Where the Heart Is (3 page)

Novalee nodded.

“I ran out of these last week. This was the only one I could find for myself, so I wrote two or three of my own appointments in there. My AA meetings. But if you aren’t an alcoholic, then you’ll know those dates aren’t for you.”

“No ma’am, I’m not.”

“Good. I think that’s good. But remember, we all fall. That’s what the late Brother Husband used to say.”

“Sister Husband. Can I take your picture?”

If the question surprised her, Sister Husband didn’t show it. “Why, Ruth Ann. How sweet,” she said. She took off her glasses and sucked in her stomach until Novalee snapped the camera. They watched together as the picture developed.

“Oh, looks like my eyes are crossed. I always take such awful pictures.”

“No, it’s good.”

“You really think so?”

“Yes, I do.”

“You’re sweet, Ruth Ann. Real sweet.”

Sister Husband gave Novalee a quick hug, then she climbed in the Toyota and started it up.

“I live on Evergreen, Ruthie. You’ll find it on your map. Last house on the left. You come out there anytime you can. And bring that baby! You two will always be welcome.”

“Thank you, Sister Husband. And I’m gonna put this picture in a frame to keep for my baby.”

Sister Husband drove away, but Novalee stood in the parking lot 2 and waved at the little covered wagon heading west until it was out of sight.

Back inside the store, Novalee stopped at a wooden porch swing displayed near the door. She ran her hand across the dark wood and thought of cool yellow porches and morning glories thick on white trellises.

“Old man out on Sticker Creek makes porch swings out of hickory.”

She turned toward the voice and the big black man sitting on her bench.

“Those won’t last,” he said. “Threads’ll strip in that soft wood.

You want a swing that’ll last, go out on Sticker Creek.”

“Where’s that?” she asked.

“You new in town?”

“Yes. No. Well, I haven’t been here very long.”

“A newcomer then.”

He smiled and scooted over on the bench, an invitation for her to join him.

He was the blackest man Novalee had ever seen, so black his skin reflected light. She thought if she leaned close enough, she could see herself in his face. He was dressed in a suit and had a briefcase on the floor beside him. Novalee had never seen a black man with a briefcase before.

She put her plastic beach bag and the welcome basket between them, giving herself little room at the other end of the bench.

“My name’s Whitecotton. Moses Whitecotton.”

“Oh.” She started to tell him hers, but changed her mind.

“Some of my family shortened their name to White. But that’s not their name. Name’s Whitecotton.”

“Why’d they change it?”

“They found some shame in it. Said it was a slave name. But it’s theirs. And it’s mine.”

Moses Whitecotton was still for a moment, staring off at something Novalee couldn’t see.

“Name’s important,” he said. “Keeps track of who you are.”

“I guess so.”

“That’s right. Name’s an important thing. You picked a name for your baby yet?”

“No, but I got some I’m thinking about.”

“Well, take your time. Can’t rush a thing like that. Name’s too important to hurry.”

Novalee reached into her beach bag and pulled out a package of Life Savers, then she put the bag on the floor, under the bench. The top Life Saver was green, her favorite, but she offered it to Moses Whitecotton.

“Thanks, but I’m a diabetic. Can’t take sugar.”

“You know,” she said as she popped the Life Saver into her mouth.

“I’ve been thinking about Wendi, with an i, or maybe Candy, if it’s a girl.”

“Get your baby a name that means something. A sturdy name.

Strong name. Name that’s gonna withstand a lot of bad times. A lot of hurt.”

“I never thought of that.”

“I used to be an engraver . . . trophies, plaques. Cut gravestones, too. You do a thing like that, you think about names.”

“Yeah, I guess you would.”

“See, the name you pick out is gonna be with your baby when nothing else is. When nobody is. ’Cause you ain’t always gonna be there.”

“Oh, I’m never gonna leave her. The way some people just leave, go right out of your life. I’m never gonna do that.”

“But you’re not gonna live forever. You’re gonna die. We’re all gonna die. Me. Her. You.”

Novalee swallowed her Life Saver.

“You’re dying right now. Right this minute.” He looked at his watch, said, “Right this second,” then tapped it with his finger. “See there? That second passed. It’s gone. Not gonna come again. And while I’m talking to you, every second I’m talking, a second is passing.

