Where the Heart Is (19 page)

“Anyway, when Christmas came, that first year we were together, we made all kinds of plans. She was going to buy me a bicycle and I was going to get her a heating pad. But right after she got her December check, she had one of her spells and ended up spending all the money on a forklift. An old Clark Clipper.”

Forney, mesmerized by Novalee’s story, put his sandwich on the ground.

“By the time Christmas came, we were living on milk and eggs and we’d killed two of her chickens. And there wasn’t a bicycle or a heating pad or a tree. Grandma Burgess felt awful about spending all the money. So, you know what she did?”

Forney shook his head.

“She got some green paint she had out in a shed and she painted a Christmas tree on the living room wall. A big tree!” Novalee stood up and stretched her hand over her head. “From the floor to the ceiling. We made some decorations and taped them on.” She shrugged. “That was our tree.”

“My God. And you were eight? An eight-year-old kid expecting a bicycle and—”

“Well, I got something better than a bicycle.” She smiled. “She gave me the forklift.”

Novalee rummaged in the sack. “You want some peanut butter cookies?”

They had, by Forney’s account, walked eight miles along the mill road . . . over fences, across cattle guards, up the landfill, along the creek, and it was late afternoon when Novalee suddenly stopped.

“That’s it, Forney,” she said. She pointed to a stand of half-dead pecan trees—but at their edge was a blue spruce, a spruce with a straight trunk, full boughs, and “a tip made for an angel.”

“It’s perfect,” Novalee said.

And Forney knew she was right.

By the time he dug up the spruce, carried it back and loaded it into the pickup, the light was fading. When they got back to town and Novalee turned down Evergreen, it was dark, but the street was bright with color.

Henry and Leona had strung lights around the eaves of their duplex—green ones on his side, red on hers. Dixie Mullins’ yard, bathed in an iridescent glow from sack candles that lined her sidewalk, looked shimmery, like silver. The nativity scene on the front porch of the Ortiz trailer was lit by a spotlight Mr. Ortiz had rigged up in an oak tree at the edge of the street.

There were more lights at the end of the block, bright swirling lights flashing red and blue like neon in the street in front of Sister Husband’s trailer.

Novalee’s mouth went dry and her legs began to tremble. She mashed on the gas and the Toyota shot across the rock garden at the edge of Dixie’s drive, then bounced across the gully that ran beside the Ortiz sidewalk.

“Novalee,” Forney called, but she had already thrown the door open and tumbled out, then was up, running . . . jumping across the rose garden and stumbling into the branches of the buckeye . . .

racing past the police cars parked in the driveway, their red and blue lights making clicking sounds as they turned, splashing Novalee’s face with color.

She was flying up the steps when Sister rushed out the door, her face pulled into hard lines of hurt.

“Darlin’, I don’t know how—”

“Sister, what’s—”

“No more than turned around—”

“But how could—”

“Gone, Novalee.”

“Oh, God—”

“Gone.”

“No!”

“Americus is gone.”

THE POLICEMAN who asked the questions had seen Novalee before. He had been on duty the night Americus was born, had been the first one to arrive at Wal-Mart after the alarm was called in.

“And the front door was unlocked?” he asked.

“Yes, but I just went out to the shed,” Sister explained. “Wasn’t gone more’n a few minutes. Went to get a box of Christmas decorations, seeing as how Novalee and Forney were bringing a tree.”

“So whoever took the baby came in the front and went out the front.”

“Had to. I would’ve seen ’em if they’d come in the back. Shed’s not twenty feet away from the back door.”

“But when you came back in . . .”

“She was gone.” Sister’s voice broke then and she grabbed Novalee’s hand. “Oh, darlin’.”

“Was anything else missing? Jewelry? Money?”

“No, I don’t have nothing except for my wheat pennies, right there on the sideboard.” Sister pointed to a jar filled with coins.

“Did you notice anything unusual today? Anyone strange in the neighborhood? A car you didn’t recognize? Anything like that?”

“No. Not that I can remember.”

The policeman turned to Novalee, giving her a stiff smile. “Miss Nation, will you describe your little girl for me?”

“I have lots of pictures.”

“Good. But I’m going to need a written description, too.”

