Romance Through the Ages

by Amy Harmon

  “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 had 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,

  Josi

  “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 had 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 blonde curls off of my shoulders and leaning toward 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.”

  “If I stayed, you and I couldn’t remain friends.” Samuel’s voice was measured and he maintained his customary distance, but his back was rigid, attesting to his own inner tumult.

  “Why?” I cried, scrubbing at my cheeks, my tears halted by his blunt reply.

  “Because our age difference is a problem. I shouldn’t be here with you now. I only wanted to say goodbye...because the truth is, you are the best friend I have ever had too, and best friends don’t leave without saying goodbye.”

  Samuel rose to his feet and, leaning down, offered me his hand. I gathered Yazzie to my chest with one arm and put my other hand in his, letting him pull me to my feet beside him.

  “Will you come back?” I asked woodenly, feeling the numbness of denial seeking to shield me from the finality of the moment.

  “I hope so,” Samuel said wistfully. “When I do, maybe things will be different.”

  I studied my feet, my mind frenzied, looking for a reason to delay him, to elongate the end of goodbye. I felt his sudden nearness, and I looked up into his face, which was now mere inches from my own. His eyes were very black in the twilight, and his breath was warm on my wet cheeks. He leaned down cautiously, his eyes never leaving mine, until our faces became so close that shape and color blurred. He tipped his face slightly to the right, and I lifted my mouth to his in the briefest hint of a kiss that never was. His lips fluttered lightly by and came to a firm standstill on my forehead. His kiss lingered there as my eyes swept closed and my sigh slipped out. And there we remained for several long seconds. And then he stood apart from me. He held my gifts in his arms and my heart in his hand.

  “I won’t ever forget you, Josie.” His voice was low, his face devoid of emotion, and he turned and walked out of the little clearing. The horse whinnied in greeting, and Samuel swung into the saddle, gathering the reins. He prodded the horse with his heels and rode away, a black outline against the dying violet dusk. I followed slowly behind him, holding Yazzie against me, his head on my shoulder.

  * * *

  When I got home, I told my dad the truth about Yazzie. I told him that he had belonged to Don and Nettie’s grandson who was going into the Marine Corps, and he had given him to me because he couldn’t keep him. Truth without embellishment, although one could argue that it was slightly abbreviated. My dad didn’t seem to care where I had gotten him.

  “I’ve been thinking about getting a dog around here,” my dad cooed as well as an old cowboy can. “He’s a good boy, oh yes he is! He’s a little beauty!”

  What was it about babies and puppies that made everyone talk with their lips pushed out in that kissy-faced way? I left Yazzie in my dad’s enthusiastic care and climbed up to my room. I untied Samuel’s necklace from around my neck and held it in front of me, watching the turquoise stone sway gently from the thin leather strip. My dad hadn’t cared about the puppy, but he would eventually notice if I was wearing the big turquoise rock. The pup and the rock together might set off alarms, and I was wise e
nough, even at thirteen, to grasp how others might perceive the relationship.

  I rubbed the stone against my face, closing my eyes and thinking of our ‘almost’ kiss. I found myself wishing Samuel weren’t so careful and so honorable. I would have liked a real kiss from Samuel, for my very first kiss to belong to him. Almost immediately, I felt ashamed of my wistful criticism. If Jane Eyre could walk away from Mr. Rochester’s kisses, despite her own feelings, even though nobody would be harmed, and no one would really care, and do it out of principle, then I should expect no less of myself. That is what Samuel had done tonight at Sleepy Hollow.

  I tucked his necklace into the little jewelry box I kept on my desk. A bracelet strung with silver hearts that had been my mothers, a sunflower pin that Tara had given me one birthday, and a green CTR (choose the right) ring from Sunday School crowded around my newest treasure. I shut the lid gently and trudged down the stairs, back to my roly-poly guardian.

  Obbligato

  I couldn’t write to Samuel at first. He didn’t have an address yet. He had promised to write me and let me know as soon as he could. It was about two weeks after he left that his first letter arrived.

