Where The Heart Is Part 27

"Well, she didn't show it, but . . ."

"What's wrong? Are you a little disappointed that she let you go so easily?"

"No." Novalee's eyes brimmed with tears. "But it's the first time I've left her since . . ."

"You leave her with Sister when you're at work. Sometimes with Mrs. Ortiz or . . ."

"You know what I mean."

"She'll be fine," Forney said in the same rea.s.suring tone he had been using since Novalee found out she had won the trip. "You know Sister won't take any chances."

And though Novalee couldn't erase the worry from her face, she knew Forney was right. Ever since the kidnapping, nearly two years 218 earlier, Sister had become more watchful than the FBI. She got up two or three times a night to check the yard and the street, on the lookout for "vigilante baptizers."

The Mississippi couple who had taken Americus were still in prison, but that did not completely ease Novalee's fears. She was still suspicious of blue Fords and had once followed a dark blue Fairmont from the Wal-Mart parking lot all the way to Tahlequah, some fifty miles away. The man and woman in the front seat had a child between them, a child whose head was framed by dark ringlets. But the "vigilante baptizers" turned out to be an old Indian man and woman and their "baby," a mixed-breed terrier.

Forney, always the voice of reason, had a difficult time convincing Novalee and Sister not to call the police every time a stranger walked down the street. But he had an even tougher job trying to persuade them that Americus had not been scarred by the ordeal. He didn't, for example, believe there was a connection between Americus' disdain for water and her forced baptism. Novalee and Sister were certain the immersion was the reason Americus refused to ride the kiddy boats at the fair, hated to take baths and despised the taste of water. And nothing Forney could say would make them change their minds.

For the next forty-eight hours, Novalee tried to cross every street in Santa Fe. Forney just tried to keep up.

After they had checked into their rooms at the Rancho Encantado, Novalee changed into jeans and tennis shoes, slung her cameras around her neck, then dragged Forney out of his room and into the streets. Eleven rolls of film later, Forney fell into bed and a deep sleep that lasted exactly four hours before Novalee was at the door threatening his life if he made her miss the sunrise. He didn't.

219.

She shot eighteen rolls of film that day, one for every mile they walked, according to Forney. He was still complaining of sore feet and an aching back as they raced back to their hotel to get ready for the awards banquet.

Forney was just pulling on his jacket when Novalee tapped on the door between their rooms.

"Are you ready?" she asked as she stepped inside.

"Just barely, but . . ."

She was wearing a dress he'd never seen before, dark green of some soft material that whispered against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and hugged her close at the waist. She wore a silver chain around her throat, a chain almost as thin, almost as delicate as the tiny scar just below her lip.

"We'd better go," she said. "The man at the desk downstairs said it's a fifteen-minute drive."

"You look lovely," Forney said, his voice raspy, thick.

"Thanks." And then Novalee smiled at him and he thought that his heart would stop.

"Now come on," she said. "If I'm late, they might give it to someone else."

The main gallery of the Fairmont Museum had been transformed into a dining room. Tables were covered with linen, set with sparkling crystal and china. Waiters in white jackets rushed about with bottles of red wine and baskets of bread.

Novalee and Forney sat at the head table next to a podium where a silver-haired man in a tuxedo tapped his finger on a microphone, then waited for the room to grow quiet.

"Good evening," he said.

Novalee had grown increasingly nervous throughout the meal, so 220 nervous she had not been able to eat more than a few bites. And now that it was time for the presentation, her mouth felt as if it had been dusted with powder. She sipped at her wine, "dry wine," she had whispered to Forney, but she managed not to make a face.

". . . my pleasure to unveil the winning photograph ent.i.tled Oklahoma Benediction. Oklahoma Benediction. " "

Then the silver-haired man turned to a covered tripod and removed a black silk cloth from an enlargement of Novalee's picture, the silhouette of Benny Goodluck running, the sun rising behind him.

The crowd broke into applause.

Moments later, the man at the mike said, "And now, I'd like to introduce you to the winning photographer, Ms. Novalee Nation."

When Novalee stood and stepped to the podium, she was so shaky she wondered if her legs would hold her up. As the heavy applause died down, she said, "Thank you," surprised by the sound of her voice amplified in the s.p.a.cious room.

"Mr. Mitford asked me to tell you a little bit about the photograph, uh . . . so, I will. But I didn't know I would be making a speech and . .

. well, I'm kind of nervous." Polite laughter ran through the crowd, but it was friendly, encouraging.

"I shot this picture with a Rollei Twin Lens Reflex at F28, using ASA four hundred. I took it at sunup, in winter, when first light in Oklahoma has a blue-silver look to it. I don't know how to describe it exactly, but it's like you're looking through the cleanest, clearest pool of water in the world. It's not the same as first light here in Santa Fe, but . . ."

