"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 American Baby Magazine, Magazine, hoping to find a list of names to choose from, but it didn't have one. Instead, she read an article ent.i.tled "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. hoping to find a list of names to choose from, but it didn't have one. Instead, she read an article ent.i.tled "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.

2 7.

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

His pa.s.senger, 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."

2 8.

"Does it only bring good luck in hunting?"

"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.

2 9.

"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 s.p.a.ce.

"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. 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."

3 0.

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 w.i.l.l.y 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 w.i.l.l.y 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 3 1.

Momma Nell wouldn't care where she was, Rhonda Talley probably wouldn't even remember her-and w.i.l.l.y 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 s.p.a.ce.

She didn't know how long she had been in the bathroom. She had been too weak to move, too sick to care.

Her clothes were damp and sticky, her skin clammy. Her head felt disconnected from her body. When she was finally able to stand, she felt like she was seeing everything from some great height.

She got to the sink and held on while she splashed her face and rinsed her mouth. Her head throbbed and she ached all over, but she washed up as well as she could, then recovered her beach bag and eased out the door.

The building was dark and quiet. A weak light came from the front, but she knew the place was empty . . . knew she was alone.

She moved soundlessly through the store, toward the light, and found her possessions by the bench where she'd left them-the Welcome Wagon basket, her baby book, the buckeye tree. She gathered them up, as if she were preparing to leave, as if she were going home.

Then she began to wander, like people do who have come from no place and have no place to go-like Crazy Man Dan, in Tellico Plains, who walked the streets at night carrying bits and pieces of other people's lives.

She moved aimlessly from one side of the store to the other, past rows of televisions without pictures, racks of toys without children.

She shuffled past stacks of sheets, boxes of candy and shelves of 3 2 dishes. She walked some aisles many times, some not at all, but it didn't matter.

And then she saw a table, a round, gla.s.s-topped table beneath a red and white striped umbrella . . . a place where she could sit with the baby and drink chocolate milk and watch the sun go down. She ran her hand across the smooth gla.s.s top, swiping at dust, cleaning a place for the book and the basket. Nearby, she found some thin white trellises and moved two of them to the side of the table, then placed the tree between them.

She eased into one of the chairs, opened her beach bag and took out the pictures of Sister Husband, Moses Whitecotton and Benny Goodluck, then propped them up against the basket. She moved the book nearer the center of the table, then pushed it back to where it had been. Finally . . . finished . . . she sat still for a long time, so long that it seemed she might never move.

Much later, when she did get up, she walked to the front window and looked outside. A light rain was beginning to fall and a hard wind scattered drops against the gla.s.s. Hazy neon yellows and reds, tiny darts of color, were caught in the trickles spilling down the pane. And suddenly, a memory, long-buried, came rushing back to her.

She was very little and she couldn't remember why or how, but she was left behind at a skating rink, locked in, alone. At first, she was terrified . . . screaming, pounding on locked doors, clawing toward high windows.