firmly.
I pretended I had outgrown him, too. One day I would be gone. I would be a famous concert pianist. I would travel the world, and I wouldn’t think about Samuel ever again. Someday, I would be the one to leave.
12. Interlude
August, 2000
A week before my junior year in high school, everything changed. Kasey Judd had lived in Levan all his life, just like me, his family having lived there for generations, just like mine. We’d been born a few days apart, in the same hospital, in the same year. We’d attended the same church, rode the same bus, and were in the same classes. Up until ninth grade, I was taller than him, and he wore braces and glasses. His curly hair was always unruly, his shoes always untied, and he constantly challenged me for first chair in the school band, which I found slightly annoying because I regularly trounced him. He had been a fixture on the periphery of my life, all my life - like the comfortable couch in the living room, or the patterns on the walls. Just another boy - until I fell in love with him.
Kasey’s dad was the football coach at Nephi High School, where every kid in the county, including Levan, was bussed to school. I played trumpet in the school band, so I attended my share of football games and cheered for my share of football players. Tara had a thing for football players, but I really wasn’t interested in hearing about every single player, their stats, the position they played, the way they looked in uniform. Tara knew everything about everyone, and I mostly listened with an uninterested ear. Her ability to talk non-stop without any encouragement from me made our relationship work. I never had much to say, she couldn’t shut up, so it was a win/win all the way around. She was the only person I knew who had business cards touting her gossiping skills. The cards said “If You Want to Know How or Who, Ask Tara Ballow” (Ba LOO). I suppose her chatter filled a feminine need in me - by this time all my brothers had graduated, married, or moved out, and I lived at home with my dad. He was almost as quiet as I was, which meant girl talk, or any other kind of talk, was pretty scarce, and Tara happily filled the void.
My piano playing ability made band a nobrainer, and I was first chair trumpet player in the high school band. We didn’t have orchestra at the school, so when I joined the band in seventh grade, I’d wanted to learn play a more classical instrument, like the clarinet, until Tara told me that trumpet players made the best kissers. I figured someone as awkward as I was needed all the help I could get, and I’d played the trumpet ever since. Tara played the flute, quite badly, but the competition wasn’t fierce in a small school, and she managed to keep her chair. She might have played better had she just stopped talking! The huge pink bubble she was always blowing didn’t help much either. Mr. Hackett, our band teacher, had forbidden gum in band, but Tara was constantly cleaning cherry Hubba Bubba out of her mouthpiece.
Tara had been telling me all about “that cute Kasey Judd” all summer long. She’d said his dad had had all the boys in the weight room getting them ready for football season. Tara had been up at the football field during several practices with binoculars to check out their new muscles.
We started band practice two weeks before school started to get ready for the upcoming football season. Practice was ridiculously early because it was “Hell Week” for the football team, which meant two-a-days. The band practiced early to allow members of the football team, who were also members of the band, to make it to morning football practice. At a small school it isn’t unusual for a jock to be in the band or sing in the chorus, or to be in the school play. In my opinion, that is the best thing about going to a small school; less competition sometimes means more opportunity.
So I dragged in to that first practice with my curly blonde hair in a sloppy ponytail, wearing an old pair of cut-off jeans, a ratty Survivor t-shirt, and flip flops, only to discover my chair was occupied. I sighed. When would Kasey Judd ever learn? I looked, and then I stared. Kasey Judd had grown up. His shoulders were broad, his legs long and stretched out in front of him. No more glasses, no more braces. His hair was curly, like my own, but where mine was a light wheat blonde just like my dad’s (and his dad’s, and his dad’s), Kasey’s was dark brown and was now cut short to tame the once unruly mop.
I sat down next to him and shyly said “That’s my seat.” I hoped the freckles I always got across my nose in the summertime weren’t too noticeable, and I cursed myself for not at least applying mascara to my happily long, but sadly very blonde, eyelashes. I’d started wearing my contacts on a more regular basis, and was thankful that I’d taken the time to put them in that morning, saving myself from total ugliness. He looked at me with a little grin and a quirked eyebrow and said “We’ll see.”
