and rubber clowns posed inside.
Novalee was reading a card attached to a single white rose when there was a knock at the door, and a second later, a tall, gray-haired man in a baseball cap stuck his head inside.
“Is it okay if I come in?” he asked.
“Are you a reporter?”
“No.” He stepped into the room. “I’m Sam Walton.”
“Who?”
“Sam Walton. I own Wal-Mart.”
“Which one?”
“Well, actually . . .” He ducked his head then, like he was embarrassed. “I own all of them.”
“Oh.” Novalee cringed then, knowing why he had come.
“I don’t know your last name.”
He made “your last name” sound like a question, but Novalee didn’t say anything.
“Is it all right if I call you Novalee? That’s what they called you on television.”
She nodded.
“You have some pretty flowers.”
“I don’t know any of the people who sent them though.”
“Well, I guess they heard about you having your baby in the store . . .”
He didn’t finish what he started to say, but just let “store” drift for a few seconds while he examined some ivy leaves in a ceramic planter shaped like a baby shoe.
“A little girl, they say. How is she?”
“She’s in an incubator, but that’s just a precaution.”
“Americus. I heard you named her Americus.”
“I did.”
“That’s a fine name.”
“A strong name,” she said.
Sam Walton nodded, then stared at Novalee like he expected her to say something, like he wanted her to explain, but she didn’t know what to say. They were both quiet for a long time, so long that Novalee finally coughed, but it wasn’t a real cough.
“The reason I came . . .”
“Mr. Walton, I kept track of it all. The food. The clothes. And the sleeping bag. The other stuff, too.”
“But I . . .”
“I have it all written down, the cost of everything. And it’s a lot of money. Over three hundred dollars.”
“Well, that’s one of the things I want to talk to you about.”
“I’m going to pay you back. Every cent. Even for the window Forney broke.”
“See, the thing is, I want to forgive that debt.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want to cancel it.”
“Oh, no. I can’t do that. I owe you.”
“No, I owe you.”
“Why?”
“Because you made me a lot of money.”
Novalee pulled herself up in bed, narrowing her eyes in puzzlement.
“I don’t understand.”
“Look. The whole country’s probably heard about the baby born in Wal-Mart. Now that’s good advertising. People are going to read about Wal-Mart, see it on TV. That’s free publicity and it’s good for business.”
“But . . .”
“And that’s why I want you to forget about the window, forget about your bill. Forget all that. And I want to offer you a job in my store. In this store, right here in town, where you had your baby.”
“Well, that’s awful nice of you and I really appreciate it. I need a job, that’s for sure. But . . . I don’t know.”
“Why? What is it that bothers you?”
“There’ll be people coming in there to look at me, ask me questions and I don’t . . .”
“Oh, not for long. This whole thing’ll settle down in a few days.
Folks will forget all about it by the time you’re ready to start to work.”
“You reckon?”
“I reckon. So, is it a deal?”
“Okay. It’s a deal.”
Sam Walton reached over, shook Novalee’s hand, then pulled an envelope from his pocket and put it on the bedside table.
“You take good care of yourself and when you’re ready, just go to personnel, in the back of the store. They’ll know about you.” Then he turned and in three long strides he was across the room.
“Goodbye,” Novalee said, but she didn’t think he heard her. When he opened the door, the hallway blazed as camera strobes popped and film lights flared. A dozen voices vied for his attention.
“Mr. Walton, what did you say to her?”
“Sam, did you see the baby?”
“Mr. Walton, let me ask you . . .”
Novalee picked up the
Novalee was reading a card attached to a single white rose when there was a knock at the door, and a second later, a tall, gray-haired man in a baseball cap stuck his head inside.
“Is it okay if I come in?” he asked.
“Are you a reporter?”
“No.” He stepped into the room. “I’m Sam Walton.”
“Who?”
“Sam Walton. I own Wal-Mart.”
“Which one?”
“Well, actually . . .” He ducked his head then, like he was embarrassed. “I own all of them.”
“Oh.” Novalee cringed then, knowing why he had come.
“I don’t know your last name.”
He made “your last name” sound like a question, but Novalee didn’t say anything.
“Is it all right if I call you Novalee? That’s what they called you on television.”
She nodded.
“You have some pretty flowers.”
“I don’t know any of the people who sent them though.”
“Well, I guess they heard about you having your baby in the store . . .”
He didn’t finish what he started to say, but just let “store” drift for a few seconds while he examined some ivy leaves in a ceramic planter shaped like a baby shoe.
“A little girl, they say. How is she?”
“She’s in an incubator, but that’s just a precaution.”
“Americus. I heard you named her Americus.”
“I did.”
“That’s a fine name.”
“A strong name,” she said.
Sam Walton nodded, then stared at Novalee like he expected her to say something, like he wanted her to explain, but she didn’t know what to say. They were both quiet for a long time, so long that Novalee finally coughed, but it wasn’t a real cough.
“The reason I came . . .”
“Mr. Walton, I kept track of it all. The food. The clothes. And the sleeping bag. The other stuff, too.”
“But I . . .”
“I have it all written down, the cost of everything. And it’s a lot of money. Over three hundred dollars.”
“Well, that’s one of the things I want to talk to you about.”
“I’m going to pay you back. Every cent. Even for the window Forney broke.”
“See, the thing is, I want to forgive that debt.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want to cancel it.”
“Oh, no. I can’t do that. I owe you.”
“No, I owe you.”
“Why?”
“Because you made me a lot of money.”
Novalee pulled herself up in bed, narrowing her eyes in puzzlement.
“I don’t understand.”
“Look. The whole country’s probably heard about the baby born in Wal-Mart. Now that’s good advertising. People are going to read about Wal-Mart, see it on TV. That’s free publicity and it’s good for business.”
“But . . .”
“And that’s why I want you to forget about the window, forget about your bill. Forget all that. And I want to offer you a job in my store. In this store, right here in town, where you had your baby.”
“Well, that’s awful nice of you and I really appreciate it. I need a job, that’s for sure. But . . . I don’t know.”
“Why? What is it that bothers you?”
“There’ll be people coming in there to look at me, ask me questions and I don’t . . .”
“Oh, not for long. This whole thing’ll settle down in a few days.
Folks will forget all about it by the time you’re ready to start to work.”
“You reckon?”
“I reckon. So, is it a deal?”
“Okay. It’s a deal.”
Sam Walton reached over, shook Novalee’s hand, then pulled an envelope from his pocket and put it on the bedside table.
“You take good care of yourself and when you’re ready, just go to personnel, in the back of the store. They’ll know about you.” Then he turned and in three long strides he was across the room.
“Goodbye,” Novalee said, but she didn’t think he heard her. When he opened the door, the hallway blazed as camera strobes popped and film lights flared. A dozen voices vied for his attention.
“Mr. Walton, what did you say to her?”
“Sam, did you see the baby?”
“Mr. Walton, let me ask you . . .”
Novalee picked up the