The Qualities of Wood Read online

  Even back then he knew he wanted to be a writer. He took literature and history classes and published short stories in the undergraduate literary journal. Vivian didn’t settle on the focus of her own studies until her third year, when Nowell helped her decide on a Business major. She took the job at the WMA while still in school and just stayed on after graduation.

  Nowell tore off a piece of bread with his teeth. ‘Did you get the whole deposit back from the apartment?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I also have my last paycheck, with the vacation time I didn’t use. And since I stayed the extra month, they said they’d forward my bonus.’

  ‘Good, we’ll need every bit. No paychecks for a whole year…’

  ‘But we’ve planned for this,’ she reminded him. ‘We’ve got the money from your first book.’

  ‘That’s not much.’

  ‘And the money your grandmother left, and the savings. As long as nothing unexpected happens.’

  Nowell looked up from his food. ‘Did your parents drive you to the airport?’

  She shook her head. ‘Dad had an early class, so it was just my mom, harassing me all the way.’

  ‘She thinks you should have kept your job since mine’s so lucrative.’

  ‘No. She still believes I’ve missed my calling in life, that I’ve overlooked some hidden talent.’

  ‘She thinks I’m holding you back.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘From something that isn’t me,’ Nowell said.

  ‘I told her the move isn’t just for you. If I can get this house cleaned up,’ she motioned with her hand, ‘and it looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me, then we can make a little for us when your mom sells it.’

  ‘She sent some money,’ Nowell said. ‘My mom. She said buy supplies, paint, cleaning stuff, whatever. Keep the receipts.’

  ‘Do you really think the place will sell?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It seems so out of the way.’

  ‘Lots of people want to live in the country.’ Underneath the table, he surrounded her feet with his larger ones. ‘Besides, you haven’t seen the town yet. It has modern conveniences.’

  ‘Do they have a movie theater?’

  ‘I think they do,’ he said.

  ‘It’s probably a drive-in.’ She rose and took her plate to the sink.

  Nowell came up behind her. ‘A drive-in might be fun.’ He kissed her just behind the ear, dropped his hands to her waist. His breath was warm. ‘We could take our new truck and break it in.’

  ‘Your new truck,’ she said. ‘I don’t think my feet will reach the pedals. I’ll have to get those stilts that handicapped people use.’

  He slid his hands upward from her stomach and she stepped back, forcing him to move away.

  ‘Let me rinse these dishes,’ she said, ‘so there won’t be ants or mice or whatever lives out here. I’ll be there in a minute.’

  ‘Deal.’ He grabbed his beer from the table and leaned his head back, swallowing the last of it.

  ‘Will you start unpacking my suitcase?’ she asked.

  He tossed the empty can into the trash and walked down the hallway.

  Vivian hid a smile, imagining his reaction. She had purchased new lingerie, an emerald satin chemise and shorts, and packed it at the top of her bag for him to find. She hurried to clear the table.

  Her attraction to Nowell was reliably strong, especially after a month’s absence. There was something so comforting about the feel of his arms, something still so exciting about their legs entwined, her long hair spilling around them. She lost herself during their intimacies.

  Afterwards, they turned down the quilt and lay on the bed backwards, looking out at the moon. The carved headboard blocked part of the window, which was wide and low like the one in Nowell’s study. The moon, almost a full circle, sat in perfect view over the trees. There were so many more stars in the country, Vivian thought. The night was lit up by them.

  The bedroom had been his grandmother’s. It was small and exactly square, just wide enough for the bed and two wooden nightstands. Each table held a lamp shaped like a lighthouse, white with black details, the light beaming from the top. On the far wall hung an oil painting, a picture of a house and the surrounding field but the colors were strange: orange grass, green sky, a pink, tilted roof.

  Nowell lay still, the sheet draped over his mid-section like a loincloth.

  ‘You’re quiet,’ Vivian said.

  He brought his arm around to rest heavily on her stomach. ‘I guess you haven’t changed your mind about things.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because of what you said just now, at the end. And you’re drinking beer.’

  Vivian tensed. ‘It’s not even the right timing. Besides, you promised you wouldn’t bring this up for a while.’ She swung her legs around and sat on the edge of the bed, then leaned over and picked up the green chemise.

  ‘I know. Sorry. Come on, don’t be mad.’

  ‘You’re always thinking about having a baby,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it enough for now that I’m here?’

  ‘I just don’t see why, I mean, I thought we agreed to talk about it.’

  ‘I’m not having this conversation again.’ She found her shorts underneath the pillow at her feet and pulled them on. ‘I’ve had a long day traveling. I want to wash my face, and I might drink that last beer before I brush my teeth.’ She added this last part to annoy him.

  It worked. ‘I have a lot on my mind too,’ Nowell said. ‘Just forget it.’ He turned his back to her and pulled up the sheet. He left the blanket bunched at his feet. A ceiling fan whirred overhead, stirring the warm air into feathery layers of discontent.

  Vivian walked down the hall and looked into the other rooms, flipping lights on and off. There were two bedrooms across the hall. In one, a small white dresser sat opposite a double bed. The other was filled with boxes.

