Where the Heart Is (10 page)

The release was too sudden . . . the separation too final.

“Open your eyes and look at your daughter.”

Novalee squinted against the light as she blinked her eyes into focus and watched as Forney lifted the baby and gently placed it on her stomach. The tiny body, shrunken and dark, pulsed with every heartbeat.

When Benny Goodluck placed the buckeye tree in her arms, she was surprised at how light it felt and she wondered if such a fragile thing could ever take hold.

And she reached out and brushed the cheek of her daughter and she smiled at the touch . . . at the way it made her feel . . . the way she had felt when Sister Husband had hugged her, when Moses Whitecotton had taken her hand, when Benny Goodluck had touched her scar . . . when Forney Hull had held her in his arms.

And then she knew . . .

a name that means something

It came so suddenly that there was no space between knowing and not knowing . . .

a sturdy name

like two edges of time had slipped together and whatever had been between them was nothing . . .

a strong name

It drifted up from somewhere deep inside her, like a piece of music broken free. It touched empty places as it rose, brushed against her heart . . .

a name that’s gonna withstand a lot of bad times . . .

floated up into the light behind her eyes. Then she felt the shape of it on her tongue, the slip and slide of it through her lips . . .

a lot of hurt

and the taste of it as she whispered, “Americus.”

“Forney,” she said, her voice catching, “I know her name.” She smiled at him then. “Americus. It’s Americus.”

And as she took her baby’s hand in one of her own and Forney’s in the other, the teenage girl on the floor of a Wal-Mart whispered in the early hours of a new day, “Americus . . . Americus.”

“WHO WAS THE GUY who broke the window?”

“Have you named the baby yet?”

“How long have you been living in Wal-Mart?”

The first reporter showed up while Novalee was still in the emergency room. The second arrived as she was being moved to a ward, and, before the floor nurse could get an IV started, two more slipped in and crowded around the bed.

Their questions came so fast Novalee couldn’t have answered them even if she had wanted to—but she didn’t want to.

A television crew arrived just after the staff moved her to a private room and posted a NO VISITORS sign. Even then, a brisk young man dressed as an orderly slipped into her room and started filming before one of the nurses ran him out.

“You’re causing quite a stir around here,” the nurse said as she fastened the blood pressure cuff around Novalee’s arm. “Guess we’ve Where the Heart Is

got us a celebrity.” Her lips curled around the word “celebrity” like she had just gotten a mouthful of bitternut.

“I don’t know what they want,” Novalee said.

“You’d think we had Madonna in here. Whole pack of ’em sniffing around. Trying to find out how much you weigh, how much blood you lost. One of them offered me twenty dollars to let him take a picture of your baby.”

“My baby . . .”

“Oh, you don’t have anything to worry about. That nursery’s tighter than Fort Knox. If anyone—”

Novalee’s door swung open and Forney rushed inside like a man being chased. The noise from the hallway spilled in behind him.

“Hey,” the nurse bellowed. “You march your ass right back out that door.”

“He’s not one of them. He’s my friend.”

“Good! Seems like you could use one.” She cut her eyes at Forney then. “This girl’s had a baby. She needs some rest.”

“I won’t stay long.”

“That’s what I know,” she said as she opened the door and plowed her way into the throng in the hallway. As the door closed, they could hear her calling for security.

“What’s happening, Forney? Why are they here?”

“It’s crazy, Novalee. It’s just . . . crazy. Radio. TV cameras. Some woman stuck a microphone in my face.”

“But it doesn’t make any sense. Women have babies in taxicabs and elevators. Why, Red’s cousin had hers right in his cafe back in Tellico Plains. What’s so special about Wal-Mart?”

“I don’t know. I can’t figure it out.”

“And how did they hear about it? I mean, where did they find out?”

“It was my fault,” he said, dropping his eyes. “When I broke the window out, that set off an alarm at the police station. Then the ambulance came and . . .”

“You did it to help me, Forney.”

Novalee smiled at him then and when she did, he noticed again the tiny scar no bigger than an eyelash just below her bottom lip.

“. . . and the doctor said if you hadn’t been there, I might have . . .”

When she tilted her chin, the scar caught a glint of light and for one brief moment, it shimmered like silver.

