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Authors: Billie Letts
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and maybe it’ll be okay.”
We must wait till some months hence in the spring to know.
“Darlin’, I can’t think of anything I’d like better than to have you plant your tree in front of my home.”
And with that, Mr. Sprock was up from the table and out the door.
Novalee and Sister Husband hurried behind as Mr. Sprock took a shovel from Sister Husband’s shed; then Novalee had to decide where to plant the buckeye. From her reading in the library, she had learned that she should plant the tree on a slight rise for drainage, so she chose the highest point in Sister Husband’s yard, a spot nearly in the center.
“Right here,” she said. “This is it.”
Mr. Sprock nodded, then started to dig, but Novalee stopped him.
“No, thank you, Mr. Sprock. I’ll do it.”
“But darlin’,” Sister Husband said, “that’s heavy work. Do you really think it’ll be good for you?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’ll be good for me.”
By the time Novalee had the hole deep enough, she had blisters on her hands, and a pain in her lower back that would not rub away.
She loosened the burlap, then very gently lowered the tree into the hole, being careful not to disturb the roots. She had guessed right. The hole was twice as wide as the tree’s root ball and plenty deep enough.
She was so tired before she finished filling the hole that Sister Husband and Mr. Sprock used their shoes to scrape dirt over the roots when they thought Novalee wasn’t looking.
When she finished, Sister Husband and Mr. Sprock took her hands once again and they circled the tree while Sister Husband sang “A Fig Tree in Galilee,” a song Novalee had never heard.
Then, Sister Husband said, “Now, I quote from the Good Book, Mark 8:24. And he took the blind man by the hand, and led him out of town; and when he had spit on his eyes, and put his hands upon him, he asked him if he saw ought. And he looked up and said, I see man as trees, walking. ”
By the time Novalee crossed the parking lot, bedraggled and grimy, it was nearly dark. She had specks of dried buttermilk on her blouse and grass stains on the knees of her pants. Her fingernails were caked with dirt and she had a dark smudge across her cheek, but she was too exhausted to care.
She was too tired to enjoy the beauty of the sun setting behind the hills west of town, too tired to welcome the cool evening breeze, relief from the early spring heat. And she was far too tired to notice the man in the brown stocking cap standing across the street . . . the man watching her as she slipped inside the back door of the Wal-Mart.
Chapter Seven
FORNEY TOLD NOVALEE if she was late for her own birthday dinner, he’d feed her grasshopper stew. She made sure she wasn’t late. In fact, she got to the library twenty minutes early. But Forney had made such a fuss about being on time, she figured he might be as upset about her arriving early as he would about her coming late. So instead of going inside, she waited on a bench near the iron gate while she tried to brush some of the frizz from her still-damp hair.
She had come directly from the truck stop on East Main, where she went to shower and shampoo her hair whenever she could. A few weeks earlier she had discovered the shower stalls in the back of the station had an outside entrance. All she had to do was get in and out fast before the manager or one of the truckers walked in on her. So far, she had been lucky.
After her shower she had changed into a new dress from the maternity rack at Wal-Mart. Though she hated writing another charge 7 in her account book, this was a special occasion, something Forney had been planning for weeks.
Soon after they had met, on her third or fourth visit to the library, when Forney found out about her birthday, he started acting secretive.
She had seen him scribble hurried notes, always shielding the writing from her, always with some good excuse. Once, when she saw him writing on a dollar bill, he said he was
We must wait till some months hence in the spring to know.
“Darlin’, I can’t think of anything I’d like better than to have you plant your tree in front of my home.”
And with that, Mr. Sprock was up from the table and out the door.
Novalee and Sister Husband hurried behind as Mr. Sprock took a shovel from Sister Husband’s shed; then Novalee had to decide where to plant the buckeye. From her reading in the library, she had learned that she should plant the tree on a slight rise for drainage, so she chose the highest point in Sister Husband’s yard, a spot nearly in the center.
“Right here,” she said. “This is it.”
Mr. Sprock nodded, then started to dig, but Novalee stopped him.
“No, thank you, Mr. Sprock. I’ll do it.”
“But darlin’,” Sister Husband said, “that’s heavy work. Do you really think it’ll be good for you?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’ll be good for me.”
By the time Novalee had the hole deep enough, she had blisters on her hands, and a pain in her lower back that would not rub away.
She loosened the burlap, then very gently lowered the tree into the hole, being careful not to disturb the roots. She had guessed right. The hole was twice as wide as the tree’s root ball and plenty deep enough.
She was so tired before she finished filling the hole that Sister Husband and Mr. Sprock used their shoes to scrape dirt over the roots when they thought Novalee wasn’t looking.
When she finished, Sister Husband and Mr. Sprock took her hands once again and they circled the tree while Sister Husband sang “A Fig Tree in Galilee,” a song Novalee had never heard.
Then, Sister Husband said, “Now, I quote from the Good Book, Mark 8:24. And he took the blind man by the hand, and led him out of town; and when he had spit on his eyes, and put his hands upon him, he asked him if he saw ought. And he looked up and said, I see man as trees, walking. ”
By the time Novalee crossed the parking lot, bedraggled and grimy, it was nearly dark. She had specks of dried buttermilk on her blouse and grass stains on the knees of her pants. Her fingernails were caked with dirt and she had a dark smudge across her cheek, but she was too exhausted to care.
She was too tired to enjoy the beauty of the sun setting behind the hills west of town, too tired to welcome the cool evening breeze, relief from the early spring heat. And she was far too tired to notice the man in the brown stocking cap standing across the street . . . the man watching her as she slipped inside the back door of the Wal-Mart.
Chapter Seven
FORNEY TOLD NOVALEE if she was late for her own birthday dinner, he’d feed her grasshopper stew. She made sure she wasn’t late. In fact, she got to the library twenty minutes early. But Forney had made such a fuss about being on time, she figured he might be as upset about her arriving early as he would about her coming late. So instead of going inside, she waited on a bench near the iron gate while she tried to brush some of the frizz from her still-damp hair.
She had come directly from the truck stop on East Main, where she went to shower and shampoo her hair whenever she could. A few weeks earlier she had discovered the shower stalls in the back of the station had an outside entrance. All she had to do was get in and out fast before the manager or one of the truckers walked in on her. So far, she had been lucky.
After her shower she had changed into a new dress from the maternity rack at Wal-Mart. Though she hated writing another charge 7 in her account book, this was a special occasion, something Forney had been planning for weeks.
Soon after they had met, on her third or fourth visit to the library, when Forney found out about her birthday, he started acting secretive.
She had seen him scribble hurried notes, always shielding the writing from her, always with some good excuse. Once, when she saw him writing on a dollar bill, he said he was
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