Harvesting the Heart (26 page)

Nicholas
nodded, his jaw clenched. A pulse beat at the base of his neck, and I
watched it for a moment while he regained control of himself. I
pulled the comforter over the swell of my stomach, feeling guilty. I
never meant to scream. "Of course," Nicholas said, his
thoughts a million miles away. He turned and left the room.

I
sat in the dark, wondering what I had done wrong. Groping across the
bed, I found Nicholas's discarded button-down shirt, glowing
almost silver. I pulled it over my head and rolled up the sleeves,
and I slipped underneath the covers. From the nightstand I pulled a
travel brochure, and I flicked on a reading light.

Downstairs,
I heard the refrigerator being opened and slammed shut; a heavy
footstep and a quiet curse. I read aloud, my voice swelling to
fill the cold spaces of the colorless room. " 'The Land of the
Masai,' " I said. " 'The Masai of Tanzania have one of the
last cultures on earth unaffected by modern civilization. Imagine the
life of a Masai woman living much as her ancestors did thousands of
years ago, dwelling in the same mud-and-dung huts, drinking sour milk
mixed with cow's blood. Initiation rites, such as the circumcision of
adolescent boys and girls, continue today.' "

I
closed my eyes; I knew the rest by memory. " 'The Masai exist in
harmony with their peaceful environment, with daily and seasonal
cycles of nature, with their reverence for God.' " The moon rose
and spilled yellow into the bedroom window, and I could clearly see
her —the Masai woman, kneeling at the foot of my bed, her skin
dark and gleaming, her eyes like polished onyx, gold hoops ringing
her ears and her neck. She stared at me and stole all my secrets; she
opened her mouth and she sang of the world.

Her
voice was low and rhythmic, a tune I had never heard. With
each
tremble
of her music, my stomach seemed to quiver. Her call said over and
over, in a clicking honey tongue,
Come
with me. Come with me.
I
held my hands to my belly, sensing that quick flutter of longing,
like
a
firefly
in a sealed glass jar. And then I realized these were the first
felt
movements
of my baby, reminding me just why I couldn't go.

^chapter
1
1

Paige

_T
o
my disappointment, Jake Flanagan became the brother I had never had.
He did not kiss me again after that lost moment at the drive-in.
Instead he took me under his wing. For three years he let me tag
along right at his heels, but to me even that was too far away. I
wanted to be closer to his heart.

I
tried to make Jake fall in love with me. I prayed for this at least
three times a day, and once in a while I was rewarded. Sometimes,
after the final bell of classes rang, I'd come out onto the steps of
Pope Pius and find him leaning against the stone wall, biting on a
toothpick. I knew that to get to my school, he had to cut his last
class and take an uptown bus. "Hello, Flea," he said,
because that was his nickname for me. "And what did the good
sisters teach you today?"

As
if he did this all the time, he would take my books from my arms and
lead me down the street, and together we'd walk to his father's
garage. Terence Flanagan owned the Mobil station on North

Franklin,
and Jake worked there for him afternoons and on weekends. I would
squat on the cement floor, my pleated skirt blown open like a flower,
while Jake showed me how to remove a tire or how to change the oil.
All the while he spoke in the soft, cool voice that reminded me of
the ocean I had never seen. "First you pop the hubcab,"
he'd say, as his hands slid down the tire iron. "Then you loosen
up the lug nuts." I would nod and watch him carefully, wondering
what I had to do to make him notice me.

I
spent months walking a fine line, arranging for my path to cross
Jake's a few times a week without my becoming a pain in the neck.
Once, I had got too close. "I can't get rid of you," Jake
had yelled. "You're like a rash." And I had gone home and
cried and given Jake a week to realize how empty his life could be
without me. When he didn't call, I did not blame him; I couldn't. I
showed up at the Mobil station as if nothing had happened, and I
doggedly followed him from car to car, learning about spark plugs and
alternators and steering alignment.

By
then I knew that this was my first trial of faith. I had grown up
learning of the sacrifices and ordeals others had survived to prove
their devotion—Abraham, Job, Jesus Himself. I understood that I
was being tested, but I had no doubts about the outcome. I would pay
my dues, and then one day Jake would be unable to live without me. I
swore by this, and because I had given God no alternative, it
gradually became true.

But
being Jake's sidekick was a far cry from being the love of his life.
In fact, Jake went out with a different girl every month. I helped
him get ready for his dates. I'd lie on my stomach on the narrow bed
as Jake picked out three shirts, two ties, worn jeans. "Wear the
red one," I'd tell him, "and definitely
not
that
tie." I covered my face with a pillow when he dropped the towel
from his hips and shrugged into his boxer shorts, and I listened to
the slip of cotton over his legs and wondered what he would look
like. He let me part his hair with the comb and pat the aftershave on
his burning cheeks, so that when he left I would still be surrounded
by the strong scent of mint and of man that came from Jake's skin.

Jake
was always late for his dates. He'd tunnel down the stairs of his
house, grabbing the keys to his father's Ford from the pegged knot on
the end of the banister. "See you, Flea," he'd call over
his shoulder. His mother would come out of the kitchen with three or
four of the younger kids hanging on her legs like monkeys, but she
would only just catch the edge of his shadow. Molly Flanagan would
turn to me with her heart in her eyes, because she knew the truth.
"Oh, Paige," she'd say, sighing. "Why don't you stay
for dinner?"