  June 7, 1997

  Dear Josie,

  The first couple of days here have been a blur. They loaded us on a bus, and it was pretty late—around 1:00 in the morning. It was so dark we couldn’t see anything out the bus windows as we were taken to what they called receiving. When we pulled up, this guy in full uniform came on the bus and started shouting for us to get our trash together and lineup out on the yellow footprints that were on the pavement. It was kind of foggy and it was hard to even see where the footprints were. This guy is shouting “Any day!” the whole time. One guy started to cry, just like that. He got control of himself, but I think everyone felt a little sympathetic, except for the drill instructor who got right in his face and told him to dry it up.

  We got a chance to make a 15 second call, and I called my mom. Nobody answered, and I don’t think I’ll call again. I wrote her to let her know I’m here and what my address is, but now it’s up to her. I don’t know if she’ll write or not. My grandmother Yazzie would if she could—she doesn’t expect letters because she can’t read them and she can’t write back. She knows I will come see her when I get boot leave at the end of the 12 weeks.

  We didn’t sleep at all the first night. After we made our calls we went to a room with desks in it and they started throwing information at us—like the floor isn’t the floor, it’s the ‘deck,’ and the door is a ‘hatch.’ A hat is called a cover and running shoes are called go- fasters. When I’m done here I’ll speak three languages, English, Navajo, and Marine. Then they gave us our platoon number, and we had to write it on our left hand in black permanent marker. My platoon is 4044, 1st Battalion. After that they collected all of our civilian clothes, all jewelry, all knives, personal items, cigarettes, any food, gum—all of it. One kid tried stuffing a candy bar in his mouth so he didn’t have to turn it over. The drill sergeant made him spit it out on top of his stuff.

  We can’t use I, me, or my. We have to say ‘this recruit’ when we are referring to ourselves. Everybody keeps slipping. I am now Recruit Yates—no first name. The sergeant said the Marines are not about the individual, but the team. We should be all about our unit. We are now four zero four four. The number four is sacred among the Navajo. There are four sacred mountains that frame the Navajo lands. So, I think the repeating four can only be good luck.

  They immediately took us to get what they called “cranial amputations.” The drill instructor made a big deal of it when it was my turn to get my hair cut. I easily had the longest hair of anyone there, and I knew it was going to get shaved off because my recruiter told me what to expect. They shave us almost completely bald. There’s just stubble left. I want to keep rubbing my head, but I don’t want to call attention to myself. I have a feeling the less attention I call to myself, the better off I’ll be. Anyway, it was still hard to see all that hair fall to the floor. It made me think about Samson in my dad’s Bible. He lost all his power when they cut his hair.

  Then we got our gear for the 13 weeks we are going to be here. We even got a little towel that has all the M-16 parts diagrammed on it, so that we will know where to place them when we clean our weapons. By this time it had to be after 4:00 in the morning, though I’m not sure because none of us are allowed to have watches. I hadn’t slept since I’d reported at dawn the day before, and I was feeling it. They took us into our barracks. The racks (that’s the term for the bunks here) had naked mattresses on them. The same guy that stuffed his Snickers in his mouth headed straight over to lie down. The drill sergeant was in his face telling him to ‘toe the line’- which means to line up next to the white line with your toes up to it. He taught us how to walk in formation and then we marched to the chow hall. We aren’t allowed to talk while we are in the mess hall, which is fine with me—except the drill instructor shouts the entire time. We have to hold our trays at a certain angle, heels together, thumbs on the outside. It’s so much to remember all the time, but you better believe someone will let you know right away if you’re doing something wrong. We had about ten minutes to eat before they were marching us back out of there again.