  In the kitchen, she opened the last can of beer and took a long drink. A narrow, circular staircase jutted through the ceiling in the far corner of the room. An odd entry to the attic, the room with the triangular windows.

  She had to step down when she walked into Nowell’s study because it was built lower to accommodate the slope of the land. Feeling along the wall for a light switch, she remembered that Nowell had said there was no electricity. She let her hand drop. Moonlight reflected from shiny surfaces and her eyes began to focus in the darkness. To her left, a narrow, cluttered bookshelf extended to the ceiling. To her right, a brown leather couch took up most of the wall. Against the window was the antique secretary. Vivian noticed the thick electrical cord that ran down the center of the room and into the kitchen. A metal floor lamp sat beside the desk, connected to the cord. She didn’t turn it on.

  She looked at the backyard, the expanse of grass that stretched to the thick line of trees, now silver in the moonlight. She thought about the bouncing lights they’d seen and wondered how much of the land belonged to them, at least for a time.

  The paper tray of Nowell’s printer extended over the side of the desk. A stack of freshly printed sheets was in the wire holder. She picked up one page and squinted to read it in the dim light.

  She was young and fast, a girl who knew too much and would soon understand why this was dangerous. She walked with purpose, swinging her lush hips and her long silky hair, as she glanced back over her shoulder at him, beckoning. He was unaffected at first, watching her this way, but his interest grew and he determined to see her. He waited, for days it seemed, always looking for her at the usual time, at the usual place, but for days and days she didn’t come. He grew restless, angry. She was the kind of girl who didn’t keep people waiting for long, and now here he was, waiting like a fool.

  Vivian placed the paper back with the others in the tray. Nowell liked to give her portions of his writing in his own good time, like gifts meted out to an impatient child. His first book was a murder mystery and from the looks of it, th
is new one was too. It seemed strange that a sensitive, easy-going person like Nowell would write about deranged people and horrific events but it was imagination, which could come up with just about anything, she supposed.

  Why couldn’t he be content with just her, at least until they could get back to the city? Their life wasn’t suited for a family right now, she thought. There was no room.

  In the kitchen, she poured the last of the beer down the sink. With the yellow-patterned tile under her bare feet and only the thin layer of green satin against her skin, she was getting cold. She turned off the light and felt her way along the wall to the bedroom. In the morning, she would take a better look around.

  3

  The sun rose at the front of the house and gleamed through the kitchen window, bright and overwhelming, like a camera flash. Vivian liked the room’s energy, the unrelenting yellow a shock to her senses.

  The place needed a lot of work. The house had stood abandoned for almost three years and every cupboard and closet was stuffed with clothing, books, papers, the assorted junk of a household. The boxes in the bedroom at the end of the hall needed unpacking, their contents dispersed between the Salvation Army and the dump. Vivian would have to go through everything.

  The real work would begin after the sorting and clearing. The entire house needed a fresh coat of paint, inside and out. Many of the curtains and shades could be salvaged, but needed washing or mending. A couple of the windows were rusted shut. Repair jobs ranged from a broken doorknob to the huge mildew stain on the ceiling in one of the bedrooms. The attic was its own unique challenge, as Vivian discovered after breakfast.

  The stairs from the kitchen were steep and narrow, blocked at the top by a trap door. Vivian pushed and with a reluctant groan it swung open, landing with a bang on the floor above. She pulled herself up and looked around, surprised by the expansive size of the room. The rafters met in a point, like a triangle. The ceiling was high, even at the edges, so she could stand and most of the space was easily accessible. Cardboard boxes were stacked along each wall, as in the spare bedroom. She wondered if Nowell’s grandmother had been planning to move and had begun to pack. Intricate patterns of spider webs decorated the corners of the attic and trailed between awnings like delicate suspension bridges. As Vivian walked, dust rose from the floor and fluttered back down.

  The triangular windows let the morning sun through; the rays picked up these dust particles and held them in spirals and sheets. Underneath was a window seat. She cleaned it with a rag and sat down. The seat was hard and small, child-sized. Vivian swiveled and saw the red truck in the driveway. At a short distance, the road curved and disappeared over a hill. A few miles beyond that lay the town.

  ‘Are you alright up there?’ Nowell called, his voice muffled from below.

  ‘This floor will look great after it’s cleaned and polished,’ she called back.

  ‘I bet nobody’s been up there for years,’ he said. ‘Be careful.’

  In the far corner sat a large wooden bureau, its purplish color muted by a thick layer of dust. A black vinyl garment bag hung from the back. Vivian walked over and unzipped it. Inside, a garment of dark blue fabric was covered in plastic wrap. Next to that, three dress shirts in white and pale blue. More old clothes, she thought. A brass coat rack, tarnished and dented, stood in front of the bureau. Next to that was a small wire cage, a house for a bird but now choked with spider webs. Clearing the attic would be a big job, one that she resolved to leave for later.

  The first days at the house passed quickly. Vivian conducted a survey of sorts, working her way from room to room, making lists. In the afternoons, she sometimes pulled a rusty lawn chair from the shed and took some sun in the front yard. She had first tried sitting in the back, where she could have a view of the trees, but the grass was too high; it scratched her between the canvas slats of the chair. Also, biting bugs swarmed, jumped and hid in the tall grass. Nowell had promised to mow the lawn as soon as he reached a good stopping point in his work.

