The Heart

When Walter came in the next day, she was glad to see him, "Hi Walter, let me guess—apple pie and coffee," she said.

"How did you know," he responded and laughed.

"Guess I'm psychic," Emma said. "Missed you yesterday," she added as she poured his coffee and brought him a slice of pie.

"Yeah, I had to go for a check up into Philadelphia, yesterday. I had to take the bus and didn't get back until last night," he said.

"Oh, I wondered," Emily said, "everything okay."

"Yep, things look good, they said." Walter sipped his coffee and opened his notebook, reading over what he had recently written.

"Well, I'll leave you be," Emily said and went into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with a tray filled with white coffee mugs. She glanced over at Walter but didn't say anything noticing he was looking up at the ceiling, thinking, as if searching for his thoughts, as if the words were coming from someplace else, then started writing, his pen moving quickly across the page and Emily was fascinated by the speed and intensity as if the words were pouring out of him. He stopped for a sip of coffee and had only taken a few bites of his pie but there was something about the intense way he was writing that fascinated her, made her watch him, something that made her want to know what he was writing.

Emily finished stacking the mugs picked up the coffee pot, came over to top off Walter's coffee, "Read something to me!" she suddenly said, impulsively, surprising herself.

"What!" Walter said, startled out of his trance and looked up at Emily.

"Sorry to interrupt but I want you to read something to me, what were you just writing?"

Stunned by Emily's question, her sudden demand for him to read something to her surprised him. He stared up at her. "You want me to read something," he said, baffled, his eyes looking at her then glancing down at what he had been writing.

"Yes, you said you would read something to me some time. I'm so curious about what you're writing. I know it's none of my business, so it's okay if you don't want to," she said, feeling awkward.

Walter didn't say anything but looked at her, still surprised at her bluntness but then smiled at her, then chuckled.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have interrupted you," she said.

"Thank you for asking," Walter answered. "Thank you for being interested."

"I am interested," she said, surprised by his thanking her. "I'm not usually this rude," she added. "I thought you would be upset with me."

"No I'm not upset. I've wanted to read something to you for a long time but was afraid to say anything, so I'm glad you asked. Really, so thank you for asking. You made it easier for me, but I must admit you took me by surprise."

"I was afraid to ask you," Emily said, awkwardly. "But watching you write so intensely made me so curious. I couldn't help it."

Walter smiled again, looking at Emily, their eyes meeting, neither of them speaking, the silence like a deep breath, like the silence between notes of music, a pause without sound that is as much a part of the music as the music. He then took a deep breath and glanced down at his writing. "I started this poem this morning when it was still dark out and I stood at the window looking up at the stars. It was just before dawn. It's not finished, but I'll read what I've written so far.

"Great. I'm all ears," Emily said, feeling her fascination for this strange man growing. She watched him looking down at his words, closing his eyes as if gathering up his courage to read to her. She felt his shyness, his gentleness and was still surprised that he thanked her for asking.

"It's called, "Good Morning Stars," he said, taking another deep breath.

Good morning stars--
again our orbits cross
and I see your worlds
high above my life,
my eyes touching you
millions of miles away
where we meet each dawn,
your burning worlds swirling,
though some are embers now,
burnt out
light years ago—
a state I cannot know
since news travels slowly
across the universe
and yet, your fire
in my eyes pulls me
towards your glow,
and makes me
wonder--am I with you
high above my life?
Are you burning in my mind,
the universe inside of me,
here where I spin through darkness
never certain
where my existence begins and ends?

When he stopped, his eyes staring down at the page, he took a breath and looked up at Emily. "That's it so far. It's not finished."

At first Emily didn't say anything, thinking about what she just heard, looking at Walter, noticing the twinkle in his blue eyes behind his wire rimmed glasses. "Wow! That's amazing," Emily said, "I can't believe you wrote that. It's so cosmic."

"I can't believe I wrote it either," he said. "This is all new to me. I never thought about the stars or the universe or nature and my spirit."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"You wouldn't have liked me if you knew me last year. You would have thought I was worthless scumbag," he said.

