Where the Heart Is (27 page)

“Was he here?”

“No, but he called twice. Worried about you getting home in one piece.”

“I’ll call him in a minute.”

“You look bushed.”

“Yeah. I am.”

“How about a cup of coffee.”

“That sounds great.”

Novalee backed up to the fire, finally letting herself feel the strain of maneuvering the Chevy over miles of ice and snow.

The fireplace was something she hadn’t counted on when she built the house, something she knew she couldn’t afford. But Moses insisted she could, because he could build it. And he had. A real rock fireplace. He and Forney and Mr. Ortiz had hauled chunks of granite from the bed of Sticker Creek for two days.

Forney came back into the room and handed Novalee a steaming cup.

“Thanks. When did Americus go down?”

“About an hour ago, but it was a struggle.”

“Too excited about the snow?”

“Too worried about the animals. She was scared they’d freeze.

Wanted me to fix them some soup. ‘Give them a hot meal,’ she said.”

“And you did it, didn’t you?”

“Make soup? For a bunch of cats and dogs?” Forney threw his hands in the air to let Novalee see how ridiculous her question was.

“What did you make them?”

Forney ducked his head, dropped his voice. “A pan of gravy.”

“Forney, you’re a pushover.”

“It’s freezing out there, Novalee.”

“No doubt about that.”

“And if Americus is determined to take in the strays of the world, I figure she’s going to need some help from time to time.”

“Don’t suppose you kept any of that gravy for me?”

“Americus wouldn’t let me. She said there wasn’t enough. But I made you some creamed chicken.”

“Good. I’m starved.” She picked up a brochure from the coffee table. “What’s this?”

“Benny Goodluck left it for you. It’s that information you wanted on winter honeysuckle.”

“Did he say his dad ordered it?”

“No.”

“Did he mention the Indian hawthorn I asked about? Or how much it would cost for—”

“Novalee, that would be an awful lot of talking for Benny. He’s not real crazy about words.”

“Oh, he talks, Forney.”

“To you, yes. To me? No.” When the phone rang, Forney pointed to it. “That’ll be Mr. Sprock again. Ready to round up a Saint Bernard and go rescue you.”

Novalee picked up the receiver, then stretched the cord across a chair so she could stay close to the fire.

“Hello?”

“Novalee?” Lexie’s voice sounded hushed. “You got the TV on?”

“No. I just got home.”

“You haven’t heard the news?”

“What news?”

“About Sam Walton?”

“Mr. Sam?”

“He’s dead, Novalee. Sam Walton just died.”

Novalee was working returns when the announcement came on the intercom.

“Attention Wal-Mart customers and employees . . .

The woman leaning over the service counter smelled of horserad-ish and wore a fake fur coat that was buttoned crooked. She pulled a cotton sweater from a paper sack and shoved it across the counter to Novalee.

“I ain’t never had it on ’cause it’s too small.”

The sweater might have once been white, but it had grayed with age. Stains circled the underarms and the neck was stretched and misshapen.

“. . . because Sam Walton gained the respect of . . .

“It might fit a small-chested woman, but that ain’t me.”

Novalee turned the sweater inside out looking for a code tag, but it had been cut away.

“I’ll just take the refund ’cause I got too many sweaters now. My boyfriend says I take up the whole damned closet ’cause I got so many clothes.”

“. . . for a moment of silence in memory of Mr. Sam.”

“I paid nineteen ninety-five, plus tax.”

Novalee bowed her head and closed her eyes.

“Listen, I got my kids in the car. I gotta take them by my sister’s place and get to work by two.”

“. . . the valley of the shadow of death . . .” Novalee mouthed the words.

“Hey. Did you hear me? I’m in a hurry.”

“. . . goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

ON HER FIRST photography job Novalee got paid seventy dollars. Out of that, she spent twenty for film, five for gasoline, and she gave Benny Goodluck ten. If she’d added another three-fifty for their lunch at McDonald’s, she’d have cleared just over thirty dollars. But that didn’t matter. That didn’t matter to her at all.

She got the job because of Benny, whose math teacher was looking for someone to take pictures at her wedding. Carolyn Biddle didn’t have much money to spend and Novalee wasn’t looking to make much, so they struck a fast bargain.

