Where the Heart Is (14 page)

“Seeing where I am right now, I don’t figure I’m gonna be playing no music.”

“Oh, but you can.”

“No, my guitar . . .” Willy Jack let his voice trail off as if what he were about to say was too painful.

“What? What is it?”

“It’s just . . . well, my guitar.” His voice broke then. “I sure do miss it.”

“But you can have your guitar in your cell. Didn’t you know that?”

“No, ma’am. I didn’t.”

“You just tell me where it is and I’ll have it sent here for you.”

“Well, you see, there was a fire. My grandma’s house burned . . .”

He struggled to go on. “Lost everything—my house, my music. It’s all gone.” Willy Jack took a few moments to create a kicked-puppy look, then brightened—as much as possible. “But I’m glad you told me about your son. It almost makes me and your Finny sound like brothers, don’t it?”

Claire Hudson smiled then, her eyes once more filling with tears.

And Willy Jack knew right then he was going to get a guitar, maybe even the Martin he had seen in the pictures, if it had survived.

He knew he was going to get not only a guitar, but almost anything else he wanted while he was in prison. And he was right.

The next day, Claire Hudson showed up with Finny’s guitar, the Martin, and by that night, Willy Jack had taught himself three chords.

A week later he was playing a couple of John Cougar Mellencamp songs, and within three months he would write a song called “The Where the Heart Is

Beat of a Heart,” a song that would soar to the top of the country charts and that would, within three years, sell over a million copies.

WHEN NOVALEE took the job waiting for her at Wal-Mart, the other employees ran wild with rumors. Sam Walton was the father of her child; Novalee was blackmailing him with the threat of a paternity suit; Americus was going to inherit the Walton millions. But by the time Novalee collected her first paycheck, gossip had already shifted to an affair between a forty-year-old married woman who managed sporting goods and her nineteen-year-old first cousin, a bushy-haired boy called Petey who worked in customer service.

But if they had been paying attention, they could have added a new rumor to the mill on that payday when Novalee took Sister Husband’s Toyota in to have the brakes fixed.

She parked in front of the automotive center at the side of the store at nine-thirty. Just as she cut the motor, the big overhead door swung open and twenty-six-year-old Troy Moffatt, slim-hipped and golden-haired, stood squinting against the sun.

“Hey!” he yelled. “You can’t park there. We ain’t open yet.”

“I know that, but I’ve got to get to work.”

“Well, that ain’t my problem. My problem is keepin’ this door clear.”

“But I’m bringing it in to have it worked on.”

“Then bring it in at ten o’clock.”

“I can’t.”

“And you can’t leave it there.”

“Let me leave the keys with you and—”

“Lady, you’re gonna have to move your Toyota.”

Novalee started the pickup, then revved the engine to show him how mad she was . . . until it died. She tried to start it again, giving it more gas as the engine kept grinding, but it wouldn’t turn over.

“Okay. Okay!” Troy yelled as he stomped to the side of the truck and jerked open the driver’s door. “Scoot over.”

“Forget it!”

“Scoot over. I’ll drive you to work, bring your truck back here.”

“No, I’ll . . .”

By then, he was sliding under the wheel, his body pushing hers across the seat. She hoped the truck wouldn’t start, but it did. The first try.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s make this quick. Where to?” He backed out smoothly, then turned up the lane that ran parallel to the store.

“Go around the corner, left . . . toward the street.”

After he negotiated the turn, she said, “Stop right here.”

“What for?”

“You said you were going to drive me to work.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, this is where I work.” She jabbed her thumb toward the door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

“Oh hell,” he said. “Why didn’t you say so?” His face reddened.

“I’m sorry.” He smiled at her then and for the first time, she noticed that his eyes were the color of brown sugar.

“It’s the brakes,” she said. “That scraping noise.” She opened the door and slid out. “The name’s Nation and I’ll pick it up at six.” She slammed the door and marched away, feeling his eyes on the curve of her hips—pleased, for some reason, that he was watching her.

As soon as Novalee got her lunch break, she headed for the snack bar to meet Lexie Coop, the only girlfriend she’d had since Rhonda Talley was sent to reform school back in the seventh grade.

