Where the Heart Is (25 page)

“Yeah.”

“Heard you up in the night.”

“I was looking for a pen.”

“You wanted to write? At three o’clock in the morning?”

“Well, it was something I had to finish up.”

Americus struck a trail from the front door of McDonald’s straight through to Playland where Praline, Brownie and the twins were taking turns at the slide. Lexie was wedged into a booth sipping a cup of coffee. She was forty pounds and six months into a pregnancy that had thinned her hair and sapped her energy.

“You been here long?”

“Oh, that depends on how you look at it,” Lexie said. “We came this morning at nine, for breakfast. Then we went to the clinic for my ten-thirty appointment and here we are, back in time for lunch.”

“You all are good customers.”

“Customers? Novalee, we’re family. We spend so much time here that Baby Ruth calls Ronald McDonald ‘brother.’”

Novalee laughed—a real laugh, her first in a long time. “You’re good for me, Lexie.”

“Well, somebody needs to be.” Lexie reached across the table and pushed Novalee’s hair back from her face. “You look like hell.”

“I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“It shows. How’d it go with Forney?”

“About like I figured.”

“That bad. huh?”

“Yeah. But he’s just so crazy about Americus. If we move away . . .”

“And he’s not crazy about you?”

“Sure. We’re best friends.”

“Oh, Novalee, open your eyes! You are not his friend. I’ve told you before. Forney Hull is in love with you.”

“Lexie, do you know the difference between love and friendship?”

“Is this a test?”

“Forney’s a wonderful, decent friend who’s stuck with me through some of the worst times of my life. Lexie, the man delivered my baby!

That kind of friendship . . . well, it’s maybe even stronger than love.”

“Oh, give me a break. He wants you so bad. I bet he dreams about sweeping you up in his arms and—”

“You read too many Harlequins.”

“Novalee, listen to me. The man is wild about you. He comes alive when he’s with you.”

“You’re talking crazy.”

“No! I see it . . . I watch him when you’re around. He thinks everything you say is wonderful. He loves the way you walk, the way you smell. He loves your hair, your skin, your little boobs . . .”

“Lexie, Forney’s not like us.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, he’s different. His people were educated. They had money.

Lexie, Forney lived in a house with a parlor. I’ve never even known anyone who said ‘parlor.’”

“I’ve said ‘parlor.’”

“He’s been to Europe. He’s studied music. He speaks three languages!”

“So what do you mean he’s not like us?”

“Lexie, I’m here, in this town, because a guy threw me away like a piece of trash. I’m poor and I’m ignorant and—”

“You’re not ignorant. You know things. You read more’n anyone I know.”

“I could read three books a day and I’d never know what Forney knows. I’d never be able to talk to him about great ideas or—”

“Novalee, will you listen to what you’re saying. A man can’t love you because you haven’t read as many books as he has? He can’t love you because you don’t speak French or because you don’t go to operas? You’re telling me we have to fall in love with people who are just like us?”

“No, not exactly.”

“If you’re right, then I deserved Woody Sams and I deserved what he did to me. He said he was gonna be a daddy to my kids because he couldn’t have kids of his own. ‘The mumps,’ he said.

Well,” Lexie rubbed her swollen belly, “I’ve got his mumps right here.”

“Lexie, I didn’t mean—”

“So he hangs around longer than most of the others, long enough to get me knocked up, then he walks out on me . . . no, let me correct that. He rides out on his Harley, with my dutch oven and my king-sized pillows. Rides out of town in the middle of the night, leaves me pregnant with number five, and you’re telling me we can only get what we deserve? That’s the best we can hope for?”

“Well, Lexie, you said it yourself. Girls like us don’t get the pick of the litter.”

“Vanilla,” Certain said.

“Right.” Novalee turned away from the pay phone in the IGA and whispered “vanilla” to Americus, who thumped her head again, a gesture she was about to perfect.

“Novalee. That Ray called here again. Said he needs to talk to you today.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“No. Just that it’s important.”

“All right. What’s that number?”

“765-4490.”

“I’ll call him.”

As soon as Novalee hung up, she put another quarter in the phone and punched in the number Certain had given her. A man answered on the first ring.

Ten minutes later, Novalee pulled into Sister’s driveway and parked behind a dark brown Buick as a small, thin man slid out of the driver’s seat and walked back to meet her.