“I got it, Benny. I got the job,” Novalee said as soon as he answered the phone.

“That’s great!”

“The wedding’s on the twenty-fourth, which is perfect because I have that weekend off and the Whitecottons will keep Americus so she won’t have to make the trip with me.”

“What trip?”

“To Tahlequah. Miss Biddle’s going to get married at her mother’s house in Tahlequah.”

“Are you going by yourself?”

“Sure.”

“What if you have a flat or something?”

“Benny, I know how to change a flat.”

“Yeah, but I was just thinking that maybe . . .”

“If the weather’s nice, they’re going to get married outside. She’s got everything planned. She even asked me to wear pink.”

“Why?”

“Because everything’s going to be pink. The flowers, the cake, the dresses.”

“What if someone shows up in purple. Or yellow? What’ll she do?”

“Benny, she’s a teacher. If she says, ‘wear pink,’ you wear pink.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“You know, I think I’ll shoot with Vericolor. Pink can be tricky if you shoot in the sun.”

“Maybe I could help you?”

“What?”

“Maybe I could go with you. Load your camera. Stuff like that.”

“Well . . .” Novalee tried not to sound surprised, but she was.

“Well, sure. Sure you can.”

“Really?”

“I’m not kidding. I’m going to need some help because . . . now don’t mention this to Miss Biddle, but I’ve never been to a wedding.”

“Me neither.”

Novalee laughed, then she said, “Well, I’ve seen some on As the World Turns. ”

“I guess they’re all the same, aren’t they?”

“These were. It was the same woman who got married every time.”

“I don’t think Miss Biddle’s been married before.”

“Don’t worry, Benny. We’ll figure out what to do.”

“Novalee, what should I wear?”

“You don’t have a pink suit, do you?”

For the next three weeks, Novalee spent her breaks at Wal-Mart looking through bridal magazines for interesting pictures, but she didn’t see much beyond the traditional shots. Getting those wouldn’t be a problem unless the camera fouled up or the film was bad, possibilities that were beginning to make her a little nervous. From what she could tell, women got real crazy over their wedding pictures.

Then, just a few days before Carolyn Biddle’s wedding, Moses told Novalee a story about his aunt.

“Effie, my mother’s sister,” Moses said, “married in 1932, right smack dab in the middle of the Depression, so I don’t suppose it was a fancy wedding. She and her man both came from poor people.

“But it was a church wedding and beautiful, so I was told. Aunt Effie wore a satin dress made by my mother, and everyone had flower gardens back then, so the church was filled with color.

“Well, Aunt Effie’s man was killed ten years later in the Battle of Midway. Aunt Effie never married again. Worked as a housekeeper till she was seventy or so.

“Then, when she was up in her eighties . . . eighty-four, eighty-five, her house caught fire. Aunt Effie was at a neighbor’s house when they saw the flames, so she wasn’t in any danger. None at all.

But you know what she did? Ran home! Ran into that house on fire to save the pictures of her wedding. Pictures of a bridegroom dead over fifty years.”

“She died for some pictures,” Novalee said.

“No, Aunt Effie died for love. And I guess there’s a lot worse to die for. A lot worse.”

That night Novalee had bad dreams—dreams about blackened pictures and smoking cameras and wedding dresses burned to ash.

The next morning she was still groggy from a restless night when Lexie called with exciting news.

“His name’s Roger. Roger Briscoe. And Novalee, he’s a professional man. A CPA. Has his own business in Fort Worth.”

“Fort Worth? Where’d you meet him?”

“At the Texaco Station. We pumped gas together. Now listen to this! He drives a new Buick. Brand-new! Still has the dealer’s tag on it.”

“So what’s he like?”

“Smart. Real smart! And you should see him. He dresses better’n a banker. But I looked a mess. No makeup, my hair was frizzy. We’d just come from the laundrymat and the kids were just filthy. But Roger said they were beautiful and he couldn’t believe they were all mine.

“He took them inside and bought them Cokes and then he asked if he could take us to dinner and I said, ‘All of us? Right now?’ And he said yes, so we went over to the Golden Corral. It cost him over fifty dollars and I didn’t even eat.”

“Why not?”

“I’m on that new grapefruit diet. Anyway, guess what. He’s going to come after us next weekend and take us all to Six Flags. You have any idea what that’s gonna cost?”