Gone. Count them up. Count them down. They’re gone. Each one bringing you closer to your dying time.”

“I don’t like to think about that.”

“You ever think about this? Every year you live, you pass the anniversary of your death. Now, you don’t know what day it is, of course. You follow what I’m saying?”

Novalee nodded, but just barely, as if too much movement might break her concentration.

“Look here. Say you’re gonna die on December eighth. Course, you don’t know the date because you’re still alive. But every year you live, you pass December eighth without knowing it’s the anniversary of your death. You see what I mean?”

“Yeah.” Novalee was wide-eyed, stunned by this startling new idea. “I’d never thought of that.”

“No, not a lot of folks do. But listen. You’re gonna die. But your name’s not. No. It’s gonna be written in somebody’s Bible, printed in some newspaper. Cut into your gravestone. See, that name has a history.”

“And home is the place where your history begins,” she said softly.

“And that history is gonna be there when you’re not.”

He turned his palms up, hands open . . . empty. He had given her all he could and she had taken it.

“Here,” he said. He picked up his briefcase and while he adjusted it on his lap, Novalee moved the Welcome Wagon basket to the other side of her and scooted over next to Moses Whitecotton. The briefcase was full of pictures.

“Why do you have all of those?”

“I’m a photographer now. Go around to stores and take pictures of babies.”

“Can I see some?”

He shuffled through a dozen pictures. Babies smiling, frowning, crying. Brown babies, black babies, white babies. Curly haired, blue-eyed, red-haired and bald.

“You bring your baby in here a few months from now, I’ll take her picture for free.”

“You will?”

“Sure. Here’s what I’m looking for.”

Moses Whitecotton handed Novalee a satin baby book. “We give these away with a hundred-dollar order.” He opened the first page. “That’s where you write in your baby’s name. Be sure it’s the right one.”

“I will.”

He reassembled the pictures in his briefcase and snapped it shut.

“Mr. Whitecotton, could I take your picture?”

“Mine?”

She nodded.

“Sure.”

Novalee took the camera out of the beach bag, stood in front of him and snapped the picture.

Just then, a young man, blond and polished, stepped between them.

“Hi, I’m Reggie Lewis. My girl said you were waiting to see me? Is it Mose?”

“No. It’s Moses Whitecotton.”

“Oh. Okay. You want to come back to my office?” Reggie walked off, leading the way.

Moses Whitecotton offered his hand to Novalee. “Good luck.”

His hand was sturdy, strong and Novalee liked the way it felt to have her hand in his.

“Thank you for the baby book.”

“My pleasure,” he said, then he walked away.

Novalee watched him go, then looked at the picture in her hand, the picture of Moses Whitecotton, and for a moment, just for a moment, she thought she saw herself in his face.

At just after seven, Novalee had a chili dog and a root beer float.

Then she bought a copy of the American Baby Magazine, hoping to find a list of names to choose from, but it didn’t have one. Instead, she read an article entitled “Staying Fit During Pregnancy,” which prompted her to have a package of beef jerky for extra protein and then to take a brisk walk. She circled the parking lot three times, breathing deeply from her diaphragm as the article had suggested, but the Oklahoma heat tired her quickly and she plodded through the last lap.

She looked up when a pickup pulled in and parked nearby. The back was filled with small trees, their roots wrapped in burlap. A hand-lettered sign on the side of the truck read, BEN GOODLUCK

NURSERY. EARTH CARE GROWERS.

The driver, a tall, thin Indian man, got out and went into the store.

His passenger, a young boy, waited in the truck.

Novalee walked over, studied the sign for a few seconds, then traced the word “Goodluck” with her finger. The boy, a ten-year-old copy of the man, leaned out his window and watched her.

“Is your name Goodluck?” she asked.

The boy nodded.

“Wish that was my name.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s a strong name. A name that’s gonna withstand a lot of bad times.”

“I guess so,” he said. “What happened to your arm?” He touched the scar very lightly.

“I had some bad luck.” Novalee pointed to the bed of the truck.

“What kind of trees are those?”

“Buckeyes.”