  We actually didn’t get to sleep until 8:00 that night. We learned to march, how to lift our feet, how to stand in line, that stuff. After that we were brought back to the barracks and we had to learn how to make our beds, Marine style. We were woken up in the middle of the night to a drill instructor screaming, “Toe the line, toe the line.” One guy stayed asleep through it all—and the drill instructor pulled his blanket off and screamed in his face until the kid literally rolled off onto the floor. Luckily, he was on a bottom bunk. Another kid laughed when he did, and the drill instructor turned on him saying “Give me an hour, and I promise you won’t be smiling, Recruit!” We get dressed one piece of clothing at a time, forcing us to follow orders exactly. When we are told to hydrate we have to drink our whole canteen of water and turn it over above our heads to prove it’s gone.

  One high point. I got a perfect 300 on the initial strength test. That means I did 100 sit-ups, 20 dead-hang pull-ups, and I did the three mile run in 17:58 seconds. I’ve been working hard and I wanted to be the best. It’s hard to know if they were impressed or if I just drew unwanted attention. I guess only time will tell. One D.I. kind of sneered at me and told me they were just going to have to work me harder than the others.

  On the fourth day here they moved us into our new barracks. We were introduced to the drill instructors that are assigned to our platoon from now on. Staff Sergeant Meadows is the Senior D.I., Sergeant Blood (his name is perfect, trust me) and Sergeant Edgel are the other two over our platoon. Sergeant Blood is constantly bellowing (learned that word from you). I have never heard him speak quietly. He is everywhere at once, moving, screaming, moving. We aren’t allowed to make eye contact, and it’s probably a good thing because I would be dizzy trying to keep up. We have to stare straight ahead. We are constantly yelling, “Yes Sir!’ which I hate. I don’t mind the Yes Sir! part. It’s the shouting that gets old, but I had Sergeant Blood get right in my face, spitting in my eyes the whole time, telling me he couldn’t hear me. I wanted to shove him off so bad.

  A few guys have cried already. I don’t care what happens to me here, I will not cry. I can’t imagine having any self-respect left if I did. I won’t quit, I will be the best, and I will not bawl or whine like some of these guys. It’s embarrassing. One kid started crying after we yelled “Kill. Kill. Marine Corps!” Which we do a lot. This kid just freaked. Senior D.I. Meadows pulled him out and talked to him for a while. I don’t know if the guy is going to make it. This is the same kid that tried to eat his candy bar and laid on the bare mattress last night without permission. His name is Recruit Wheaton, but a couple of the other recruits are already calling him Recruit Weepin.

  My bunkmate is a big white kid named Tyler Young. He’s from Texas but he
talks like he thinks he’s black, which irritates the guys that actually are black. I kind of like him though. He’s good-natured and always smiling. He talks too much, but I think everyone talks too much. He asked me if I was Mexican. I just said no. Another guy in our platoon who is Hispanic piped up and asked me what I was. I told him I was a recruit. Sergeant Blood overheard and he seemed to like that answer, but the guys seem suspicious of me now, like I’m holding something back. It’s not that I’m ashamed that I’m Navajo—I’m just really tired of that being what everything is always about. You won’t catch me talking about my ethnicity here—Navajo or White.

  Staff Sgt. Blood says I am whispering when I should be yelling. He got right in my face and yelled “Why are you whispering Recruit?!!!” He said I must not have any heart. I don’t have to scream to have heart. I let my actions speak for themselves. No one will outfight me, no one will outrun me, and no one will outshoot me. I guarantee it- but I won’t be the loudest Marine in the platoon, that’s for sure. So, because I wasn’t loud enough, D.I Blood made me do twenty extra push-ups, one hundred extra crunches, and squat thrusts and mountain climbers until my legs were shaking. They call it quarter decking when one recruit is taken aside and made to do punishment exercises. The only other guys that have been quarter decked are the whiners and the guys that continually screw up or lag behind. I don’t want that kind of attention.

  I know this letter is long, but I needed to tell someone about this crazy place I’m in. I hope you are okay, playing the piano, writing more music. School’s out, so you’ve probably got more time to practice and read. They let me keep my dictionary and my dad’s Bible. I decided I’m going to try and read it while I’m here, using the dictionary for all the words I don’t know...which is at least half of them. I’ve got one hour of free time every day. No music allowed, so I will just have to keep Rachmaninoff in my head.