Where the Heart Is (23 page)

When Novalee closed her register at three o’clock, the store seemed almost empty. Most of the customers had hurried away, leaving half-full baskets parked in the aisles, while others had rushed through the checkouts, their eyes on the darkening sky.

Some of the clerks wished they could leave, too. They wanted to get home to frightened children—babies who couldn’t sleep when the wind came up and toddlers who became hysterical at the sound of thunder. One woman said her six-year-old had nightmares about flash floods and another talked about her daughter who memorized weather bulletins.

Novalee had never gotten used to the Oklahoma storms herself, storms that often sent them running to Dixie Mullins’ cellar, even in the middle of the night. But Sister had turned those hours underground into adventures, so Americus wouldn’t be afraid. Sister performed finger puppet shows and did magic tricks. She sang songs and made up stories for Americus to act out, spotlighting her with the beam of a flashlight.

But Sister wasn’t quite as clever at covering her own fear, fear of

“crawly things” that sometimes shared the cellar with them. She always sent Novalee on ahead to relocate anything that crawled, jumped or slithered. But about all she ever found were daddy longlegs, which had better odds of surviving inside the cellar with Sister than outside with the wind that could blow them all the way to Auntie Em’s farm in Kansas, according to Americus.

By the time Novalee clocked out, the sky was closing in, dropping down over the Snake Mountains. She decided to go straight home even though she needed to stop at the IGA. She could skip the grocery store, could always come back later, but passing up the Texaco station would be a little more risky because the Chevy was empty, the needle resting squarely over the E.

The old Toyota seemed to have gone for weeks on one tank of gas. Sister said it ran on magic. But the new car guzzled unleaded and used more oil in a month than the Toyota had in a year. Even so, Novalee was proud of it, the newest car she had ever driven and now, nearly paid off.

As she pulled in and parked beside the trailer, a bolt of lightning cracked near enough that the hair on her arms stood up.

Americus and Sister were in the kitchen fixing the “cellar bag,” as much a staple of Oklahoma storms as wind.

The bag always held a transistor radio, a flashlight and some candles, then Sister would add whatever she could put her hands on that wasn’t mushy, smelly or sticky. She always took enough to share with the neighbors who showed up in Dixie’s cellar—hard candy, a chunk of cheese, ginger-snaps, whatever came fast and easy from the refrigerator or cabinets.

“Mommy, storm’s coming,” Americus said as she wrapped a skittish kitten in a bath towel, preparing for the trek to the cellar.

“TV just put out a tornado warning,” Sister said. “They spotted a funnel cloud over in Vian.”

“I’ve gotta get Doughboy,” Americus yelled as she headed out the back door.

“Don’t worry about Doughboy. He’ll go under the house.”

“No, he wants to go with us.”

“You stay close,” Novalee called. “We’re about to leave.”

“Darlin’, get those new batteries from under the sink, will you?”

“How’s Dixie feeling today?”

“No good. Her sister said she didn’t sleep at all last night.”

“Suppose she’s going to the cellar?”

“Oh no. Cellar’s too damp, worst thing for pleurisy. Besides, Dixie’s not really afraid of storms. She just goes to the cellar to visit.”

Novalee put the batteries in the sack. “Are you ready?”

“You go on with Americus. I made Dixie some potato soup. I’ll take it by on my way.”

“And if I get there first, I can clear out all the boa constrictors and tarantulas and . . .”

The lights dimmed for an instant, followed by a sharp crack of thunder, causing Novalee to flinch.

“That was close,” Novalee said.

“No, that was God tellin’ you to take that baby and get on to the cellar.”

“Okay, but you hurry.”

“Darlin’, if you don’t go on, I’ll be there before you are.”

Novalee grabbed the sack and scooted out the back door. Americus was at the foot of the steps pulling at the collar of a fuzzy mongrel.

“Come on, Doughboy!”

The kitten, agitated by the whining dog, had worked its way out of the towel and was climbing up Americus’ shoulder.

“Help me, Mommy.”

Novalee picked up the little dog, knowing Americus was not going to be happy until she had her entire menagerie with her.

“Let’s go.”

The air was so still that nothing moved, so heavy that even pollen was held to ground. No stir of leaves, no whisper of wind. The sky, dark and growing darker, was green—an eerie shade of green, like light trapped in a bottle.

