Where the Heart Is Read Online Free PDF

long time, so long that it seemed she might never move.
    Much later, when she did get up, she walked to the front window and looked outside. A light rain was beginning to fall and a hard wind scattered drops against the glass. Hazy neon yellows and reds, tiny darts of color, were caught in the trickles spilling down the pane. And suddenly, a memory, long-buried, came rushing back to her.
    She was very little and she couldn’t remember why or how, but she was left behind at a skating rink, locked in, alone. At first, she was terrified . . . screaming, pounding on locked doors, clawing toward high windows.
    Then, she stretched to a switch on the wall, flipped it up, and a huge silver ball in the middle of the rink started to turn, sending a shower of silver and blue across the floor, up the walls, around the ceiling—around and around.
    Her fear broke apart then, shattered like splintered glass, and five-year-old Novalee Nation walked into that shower of light and let the Where the Heart Is
    bright diamonds of color dance around her body. Then, she began to turn. Under the magic silver ball, her stockinged feet gliding, sliding on the polished wood, she turned . . . faster and faster . . . arms floating free in space . . . spinning . . . whirling . . . free.
    Novalee smiled at her five-year-old self, all elbows and knees, and she tried to hold her there, but the child spun away, into the shadows.
    Then, Novalee Nation, seventeen, seven months pregnant, thirty-seven pounds overweight, slipped off her thongs and there, in the middle of the Wal-Mart, she began to turn . . . faster and faster . . .
    spinning and whirling . . . free . . . waiting for her history to begin.

Chapter Three
    WILLY JACK RAN out of money in Tucumcari; the Plymouth ran out of gas eighty miles later. When the needle on the gas gauge crawled over the E, he dug in his pockets to count his change, ninety-four cents. He regretted giving Novalee the ten, which would have gotten him closer to California, but he quickly shrugged that off. Willy Jack was not one to linger on regret.
    He was able to let the car coast to a grove of pines, well off the shoulder of the road. He locked his cardboard suitcase in the trunk, then pulled out the seats, front and back, searching for lost coins.
    He found two quarters, a dime, three pennies and his roach clip.
    He hadn’t walked far before he realized he had left his dark glasses on the dash. More than the heat, he was bothered by the glare of the sun, which produced a finger of pain jabbing at his eyes.
    He tried to hitch a ride, but the truckers, having gotten up speed coming off the Pecos Mesa, roared past, creating small whirlwinds of dust and grit, leaving him grinding sand between his teeth.
    Few other vehicles were on the road. Pickups with whole families crowded into the cabs. RVs, their windows plastered with bumper stickers that said SENIOR CITIZENS ON BOARD. Not the kind of drivers to stop for hitchhikers.
    Once, a banged-up little VW full of teenagers slowed and pulled even with Willy Jack. A redhead with crooked teeth leaned out the window and smiled.
    “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but would you have any Grey Poupon?”
    “What? Grey what?”
    But the car had already started to speed away, the sounds of laughter spilling out behind it.
    “Cocksuckers,” Willy Jack shouted.
    The redhead leaned out the window and blew Willy Jack a kiss; Willy Jack gave him the finger.
    “Cocksuckers,” he yelled again, but they were far down the highway by then.
    The heat was beginning to bother him; his mouth was dry, his head pounding. At the top of a rise he spotted a pond, but it was a mile or so back from the highway.
    He didn’t have a plan for getting gas or money, but when he saw a sign that said SANTA ROSA—THREE MILES, he figured that was a better option than walking to Bakersfield.
    Just before the exit, another sign announced GAS, FOOD AND
    LODGING AHEAD, but Willy Jack never made it to any of the