Lexie brought her children to Wal-Mart two or three times a week, cheaper entertainment, she declared, than miniature golf or the video arcade. At Wal-Mart, she could load them into a shopping cart, then wander the aisles for as long as she wanted. They never demanded toy guns or Barbie dolls, never cried to get out of the cart or whined because they felt crowded. Their bodies, soft and sticky, malleable as warm cookie dough, pillowed together free of sharp elbows and bony knees.

Lexie always packed a sack of treats . . . jelly sandwiches or cinnamon rolls, banana bread, sugar cookies. The children shared their food and licked their fingers, then yawned and smiled while Lexie browsed the aisles in search of yarn or sequins or pastel cotton balls—materials for their holiday crafts. They produced Santa dolls and leprechauns, Easter baskets and Valentines, but they were little concerned with calendars or time. They might dye eggs in January and make witch costumes in July, but there was never a question of being early or late. Not one of them cared.

They were already crowded into a booth waiting for their order when Novalee arrived.

“Hi, Nobbalee,” they said in unison.

Novalee kissed them all, then wiped at a sticky spot on her nose.

The children were wedged together like Gummi Bears . . . bits of sugar and cinnamon stuck to their cheeks and chins, their fingers glazed with jelly and something green.

“I went ahead and ordered for you,” Lexie said.

“Good. I didn’t have time for breakfast and I’m about to starve.”

“Oversleep?”

“No. Sister is working at the IGA today, so Mrs. Ortiz is keeping Americus. By the time I got all her things together and made three or four trips next door, it was almost nine.”

“You’re lucky to have good sitters.”

“And they all want to keep her. Dixie Mullins, Henry and Leona. I think they’re glad when Sister has to go to work.”

At some unspoken signal, all of Lexie’s children slid out of the booth together, as if they were permanently joined. They brought back trays of food that covered the table: hot dogs, french fries, nachos and onion rings. Then Lexie reached into her purse and pulled out a bundle of chopsticks held together by a rubber band. The children waited quietly as Lexie handed a pair to each of them.

“It may look strange, Novalee, but I have this theory. People who eat with chopsticks are thin. You know why?”

“Well . . .”

“You think it’s because they eat rice and vegetables, but that’s not it. It’s because you can’t eat fast with these things.”

Lexie’s chopsticks clacked like knitting needles as she piled jalapeño peppers on a stack of nachos, then scooped up a glob of cheese.

“I’ve already lost eight pounds.”

Her chopsticks cut a swath through the fries, then scissored a hot dog in half.

The two older children, Brownie and Praline, were as adept with the sticks as their mother. The twins, Cherry and Baby Ruth, whose motor skills were not as finely tuned, were, nevertheless, managing just fine. None of them complained or got angry, but each ate quietly and cooperatively, passing food, sharing drinks and, from time to time, sighing with contentment.

Lexie didn’t speak again until she had finished eating and put her chopsticks aside.

“I met someone, Novalee.”

“You mean . . .”

“Yeah. Someone!”

“Who?”

“His name’s Woody. Woody Sams. And he’s nice, Novalee. Real nice.”

“Tell me.”

“Monday night, I worked the late shift in emergency because one of the night aides is in jail. So Woody came in, dislocated shoulder and abrasions. Ran a motorcycle into the side of a pickup. Well, they patch him up and when he’s leaving, he asks me to go out for coffee, but I tell him I have to get home to my kids and let the babysitter go.

So he asks me if he can come over the next night, Tuesday, and I say okay and he does. He brought a video, The Black Stallion, and some presents for the kids—a puzzle and some checkers. He really likes kids. Said he couldn’t have any because when he was a teenager, he got the mumps and they went down on him and—”

“What does that mean? They went down on him.”

“Well, you know.” Lexie pooched out her cheeks, made a popping sound, then pointed to her crotch. “They went down on him.”

“Oh.”

“Here honey,” Lexie said to Baby Ruth, “you’ve got a piece of pickle in your hair.”

“So did you and Woody—?”

“No! We didn’t even kiss but once, when he left, but it was nice.

Anyway, he can’t have kids, so I don’t have that to worry about. I think I like him.”

“You think?”

“Well, he’s not perfect or anything.” Lexie lowered her voice, pulled her mouth into a frown. “He chews tobacco. And he’s an atheist.”