The neighborhood looked abandoned—no life in the streets or the yards. Dixie’s Rhode Island Reds had retreated to the hen house and Henry’s cat, always on the prowl, had vanished. Even Leona’s bird feeders were deserted.

Nothing barked or chirped or crowed . . . nothing called, nothing answered. Doughboy lay limp against Novalee’s hip and the kitten peeked wide-eyed and silent from the folds of the towel where it was once again settled. And as Americus stepped over the garden hose in Dixie’s backyard, she swiped at a bluebottle fly glued to the soft flesh just below her eye.

The cellar door had been thrown open, so Novalee knew they were not the first to arrive. Mrs. Ortiz and the girls were bailing water from the floor into a tin bucket.

“Where is Sister Husband?”

“She’s on her way.”

“My husband is painting a house. Somewhere on Commerce. I tried to call, but . . .” Mrs. Ortiz eased onto the wooden bench against the wall and pulled her rosary from her pocket.

“Maybe this will blow over,” Novalee said, trying to sound reassuring. She lit the candles, then turned on the transistor, but the local station had been knocked off the air. From Tulsa she got static and two country and western stations, both playing the same song,

“The Beat of a Heart.”

As soon as the bucket was full, Novalee carried it up the steps and emptied it beside the cellar door. The wind had started to pick up, quick gusts lifting the lower branches of the sycamores in Dixie’s yard and sending dust devils skipping down the alley.

Novalee supposed Sister had already left the trailer, but she wondered why she hadn’t seen her crossing the street on her way to Dixie’s.

By the time Novalee went outside with the second bucket of water, there was little hope the weather was going to blow over. The wind had grown so strong she had to lean into it to keep her balance. A powerful gust picked up the cellar door, a solid piece of oak crisscrossed by heavy strips of metal, then slammed it back to the concrete platform on which it rested.

Just as Novalee scurried back into the cellar, hail began to fall, sending the Ortiz girls to huddle on the bench beside their mother. A storm the previous summer had left them horrified when Cantinflas, their Chihuahua puppy, had been pounded to death by hailstones the size of walnuts.

“Mommy, where’s Grandma Sister?” Americus asked.

“She’s coming, honey.”

Novalee stood inside the cellar and watched the hail bouncing in the yard—pellets springing up, colliding, spinning across the grass, an odd dance of ice. Stones pelted the daffodils in Dixie’s flower bed, stripping off the petals, slicing into the stalks.

The tin roof of the chicken house clattered, the sounds staccato and disconnected. When they heard glass shatter, Mrs. Ortiz and Novalee locked eyes.

As hailstones began bouncing down the cellar steps and rolling across the floor, the smallest Ortiz girl started to cry.

“Do you think we should shut the door?” Mrs. Ortiz said.

“Uh, let’s wait for Sister. Just a few more minutes.”

Suddenly, the hail stopped and it was quiet once again.

“Thank God,” Mrs. Ortiz whispered.

Novalee nodded, then hurried up the steps. Dark clouds blistered the sky—bubbling, exploding into strange, fierce shapes . . . clouds moving fast and low, so low Novalee believed she could touch them.

And from somewhere above her, she thought she could hear the sound of breath, the sound of old and powerful breathing.

Then a siren began to wail. Novalee wanted it to be a police car or a fire truck, but she knew what it was—a tornado warning coming from the grade school two blocks away. Goose bumps rose along her forearms and she said, “Damn,” but her voice was lost in a violent gust of wind.

Mrs. Ortiz climbed the lower steps of the cellar so she could see outside. Debris was beginning to sail around Dixie’s yard. Trash cans were flying, tree limbs waving wildly.

“Novalee, maybe you should come in.”

“I think I’ll run in the house, check on Sister and—”

Then Novalee saw it. Coiling, spiraling . . . dipping down like a giant gnarled finger reaching for the earth. The air filled with a roaring noise and the sky turned hot and began to swirl, stinging her skin, biting into her flesh.

Just as she started for the house, something struck her in the arm, something small and hard that skipped across the yard and into the street. She saw Dixie’s beauty shop sign sail into one of the sycamores, and watched Henry’s johnboat hurtle down the alley and smash into the hen house.