“Hi. My name’s Ray,” he said.

Novalee shook the hand he offered, but she wasn’t aware of the pressure of his fingers or the smoke from his cigarette or the clean, pine smell of his aftershave. She didn’t see the fleck of tobacco stuck to his lower lip or the deep-set gray eyes that looked wounded and tired.

She was looking past him, just over his shoulder . . . looking past his Buick, past the driveway.

The trailer was gone. And the place where it had been showed no evidence it was ever there at all.

Nothing was left. Not the braces that had been wedged against the wheels, not the concrete blocks that had supported the tongue, not the aluminum that had wrapped around the underpinning. There wasn’t a shard of glass or a strip of tin . . . not a block of wood or even a brick.

It was all gone—the porch and the storage shed, the trellis and the birdbath. Swept smooth and clean. Swept away.

“Is this the first time you’ve been here? The first time since it happened?”

Novalee nodded as Americus slipped in beside her, reached up and took her hand.

“I’m very sorry,” he said. “I know you were close. She talked about you a lot.”

“You and Sister were . . .”

“Both alcoholics. That’s where I met her, at AA. Four years ago, about the time she found you. She was my sponsor.”

“Oh, you’re the one. The one who called . . .”

“In the middle of the night? Yes. I’m the one. The one she picked up at the Hi-Ho Club or the Red Dog Saloon . . . Bone’s Place.” Ray tossed his cigarette away and lit another one. “Wherever I ended up, she came after me.”

“Mommy?” Americus pulled at Novalee’s hand.

“She never gave up on me,” Ray said. “After I lost my practice, about to be disbarred . . . well, she’s the one who helped me turn it around.”

Novalee looked across the yard. “I just can’t believe it’s all gone.”

Americus unwrapped her hand from her mother’s, then scooted away.

“Yeah,” Ray said. “This must be quite a shock, but it might have been worse if you’d seen it before I had everything hauled off.”

“You did that?”

“I’m executor of the estate, so . . .”

“Estate?”

“Sister had a will.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick envelope. “It’s all in here.”

“What?”

“Her will, the deed, some checks . . . receipts. You’ll need to sign some papers, then—”

“Why?”

“Because she left it all to you, Miss Nation. The land. And the trailer. Insured, but just for the minimum. Eight thousand. And eight thousand on the contents. State Farm. The check’s in here.” Ray handed the envelope to Novalee. “And a check from National Republic, a life insurance policy for ten thousand, and you’re the beneficiary.”

“Mommy,” Americus called from across the yard.

“Anyway,” Ray said, “it’s all yours.”

Novalee took the envelope, her movements stiff and mechanical.

“Have you made any plans?”

bedrooms with old quilts and four-poster beds

“Will you be staying in this part of the country?”

kitchens with copper pots and blue china

“Mommy!”

walls covered with family pictures in gold frames

“Mommy, look!”

Novalee turned and saw Americus skipping around the buckeye tree—still tall, still straight, still alive.

it’s lucky . . . helps you find your way home if you get lost

“Or are you going back to Tennessee?”

home is where your history begins

“What?”

“I was just wondering if you’d be going back to Tennessee?”

“No. I’ll be staying here. Staying home.”

THE REDHEAD at the bar lit another cigarette and recrossed her legs, letting the fringed miniskirt slide farther up her thighs to reveal the crotch of her lace panties. She wanted to make sure the singer who called himself Billy Shadow kept her in his sights. She had nothing to worry about.

Willy Jack had her spotted, her and all the rest of them—the little brunette in tight jeans and halter top that just covered her nipples . .

. the leggy Hispanic in red boots and denim shorts that didn’t quite cover the cheeks of her ass . . . a doe-eyed girl who sucked her thumb every time he looked at her. Willy Jack hadn’t missed a one.

But tonight, he wasn’t looking for women. He was watching for Johnny Desoto, one of the biggest agents in the business, who was coming to hear him sing.

“So what can I do for you, Billy?”

“Well, Shorty Wayne said I ought to get in touch with you, Johnny. Said you like my song.”

“The Heartbeat, right?”

“The Beat of a Heart.”

“Nice tune.”

“Shorty said if I was in Dallas, I should give you a call.”

“You do that.”

“Well, that’s why I’m callin’.”

