Part 18 (1/2)
”No, you were right. What you said about time and names and . . .”
”Yes, we talked a lot about names. But you know what? You never told me yours.”
”It's Novalee. Novalee Nation.” She pulled back the edge of her sweater so he could see her name tag. ”I work here now.”
”Well, Novalee Nation, seems to me it's time for you to do the talking. Time for you to tell me about your baby.”
”You didn't hear about me?”
”No. I didn't.”
She could tell he wasn't the kind of man who would pretend. He wasn't like that at all.
”I had a girl.”
”A girl.” He nodded. ”I wondered, you know.”
”She's . . . she's just . . .” Novalee laughed then, language for a word unspoken.
”Oh, nothing sweeter than a baby girl.” He s.h.i.+fted his weight in a way that made him seem expectant-wanting to know, but not wanting to ask.
”She has a strong name,” Novalee said.
”I'm glad to hear it.”
”It's a name that's gonna withstand a lot of bad times.”
”And they'll come,” he said, shaking his head at the inevitability of it.
”Her name is Americus.”
144.
Moses stared, unblinking. ”Americus,” he said. He looked away then, giving the sound some time . . . some distance. Finally he looked again at Novalee. ”Americus Nation,” he repeated. ”It'll do. It surely will do.”
They were silent for several moments, but it was a comfortable silence . . . broken, finally, when a voice on the intercom called for additional checkers at the front.
”That's me,” Novalee said.
”I'll be working here tomorrow. Taking pictures.”
Novalee smiled. ”I know.”
”You'll be here, then?”
”It's my day off, but I'll be here.”
”With Americus?”
”We'll both be here.”
Reggie Lewis, the young blond manager, walked up to customer service. ”Hi, Mose. Good to see you.”
Moses reached for his briefcase on the counter behind him.
”Moses,” he said, his voice steady and strong. ”Moses Whitecotton.”
That night, Novalee dressed Americus in every outfit she had.
The yellow jumper from Dixie Mullins, the baseball uniform from Henry and Leona, the white dress Sister had made and the bonnet from Mrs. Ortiz. When she finished, the baby was worn out and Novalee was no closer to deciding than when she had started. Finally, it was Forney and Mr. Sprock who voted for the dress and bonnet.
The next morning Novalee got up early to get everything ready.
She rinsed out the white dress and hung it on the line to dry. After she mended a bit of torn lace on a pair of diaper pants, she trimmed loose threads from inside the bonnet. She picked invisible lint from a Where the Heart Is 145.
pair of white booties and polished their tiny pearl b.u.t.tons with the hem of her gown. Finally, she ironed the dress carefully, fussing over each ribbon and ruffle and bow.
With Americus fresh from her bath, Novalee brushed her hair into delicate waves and tight ringlets, then tied the top back with a narrow silk ribbon. She dressed her with the care and precision of a backstage mother . . . patting, polis.h.i.+ng, smoothing, stroking . . . determined to make Americus perfect.
By the time they arrived at Wal-Mart, two dozen women and children were already in line, waiting for Moses Whitecotton to take their pictures. The aisle was littered with toys, diaper bags and abandoned strollers. Fussy babies howled in the arms of impatient mothers; angry toddlers strained to twist from the grasp of adult fingers. A half-dozen preschoolers cartwheeled and tumbled like a tangle of wild kittens.
As Moses settled a sobbing baby into the lap of its older brother, he saw Novalee and flashed her a quick smile. He said something then to a young woman working beside him and moments later she walked to the back of the line where she placed a standing sign behind Novalee, a sign that said, ”The photographer will not resume shooting until . . .” and beneath that was a dial with the hands set at one o'clock.
Moses seemed unhurried, even when an inquisitive child discovered the snaps on his briefcase or a young mother insisted on a pose that would produce, Moses explained, a headless photograph of her child. His voice, when Novalee could hear it beneath the hooting, howling children and scolding, threatening parents, was even and calm.
She watched him coax laughter, persuade silence and gentle anger . . . taking time with each shot, adjusting the lighting, readjusting the pose, working for the right expression.
146.
The line moved slowly and Americus, in spite of the care Novalee took to avoid it, was wilting. Her hair had frizzed around her face and a crease up the side of her bonnet gave her a dented look. Her dress was wrinkled and limp, the collar damp with drool. One of the pearl b.u.t.tons from her booties had popped off and Novalee was still searching for it when she looked up to discover they were next.
”So this is Americus Nation,” Moses said.
Americus, her eyes Raggedy Ann wide, fixed Moses with an open-mouthed stare, a silver strand of saliva spinning its way from her bottom lip to the perfectly ironed ruffle around her perfectly ironed dress. She was, for several moments, motionless-frozen in fear or fascination as she struggled to take him in, her eyes darting from his face to his hands to his hair. Suddenly, her decision made, a smile nudged itself into a corner of her mouth, pushed across her lips and up over her cheeks. She held out her arms, reaching out to Moses Whitecotton, her fingers curling into her palms in a ”take me” gesture.
When he lifted her out of Novalee's arms, Americus exploded with excitement, her knees pumping against his chest, arms windmilling the air, a gargle of laughter catching at her breath.
”Nothing sweeter than a baby girl,” he said.
”Well, she looked a little sweeter before she tried to eat her dress.”
Novalee wet her finger, then rubbed at a smudge on the baby's arm.
”Looks like she's been cooking mud pies.”
”But that doesn't have anything to do with what's here. Nothing to do with what we're looking for.”