His eyes were a hazel green, and his smile curled up at the ends. Dimples creased his suntanned cheeks. I almost fell right off my chair. I had never had a physical reaction to a smile before, but I felt Kasey’s grin deep down in my gut like a sucker punch, and I was a goner. Over the moon, gone. He challenged me for first chair in the trumpet section that day, and for the first time in umpteen years, won, though I challenged him the following week and never let him have it back.
Two weeks later, we shared our first kiss under the stars at Burraston’s Pond - and despite our inexperience, it was not an awkward meeting of lips and teeth. That kiss was as natural as a prayer at bedtime - simple and sweet and sustaining. I fell so hard I saw stars, and the funny thing is, I naively thought that that was just how falling in love was for everyone. We became inseparable from then on; to the point that our names became an extension of the other. Kaseynjosie. You couldn’t say one without the other. It was all so easy with him - easy to love him, easy to be loved.
I had people in my life who loved me... and was not necessarily lacking in love. What I craved was their awareness. Awareness of me. I could sit quietly in my chair and read the night away, never demanding attention, never seeking it. I could sit behind the piano and play and have people appreciate the beautiful music, and never take notice of the one who played it. I was a steady, quiet, presence in the lives of those around me. But sometimes in my reading I would discover new insights, or have seemingly profound thoughts that would change my way of thinking. I would be hungry to share my inspiration with someone, so I would try to share my epiphanies with my dad or my brothers. They would remain politely quiet for a few seconds and then become distracted by something more interesting or urgent than my newly acquired knowledge, leaving me to talk to myself. I usually just stopped talking when I could see they really weren’t interested or listening - and they never protested or urged me to continue.
If I tried to philosophize with Tara she would stare at me blankly for a few minutes and then slowly cross her eyes and say “Your losin’ me Jos!” I would laugh because I knew it was true, and I would tuck my thoughts away for another audience. My Aunt Louise was too literal, too real, too down to earth, to enjoy the profundity of the universe and warned me away whenever I “started getting deep.” Sonja had filled that void in many ways, but her own insights were so precious to me that when I was with her, I found myself more interested in listening and soaking up her wisdom than talking myself.
When Kasey became part of my life, he had seemed to enjoy letting me elucidate on any subject that had sparked my interest. He would quietly listen and look at me now and again. Often he would agree with whatever I said and hug me, saying “You are so smart, Josie.” He never had much to off
er in the way of deeper discussion, but I so appreciated his interest in what I had to say, that I didn’t much care. I had needed someone to listen to me and to seek out my opinions. I had needed someone to value me, give credence to my thoughts, to be awed by my abilities, and there was nobody more aware of a pretty teenage girl than an infatuated teenage boy. It had felt new and wonderful, and his attention had kept me on a constant, heady high that was completely foreign to me.
I had felt God’s power and presence in beautiful music, I had been taught principles of goodness from classic literature, and had always felt certain both were blessings from a loving Father in Heaven. I was just as certain that God had given me Kasey to assuage my deep-rooted loneliness, the loneliness that even music, words, and the love of my family had not been able to extinguish. I thought Kasey was God’s atonement for taking my mother.
Among my peers, I was considered quaint and old-fashioned, but Kasey never seemed to mind. He too was a believer in the principles taught by simple, God fearing, and hardworking parents. We had both been schooled in faith, in a belief in God and family responsibility. We understood what was expected of us and wanted to make our parent’s proud. I’m sure during those two years our parent’s worried that we were too close. And we were too close . . . but they never tried to keep us apart. There is an intensity to young love that is hard to deny, but we managed to hang on to our virtue and keep our hands to ourselves for the most part. We were planning to be married, ending the torture, as soon as we graduated. Kasey had asked me to marry him on Christmas Eve, placing a little tiny diamond on my finger. Our parents shrugged helplessly and gave us their blessing. My dad looked at me with tears in his eyes and said “Josie, are you sure, honey?” I remember looking back at him in amazement thinking “What a silly question!” . . .