  The world seemed to turn more slowly at the house. Lazy afternoons followed bright, sharp mornings filled with bird noises, clear sky, and country smells of warm grass and damp places. At mid-day the air became hazy and heavy and the birds quieted for a siesta. The house was shady then, a cool respite before the sun began its descent and beamed orange through the back windows. It was a lazy time. In the evenings, Vivian’s energy level peaked again and her sense of hearing sharpened. She heard crickets under the house and outside, the green, thick-veined leaves flapping, one against the other in the breeze. When a small branch snapped and fell, the other branches gently guided its descent.

  In the week since her arrival she hadn’t accomplished much with the house, but she didn’t feel guilty. After all, she’d waived her annual vacation from the water management agency because Nowell had said the extra money would help. She deserved to take it easy after having worked straight through the last eight months.

  So she was spending another afternoon relaxing. That morning, she had unpacked some boxes, mostly trash: used paperback romances, sewing things and scraps of fabric, an entire box of plastic silverware, plates and cups. She found it strange, going through someone’s belongings, without knowing the person or their reasons for keeping things. Now she lay on her stomach in the front yard with her arms at her sides, feeling the sun bake her back. Eventually she sat up to look at a magazine. The heat felt good on her skin and caused a thin, sparkly layer of sweat to bead between her breasts.

  She heard the low hum of a car approaching. The postman was early, she thought. It was just after one o’clock and he usually arrived closer to three. Vivian leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, pushing the magazine underneath her leg so it wouldn’t fall. The car’s engine grew louder until she heard dirt crunching under the tires. She looked up as a long, metallic-green car rolled up the driveway. The postman never came up the driveway, only stopped his little truck at the silver mailbox on the main road.

  The driver’s door opened and a woman got out. ‘Hello,’ she called cheerily. ‘Don’t get up, now. I’m nobody important.’

  Vivian squinted up at her. She was tall, older than Vivian. Maybe almost forty. Over a pair of dark lavender pants hung a long blue t-shirt, decorated with a pattern of hearts and flowers. She walked up the driveway and stood towering over Vivian.

  ‘I’m Katherine Wilton,’ she said. ‘I knew Betty, uh, Mrs Gardiner.’

  Vivian extended her hand. ‘I’m Vivian Gardiner. Mrs Gardiner was my husband’s grandmother.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I met your husband at the grocery store a couple weeks back.’ Katherine Wilton’s voice was pleasant, almost musical. ‘I almost knocked a chicken out of his arms, wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. I get distracted by the displays in the deli.’

  ‘That deli is famous,’ Vivian said. ‘My husband and his brother couldn’t say enough about it. I’ll have to see it for myself soon.’

  Katherine Wilton laughed again, crossing her arms over the flowers on her ample chest. ‘The employees are all women with too much time on their hands, as far as I’m concerned. Anybody who has time to make a pie from scratch has got their priorities all messed up.’ She dropped her key-ring into a tan leather handbag. ‘Your husband told me you were arriving. I thought I’d see how you’re getting on.’

  ‘That’s really nice of you,’ Vivian said. ‘I just got in a week ago. I haven’t even left the house yet.’

  ‘I see you’re taking it easy. Good for you. City living gets hectic, I suppose.’

  Vivian flushed, embarrassed at being caught doing nothing. ‘Yes, I’ve been lazy.’

  ‘Nonsense! You’re spending quality time, as they say, rejuvenating mind and body.’

  ‘That’s a nice way of saying it. Would you like to come inside for something to drink, Mrs Wilton?’

  ‘Only if you call me Katherine. ‘Mrs Wilton’ always makes me think of my mother-in-law, and the less I think of her
the better.’

  Vivian laughed and stood up. The magazine stuck to the back of her thigh for a moment then fell to the ground between their feet.

  Katherine scooped it up before Vivian could. ‘That magazine’s left an imprint on your leg,’ she said.

  ‘What, where?’ Vivian twisted her hips, trying to find the spot where the magazine had stuck.

  ‘It’s kind of weird, really, a little face right on your leg.’ Katherine covered her grin with a ring-adorned hand. Brassy gold and multi-colored gemstones flashed in the sunlight. ‘It looks like a tattoo, although I don’t know why you’d want some supermodel’s face on your thigh.’

  Vivian could make out only a small patch of color, reddish with some black. She studied the magazine page: an ad for hair coloring. She wrapped a towel around her waist and picked up her glass.

  Katherine leaned closer. ‘I have a tattoo from my wilder days.’

  ‘I always wanted one,’ Vivian said. ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘A black panther. Right here.’ She pointed to a spot just above her pelvic bone. ‘Nothing political intended. I just think big cats are so amazing. Believe it or not, I ran on the track team in high school. So that was it, speed and grace.’ She smiled. ‘It sounds stupid, but I never realized the implications of having a cat so close to … well, right there.’

  Vivian inadvertently opened her mouth.

  ‘It’s alright.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘My husband laughs about it all the time.’

  They stepped onto the porch.