Someone seated near the back said, "We wouldn't know. No one here's ever been up that early," and the whole crowd laughed.

Novalee's face reddened, but she smiled and felt more relaxed.

"Anyway, back home, the light's wonderful in the mornings . . . like Where the Heart Is 221.

when it catches a hawk in a glide or when it touches the spikes of Indian paintbrush."

The room was suddenly still, so still that Novalee suffered a new wave of stage fright and had to take a sip of water.

"Well," she said, "maybe you'd like to know about the boy in the picture. He's a Sac and Fox Indian and he was running that morning, his last run for a long time. You see, his grandpa had just died, so the boy was giving up something he loves as a tribute to his grandpa.

It's a custom in the boy's tribe.

"But I didn't know that then, when I took the picture. I just happened to be there, trying to get to the top of a mountain before sunrise.

"Later, when I got to know the boy better, I told him I had seen him there that morning. I told him I had taken his picture and he asked to see it. When I gave it to him, he smiled. He said he could see his grandpa's spirit there in the light of the sunrise.

"Sometimes," she said, "I think I can see it, too."

When Novalee and Forney got back to the hotel, she called room service and ordered dinner. She still wasn't hungry, but she thought eating in a hotel room was glamorous. After all, she explained, she had watched Jane Fonda do it, and Elizabeth Taylor, too. But the real reason was because she had promised Lexie Coop she would.

Forney had offered to take her out to dinner, but Novalee had her heart set on room service and there was no way he could talk her out of it. But he didn't try very hard.

Dinner was exactly the way Novalee had pictured it. The young man from room service rolled in a serving cart, the dishes covered with silver warmers. He brought a rose in a slender vase, and two candles in crystal holders. And he dimmed the lights before he left.

222.

"Forney," Novalee said, "do you ever feel like you're playing grown-up?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like you're a kid who's just acting like an adult."

"I am an adult."

"So am I. But when I get this feeling, I don't feel like one. I feel like a kid."

"You mean like when you lock your keys in the car or . . ."

"No." Novalee kicked off her shoes, s.h.i.+fted her weight and tucked her feet beneath her. "Look. Say you're doing something . . ."

"Like what?"

"Like . . . packing a suitcase 'cause you're going to New Mexico.

You're packing, see?" Novalee pretended to be folding clothes. "You put your s.h.i.+rt here . . ." She pantomimed arranging a s.h.i.+rt on the table. ". . . and you put your underwear here. Then all of a sudden, it dawns on you. Packing a suitcase is something adults do."

Forney nodded in agreement.

"But right then, at that very moment, you don't feel like an adult.

You feel like a kid playing playing adult. You know you're just adult. You know you're just playing playing grown-up." grown-up."

"And is that the way you feel now?"

"Forney, that's the way I've felt for the past three days. Winning an award. Making a speech. Having dinner in a hotel room. All of it!

I've just been playing grown-up."

Forney shook his head.

"You've never felt that way?"

"No," he said. "Never."

"Well, maybe I'm just . . ."

"Unless you mean the way I felt when I was about to help deliver a baby."

223.

"Then you do know what I mean."

"Now that's that's playing grown-up!" playing grown-up!"

"We'll never forget that night."

"Oh, G.o.d, no!"

"I remember when you handed her to me and . . ." Novalee slid away from the table. "I'm going to call home." She hopped onto the bed, studied the dialing instructions on the phone on the night table, then punched in Sister's number.

"Sister, it's me."

"Oh, darlin'. Did you get your award?"

"Yes. And I made a speech and got a plaque and they're going to put my picture in the paper."

"Why, Novalee, you are above approach, just above approach."

"How's Americus?"

"She's wonderful. She's been in bed an hour and I haven't heard a peep out of her, not a peep."

"I knew she'd already be asleep, but I wanted to call."

"Well, she's fine, darlin'. Don't you worry."

"No, I'm not."

"You tell Forney I read her another chapter of that book they started last week."

"Which one?"

"Oh, I can't remember the name of it, but it's by that Charlie d.i.c.kens."

"David Copperfield?"

"That's the one. And Americus laughs every time I say 'Micawber.'

She tells me that's not the way Forney says it and . . . oh, oh! Little pitchers have big ears."

"Is she up?"

224.

"Just came shuffling in like a little sleepwalker, dragging her blanket and poor old Night-Night. Come here, sweet thing."

Novalee could hear the rustle of Americus settling herself into Sister's lap.

"You want to talk to Mommy?" Sister coached.

"Hi, sweetheart," Novalee said.

"Mommy in Messico?" Americus asked.

"Yes, I am, but I'm coming home tomorrow."

"Forney too?"

"Forney is coming home, too. Americus, what are you doing out of bed?"

"My jamamas are wet."