“Oh, I guess no one’s perfect.”

“I know.” Lexie shook her head. “But girls like us, Novalee . . . we don’t get the pick of the litter.”

“Troy!” The middle-aged man at the service counter yelled to the back of the shop. “Woman’s here for the Toyota.”

Troy Moffatt slid out from under the pickup, flashing Novalee a smile as he came toward her. “It’s more of a problem than I bargained for,” he said, wiping grease from his hands with a towel already black.

“Is it going to cost a lot?”

“Probably won’t be too bad, but I won’t be finished till tomorrow.”

He dodged then, feinting as if she might be tempted to throw a punch.

“Well, shoot.”

“You need a ride? I could run you home.”

“No. That’s okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

As she walked out, she heard him say something just under his breath, but she didn’t turn, didn’t ask him what he’d said.

She had walked two blocks, was crossing the four-way stop, when a banged-up Ford pulled up behind her and honked.

“Come on,” he said. He leaned across and opened the passenger door. “It’s on my way home.”

Novalee got in, shut the door. “You know where I live?”

“No. But wherever it is, it’s on my way home.” He eased the Ford across the intersection.

“Look, about this morning . . .” He cut his eyes at her and grinned.

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay.”

“I just hadn’t seen you around. I know most everyone who works here. By sight anyway.”

“Well, I haven’t been here very long.”

“That’s what I hear.”

Novalee eyed him suspiciously, certain then he had heard about her and Americus, but he kept his eyes on the road.

“I’m really going to need that truck tomorrow,” she said. “The woman I live with, it’s hers, but she lets me drive it whenever I need to.”

“It’ll be ready by noon.”

He lit a cigarette then. Novalee wondered if he chewed tobacco, too.

“I fixed a couple of things inside. Your radio and that dome light.”

“Look, I don’t know if I can afford all that. See, I’m going to pay for it myself. It’s a surprise for the woman who owns it, but—”

“I ain’t gonna charge you extra. But when I drove it, to check the brakes, I tried the radio and then I noticed the dome light, so I fixed

’em.”

“Well, thanks,” she said, sounding more angry than grateful.

“You sell books?”

“What? Books . . . no.”

“Well, you got a God’s plenty of ’em in that Toyota.”

“Oh, I forgot. You think they’ll be okay . . . leaving them in there overnight?”

“You kidding?”

“I mean, they’re library books. They don’t belong to me.”

“You think any of those boys workin’ in automotive is gonna steal books?” He laughed then. “Now they might swipe a Willie Nelson tape or maybe a fishin’ lure, but they ain’t about to steal a book.”

Novalee bit at her lip thinking how upset Forney would be if he knew where his books were.

“What are they? Love books?”

“No.”

“I used to go with a girl that read them love books.”

“Turn left here.”

“She was all the time talkin’ about the flames of love and . . . hearts on fire, and stuff.” His voice slid into a higher range as he curled his lips around the words. “Oh, my burnin’ soul of love.”

When his voice broke, cracked like an adolescent boy’s, Novalee laughed, and so did he.

“This is my street. I’ll just get out here.”

“No, I’ll take you to your house. Which way?”

She motioned to the right. “It’s the trailer at the end of the block.”

“You want to go out sometime?” he asked.

“Go out?”

“Yeah. With me. On a date.”

“Oh. Well, I don’t go out. I have a baby.”

“People with babies go out sometimes, you know.”

“I guess.”

“You mean you guess you’ll go out with me or you guess people with babies go out?”

He smiled and winked one of his brown sugar eyes.

“So. You want to go?”

“Go where?”

Troy shrugged. “To a movie. Dancin’. Shoot some pool. Whatever you want to do.”

As they pulled up in front of Sister’s, Novalee saw Forney on the porch with Americus.

“How about Saturday?” Troy asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow when you pick up your truck. Maybe you’ll know then.”

“Thanks for the ride.”

As soon as Novalee stepped out of the car, Troy backed into the driveway, then turned on his bright lights, catching her in the crossbeam. Blinded by the glare, she stopped, unsure of where she was going.

MR. WHITECOTTON?”

When he turned, his eyes narrowed as he focused on hers.