"Really, why, what do you mean?"

He shook his head, looking down and away before turning his eyes back to Emily.

"I was a mess. I drank a lot. Smoked two packs of cigarettes a day, ate the slop at the fast food places, man, I was a regular. I was overweight and I always had a bad heart, ever since I was a kid then in the last few years started having trouble breathing, I was always tired, could hardly get out of bed in the morning. I drank during the day something I shouldn't have done because I drove a truck. Well, to cut to the chase, I wrecked the truck, got fired, lost my license and there I was out of work then the woman I lived with at the time kicked me out because of the drinking and she wasn't the first one who kicked me out, then one day, I collapsed right on the street. They took me to the emergency ward and that's when they told me my heart was shot. They said I wouldn't make it unless I had a heart transplant."

"That's some story," Emily said.

"Well, I was lucky. I was transferred to the University of Pennsylvania hospital where they have specialists who do transplants and they put me into this computer system that finds organs for people, you know matches them up but they couldn't find one with my blood type and other stuff that has to be right. I was always under oxygen, I couldn't keep my eyes open, I was weak, my time was running out and I was sure it was all over for me. Then one day there was this big commotion around me and they rushed me into the operating room telling me they just found a heart that was a good match up. They said I probably would not have made it until the weekend if they hadn't found a heart. It was flown to the hospital from I don't know where and that's the story. They were pretty sure my body wouldn't reject it. I had to stop smoking and drinking and the strange thing is it was easy. I was in the hospital after the transplant for six weeks and couldn't get cigarettes or booze but I also didn't have the craving I used to have, didn't miss it one bit. Anyway, since the operation I feel like a different person and now I just have to go back every few months for checkups. That's where I went yesterday. I had to take the bus because I still don't have a license. Now I just ride my bike places and take long walks. It's good exercise for me."

"Wow, you're lucky," Emily said.

"I am and I remember after the operation, I'd look out the window and the trees looked so green and the sky looked so blue, the clouds looked so white. Everything was glowing and I felt like I had suddenly been born again, not in the Christian born again way, but like everything was different, like I was seeing it for the first time."

Emily could feel the excitement in his voice. She had never seen him so animated. He always seemed so reserved, so shy, so quiet and though she noticed the energetic way he hopped of his bike and the spry way he entered the diner, when he sat down at the counter, he seemed to sink into himself. He would smile at Emily when she said, "Let me guess," and Emily could see the lively twinkle in his eyes, but then he would get quiet, look away, open his notebook, reading over what was there before picking up his pen and though Emily would say to herself, "What a strange man," she also felt drawn to him as if he was a mystery she needed to solve.

"So, Walt, how did you end up in Tomkinsville? We're kind of in the middle of nowhere," Emily asked.

"Good question," Walter answered. "I've been trying to figure that one out myself."

"Really, you don't know why you ended up here," she asked, holding the coffee pot out to the side, looking into Walter's eyes, seeing his puzzled expression.

"But here I am," he said, shrugging his shoulders.

"So, tell me, I'm curious, why someone like you would end up in Tomkinsville?" she asked.

"Like me? What do you mean like me?"

"I don't know. You just show up and start coming everyday for coffee and pie, hardly ever talk to anyone, just you and your bike and you say you write poetry. You're different, that's what I mean. I didn't mean to offend you. It's almost like you don't belong here."

"Really, is that what you think?" Walter said, putting down his pen. He took a sip of his coffee then looked at Emily. "Well, it's hard to explain, but I'm here because I think I do belong here."

"That's weird," Emily said. "Why? What makes you think you belong here?"

Walter sighed, looking down at his journal then back at Emily, "Well, the day I was released from the hospital, my friend, Al, who, at that time was my only friend, said he wanted to take me for a long drive in the country to get fresh air, see the farms, the cows. He said it would be good for me, told me he liked taking long drives and thought he would treat me to a day in the country. That's what he said."

Emily nodded, listening, "So did you like that?" she asked, probing like she always did when people confided in her.

