Where the Heart Is by Billie Letts

Guess I wore the smell to work. You sure you don’t want this,” she asked, motioning to the food.
    When Novalee made a face, Lexie sprinkled the eggs with hot sauce, then took a dainty bite.
    “Hot sauce,” she said. “See, I have this theory. Hot sauce burns away the calories. You can eat anything you want as long as you eat it with hot sauce.”
    “Does it work?” Novalee asked.
    “I’ve lost six pounds in eighteen days, but I’ve got a long way to go. I gained a lot of weight with my last baby.”
    “How many kids you have?” Novalee asked.
    “Four.”
    “Four? You don’t look old enough.”
    “Well, I started when I was fifteen and then I just couldn’t stop.
    See, after I had the first one, I started looking to find him a daddy.
    Thought I found one, too. But all I got out of that was another baby.
    So, then I wanted to find a good daddy for the two of them. I tried, but what’d I get? Twins.”
    “Have you found ’em a daddy yet?”
    “No, and I’m not looking. I figure that’ll get me another baby.
    Number five. I don’t know,” Lexie said, shaking her head. “I think I’m going about this the wrong way. But I just can’t seem to say no.”
    Lexie finished the last of the eggs, then put the cover back on the empty plate. “You know, you should eat something. Help you get your strength back.”
    “What I’d really like to do is take a shower. Can I do that?”
    “Sure you can.”
    “What about this?” Novalee motioned to the IV pole.
    “No problem. We’ll just wheel it in the bathroom with you.”
    Lexie moved the breakfast tray, then peeled the covers back and helped Novalee ease out of bed and to her feet.
    “Just take your time. If you feel too shaky, let’s put you back down for a few minutes.”
    “No, I’m okay. But . . .”
    “Yeah, I know. Stitches pull, don’t they?”
    Novalee held on to Lexie’s arm as they shuffled across the floor.
    “Do you know about me?” Novalee asked.
    “About Wal-Mart, you mean? Yeah. I guess everyone here knows about it. The hospital’s full of reporters. They say you’re going to be on television at noon.”
    “Oh, God,” Novalee moaned, more from Lexie’s news than from the pain of walking.
    The phone calls started coming shortly after noon, the first from a man with a soft voice and a strange accent. He said he wanted to buy the rights to Novalee’s story to make a movie, but he needed a picture of her nursing the baby in order to get the project off the ground.
    An old woman who said she was a doll maker called later. She told Novalee to name the baby Walmartha, then she would make a doll to 9 market by that name. She said if she could sell the idea to Wal-Mart, they would make millions. And she told Novalee if she had another baby, a boy, and named him Walmark, they would market the dolls as brother and sister.
    The seventh or eighth call—by now Novalee had lost count—
    was from a man who thought he might be the father of the baby. He wanted to know if Novalee was the woman he had raped in an apartment on Cedar Street nine months earlier. As soon as Novalee hung up, she unplugged the phone.
    Later, the floor nurse came in with a breast pump so they could feed Americus with Novalee’s milk. The nurse was rough when she handled Novalee’s breasts, the pump cold and hard against her tender nipples. When they didn’t produce much milk, the nurse seemed irritated.
    Finally, she left Novalee to manage the pump by herself, but she didn’t have any luck. But when Lexie Coop came in with a pitcher of fresh ice water, she took over the pump. Her hands, still smelling of bacon, were warm against Novalee’s flesh and her voice was gentle, soothing. Novalee’s milk filled the jar.
    Flowers began to arrive in the middle of the day, the cards addressed to the Wal-Mart baby. They came from banks, churches, politicians, schoolchildren—people Novalee had never heard of. She had flowers in baskets and ceramic vases with plastic storks