“. . . having the baby in an unsterile environment, so they’ll keep me on antibiotics . . .”

Then she paused and ran her tongue across her lip, its tip barely kissing the edge of the scar, and just for a heartbeat, Forney felt he might faint.

“. . . in the incubator until her temperature stabilizes, but he thinks

. . . Forney, are you listening to me?”

The nurse came back then, roaring with displeasure. Forney knew he had to get up, had to walk out the door, but he didn’t know how he could. Later he wouldn’t remember when he left or why. He would only remember Novalee’s smile, her lips and that indelible scar.

“He’s a strange one,” the nurse said as she rolled Novalee to one side and raised her gown over her hip. “Take a deep breath. This is going to stick.”

But Novalee hardly felt the needle pierce her skin. She was too tired to care, so she sank into a troubled sleep, moving along the edges of dreams she would not recall, except for a scene becoming familiar to her now . . . familiar enough that when she heard the train, saw it speeding toward her and the baby, she shook herself nearly awake, then floated away to a place too black for dreams.

Novalee awoke to the smell of bacon, and looked up into amber eyes set in a face as broad and flat as a dinner plate.

“Good morning,” the girl said. When she smiled, her eyes disappeared behind a smooth mound of flesh that swelled from her cheeks to the bridge of her nose and her chin melted into a soft layer of skin stretching to the base of her throat. But she had the most perfect mouth Novalee had ever seen. Her lips, full and luscious like ripe, wild plums, were unpainted, yet they looked moist and satiny and, for just an instant, Novalee had the urge to reach up and brush the tips of her fingers across the girl’s mouth.

“I hope you’re not hungry,” the girl whispered, “because this is Tuesday.”

Novalee looked around for Forney, but he was gone.

“The best breakfast days are Friday and Sunday, but Tuesday is the worst,” she said as she fussed over the breakfast tray, rearranging containers and opening cartons. She felt the coffee cup to check for heat; touched the milk carton to make sure it was cold. She sniffed the bowl of oatmeal, stirred a glass of orange juice, and poked at a fruit salad, then peeled the covers from containers of strawberry preserves and grape jam. Novalee had never seen anyone pay such attention to food before.

When the girl reached to the far side of the tray for a napkin, her breasts swung back and forth over Novalee’s face like gigantic, quivering water balloons. They surged from the neck of her tunic and billowed under her arms, her uniform straining against the unbelievable expanse of her chest.

“I’m Lexie Coop,” she said as she removed the warmer cover from a plate of scrambled eggs and limp toast. The eggs were the color of mustard, the texture of hominy grits.

“If you intend to eat those eggs, you might want to give them a shot of this.” She pulled a small bottle of hot sauce from her pocket and held it out to Novalee.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“How about this toast?”

Novalee shook her head. “I thought I smelled bacon.”

“That’s my perfume. Musk of bacon.” Then she laughed, a laugh that began deep in her chest, then rolled across her tongue and out her perfect mouth.

“Just kidding,” Lexie said, her chest heaving as she regained her breath. “I fried bacon for my kids this morning. Guess I wore the smell to work. You sure you don’t want this,” she asked, motioning to the food.

When Novalee made a face, Lexie sprinkled the eggs with hot sauce, then took a dainty bite.

“Hot sauce,” she said. “See, I have this theory. Hot sauce burns away the calories. You can eat anything you want as long as you eat it with hot sauce.”

“Does it work?” Novalee asked.

“I’ve lost six pounds in eighteen days, but I’ve got a long way to go. I gained a lot of weight with my last baby.”

“How many kids you have?” Novalee asked.

“Four.”

“Four? You don’t look old enough.”

“Well, I started when I was fifteen and then I just couldn’t stop.

See, after I had the first one, I started looking to find him a daddy.

Thought I found one, too. But all I got out of that was another baby.

So, then I wanted to find a good daddy for the two of them. I tried, but what’d I get? Twins.”

“Have you found ’em a daddy yet?”

“No, and I’m not looking. I figure that’ll get me another baby.

Number five. I don’t know,” Lexie said, shaking her head. “I think I’m going about this the wrong way. But I just can’t seem to say no.”