“You’re here in Dallas? Now?”

“Yeah. I opened at Cowpokes last week.”

“How long you gonna be around?”

“I’ll be here till the tenth.”

“I see.”

“So I thought . . .”

“Billy?”

“Yeah?”

“You still with Ruth Meyers?”

“Yeah, but I’m thinkin’ about makin’ some changes, Johnny.

If you know what I mean.”

As Willy Jack pumped his fist in the air to let the drummer know he was half a beat behind, he let his voice slide into the chorus of

“Mama, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys,” the first song of the set by Billy Shadow and Night River.

Cowpokes had gone over the occupancy limit of four hundred, even before Night River took the stage. An hour later, customers were still spilling through the door, eager to shell out the ten-dollar cover so they could pay five bucks a bottle for Lone Star longnecks.

On the trendy end of Greenville Avenue in Dallas, Cowpokes catered Where the Heart Is

to the young, monied crowd—fresh-faced professionals in Stetsons shading their eyes from disco strobes, fraternity boys from SMU

wearing six-hundred-dollar Lucchesi boots that would never cover rougher terrain than inlaid parquet, and thin golden women, their looks hard won by exercise coaches and tanning beds.

But Cowpokes was a long way from the places Willy Jack had started in, the cut-and-shoot clubs where Ruth Meyers had booked him in the beginning, mean places in tough towns—the Back Stabber Bar in Trinidad, Colorado . . . the Forked Tongue in Winslow, Arizona

. . . Coonasses and Crackers in Biloxi, Mississippi.

Ruth Meyers had wanted to see if Willy Jack had staying power, see if he could survive the glamorous world of entertainment. He could—but sometimes not by much.

In Chillicothe, Missouri, a place called the Hole in the Wall, a man in a wheelchair tried to kill him with a claw hatchet because the band couldn’t play “The Sound of Music.” In Decatur, Alabama, in Baby’s Bar and Grill, a woman held an ice pick to her husband’s ear and demanded that Willy Jack sing “Your Cheatin’ Heart.”

In Hot Springs, Arkansas, three brothers holding a wake for their father brought his body to the Rubber Rooster where they made Night River play “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain” from midnight till four the next morning.

And in Valdosta, Georgia, Willy Jack played in a bar called the Fang where he shared the stage with half a dozen cages of snakes. At feeding time, the bartender sold live mice for three bucks each and whenever a customer dropped a mouse into one of the cages, the band provided a drum roll and a chorus of “There Goes My Everything.”

Willy Jack scanned the Cowpokes crowd again, wondering why Johnny Desoto hadn’t shown up. Even with the place packed, he’d be easy to spot because he wore an eye patch, which, according to rumor, covered the ruins of an eye gouged out by a bull when Desoto had been on the rodeo circuit thirty years earlier.

“Can we have another round over here?” Willy Jack called to the bartender.

“No,” Johnny Desoto said. “It’s a little early in the day for me. Besides, I have a lunch meeting in an hour.”

“Then I’ll get right to the point.” Willy Jack leaned closer to the table, his tone confidential. “I think Ruth Meyers has went about as far with me as she can.”

“Is that right?”

“Man, she ain’t got the clout.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t underestimate Ruth Meyers. The woman’s got a track record.”

“Sure, she’s put a lot of musicians on stage, but—”

“She got your song recorded, Billy.”

“Shit!” Willy Jack shook his head in disgust. “A damned single by Shorty Wayne.”

“Now Shorty’s had some hits. He’s been up there. And he made a lot of people a lot of money, including Ruth Meyers.”

“Well, he ain’t made me rich.”

“He’s getting some air time.”

“That ain’t doing my career a hell of a lot of good.” Willy Jack held his empty glass up for the bartender to see.

“So what do you have in mind, Billy?”

“An album. My album . . . and a video. Some TV time. That’s what I need, someone to promote me.”

“And you don’t think Ruth Meyers is?”

“Hell, Johnny, Ruth Meyers ain’t got the clout.”

Willy Jack caught the attention of a barmaid and signaled for another shot of Wild Turkey as the piano player, a scrawny little guy called Davey D., kicked off “Misery and Gin.”

Davey D. was the only musician left of the four Ruth Meyers had put together to form Night River while she was creating Billy Shadow.