"Yes, I did. We drove from Philly then when we got to the river, went over the bridge then turned on River Road and drove through a lot a little towns--some only two blocks long, some with signs showing how high the river got in the flood of 1955 then we came into Tomkinsville and I saw this diner and the park and the drugstore, Russell's Drug Store, and the high school and for some reason, I asked Al to stop the car. I said, "Stop. I want to look around this town."

"So did you?" Emily asked.

Al looked at me like I was crazy. "Why the hell do you want to look around this nothing town?" he asked.

"I don't know. I just do," I said. "Come on, just stop for a few minutes," I insisted. So, he did. He pulled over in front of the hardware store on the next block and I got out and I walked around. I even walked up to this diner and stood outside looking at it and thought about going in like I was drawn to it. "Let's go in and get a coffee," I said, but Al said, "let's get going" and so that was that. We drove up the river then went over the bridge to the other side of the river and drove back to Philly but I remember looking across the river at Tomkinsville, not sure why I was so fascinated by the town."

"Interesting," Emily said, nodding, looking at Walter. She returned the coffee pot to the burner then came around and sat on the stool next to Walter. "Then what happened. How come you decided to come and live here?"

"Another good question," Walter said, turning to face Emily, "I never saw you sit down before."

"Well, I do from time to time, especially when one of the customers wants to talk. I'm kind of the mother confessor around here," Emily said, chuckling. "So, tell me, why did you decide to live in Tomkinsville, of all places?"

"Well, when I got back home in Philly, me, with my new heart and wanting to make sure I didn't get back into my old habits decided I should take off to some place. Start over, do you know what I mean," Walter asked. "I just knew I needed to make a big change."

Emily nodded, "And?" she asked, urging Walter to keep talking.

"And I remembered stopping in this town that day and for some reason liking it. I couldn't drive so I decided to take the bus here with a few things in a backpack, got a room at Miss Henderson's. Do you know her? She's got a house on Parker Street?"

"Of course I know her. She was my fifth grade teacher, anyway, I know everybody in this town," Emily said. "So you just decided to show up and live in this town. That's so cool."

"I guess you could say I was drawn here," Walt said. "I like it around here and take long bike rides and walks. I like exploring," Walter added. "I have a part-time job gardening for a few people, but recently I've been drawing a lot and when I can afford it, I want to start painting. I've never painted before, but when I stand over on Walker's Hill or on that dock where people keep their boats. I want to paint a picture of the river."

"I think I can find you some paint," Emily said. "I know where there's paint that hasn't been used and I could get it for you."



"Really, that would be great, but suddenly, I've had this urge to paint. I like writing poetry but, I want to see if I can capture the light, the ripples on the river," Walter said, looking into Emily's eyes in a way that captivated her.



"My boyfriend used to paint," Emily said.

"Used to paint," Walter asked, "so your boyfriend doesn't paint anymore."

Thinking about Jonathan's paints and Walter wanting to paint brought a rush of feeling over Emily, she felt her heart beating, remembering how much Jonathan loved painting, how he wanted to be the best artist possible.



"How come he doesn't paint anymore?" Walter asked.

"He was killed about eight months ago in a motorcycle accident," Emily said.

"Horrible," Walter responded. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"How could you? You just came into this town a little while ago. You couldn't have known Jonathan."

"That's true. In fact I know nothing about you either," Walter said, pausing, looking into Emily's eyes, "I hope you don't mind my saying this, but I think you're beautiful."

Emily blushed, "Oh, you do, well, thank you," Emily said, feeling her cheeks reddening, stunned by the way he just blurted out those words.

"I can't believe I'm sitting here talking to you," he said. "I've been coming here since the day I arrived wishing I could get up the nerve to talk to you. I started coming here everyday when I knew you wouldn't be busy. I didn't just come in for the pie and coffee, I came to see you."

"Really," Emily said, "I had no idea."

"How could you?" Walter said, chuckling, "Until the other day we hadn't said more than two words to each other. All you would say is 'let me guess...apple pie and coffee and that was it."

Emily took a deep breath looking at Walter. "Yeah, well, I guess we broke the ice opening up like that. You know my story and I know yours."

