not a soul in sight, like a creature with eight legs and two heads. I giggled a little despite my throbbing ankle and my wounded pride.
I felt a responding rumble in Samuel’s chest and swiveled my head to look up at him in amazement. I’d never heard Samuel laugh.
“Hold still!!!” Samuel’s voice raised in alarm as the bike took a dangerous lurch. I’d forgotten to move slowly.
“Sorry!” I squeaked, clinging to his arms as he expertly restored balance.
“Hold still,” Samuel repeated again firmly.
We rode in silence for several minutes until I decided gratitude was in order.
“You saved me,” I said simply. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along. You might have even saved my life. My dad and Johnny might not have noticed I was gone for hours. They aren’t very aware of me.”
“I’m not sure I want to be responsible for saving your life.”
“Why? Don’t you like me at all?” My voice sounded as hurt as I felt.
Samuel sighed. “That’s not what I meant. And yes, I like you.” He sounded a bit uncomfortable at the admission. “It’s just that in many Indian cultures, when you save someone’s life you are responsible for them from that time forward. It’s like you are their keeper or something.”
That didn’t sound bad to me. I kind of liked the idea of having Samuel as my lifelong guardian.
“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have looking out for me.” Somehow honesty was much easier when it was dark and your back was to the one you confessed to. Still I tensed a little, awaiting his response.
No response came. We rode in silence for the remainder of the ride, gliding past the homes of our neighbors until Samuel slowed to a stop in front of my house. Old Brown, Johnny’s truck, was parked carelessly in the gravel in front of the house and my dad’s work truck was parked in the drive. Samuel helped me alight and set the bike down as he pulled me up onto his back, piggy-back style. I wished he’d sweep me up into his arms, like a bride. I felt heavy and awkward sprawled across his long back, and I clung to his shoulders, holding my breath as he climbed the stairs and slid me down his back to knock on the door.
“It’s my house! Just go in,” I said, reaching past him and opening the front door. The sounds of Jazz basketball blared from the TV, and the warmth from the wood burning stove poured over us. Samuel swung me up and carried me unceremoniously to the couch, setting me down as swiftly as he could and backing away as if he thought he would be in trouble for touching me.
My dad sat in his recliner and gaped at us for a minute before he collected his wits. I counted two empty beer cans on his TV stand and another in his hand. I sighed inwardly. Dad was a sweet drunk. He didn’t get mean and ugly, just drowsy and cheerful as he drowned his loneliness in a nightly ritual of Budweiser and ball – football, basketball, baseball, whatever. He hadn’t drunk at all when mom was alive. We Mormons weren’t big drinkers. In fact, Mormons didn’t drink at all if we were living true to the tenets of our faith. Maybe that’s why Dad never went to church or cared if we went. Mom wouldn’t be too happy about that, I was sure.
“What happened?” My dad’s words weren’t slurred; the night was still young.
I proceeded to tell him my abbreviated story involving the sheep, Gus, and including Samuel somewhere in there, too.
“No more piano lessons for you!” Dad grumbled. “It ain’t safe. I knew something was wrong. I was just about to come looking for you.”
“Oh no, Dad!” I cried out hastily, sitting up and swinging my good leg to the floor. “I’ll be more careful. I’m getting ready for the Christmas program. I can’t miss my lessons. Besides Sonja, I mean Mrs. Grimaldi, is going to have me practice at the church for the next few weeks so that she can start teaching me how to play the organ.”
I didn’t believe my dad had even
I felt a responding rumble in Samuel’s chest and swiveled my head to look up at him in amazement. I’d never heard Samuel laugh.
“Hold still!!!” Samuel’s voice raised in alarm as the bike took a dangerous lurch. I’d forgotten to move slowly.
“Sorry!” I squeaked, clinging to his arms as he expertly restored balance.
“Hold still,” Samuel repeated again firmly.
We rode in silence for several minutes until I decided gratitude was in order.
“You saved me,” I said simply. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along. You might have even saved my life. My dad and Johnny might not have noticed I was gone for hours. They aren’t very aware of me.”
“I’m not sure I want to be responsible for saving your life.”
“Why? Don’t you like me at all?” My voice sounded as hurt as I felt.
Samuel sighed. “That’s not what I meant. And yes, I like you.” He sounded a bit uncomfortable at the admission. “It’s just that in many Indian cultures, when you save someone’s life you are responsible for them from that time forward. It’s like you are their keeper or something.”
That didn’t sound bad to me. I kind of liked the idea of having Samuel as my lifelong guardian.
“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have looking out for me.” Somehow honesty was much easier when it was dark and your back was to the one you confessed to. Still I tensed a little, awaiting his response.
No response came. We rode in silence for the remainder of the ride, gliding past the homes of our neighbors until Samuel slowed to a stop in front of my house. Old Brown, Johnny’s truck, was parked carelessly in the gravel in front of the house and my dad’s work truck was parked in the drive. Samuel helped me alight and set the bike down as he pulled me up onto his back, piggy-back style. I wished he’d sweep me up into his arms, like a bride. I felt heavy and awkward sprawled across his long back, and I clung to his shoulders, holding my breath as he climbed the stairs and slid me down his back to knock on the door.
“It’s my house! Just go in,” I said, reaching past him and opening the front door. The sounds of Jazz basketball blared from the TV, and the warmth from the wood burning stove poured over us. Samuel swung me up and carried me unceremoniously to the couch, setting me down as swiftly as he could and backing away as if he thought he would be in trouble for touching me.
My dad sat in his recliner and gaped at us for a minute before he collected his wits. I counted two empty beer cans on his TV stand and another in his hand. I sighed inwardly. Dad was a sweet drunk. He didn’t get mean and ugly, just drowsy and cheerful as he drowned his loneliness in a nightly ritual of Budweiser and ball – football, basketball, baseball, whatever. He hadn’t drunk at all when mom was alive. We Mormons weren’t big drinkers. In fact, Mormons didn’t drink at all if we were living true to the tenets of our faith. Maybe that’s why Dad never went to church or cared if we went. Mom wouldn’t be too happy about that, I was sure.
“What happened?” My dad’s words weren’t slurred; the night was still young.
I proceeded to tell him my abbreviated story involving the sheep, Gus, and including Samuel somewhere in there, too.
“No more piano lessons for you!” Dad grumbled. “It ain’t safe. I knew something was wrong. I was just about to come looking for you.”
“Oh no, Dad!” I cried out hastily, sitting up and swinging my good leg to the floor. “I’ll be more careful. I’m getting ready for the Christmas program. I can’t miss my lessons. Besides Sonja, I mean Mrs. Grimaldi, is going to have me practice at the church for the next few weeks so that she can start teaching me how to play the organ.”
I didn’t believe my dad had even
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