Lexie finished the last of the eggs, then put the cover back on the empty plate. “You know, you should eat something. Help you get your strength back.”

“What I’d really like to do is take a shower. Can I do that?”

“Sure you can.”

“What about this?” Novalee motioned to the IV pole.

“No problem. We’ll just wheel it in the bathroom with you.”

Lexie moved the breakfast tray, then peeled the covers back and helped Novalee ease out of bed and to her feet.

“Just take your time. If you feel too shaky, let’s put you back down for a few minutes.”

“No, I’m okay. But . . .”

“Yeah, I know. Stitches pull, don’t they?”

Novalee held on to Lexie’s arm as they shuffled across the floor.

“Do you know about me?” Novalee asked.

“About Wal-Mart, you mean? Yeah. I guess everyone here knows about it. The hospital’s full of reporters. They say you’re going to be on television at noon.”

“Oh, God,” Novalee moaned, more from Lexie’s news than from the pain of walking.

The phone calls started coming shortly after noon, the first from a man with a soft voice and a strange accent. He said he wanted to buy the rights to Novalee’s story to make a movie, but he needed a picture of her nursing the baby in order to get the project off the ground.

An old woman who said she was a doll maker called later. She told Novalee to name the baby Walmartha, then she would make a doll to 9 market by that name. She said if she could sell the idea to Wal-Mart, they would make millions. And she told Novalee if she had another baby, a boy, and named him Walmark, they would market the dolls as brother and sister.

The seventh or eighth call—by now Novalee had lost count—

was from a man who thought he might be the father of the baby. He wanted to know if Novalee was the woman he had raped in an apartment on Cedar Street nine months earlier. As soon as Novalee hung up, she unplugged the phone.

Later, the floor nurse came in with a breast pump so they could feed Americus with Novalee’s milk. The nurse was rough when she handled Novalee’s breasts, the pump cold and hard against her tender nipples. When they didn’t produce much milk, the nurse seemed irritated.

Finally, she left Novalee to manage the pump by herself, but she didn’t have any luck. But when Lexie Coop came in with a pitcher of fresh ice water, she took over the pump. Her hands, still smelling of bacon, were warm against Novalee’s flesh and her voice was gentle, soothing. Novalee’s milk filled the jar.

Flowers began to arrive in the middle of the day, the cards addressed to the Wal-Mart baby. They came from banks, churches, politicians, schoolchildren—people Novalee had never heard of. She had flowers in baskets and ceramic vases with plastic storks and rubber clowns posed inside.

Novalee was reading a card attached to a single white rose when there was a knock at the door, and a second later, a tall, gray-haired man in a baseball cap stuck his head inside.

“Is it okay if I come in?” he asked.

“Are you a reporter?”

“No.” He stepped into the room. “I’m Sam Walton.”

“Who?”

“Sam Walton. I own Wal-Mart.”

“Which one?”

“Well, actually . . .” He ducked his head then, like he was embarrassed. “I own all of them.”

“Oh.” Novalee cringed then, knowing why he had come.

“I don’t know your last name.”

He made “your last name” sound like a question, but Novalee didn’t say anything.

“Is it all right if I call you Novalee? That’s what they called you on television.”

She nodded.

“You have some pretty flowers.”

“I don’t know any of the people who sent them though.”

“Well, I guess they heard about you having your baby in the store . . .”

He didn’t finish what he started to say, but just let “store” drift for a few seconds while he examined some ivy leaves in a ceramic planter shaped like a baby shoe.

“A little girl, they say. How is she?”

“She’s in an incubator, but that’s just a precaution.”

“Americus. I heard you named her Americus.”

“I did.”

“That’s a fine name.”

“A strong name,” she said.

Sam Walton nodded, then stared at Novalee like he expected her to say something, like he wanted her to explain, but she didn’t know what to say. They were both quiet for a long time, so long that Novalee finally coughed, but it wasn’t a real cough.

“The reason I came . . .”

“Mr. Walton, I kept track of it all. The food. The clothes. And the sleeping bag. The other stuff, too.”

“But I . . .”

“I have it all written down, the cost of everything. And it’s a lot of money. Over three hundred dollars.”

“Well, that’s one of the things I want to talk to you about.”