The Qualities of Wood Read online

  The Qualities of Wood

  Mary Vensel White

  Dedication

  For Jason, for everything

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  Thanking

  About the Author

  About authonomy

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  In the small, congested airport, Vivian didn’t recognize her husband. Summertime. Outside, the sun beamed white on the runway and grassy fields. Inside, the terminal was stuffy and warm. Vivian passed a group of brightly-clothed summer travelers, this haze of blue, pink, yellow and green, and walked slowly along an eye-level, smudged window and into the crowded inlet beside the gate, all the while hunting for Nowell. Somehow, she walked right by.

  She imagined the terminal was normally empty, the surrounding community being rural and unworldly. But it was the season of vacations: eastern hometowns, tropical beaches, exotic cities. Not everyone was headed to an abandoned house in the country, she thought. The travelers dispersed purposefully, trailing loved ones or heading solo toward the cars parked in rows at the front of the building. Vivian was pulled along with the crowd. Nowell was late. At first she felt irritated but quickly dismissed the feeling. It was a reunion, she reminded herself.

  A large hand gripped her shoulder and she spun around.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Nowell’s deep voice. His dark eyes.

  ‘I couldn’t see you,’ she said. She reached up for him, grasped his shoulders as though to pull herself up. ‘I didn’t see you.’

  On the way to the house, she soaked him in: the shadowed gash of his cheekbone, his ruddy lips. Nowell kept his hand on her thigh. His touch felt curiously foreign after their four-week separation, but it ignited something too.

  The drive wasn’t long, the countryside a blur of sameness. Fields of indecisive green, hills falling short of remarkable. Here and there a white or brown-shingled house, some shadowed by barns. The predictable Midwest.

  Nowell’s hand left her leg to steer the car onto a dirt driveway. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  Vivian peered through the windshield. The small, white house was set back from the road and elevated slightly, like a judge on his bench. The sun lit the house from behind. White with dark green trim, there were wide strips of paint missing altogether; these sections of bare wood gave the impression of something bursting its seams. Two narrow windows gazed at the newcomers and beneath them, a bluish shadow stretched, tongue-like, down the front steps and onto the lawn.

  ‘It looks stable,’ Vivian said.

  He chuckled. The truck made a strange revving sound after he removed the key. ‘Just the timing,’ he told her.

  Vivian nodded. She knew the truck was like the house, old and in disrepair. Nowell had traded in their Honda when he left the city. They gave up the lease on their apartment and he moved first to arrange things. For a month, Vivian stayed at her parents’ house, working at her job for a couple more paychecks. It was the longest they had ever been apart.

  She hadn’t been particularly attached to their Honda, a blue hatchback with gray seats, but the truck was big and awkward. The worn seat belt was loose over her lap, leaving almost enough room for another person. Vivian’s feet grazed the floor. Like a child, she had only a limited view over the dash.

  Nowell opened the passenger door and lifted her out of the truck. Vivian stood about five-four and her husband was over six feet. Everyone in her family seemed shorter than average, while his whole family was tall. At their wedding, the first few rows in church seemed like a tilted painting, or a photograph enhanced for effect: his family on one side, hers on the other. Four years married, she thought. She would be twenty-eight this summer.

  Late July heat lingered in the air and warmed the lawn, though the sun was beginning to fade. The air was fragrant with live things. In the shaded areas, cool grass poked through Vivian’s sandals. She stood for a moment, studying her new home. Nowell’s grandfather had built the house as a newlywed and when he died in a hunting accident, Nowell’s grandmother stayed and finished raising their three children.

  His grandmother was stubborn and tied to the place, Nowell said. She seldom took vacations or visited family. Vivian met Grandma Gardiner twice: at their wedding, and when Nowell’s brother, Lonnie, had a serious accident. The old woman hadn’t left much of an impression on her; she remembered spindly legs and gray hair pinned above one ear with a clip.

  At one time, the house was probably fresh and welcoming: now it showed its age. A wooden swing, dusty from neglect, hung unevenly from the porch rafters. Its chains were pocked with rust. Three small windows formed a triangle at the peak of the roof, under a section of roof where the tiles had bubbled up. An attic, Vivian thought.

  Nowell kicked up a cloud of dust. ‘Lonnie left this morning,’ he said. ‘Sorry to miss you, but he wanted to get back.’

  ‘Well, you had him for two weeks,’ she said, picturing his burly brother. ‘Did you get much done?’

  ‘Definitely. I was glad for the help.’ He rummaged through the bushes beside the porch, picking up twigs and scraps of paper with his long, elegant fingers.

  ‘Do they still have that apartment?’ Vivian asked.

  ‘Yeah, but they want to move.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Too small. It’s only a one bedroom.’

  She looked at him. ‘Ours was a one bedroom.’

  ‘And it was too small.’ Nowell dumped the handful of garbage into a metal trash can, then stared at the tall grass. It sprouted in clumps, trapping bits of rubbish next to the house.

  ‘Is Lonnie working now?’ Vivian asked.