"I'm sorry about Jonathan," Walter said.

"Thanks," Emily said. "Well, if I can find Jonathan's paints I will bring them in tomorrow. You can have them."

"Is that hard for you just giving me his paints?" Walter asked.

"No, not at all, if you knew Jonathan you would understand. He was very generous. He'd give a stranger the shirt off his back, that's how he was. He was a very special person and really talented. He also wrote poetry and loved to paint. You would have liked him."

"Well thanks," Walter said, finishing his coffee, closing his notebook. "I'm keeping you from working and I better get going. I want to go for a bike ride before it gets too late."

Okay," Emily said, hopping off of the stool. "I'll bring the paint in tomorrow, also brushes. See you," she said, going in back of the counter.

And that's what Emily did. The next day when Walter came in, she gave him the grey plastic box with Jonathan's tubes of oil paint and a paper bag filled with brushes. "You'll have to make your own palette. I couldn't find his and you can get things to paint on at Ace's Hardware store, that's where Jonathan got stuff. He liked painting on pieces of wood. Sometimes he made canvasses."

So, Walter started painting. He wrote in the morning. A few mornings he went to his gardening job, but every day he came in for apple pie and coffee after having lunch in his room at Miss Henderson's, usually canned soup he heated up on the hot plate. He'd write in his journal while Emily prepared everything for the next day but they always ended up having conversations, often having deep discussions about life, or Walter telling her he was painting the sheep in the pasture on Kinghill Farm, or the big old Chestnut tree at the rear of the park.

One day, he told Emily about this beautiful, magical spot he found and goes to every day. It's about a ten minute bike ride out of town and he loves painting there, but there was something else that surprised her. He started calling her "Em instead of Emily. He'd say, "Em, you should have seen the fish jumping in the pond and the now there's a couple of swans that live there."

No one ever called her "Em" except Jonathan and it surprised her at how natural it felt. She liked the way he said it and she'd feel a warm ripple go through her that reminded her of how she felt when Jonathan called her "Em." Walter's voice resonated in her with a strange vibration that felt comforting but also puzzling. She found herself staring at Walter, trying to understand what it was about him that was captivating her, how eager she was to see him come into the diner and tell her what he was painting and when he said "Em," she felt a chill, goose bumps on her arm and more and more she felt drawn to this older man with graying hair, the spry way he came into the diner, how rather than being shy with her, he was now exuberant, delighted to tell her what he was painting, occasionally reading her a new poem, both of them sharing more of themselves in the empty diner while Emily filled the salt and pepper shakers or stopped to have a cup of coffee with him.

Something came over Emily, one afternoon when Walter said, "Well it's been ten months since my operation and there's no sign my heart is being rejected. I have to go for a check up next week and if everything is okay, I don't have to go back for a year."

"That's good," Emily said then suddenly remembered it's been ten months sine Jonathan was killed. "Jonathan was killed ten months ago," she said.

"Ten months, wow," Walter said then laughed. ""If you could have seen me ten months ago, you wouldn't recognize me. I mean, I still can feel what a jerk I was and I feel guilty how I treated people, especially women. I can't believe that was me and now I feel so different."

"You're lucky to be alive. You're lucky they found the right heart for you when they did or you wouldn't be here."

"Yeah, that was a close all," Walter said, closing his eyes, as if remembering how on the edge he was, how somehow he was plucked from the hands of death and given a kick in the ass. "Now I feel blessed."

Listening to Walter, looking at his eyes as he spoke, she wondered what was so fascinating about him, realizing she now was feeling things about him she never thought she would feel about a man. One day she asked, "This spot you go to, this special place you go to every day to paint, would you take me there?"

"Of course," Walter said. "If you really want to see it, I'll take you there. You're going to love it. I know you will."

"Cool, can we go today. I have a bike at my place. I hardly ride it anymore but I feel like going there with you, how about it," Emily asked, suddenly excited about being with Walter in some place other than Pete's Diner.

"I was going there anyway, so yes, finish up here and we'll take off. We can go get your bike," Walter said, taking a sip of coffee and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, again reminding her of Jonathan.