“A bunch.”

“But he doesn’t act like the money even matters. He’s just . . . just a generous, kind man. I could tell that right off. He liked us, too. He really liked us.”

“Well, why wouldn’t he, Lexie?”

“Oh, you know how some guys are. They act like they’re interested till they find out you have kids. But he’s not like that at all. He told Brownie he had lovely long fingers like a piano player and he said Praline was pretty enough to be in the movies. He just makes people feel good.

“You know, you never can tell, Novalee. Maybe someday you’ll be taking my wedding pictures.”

Novalee was up at six on the morning of the wedding, an hour before her alarm was set to go off. The day before, she had made a checklist of everything she needed to take, but she’d spent the night thinking of things she’d failed to put on the list.

While she was packing, trying to fit in lenses, Forney called to wish her luck. He was ordinarily a late sleeper, but he said he’d been up since three though he wouldn’t say why. But Novalee could guess.

In the past month, Mary Elizabeth had started a grease fire in the kitchen and she’d fallen twice, bad falls that sent Forney rushing her to the emergency room. And one early morning the week before, she had been naked on the front library steps before Forney found her, wrapped her in a blanket and led her back inside.

Forney didn’t talk much about his sister, but other people did.

Novalee had just hung up the phone when Certain came to pick Americus up. They rushed through a quick breakfast and tried to hurry Americus through her ritual of saying goodbye to her flock of strays, whose number was growing fast. She had recently taken in a pregnant cat she named Mother and a three-legged beagle she called Sir.

By the time Certain and Americus drove away, Novalee was running late. She threw the rest of her equipment together, jumped into her pink dress and raced across town to pick up Benny Goodluck.

Novalee and Benny arrived at the Biddle home with time to spare, but the wedding was less than an hour away when Novalee discovered she had left the film at home on her bed. She tried not to panic after Benny searched the car once more and came up empty-handed again. She wanted not to think about what Miss Biddle would do when she found out her photographer had no film for the camera.

But Novalee supposed the wedding would go on, with or without pictures. After all, the preacher had arrived and so had the groom.

The patio was arranged with baskets of flowers; chairs had been set up in the yard for the guests. The wedding cake was ready to cut and the punch was chilled. This wedding was going to take place, ready or not. So how important, Novalee wondered, could film really be.

And then she remembered Aunt Effie who had died for her wedding pictures taken sixty years ago.

Novalee floorboarded the Chevy, followed the directions she’d been given and found the tiny camera shop—closed and locked up tight. From a 7-Eleven on the corner, she got the shop owner’s number and ten minutes later, a gnarled little man with eyebrows like steel wool unlocked the door of the Shutterbug and let her inside.

“I was taking a nap,” he growled.

“I’m sorry, but your wife said—”

“My wife said you were shooting a wedding, but you didn’t bring any film.”

“And the ceremony starts in about half an hour, so—”

“Why didn’t you bring film?”

“Well, I meant to, but I forgot it. Look, I’m really in a hurry and—”

“You’re a photographer? A professional photographer? And you forgot the film?”

“It’s my first job.”

“Might be your last. Now. What do you want?”

“Vericolor. A pro pack.”

“What are you using for light?”

“I’m shooting outside.”

“Aren’t you going to use fill flash?”

“Well, I . . .”

“You have any idea what I’m talking about?”

“Sure!” Novalee tried for bold, but couldn’t quite pull it off. “Sort of.”

“Hell.” He jerked a flier off the wall, then slapped it down on the counter. “Dr. Putnam! She teaches photography here at the college.”

“Oh.”

“That’s eighteen dollars and sixty-six cents, but I’ll settle for twenty seeing I don’t have any change in the register. But then I didn’t plan on opening up on Sunday.”

“I appreciate it.” Novalee pushed two tens across the counter, then took a step toward the door.

“Here!” He flipped the flier in her direction. “I didn’t take this down for the exercise.”

“Okay.” Novalee grabbed the paper and backed across the room.

“Thanks,” she said, then she pulled the door closed behind her and ran to the car.

On the way back to Carolyn Biddle’s wedding, Novalee thought of a dozen comebacks to the old man in the camera shop, a dozen ways to cut him down . . . and they were all clever.