When
Jake came home from his dates at two or three in the morning, I
always knew. I would wake up, miles away from where he was, and see,
like a nightmare, Jake pulling his shirt from his jeans and rubbing
the back of his neck. We had this connection with each other.
Sometimes, if I wanted to talk to him, all I had to do was picture
his face, and within a half hour he'd be on my doorstep. "What?"
he'd say. "You needed me?" Sometimes, because I felt him
calling out, I would phone his house late at night. I'd huddle in the
kitchen, curling my bare toes under the hem of my nightgown, dialing
in the pencil-thin gleam of the streetlight. Jake answered at the end
of the first ring. "Wait till you hear this one," he'd say,
his voice bubbling over with the fading heat of sex. "We're at
Burger King, and she reaches under the table and unzips my fly. Can
you believe it?"

And
I would swallow. "No," I'd tell him. "I can't."

I
had no doubt that Jake loved me. He told me, when I asked him, that I
was his best friend; he sat with me the whole summer I had
mononucleosis and read me trivia questions from those
Yes
& No
game
books that come with magic pens. One night, over a campfire on the
shores of the lake, he had even let me cut his thumb and press it
close to mine, swapping blood, so that we'd always have each other.

But
Jake shrank away from my touch. Even if I brushed his side, he
flinched as if I'd hit him. He never put his arm around my
shoulders; he never even held my hand. At sixteen, I was skinny
and small, like the runt of a litter. Someone like Jake, I told
myself, would never want someone like me.

The
year I turned seventeen, things began to change. I was a junior at
Pope Pius; Jake—out of high school for two years—worked
full time with his father at the garage. I spent my afternoons and my
weekends with Jake, but every time I saw him my head burned and my
stomach roiled, as if I'd swallowed the sun. Sometimes Jake would
turn my way and start to speak: "Flea," he'd say, but his
eyes would cloud over, and the rest of the words wouldn't come.

It
was the year of my junior prom. The sisters at Pope Pius decorated
the gymnasium with hanging foil stars and crinkled red streamers. I
was not planning to go. If I had asked Jake he would have taken me,
but I hated the thought of spending a night I had dreamed of for
years with him humoring me. Instead I watched the other girls in the
neighborhood take pictures on their front lawns, whirling ghosts in
white and pink tulle. When they had left, I walked the three miles to
Jake's house.

Molly
Flanagan saw me through the screen door. "Come in, Paige,"
she yelled. "Jake said you would be here." She was in the
den, playing Twister with Moira and Petey, the two youngest
Flanagans. Her rear end was lifted into the air, and her arms
were crossed beneath her. Her heavy bosom grazed the colored dots of
the game mat, and between her legs, Moira was precariously reaching
for a green corner circle. Ever since I had met her three years
before, I had wanted Molly as my own mother. I had told Jake and his
family that my mother had died and that my father was still so upset
by it, he couldn't bear to hear her name brought up. Molly Flanagan
had patted my arm, and Terence had raised his beer to toast my
mother, as was the custom of the Irish. Only Jake realized I was not
telling the truth. I had never actually come out and said this, but
he knew the corners of my mind so well that from time to time I
caught him staring at me, as if he sensed I was holding something
back.

"Flea!"
Jake's
voice cut through the romping music of the television, startling
Moira, who fell and caught her mother's ankle, pulling her down
as well.

"Jake
thinks he's the king of England," Molly said, lifting her
youngest daughter.

I
smiled and ran up the stairs. Jake was bent over in his closet,
looking for something in the mess of socks and sneakers and dirty
underwear. "Hi," I said.

He
did not turn around. "Where's my good belt?" he asked, the
simple question you'd put to a wife or a longtime lover.

I
reached under his arm, tugging the belt from the peg where he'd
placed it days before. Jake began to thread the leather through his
khaki slacks. "When you go to college," he said, "I'm
going to be lost."

I
knew as he said it that I would never go to college, never even draw
another picture, if Jake asked me to stay. When he turned to me, my
throat ached and my vision grew blurry. I shook my head and saw that
he was dressed for a date; that his grease-spotted jeans and blue
work shirt were puddled in a corner under the window. I turned away
fast so that he wouldn't see my eyes. "I didn't know you were
going out," I said.

Jake
grinned. "Since when haven't I been able to get a Friday-night
date?" he said.

He
moved past me, and the air carried the familiar scent of his soap and
his clothing. My head began to pound, surging like a tide, and I
believed with all my heart that if I didn't leave that room I was
going to die.

I
turned and ran down the stairs. The door slammed behind me, and the
wind picked up my feet for me. I heard the concern in Molly's voice
reaching out, and the whole way home I felt Jake's eyes and their
questions burning into my back.

At
home, I pulled on my nightgown and fell into bed, drawing the covers
over my head to change the fact that it was only dinnertime. I
slept on and off, waking with a start just after two-thirty.
Tiptoeing past my father's room, I closed the door, and then I went
down to the kitchen. Feeling my way through the night, I unlocked the
door and I opened the screen for Jake.