The Nest Read Free Page B

strange stubby van without doors, slowly, ringing his bell, to see if anyone needed their knives sharpened.
    Vanessa and I followed Nicole through the house. My little sister threw open the front door and stood on the porch, waiting. It was weird how excited she got about the knife guy. On the side of the van were lots of faded pictures of knives, and in big crookedhand-painted letters, the word “Grindi g”—because the last n was so worn out.
    The van glided toward us. I didn’t know how he made any money. I never saw a single person stop him and rush out with their kitchen knives. Last month, before the baby was born, Dad had flagged him down. I think it was just to give Nicole a thrill.
    Nicole had stood with us at the curb as the van pulled over, and the knife guy stepped out in his coveralls. Before, I’d just glimpsed him in passing. He was an older guy, surprisingly tall, a bit stooped. His cheeks were hollowed out, and he had gray stubble for hair. He looked like his bones were meant for an even bigger body.
    Dad had dragged his rotary lawn mower out from the garage—the blades were getting pretty dull, he’d said—and asked the knife guy if he could sharpen them. The guy gave a shrug, pursed his lips, andmade a sound like, “Ehhhhhh,” so we didn’t know if he was saying yes or no. But then he went into the back of his van and came out with a screwdriver and removed the mower blades one by one.
    Nicole watched everything, enthralled. The knife guy smiled at her as he took out the blades from the lawn mower, and then let her watch from the open back of the van as he sharpened them on his grindstone.
    It wasn’t until the end, when he was putting the blades back into the mower, that I noticed his hands. They were very large with big knuckles, but he had only four fingers on each hand, and they were weirdly shaped, and splayed so that they looked more like pincers.
    Afterward Nicole said to Dad, “I guess he’s not very good at his job.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Dad asked.
    â€œHe cut off his own fingers!”
    Dad laughed. “He didn’t cut them off, sweetie. He was born like that. I knew someone once who had the same condition.”
    â€œOh,” said Nicole.
    â€œAnyway, didn’t seem to slow him down any, did it?”
    Dad ran the mower over a patch of the lawn, and grass clippings flew up, leaving a clean wake.
    â€œMuch better,” Dad said.
    Now, as Vanessa and I watched the van approach, Nicole looked up at us imploringly. “Can we bring him some knives?”
    â€œI’m not sure your parents would want that, Nicole,” Vanessa said. “We’d have to ask them first.”
    She sagged. “Okay.”
    As the van crawled alongside our house, theknife guy leaned down over his steering wheel so he could peer out.
    Nicole waved. The knife guy waved back, gave a big smile, and stopped. Maybe he didn’t understand we had nothing for him today. I don’t think his English was too good. He seemed familiar to me somehow, but not in a good way.
    â€œWe’re okay!” I said. “Thank you!”
    â€œOkay! Thanks you. Okay!” he said, and then he rang the bell again and kept moving on down the street.
    When he turned the corner, I realized I’d been holding my breath.
    That night at dinner Mom and Dad weren’t talking much. When they’d come back from the hospital, they looked pretty serious, and I was afraid to ask them what had happened. Nicole didn’t notice.Between mouthfuls of mashed potato and fish sticks she talked about castles and metal and her favorite knight and all its special skills. Her phone was under her chair, like she was expecting an important call at any moment.
    â€œDid Mr. Nobody have any good jokes today?” Dad asked her.
    Nicole frowned, then shook her head. “He wasn’t in the joking mood.”
    â€œAh,” said