Running Barefoot

by Amy Harmon

  14. Reprise

  August, 2007

  It had been threatening rain all week, dark clouds rolling in, the sky grumbling, only to roll out again without relinquishing a single drop. The horses would stomp and whinny, the air would crackle with static, and then ....nothing. It was late August, and the summer had been especially brutal. We’d had little moisture that summer, and we’d had a fairly mild winter as well. We needed the rain desperately. Still, a week had gone by, and the clouds remained stubbornly full.

  That morning I had gotten up at dawn, pulled on my running shoes and walked out to find the skies thick with gray storm clouds. Again. I debated going back to bed, laying under my covers, and listening to the rain. I scoffed a little. I knew it wouldn’t rain if I went back to bed, and I would miss my run. The early morning was relatively cool, the darkness of last night having scared off the heat of yesterday. It was perfect running weather, and I wasn’t going to waste it.

  I was three miles into the run and just starting to swing back towards home when Mother Nature decided to have a little laugh at my expense. The air grew eerily still, and then there was a mighty crack. Lightening pierced the sky and the thunder boomed. Rain gushed out of the heavy clouds, pounding the dirt road like an overzealous drummer. I squeaked and picked up my feet, flying towards home.

  There is nothing like a summer downpour, and I didn’t even mind being caught in it a mile from home. I flew down the road, arms pumping, hair streaming out behind me, shoes squishing. I might have blisters on my feet from the friction, but for now the squishing wasn’t enough to slow me down or put a damper on my gratitude.

  I was nearing the place where the dirt road meets the black top, and knew from experience that the blacktop could be slick. I was watching my feet as I rounded the corner, speeding down the homestretch. A sudden whinny and a “Whoa!” had me looking up in alarm, arms flailing and feet flying, trying to avoid running right into the rear-end of Don Yates chestnut mare, Charlotte.

  Charlotte did a skittish two-step, and I slid right by her prancing feet, belly down, hands sliding through the gathering puddles. I processed a few things as I slid - Charlotte didn’t have a rider, and I wondered if she’d jumped the corral again. The horse was notorious for escaping. I’d found her in my garden a few times, curling her horsy lips around my carrots. But I had distinctly heard a male voice say “Whoa!” and knew Charlotte had been apprehended sometime before I almost ran face first into her ample rump. After coming to a complete stop, and ascertaining that I was not seriously damaged, I pushed myself up to my hands and knees, palms stinging, but otherwise unscathed. My lifelong klutziness had taught me a thing or two about falling.

  “Josie?” There was astonishment in the deep voice above me. “Are you okay?” Strong arms reached down and gripped mine, pulling me to my feet.

  A large hand smoothed my wet hair off of my face and out of my eyes as I wiped my muddy palms off on my sopping shorts. The rain was starting to abate, and I tipped my face up against the slowing torrent to apologize to Don for my clumsiness, and found myself face to face with Samuel Yates.

  I hadn’t seen him in almost seven years. Stunned, I drank in his familiar face, so dear, and yet, so different. My old friend on the cusp of manhood was gone. In his place was a grown man, confidence in the set of his mouth, awareness in his observant black eyes. There was a greater resemblance to his father’s family, or maybe he just wasn’t as desperate to disguise it anymore. He was still lean, but definitely brawnier, his neck thicker, his shoulders wider. The long black hair that had once been a symbol of his individuality was short now, almost hidden under his cowboy hat. His hat kept the wet from dripping into his face, but I had no cover, and the water kept running into my eyes. I swiped at the rain impatiently, not quite believing he was there, standing right in front of me.

  “Josie?” he’d started to smile, although his black eyebrows were drawn together in question. “Are you okay?”

  I realized I’d been staring at him, smiling, but not saying anything. “Samuel.” I said it softly but with great pleasure, and felt a sweet nostalgia flood my soul with warmth. His lips quirked tenderly, making his eyes crease at the corners, and I saw that he shared my emotions.

  I became aware all at once of my very wet behind and the hair that had fallen from my ponytail and was dripping down the sides of my face. I was completely drenched, and my t-shirt and knit running shorts were plastered to my skin. I shivered and pulled self-consciously at the clinging cotton. His eyes widened slightly as he took in my unintentional immodesty.

