Forney brought her things for the house, too. A set of gla.s.s k.n.o.bs he'd found at a garage sale, and delicate gold frames for the Polaroids Novalee had taken that first day in the Wal-Mart, the day w.i.l.l.y Jack had left her behind.

265.

All three photographs bore traces of damage from the tornado, but Novalee didn't see the spots and scratches and dents. She saw only Sister Husband's miracle smile, Moses Whitecotton's gentle dark eyes and Benny Goodluck's thin brown body, stiff and awkward in his camera pose.

Novalee had hung the pictures on the living room wall before the paint was dry, before the windows were covered, before the furniture was even moved in.

Though she'd been in the house for over six months, it still had unfinished spots-kitchen drawers without handles, a strip of molding missing, some trim work yet unpainted. But it was home, a home without wheels, a home fixed to the ground.

She had designed the house herself. Four rooms and a bath, and a deck that circled the buckeye tree. Some thought she'd never be able to build it for twenty-six thousand dollars, the money Sister had left her. She did, though. But she had a lot of help.

Moses did the foundation work, Mr. Ortiz the framing. Benny Goodluck and his father laid brick; Forney and Mr. Sprock did the roofing. Mrs. Ortiz hung the paper and Certain made the curtains.

Novalee did a little bit of everything. She drilled, nailed, caulked, measured and sawed, lifted, climbed, carried and carted. She sweated, cussed, laughed, ached and cried, putting in weeks of eighteen-hour days and six-hour dead-to-the-world nights.

Then one steamy August afternoon it was finished. The house Novalee had only dreamed of was hers.

a home with old quilts and blue china and family pictures in gold frames gold frames 266.

Forney was at the window when she pulled into the drive at half past nine. He had already sc.r.a.ped the steps and scattered rock salt on the porch.

"I've been so worried about you," he said as he whisked her inside and took off her coat.

"I would have called, but I couldn't find a good place to get off the highway."

"Did you have any trouble?"

"Well, traffic was moving, but just barely. I saw some cars banged up south of the Bokoshe turnoff. Overpa.s.ses were like gla.s.s."

"Mr. Sprock said they'd closed down 31."

"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?"

267.

"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 268 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.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"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 b.u.t.toned 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."

269.

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 d.a.m.ned 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."

Chapter Twenty-Eight.

O N 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. N 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."

271.

"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."