“I never heard of those.”

The boy jumped out, fished in his pocket and pulled out a hard, brown nut . . . polished, shining.

“Here.” He held it out to her.

“What is it?”

“A buckeye.”

Novalee took it and rolled it around in the palm of her hand.

“It’s lucky,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“My grandpa told me. This was his grandpa’s, then his. And now it’s mine.”

“Did they have good luck?”

He nodded. “They were good hunters. So am I.”

“No. It’s good for lots of stuff. Lets you find things you need.

Helps you find your way home if you get lost. Lots of stuff.”

Novalee held the buckeye out to him.

“Make a wish first,” he said.

“A wish?”

“Yeah. Hold it in your hand and make a wish.”

“But it’s not my good luck charm. It’s yours.”

“Yeah, but it’ll work. Try it.”

“Okay.” Novalee clamped her fingers around the buckeye and closed her eyes tight, like a child waiting to be surprised. When she finished, she gave it back to the boy.

“What did you wish for?” he asked.

“If I tell you, it won’t come true.”

“Nah. That’s just when you wish on a star.”

“Can I take your picture?”

“I guess so.”

“Stand right there by the door of your truck so I can get your name, too. There. Just a little to the left. Good.”

Novalee snapped the picture just as the boy’s father returned to the truck.

“You ready to go, Benny?”

“Okay.” He opened the door and got in, then smiled at Novalee.

“Well, bye.”

“Bye, Benny Goodluck.”

The boy waved as the truck pulled away. Novalee crossed the parking lot, headed back to the store.

“Ma’am. Ma’am.”

She turned and shielded her eyes from the sun.

“Wait up,” Benny Goodluck called. He was running toward her, carrying one of the little buckeye trees. “Here. It’s for you.”

“For me? Why?”

“For good luck.” He put the tree down in the handicapped parking space.

“Oh, Benny. You knew what I wished for.”

“Yes, ma’am. I did.”

Then he turned and ran back to his father.

Novalee was looking at baby clothes when the intercom clicked on. The voice sounded tinny and distant, like a bad connection.

“Attention Wal-Mart shoppers. The time is now nine o’clock and your Wal-Mart Discount City is closing.

Novalee’s breath caught and she felt lightheaded.

“Please bring your final selections to . . .

Something surged in her chest, something hot and painful.

“We would like to remind you of our store hours . . .

Her heart raced, the beat irregular, heavy.

“We are open from nine . . .

Her mouth felt slick and tasted of cold chili.

“And, as always, thank you for shopping at Wal-Mart.”

She choked back the sourness that burned at her throat, wheeled and ran toward the bathroom at the back of the store.

The stall was empty, the room dark, but she didn’t have time to fumble for lights. She retched again and again until she felt drained.

Then, she sat in the dark trying not to think about the mess she was in. She had been pushing it from her mind all day, but now, it rushed in.

There must be, she told herself, things she could do. She could try to find Momma Nell, but she didn’t know Fred’s last name. She supposed there might be an umpires club, a place she could call, but there were probably lots of umpires named Fred.

She could call the State School for Girls to see if Rhonda Talley was still there. But stealing the ice cream truck had been Rhonda’s first offense, so she was likely free.

She could call Red, but she didn’t think he’d send her the money to come back to Tellico Plains. He’d already hired another waitress.

Then Novalee thought about Willy Jack. She could hitchhike, try to get to Bakersfield on her own. But she didn’t know if J. Paul’s last name was Pickens or Paul.

She wondered if Willy Jack had really left her. What if he had gone to get the car fixed. Or what if he was only playing a joke on her. He liked to do that. Maybe he drove off to scare her, then had a wreck before . . .

What if he had been kidnapped. Someone with a gun could have forced him to . . . She saw things like that on television.

What if . . .

Play like . . .

Just pretend . . .

But Novalee knew none of that had happened. And she knew Where the Heart Is

Momma Nell wouldn’t care where she was, Rhonda Talley probably wouldn’t even remember her—and Willy Jack had gone on without her.

She tasted the bile rising in her throat again, felt the grip of pain in her stomach. She would have fought against it, but was too tired. She let herself slip into blackness and disappear into space.