“Well, she weighs nineteen pounds. She has green eyes and light brown hair that grows . . . like this.” Novalee blinked back tears as she touched her own hairline to illustrate. “In a widow’s peak.”

“How old is she?”

“Seven months,” she said. “Seven.” And her mouth burned with a bitter taste, the taste of something scorched and dry. She had been hovering over Americus for days trying to get past that seven, then had risked it all for a Christmas tree.

The policeman wrote down everything Novalee said in a small notebook.

“Is there anyone you can think of who might have taken your daughter?”

Novalee squinted as if she were trying to “see” the question, to bring it into focus.

“Anyone who might be mad at you,” he said, “or jealous. Someone who might have a score to settle?”

“No.” Novalee bit at her lip. “No, I can’t think of anyone.”

“Miss Nation, you think there could be any connection between this and your baby being born at Wal-Mart?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it was all over the news . . . on the TV, in the papers. Lots of people knew about it. And I suppose some of them wrote to you?

Called you on the phone?”

“Yes. They did.”

“Did you hear anything strange? A threat of any kind? I mean, there are some real crazies out there.”

“I got a few letters like that. People who said they wished I’d died.

Me . . . and Americus, too.”

Novalee was gripped by a sudden chill that left her weak and trembling. Forney picked up an afghan from the couch and put it around her shoulders.

“Did you keep any of those letters?” the policeman asked.

“No, not the mean ones. I didn’t keep those.”

“Do you remember any of the names? The signatures on those letters?”

“They weren’t signed.”

“So you can’t think of anyone who might want to hurt you or maybe just scare you by taking your daughter.”

Novalee shook her head.

“How about the baby’s father?”

“Who?”

“Your baby’s father.”

The words came spinning at her. “Baby’s father.” Novalee was stunned to realize that she had never, not once since Americus was born, let herself think of Willy Jack as “the baby’s father.”

“Have you seen him?” the policeman asked.

“No.”

“Any idea where he is?”

“I don’t know. California, I guess.”

“You know where we can reach his family?”

“He has a cousin in Bakersfield. And his mother lives in Tellico Plains, in Tennessee. But that’s all I know.”

“And what’s his name . . . the father?”

“Willy Jack Pickens,” she said. Then she began to tremble again.

While the police poked around outside, their flashlight beams crisscrossing the yard, neighbors slipped into the trailer, bringing sandwiches and pitchers of spiced tea. They spoke quietly and dabbed at red eyes as they squeezed Novalee’s shoulder and patted Sister Husband’s hand.

The oldest Ortiz girl brought Novalee dried rose petals from her communion corsage while her two younger sisters cried almost soundlessly as they sat on Forney’s lap. Mr. Ortiz prayed in Spanish while his wife worried at a rosary, shaking her head in sad disbelief.

Henry questioned everybody about a blue Ford he’d seen earlier in the day; Leona read a poem on faith that she had cut from an Ann Landers column. Dixie Mullins said she had had a premonition because of a conversation with her dead husband earlier in the week.

They tried to tempt Novalee to eat and encouraged her to rest.

They offered help with money and the promise of more food, but they knew that what Novalee needed was something they couldn’t give, so, one by one, they slipped outside to stand in the yard and wait.

Sister put on another pot of coffee, the third of the night. Novalee handed a pad and pen to Forney.

“Will you make the list? I’m too shaky to write.”

“Sure.”

“Okay,” Novalee said as she pulled the afghan tight around her shoulders. “There’s a woman at work doesn’t like me much. She wanted the job I’ve got. But I really don’t think she’d take Americus.

She’s close to retirement. Besides, she teaches Sunday School.”

“Darlin’, old women who teach Sunday School got just as much meanness in ’em as the rest of us, I’m afraid,” Sister Husband offered.

“The policeman said to write down anybody who might be trying to get even with you,” Forney said.

“All right. Her name’s Snooks Lancaster.”

Forney wrote the name on the pad Novalee had given him.

“Now. Let’s see. There was a guy named Buster Harding stole a waffle iron from a cafe where I worked once. Said he was going to get me because I told the boss and got him fired. But that was almost four years ago. I can’t imagine Buster would know where I am now.”

“You never know,” Sister said. “All that publicity, he could’ve seen you on the TV.”