  “You’re soaking wet.” He pulled off his sweatshirt and handed it to me - damp, but considerably better than what I was wearing. I turned slightly from him and pulled the sweatshirt over my head. It was mostly dry inside and hung down past the bottom of my shorts. It was deliciously warm from his skin. It smelled like aftershave and rain, the scent very male and, to me, wonderful. It smelled like safety and soap and my broken dreams. It smelled like coming home feels. I was instantly swamped with a longing so powerful, a yearning to intense, that I gasped out loud and felt my eyes swim with tears.

  “Josie? Are you hurt?” Samuel was worried now, and reached for me again, gripping my arms through the baggy sleeves of his sweatshirt. Something cracked around my heart. The crack reverberated through my chest. It felt the way I imagine ice would sound breaking under my feet on a frozen lake. My breath burned in my chest like I’d run 10 miles in subzero temperatures. The icy control I had demanded of myself since Kasey’s death slipped, wobbled, and then lost its hold on me all together.

  Without conscious thought, I stepped towards Samuel and laid my head against his broad chest, my hands splaying across his muscled shoulders, my fingers fisting handfuls of his t-shirt. I breathed him in, my inhale a ragged sob. I let go of his shirt and wrapped my arms tightly around his trim waist. I clung to him like my life depended on it. Maybe it did. I hadn’t seen him for so many years, and so much had happened in my life since I had last seen his face, but at that moment I was thirteen again. Someone I had loved had returned, someone lost had come back to me, and I held him fiercely, with no intention of ever letting him go.

  I couldn’t see his face, but I imagine he was shocked at my behavior. I hadn’t even spoken to him, other than to breathe his name, and I was suddenly wrapped around him in a rainstorm, in the middle of the road. Slowly, I felt his strong arms come up around me, holding me, enfolding me. I was enveloped in warmth. The pleasure of the embrace was so intense I shuddered with it. I felt his hand in my hair, and he made those soft shushing noises. I realized I was crying. We stood in the rain, and he held me up, letting me hold him in return. No comments, no questions, just comfort.

  Eventually, he untangled me, slipped a loose lead rope over Charlotte’s head, and with one arm wrapped tightly around my shoulders, led us both home. I gratefully walked beside him, ridiculously relieved that in this moment I was not alone.

  He stopped outside my house, the horse knickering and nudging at his back to get out of the storm. His arm fell from my shoulders, and he looked down at me, his hat dripping with rain.

  “Will you be all right?” he asked softly.

  I nodded my head.

  “Thank you Samuel. It’s so good to see you again,” I said sincerely, then turned and walked quickly up the walk and slid my soaked shoes off under the covered porch. He still stood in the rain, holding the horse steady, watching me. I stepped inside and gently closed the door.

  I stood in the bathroom and, pulling the sweatshirt over my head so it covered my face, I breathed in the smell. I didn’t want to take it off, though I was cold and shivering and the heat rose deliciously out of the tub I was filling with water. I couldn’t find it in myself to be embarrassed by my actions towards Samuel. Samuel! I marveled that he was here, back in Levan. So many years had gone by! Again I considered my unusual behavior, and although I knew I would be mortified when I saw him again, for now, the sweetness of the contact rema
ined too acute for regret.

  I had enjoyed effusive affection from Kasey for two years only to suffer a famine when he was gone. Afterwards, any sympathy or affection had sabotaged my efforts to control my despair, so I had effectively shunned both from anyone who offered them. For a long time I had stiffened at the lightest touch. Eventually, if you push people away for long enough, isolation become a terrible habit. People start to believe you prefer it.

  I felt suddenly ravenous for a gentle touch. Just like physical starvation, the hunger for contact was all consuming. Human beings are not designed to be alone. Our creator gave us smooth, sensitive skin that craves the warmth of other skin. Our arms seek to hold. Our hands yearn to touch. We are drawn to companionship and affection out of an innate need.

