Harvesting the Heart Read Online Free Page B

name I knew only because
of Lionel. He was a medical student, which explained, Lionel said,
his odd hours and the fog he was always in. I would stare at him
point-blank because he never seemed to notice, even when he wasn't
reading, and I tried to figure out what was so confusing about him. I
had been at Mercy exactly two weeks when I figured it out: he just
didn't fit. He seemed to gleam against the cranberry cracked vinyl
seats. He held court over all the waitresses, holding up his glass
when he wanted a refill, waving the check when he wanted to pay, and
yet none of us considered him to be condescending. I studied him with
a scientist's fascination, and when I imagined things about him, it
was at night on Doris's living room couch. I saw his steady hands,
his clear eyes, and I wondered what it was that drew me to him.
    I
had been in love in Chicago, and I knew the consequences. After all
that had happened with Jake, I was not planning to be in love again,
maybe not ever. I didn't consider it strange that at eighteen some
soft part of me seemed broken for good. Maybe this is why when I
watched Nicholas I never thought to draw him. The artist in me did
not immediately register the natural lines of him as a man: the
symmetry of his square jaw or the sun shifting through his hair,
throwing off different and subtler shades of black.
    I
watched him the night of the first Chicken Doodle Soup Special, as
Lionel had insisted on calling it. Doris, who had been working with
me since the lunch rush, had left early, so I was by myself,
refilling salt shakers, when Nicholas came in. It was 11:00 p.m., just
before closing, and he sat at one of my tables. And suddenly I knew
what it was about this man. I remembered Sister Agnes at Pope Pius
High School, rapping a ruler against a dusty blackboard as she waited
for me to think up a sentence for a spelling word I did not know. The
word was grandeur,
e before u. I
had stood and hopped from foot to foot and listened to the popular
girls snicker as I remained silent. I could not come up with the
sentence, and Sister accused me of scribbling in the margins of my
notebook again, although that was not it at all. But looking at
Nicholas, at the way he held his spoon and the tilt of his head, I
understood that grandeur was not nobility or dignity, as I'd been
taught. It was the ability to be comfortable in the world; to make it
look as if it all came so easily. Grandeur was
what Nicholas had, what I did not have, what I now knew I would never
forget.
    Inspired,
I ran to the counter and began to draw Nicholas. I drew not just the
perfect match of his features but also his ease and his flow. Just as
Nicholas was digging in his pockets for a tip, I finished and stepped
back to view the picture. What I saw was someone beautiful,
perhaps someone more beautiful than I had ever seen in my life,
someone whom others pointed to and whispered about. Plain as day, in
the straight brows, the high forehead, and the strong chin, I could
see that this was someone who was meant to lead others.
    Lionel
and Leroy came into the main area of the diner, carrying leftovers,
which they brought home to their kids. "You know what to do,"
Lionel said to me, waving as he pushed his way out the door. "See
you, Nick," he called.
    Very
quietly, under his breath, he said, "Nicholas."
    I
stepped up behind him, still holding my portrait. "Did you say
something?" I asked.
    "Nicholas,"
he repeated, clearing his throat. "I don't like 'Nick.' "
    "Oh,"
I said. "Did you want anything else?"
    Nicholas
glanced around him, as if he was just noticing he was the only
customer in the diner and that the sun had gone down hours before. "I
guess you're trying to close up," he said. He stretched out one
leg on the banquette and turned the corners of his mouth up in a
smile. "Hey," he said, "how old are you anyway?"
    "Old
enough," I snapped, and I moved closer to clear his plate. I
leaned forward, still clutching the menu with his picture, and