Running Barefoot by Amy Harmon Page A

my taste in music, in fact he seemed to enjoy it immensely. He rigged my earphones so that we could turn the fuzzy ear pads outward, so that our heads weren’t pressed together when we listened. I hadn’t minded a bit…but I wasn’t going to admit it. He seemed concerned that someone might misconstrue the intimate proximity of our heads. We each held one side of the headphones pressed to our ear. After about a week of non-stop Beethoven, I brought my tape of Rachmaninoff. We were listening intently to Prelude in C Sharp Minor, and Samuel’s black eyes were wide and shining. He turned towards me as the movement came to a stunning finish.
    His voice was awed. “This music makes me feel so powerful, like I could do anything . . . like nothing could stop me as long as I kept the music pounding into my head. And there’s just that one small part where the music becomes triumphant, like the intensity is climbing and climbing and pushing and reaching and then those three chords play and it says ‘I did it!!!’ - kind of like Rocky raising his hands at the top of all those stairs. You know what I mean?” His voice was soft and sincere, and he looked at me then, smiling a little sheepishly at his enthusiastic review. “It’s so powerful .... I almost believe if I kept on listening I would become ‘Super Sam!’”
    I laughed, delighted with his rare humor. Samuel didn’t joke around a lot, and he was definitely not verbose.
    “I know exactly what you mean. Remember when I fractured my ankle?” I confessed sheepishly. “I got a little carried away with the music in my head and for a minute I was convinced I could fly.”
    Samuel stared at me with a half smile on his face, shaking his head.
    “Maybe I will have to make us matching capes and this can be our theme music.” I struck a pose. “Super Sam and Bionic Josie here to save the day!” I sung out.
    Samuel actually laughed out loud. The sound was even better than the music, and I smiled at him, happier than I could ever remember being.
    Samuel sat silently for a moment, not putting the earphone back up to his ear. I pushed the stop button on my player.
    “Do you think you could make me a copy of that tape?” Samuel said stiffly. I wondered why it was so hard for him to ask such a simple thing when I was so obviously his friend.
    “Sure. Definitely,” I said brightly.
    Samuel looked at me, his eyes troubled, and the joy of the music fading to a new concern. “I told you I wanted to go into the Marine’s, right?”
    I nodded my head, waiting for him to continue.
    “I’m scared to death.” He held my gaze fiercely, daring me to speak. I stayed silent.
    “A Marine has to know how to swim....and I have been in a pool exactly twice in my life. I grew up on an Indian Reservation, Josie, herding sheep all summer long, not swimming. I can dog paddle sort of…” His voice trailed off.
    “Why do you want to be a Marine, Samuel?” I was curious as to why, if he didn’t know how to swim, he wanted to try in the first place.
    Samuel was quiet for a minute. When he answered I wasn’t sure he’d understood my question.
    “My Shima, my Navajo grandmother, said when I was born she hung my umbilical cord on her gun rack because she knew I was going to be a warrior. It is a Navajo tradition,” he smiled briefly as my eyes widened.
    “It’s a tradition to hang the umbilical cord on the gun rack?” I blurted incredulously.
    “It’s tradition to save the umbilical cord and put it in a special place that will be important to the newborn child when they are grown. It can be buried in the corral if it is believed the child will have an affinity for horses. It can be buried in the cornfield if the child will make his living from the land or under the loom if the child is thought to have the gift of weaving. My grandmother said she knew I would have to struggle to find my way in two worlds, and I would need a warrior’s spirit. Originally, she buried it in her hogan