  I pulled off the sweatshirt with a jerk, shaking my head to dislodge my indulgent musings. I finished undressing and slid down into the tub until the very hot water covered me completely - submerging my head, my face, and my thoughts. Then I willed my long dormant neediness to retreat before I made a complete fool of myself.

  I turned twenty-three on a Sunday that year. The family typically gathered for birthday parties-which was nice, but we always gathered at home, dad’s home, which also happened to my home - which meant I did all the cooking, as usual. I was actually hoping that I could take a little walk up to the cemetery and visit Kasey’s and Mom’s graves, maybe spend a little time leaning up against the cool of Mom’s headstone, like I did when I was young, and reading for a while. Maybe I would make a chocolate cake for later. There was nothing better than chocolate cake, cold milk, and quiet. But with the family gathering there wouldn’t be quiet, not until much later.

  I felt a little guilty for not wanting my family around on my birthday. I knew I was strange. I was always glad to see them, always glad to kiss their kids and cook for them. I just felt a little melancholy. Seeing Samuel had me thinking about Beethoven. I hadn’t expelled music from my life - I taught piano lessons, I played the organ in church, but my days of listening for the pure rapture of listening had become few and far between; I guarded my emotions very carefully- and the music just oozed its way around my walls. But, maybe I could enjoy something that would lift my spirit without widening the cracks in my heart I had thought I might listen to a little Hungarian Rhapsody with my chocolate cake.

  I went to church that morning, and Dad came along with me, which he had begun to do more often as of late. I hadn’t asked him why, I’d just enjoyed the fact that he would come and be with me. Except for a little persistent weakness on his right side he was completely recovered from his stroke. He looked handsome in his light blue dress shirt and navy slacks. His hair had gone white, as I am sure my hair would one day do. His skin was very brown from his life as a horseman. His vivid blue eyes were arresting, and I wondered why some lonely widow hadn’t gobbled him up. I guess there weren’t too many to choose from. There was always Sweaty Betty down at the diner. She thought my dad walked on water and had hot coffee in his hand before he could say “Please” whenever he found time to sit a while and ‘shoot the bull’ with the old boys that gathered there every morning. The thought of my dad with Betty had me giggling into my hand, and my dad shot me a look under his furry white brows.

  I had chosen to play the hymn ’The Lord is My Shepherd from the 23rd Psalm for the closing number. I loved the 23rd Psalm. The words spoke of such simple faith and beauty; it was a prayer I had often uttered when I found myself teetering on the brink of depression. The congregation sang along with very little feeling ... hard pews, hungry bellies, and impatient kids eager to be free of their Sunday clothes, make sincere expression difficult. After the closing song, the prayer was given, and I stood from the organ, only to see Nettie and Don Yates a few rows back. My heart stuttered and my breath quickened. Samuel was with them, looking starched and pressed in a white shirt, dark slacks, and a red tie. I wondered what he looked like in his ‘dress blues’. I hadn’t seen him since I had literally run into him in the storm. I still had his sweatshirt sitting, washed and folded, on top of the dryer. I had been trying to work up the nerve to walk down to Don and Nettie’s and give it to him.

  My dad was making his way towards them, extending his hand to Don who hadn’t been to church, except for Christmas Eve service, in years. I wondered if Samuel being in town had something to do with their attendance. It seemed unlikely, but I couldn’t come up with another possibility to explain his presence at church today. Samuel saw me walking towards them, and something flickered across his handsome face. I was grateful I had worn my red that morning.

  Another weakness of mine….red shoes. Tara had given them to me when I graduated from beauty school. She’d purchased them for her mom’s birthday, kind of on a whim, thinking Aunt Louise would have a good laugh at the red, four-inch heels. Louise had laughed all right, and then told Tara to take them back. I can’t explain why I couldn’t let Tara return them, but I had wanted them. I had the same size feet as Louise, and the shoes made me feel happy when I looked at them. For me, happy had been kind of hard to come by then. I’d offered to buy them from her, but she’d seen the look on my face and was thrilled to declare them a graduation gift.