Novalee knew she couldn’t make it to the house, so she struggled back to the cellar, got one foot on the top step, then grabbed the door. She was able to lift it a few inches before the wind slammed it back against the concrete slab. She tried again, but the wind was too strong, and when she leaned farther out, farther away from the cellar Where the Heart Is

steps, she felt a powerful current of air lift her, felt her body grow lighter as if she might be swallowed up by the sky.

Then hands grasped her ankles, pulled at her legs. She bent her knees, ducked down and reached behind her, found Mrs. Ortiz’ hands and gripped them as hard as she could, held on as Mrs. Ortiz ripped her away from the wind, pulled her down the steps and onto the cellar floor.

Americus cried out as she flew into Novalee’s arms, but the sound was lost in the roaring that filled the cellar. They closed their eyes against the grit swirling around them, so they didn’t see Mrs. Ortiz scrambling into a corner with her daughters. They didn’t see Doughboy howling behind the overturned bench. And they didn’t see the kitten, lost and bewildered, creeping across the floor.

Suddenly the air, punishing and hot, began to rush out of the cellar, sucking the flames from the candles, extracting leaves and gingersnaps, a mildewed sock, a paper cup . . . snatching daddy longlegs from the walls and flinging them outside . . . hurling the kitten against the steps, lifting and tossing it, sucking it out into the spiraling wind.

Then a tremendous crash from outside shook the walls and sent a tremor across the floor as a savage gust of wind picked up the door and slammed it shut, leaving the cellar as dark and silent as a tomb.

HENRY AND LEONA were buried three days after the tornado.

They had died wrapped in each other’s arms in the closet on Leona’s side of the duplex. Some thought their decision to get in the closet together was probably the only thing they had agreed on in forty years. But it wasn’t. They were buried in adjoining plots that they had bought on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.

Their funeral was the first; others followed in quick succession. A family from Muldrow—mother, father and two children—had been killed in their pickup on the interstate when they had tried to outrun the tornado. Three teenagers had died in the rec room of the First Methodist Church where they were playing Ping-Pong. Sister Husband was the last to be buried on a rainy Tuesday morning in the Paradise Cemetery north of town.

Forney was the one who found her, pulled her from the tangle of the trailer, which had been pleated like an accordion and hurled into Where the Heart Is

the street. She was alive then, but not by much. Her heart stopped once on the way to the hospital and again in the emergency room.

Following surgery, she was on life-support for five days.

Novalee didn’t leave the hospital until it was over. She could only go into ICU for ten minutes every two hours, but now and then she got to stay a little longer. Lexie Coop called in a favor with one of the nurses in intensive care, and when she was on duty, Novalee got some extra time with Sister.

For the first couple of days, Novalee and Mr. Sprock went into ICU together. The head nurse talked with them, explained that comatose patients probably responded on some level to what went on around them.

“That’s why it’s important for you to touch her. Hold her hand.

Stroke her hair.”

Mr. Sprock nodded and said, “Stroke her hair.”

“And talk to her. Talk about good times you’ve had together. Tell her funny stories. Laugh if you can.”

“Laugh,” Mr. Sprock repeated.

“Yes. You think you can do that?”

“I don’t know,” Novalee said. “We’ll try.”

And Mr. Sprock did try. He would go in prepared to tell a joke, something he had rehearsed with Novalee. Or he would try to do his Barney Fife impression, or start to read Shoe, Sister’s favorite comic strip.

But when he stood over her, when he saw her broken body and the snarl of tubes, when he heard her machined breathing and the rattle of breath in her chest, he would begin to sob and have to be led away. Finally, he stopped going in. He just sat in the waiting room and waited.

Novalee learned early how to shut off the part of herself that wanted to cry, to scream . . . the part that wanted to rip out the tubes, pick Sister up in her arms and carry her home.

“Americus said one of the new kittens in Moses’ barn opened her eyes today, the yellow one she named Butter Bean. Anyway, she told me to tell you that you were right. When the kitten opens her eyes, the first thing she sees is her mother.”

And when Novalee learned how to shut out the sounds and smells of the living and dying, she could almost pretend she and Sister were shopping in the IGA or planting moss roses in the garden or sitting in the kitchen waiting for coffee to brew.