“Can you think of anyone else here in town, anyone you’ve met since you’ve been here?” Forney lowered his eyes, pretending to study the two names on the list. “Like that guy you go out with.”

“Troy Moffatt? I don’t go out with him anymore.”

“He still calls here sometimes,” Sister said. “Won’t leave his name, but I know his voice.”

“Would he have something against you, Novalee?”

“Well, he might, but . . .”

“Then maybe I’d better add his name to the list.”

“Okay, but I don’t know any reason he’d take Americus. Truth is, I don’t know why anyone would.”

* * *

When the Gremlin parked in Sister’s driveway, the policemen clustered near the street eyed Lexie suspiciously until one of them recognized her as she climbed out of the car.

She charged across the yard and onto the porch, then stopped just short of the door. Taking a deep breath, she tried to strip the concern from her face, but as she walked in and wrapped Novalee in her arms, she couldn’t hide the fear in her voice.

“Have you heard anything yet?”

Novalee shook her head. “Not a word.

“How long has she been gone?”

“Long enough to be scared. Long enough to be sick. Or hurt.”

“Do you know—”

“I don’t know anything, Lexie. I don’t know where she is or who she’s with. I don’t know if she’s cold, if she’s hungry.”

“I’ll bet she’s fine, honey.” Lexie twisted her lips into a smile that felt wired to her mouth, but it was the best she could manage. “I’ll bet whoever has her is taking good care of her.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, ’cause the woman who took her—”

“A woman? You think a woman took Americus?”

“Well, the police think so, I guess. They got everyone at the hospital going through admission records.”

“What for?”

“They’re looking at OB-GYN admissions. Every woman who’s miscarried or still-birthed a baby.”

“But lots of women miscarry without going to a hospital. And even if she did, there must be—”

“They’re gonna find her, Novalee. I know they’re gonna find her.”

* * *

Sister had called Mr. Sprock shortly after the police left, but he was at the pool hall playing moon until ten-thirty. When she did reach him, he came right on over.

He kissed them all when he arrived, even Forney, and his eyes reddened every time someone spoke Americus’ name. He carried a handkerchief, kept it near his mouth and talked only in whispers.

He took over jobs wherever he found them—emptied the trash, kept the coffee brewing, wiped up crumbs and swiped at coffee rings.

When Forney said they needed a calendar, Mr. Sprock took one from the wall and spread it out before them at the kitchen table.

“Let’s see,” Sister said. “I delivered one Welcome Wagon basket on Monday morning, before Novalee went to work. Then I worked at the IGA passing out cheese puffs on Wednesday.”

“So you were home the rest of the week?” Forney asked.

“Oh, I went to my AA meeting on Thursday night.”

“Anyone there who might have some grudge against you?”

“At AA?”

“Someone who would want to hurt you for some reason?”

“No, Forney. We’re alcoholics. We’re generally satisfied just to hurt ourselves.”

Forney considered that for a moment, then he nodded. “Let’s go through the week and try to figure out who came here, to the trailer.”

“Okay. On Monday afternoon that Douglas boy with the gas company came to check the furnace.”

“Would he be a suspect?”

“Oh, no. I’ve known him all his life. Went to school with his granddaddy. They’re good people.”

“Good people,” Mr. Sprock whispered.

“I was here on Tuesday with the kids,” Lexie said.

“That’s right, and Dixie Mullins came right after you left. Brought over some sourdough bread.”

“Sister, how about door-to-door salesmen, that sort of thing.”

“No. I get some of the school kids selling Girl Scout cookies, or candy for the band, but not here lately. Jehovah’s Witnesses came by—no, that was last week, or the week before. I can’t remember.”

“Anyone else?”

“Well, Mr. Sprock came to me on Tuesday evening, while Novalee and the baby were at Lexie’s for supper.”

Mr. Sprock smiled a sad smile and stroked Sister’s hand. “Tuesday evening,” he whispered.

“I’m afraid that’s it, Forney. No one very dangerous, I guess.”

“You’re right.” Forney leaned back and ran his hands through his hair. “I just hoped you might recall someone . . . a stranger . . . a phone call . . .”

“Forney!” Sister yelled, then slapped her hand on the table. “That woman!”