  ‘He’ll look for something as soon as he gets back. They still have some of the money my grandma left.’

  ‘That won’t last forever.’

  Nowell looked at her quickly. A warning. ‘Dorothy has a job,’ he said.

  Vivian couldn’t help but be skeptical where Lonnie was concerned. When Nowell had told her Lonnie was coming to help clean up the house, she figured there was something he wanted. And now there was a wife, too, whom Vivian hadn’t met. She could only imagine a woman with the same lack of ambition if she’d been foolish enough to marry Lonnie. They’d been married for a few months now, had known each other for only two weeks when they headed for city hall. Vivian’s mother-in-law, Beverly, harped on and on about the elopement, a welcome change since she usually overlooked Lonnie’s faults.

  Vivian leaned on the banister enclosing the porch. ‘When are we going to meet Dorothy?’

  Nowell’s face relaxed. ‘He said they’ll try to visit while we’re here.’

  Her stomach tightened. ‘That’s good,’ she said, moving towards him. ‘We might get lonely out here.’

  He wiped his hands on his jeans and leaned down, setting his large hands on her hips. ‘I’ve been lonely.’

  His touch still had an effect on her, a physical charge, and she had missed it. ‘Even though your brother was here?’ she teased.

  He smiled. ‘Somehow
it’s not the same.’

  The breeze picked up. It blew through Vivian’s hair and brought goose bumps out on her arms. Nowell pulled her close then held her at arm’s length. ‘Let’s look at the back before we go in.’ His eyes fairly gleamed. He was proud of the house, Vivian realized.

  The grass was high in the front yard, higher still at the sides of the house. Nowell led Vivian by the hand, all the while talking enthusiastically. He showed her the well, dug a short distance away. When they leaned over, it smelled damp and musty. Since Vivian left the rural airport, she had been intensely aware of the new sounds and smells around her.

  ‘The chimney is unblocked,’ Nowell said. ‘And we cleared most of the leaves and large trash.’ He shook his head. ‘Three years of neglect. You wouldn’t believe what was lying around.’

  ‘Looks good,’ Vivian acknowledged.

  ‘A road crew is paving the main road,’ he added. ‘They’re about five miles away now, just outside of town. They should be past here by the end of the summer.’

  ‘It’ll be nice having a paved road,’ she said.

  ‘But that’s why I bought the truck, for the bumpy dirt roads.’

  She pushed his arm. ‘Poor Nowell. Your fantasies of country living.’

  They turned at the back corner of the house and the open space hit her like a deep breath. The backyard was a large and unfenced expanse. Here grass grew unchecked into a knee-high field, all of it shimmering in the gentle wind and crackling as they walked. About forty feet from the house, the land sloped downward. In the distance stood a line of trees, fairly thick against the sliver of orange that remained of the sun.

  ‘We could barbecue out here if we cut the grass,’ Nowell said. ‘I found an old grill in that shed near the well. And look. This is the room where I’ve been working.’

  Vivian was distracted by the fading sunlight, crisscrossing like lattice against the trees. As she stared at the pattern, she thought she saw a movement amid the dark trunks. She strained her eyes, but the light was too dim.

  ‘Viv, did you hear me?’

  ‘What?’

  He stood near a wide window. ‘This is the room where I’ve been writing.’

  Vivian walked over and, cupping her hands around her eyes, pressed up against the glass. The room was mostly dark, but a streak of garish light from the kitchen divided the floor in half. She could make out the corner of a table or desk, the flowered pattern on the rug, and the keys of Nowell’s computer keyboard.

  ‘You left a light on,’ she told him. ‘How’s the book going?’

  ‘What?’ Now he was distracted. She caught him gazing over her shoulder toward the line of trees.

  ‘Your writing,’ she said. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Is that your desk, there by the window?’

  He nodded, bringing his attention back to her. ‘An antique secretary. You know, one of those old desks with drawers and secret compartments.’

  ‘You found secret compartments?’

  ‘Not yet, but there has to be some.’ He paused. ‘I had to run a twelve-foot extension cord from the kitchen for my computer. No outlets. My grandfather added this back room much later. I guess he didn’t want electricity in there. Or it was an oversight.’

  Vivian looked again towards the trees. ‘You have a good view of the forest from here.’

  Nowell laughed and reached for her.

  ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘I never thought of it as a forest.’

  ‘What is it, then?’

  Small wrinkles radiated from the corners of his eyes. He kissed her forehead, ran his fingers through her long brown hair. ‘I guess you’re right. I just think of forests as being vast, you know, near mountain ranges. Not a small parcel beside some meager hill in the flatlands.’

  ‘I still don’t see why it’s so funny.’

  ‘It sounded wild and dangerous the way you said it: the forest.’

  Two quick whistles sounded behind the trees, startling them apart.

  ‘What was that?’ Vivian asked.

  ‘Probably a bird.’ He coaxed her toward him and held her back against his chest, his chin resting on top of her head as he leaned against the house. ‘How was the office party?’ he asked.

  ‘The usual, only me this time. They had a cake and bought me a pair of overalls.’