  I didn’t have anything in my closet to wear with them, and ended up getting a bright red dress with little cap sleeves and a full skirt, just to have something to go with the shoes - but it was worth it. I worried that it was a little much for church - fire engine red shoes, dress, and lipstick were a little conspicuous. I wore the outfit rarely because I felt a little silly in it, but every once in a while, I wore my red shoes while I did house work, just because they made me feel good. There’s just something about red shoes. That morning as I’d dressed for church, I’d decided I should celebrate my birthday with my red dress and my red high heels. I wondered what Samuel thought of my outfit and felt a little flash of guilt that I cared.

  “Come on by this afternoon,” I heard my Dad say. “We’re having a little barbeque for Josie’s birthday, and we’d love to have you.”

  “I’ll bring lemon squares!” Nettie replied firmly. “Then you won’t have to worry about desert, Josie.” I groaned inwardly. I hated lemon squares. And I wanted to worry about desert. I wanted chocolate cake.

  “That’ll be fine,” my dad said, walking out of the chapel’s big double doors into the Sunday sunshine. I walked at Samuel’s side, trying to think of some way to still make chocolate cake and not hurt Nettie’s feelings.

  “I like red.” Samuel said softly. All thoughts of chocolate cake fled my silly head.

  I glanced up at him quickly. He was looking down at me. “Happy Birthday, Josie.”

  “Thank you,” I said a little too brightly.

  “Do you really want us to come for your celebration?” He asked quietly. “Your dad didn’t ask you before he invited us.”

  “We’d love to have you.” It was just a little fib, having everything to do with desert. “Then I can give you your sweatshirt back. I’ve been meaning to bring it by.” I wished I would have kept quiet about the sweatshirt. It made me think of clinging to him in the rain. I looked down at my red shoes, shyly.

  “I wasn’t worried about the sweatshirt,” He said quietly. “I’ll see you later then.” He turned as his grandparents waved, and walked with them to Nettie’s grey sedan.

  Jacob and Rachel had four little blond boys, ranging in ages from 7 to 2, who were constantly underfoot. Jacob’s only instructions were “don’t kill yourselves,” and Rachel was always busily doing this or that, setting out food, helping me in the kitchen, and she seemed unaffected by the antics of her wild brood. One time, the older boys had tied 4-year-old Matty up in the chicken coop. He had been hollering bloody Mary for at least a half hour before any one realized he was gone. The chickens hadn’t hurt him, but he’d been pecked a time or two, and will probably never volunteer to help me gather eggs again.

  Jared had married an “out-of-towner” when he went off to school. Her name was Tonya, and she
came across a little uppity. She didn’t mix very well, and Jacob’s boys made her very nervous. She kept their two little girls close to her sides, and she spent many of the family get-togethers watching the boys in horror. She was very pretty with her glossy brown bob and perfect makeup, but she had a perpetually pinched look to her mouth, and she was constantly saying things like “Jared, don’t you think you ought to…” and “Jared, you need to ...” Jared had the look of brow beaten husband these days.

  Johnny’s wife Sheila was pregnant with twins and was so big she could hardly move. Her feet were swollen and her skinny arms stuck out to the sides like Popsicle sticks. She sat in a lawn chair and didn’t move the entire time they were there. I kept her in cold root beer, and Tonya kept her bored with tales of her own deliveries, which we had all heard a trillion times.

  I’d made rolls that morning before church, letting them rise while we went to the service. I had marinated chicken breasts for my dad to grill, and we’d added some hot dogs for the kids. I’d thrown a big green salad together from my garden and made my dad’s favorite tangy potato salad. Chips, watermelon, and root beer rounded out the simple meal, and I was putting tablecloths over the picnic tables we had set up in the backyard when Don, Nettie, and Samuel arrived.

  Every woman, including both the pregnant and the uppity, ogled Samuel when he walked into the backyard. He still wore his slacks and dress shirt from church, but he’d taken off his tie, undone the top two buttons, and rolled up his sleeves. He was brown and muscular and his coloring made a stark contrast to all the fair hair and freckles. He carried lemon squares. I sighed in defeat. I had all the ingredients for a double chocolate cake with butter cream frosting in my kitchen. I would just have to whip it up when everyone went home. The thought cheered me, and I went forward to graciously take the lemon squares from Samuel’s hands.