  ‘Overalls?’

  ‘For living out here,’ she said. ‘A joke.’ She relaxed a little more into Nowell. ‘I worked there seven years. I can’t believe it.’

  Nowell squeezed her waist. ‘But you didn’t care much for that job, did you? I mean, you weren’t solving the world’s problems or anything.’

  ‘I won’t miss it,’ Vivian agreed. ‘But who says water management isn’t important?’

  ‘You weren’t managing the water, just the paperwork.’

  ‘Right,’ Vivian said.

  Nowell shifted his weight but she stayed against him. ‘I think I’ll get the book done out here,’ he said. ‘Do you think you can stand it for a year?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  The sun was completely gone now, the sky a darkening blue above the leaves, dotted with stars just blinking to life. In the cooling air, Vivian smelled the trees, like pine furniture polish but sweeter, and from somewhere, the faint scent of smoke. A small white light appeared amidst the trees.

  ‘Someone’s back there,’ she said.

  She followed Nowell’s eyes as they picked up the white dot. It quickly turned into three more.

  ‘It’s probably that sheriff,’ he said.

  ‘What sheriff?’

  ‘From town. I thought they were finished when I left to pick you up. They’re looking for something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘Isn’t that part of your grandmother’s land?’

  ‘Yes. That’s why he told me, I guess.’ Nowell broke away from her. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing. Maybe someone reported an injured deer or something. Let’s get your bag out of the truck.’

  Vivian watched the lights a moment more. As Nowell tugged her toward the house, she glanced back over her shoulder beyond the high, swaying grass, which was quickly becoming invisible, still whispering in the wind and crackling again under her feet.

  2

  In the kitchen, Vivian opened and shut cupboards. Almost everything in the house had belonged to Nowell’s grandmother. In one drawer, crocheted potholders, in another, faded telephone books. Here and there she saw something of theirs – a block of knives, Nowell’s favorite coffee mug – and felt an odd kinship with the items. Their things stood out from the rest, their familiarity like a signal. Most of their belongings were still in a storage place outside of the city.

  ‘Where are the glasses?’ she asked.

  Nowell pointed to a pantry door near the entrance to the hallway.

  Strange place to put glasses, she thought. She would rearrange things in the morning.

  ‘You’re having beer?’ he asked.

  There were three cans of beer in the refrigerator and she had set two of them on the table. Between them, steam rose from the bowl of pasta. Nowell went back to the oven for the bread.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Do you want one?’

  He nodded without looking at her.

  Vivian’s chair cushion made a shhh sound when she sat. The backs of her thighs pinched as they stuck fast to the vinyl.

  Nowell scooped noodles onto her plate. ‘They have a great deli and bakery at the grocery store in town,’ he said.

  ‘Doesn’t Lonnie like to cook anymore?’

  ‘Sure. He cleaned that barbecue off and grilled steaks one night. He also made apple cobbler in a clay bowl. Right in the ground, on hot coals. We ate the whole thing.’

  Vivian looked around the pale yellow kitchen. The curtains were a darker shade, embroidered with daisies. Mustard-colored specks in the countertop almost matched the dark yellow of the patterned tile. When sh
e had peeked in from the back window, all of the yellow in the room seemed strange and overdone. Sitting inside gave a different impression; the warm hue was soothing.

  ‘No dishwasher?’ she asked.

  ‘No, we’ve been roughing it.’

  She remembered helping her mother with the dishes after a big, elaborate dinner, standing side to side, arms submerged in warm water. Vivian always rinsed. When she fell behind, her mother floated her hands in the soapy water and stared out the window until Vivian caught up. It felt good, like they were on the same team.

  Nowell rose from the table and came back with a plastic tub of butter. She had a sip of beer and studied him. His hair had grown too long and he needed to shave the back of his neck. She thought maybe he had gained a few pounds. The older women who worked at the water management agency told Vivian that once you get married, men have no reason to keep themselves in good shape. They warned her about feeding him too much. But Nowell was tall and slender and had remained so, despite his sedentary job. Youth, the women told her. Just wait until you hit thirty.

  ‘How are your parents?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re fine. I think four weeks is beyond my threshold.’

  ‘Pretty tough going back?’

  ‘They haven’t changed.’

  ‘Did your mom have one of her formal dinners for you last night?’ He smiled. ‘I like the way she folds the napkins and puts place cards on the table.’

  ‘You wouldn’t like it so much if you grew up with that stuff. All that ceremony. And it’s more than just holidays. It was just the three of us this time.’

  It had probably been Nowell’s lack of formality that had attracted Vivian to him in the first place. They met in a large Geology class in college: a hundred students enclosed in a theater-like lecture hall. Nowell arrived late, then ducked along the back row to avoid the professor’s gaze. As he slid into his seat, he grinned at her and she noticed his brown eyes, the playful cocking of his eyebrows. Later, they were assigned to a laboratory group together. He was impossible to resist – handsome in the dark way that she liked, smart, confident. Nowell told her later that he’d thought she was funny and independent.