The Qualities of Wood Read online

  Vivian leaned forward. ‘What did you hear?’

  The woman contemplated for a moment then squinted, her eyes catlike. ‘I heard it’s not a foregone conclusion.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They say the girl fell, right?’

  Vivian nodded.

  ‘And hit her head on the rock?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The woman paused, puckering her lips. ‘Say you’re running and you trip on something and fall. Where would your hands be?’

  ‘My hands?’

  ‘You’re running and your feet hit something and you fall forward.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  The woman shook her head irritably, then glanced over her shoulder again. ‘Your hands would be up, near your chest or your face, depending how far they got.’ She demonstrated. ‘You would try to break the fall, by instinct. That’s why kids on roller-skates are supposed to wear those wrist things, because they break their wrists more than anything else.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Chanelle Brodie’s hands were at her side, like this.’

  Vivian peered over the counter to see the woman’s arms, pressed to her sides like a soldier at attention.

  ‘Weird, isn’t it?’ the woman said.

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Like an execution,’ she almost hissed.

  They concluded their business and Vivian thanked the woman. Outside, the morning brightness was a shock. She locked the truck and started down the street toward the restaurant Katherine had suggested, thinking about the conversation with the woman at The Sentinel. What she had said about instinct seemed reasonable. Small children often fell on their faces, cutting their lips open or bruising their cheeks, but after a certain age, injuries happened more to limbs. Older children scraped their knees and elbows, broke arms and fingers. It seemed logical that if a seventeen-year-old girl had fallen in the woods, her hands would have gone up to break her fall.

  Vivian passed a toy store and a women’s clothing boutique. The streets were quiet for mid-morning, most businesses still closed. She lowered her sunglasses to read the sign on the door of a flower shop: Open weekdays at eleven. Most of the places were the same. She was meeting Katherine at eleven-thirty, and still had an hour to kill. She reached the plaza with the statue of William Clement, sat on a red-painted bench, and opened her complimentary copy of The Sentinel.

  There were two articles about Chanelle Brodie, the first one on the front page: Local Girl, 17, Found Dead. The article was short, just covering the most basic facts; that the body was found face down, on a large rock, and that the death was believed to be an accident. More information would follow after an autopsy, it said. The other article, buried on page six, talked about an impromptu memorial service that took place at Chanelle’s high school. The entire fence surrounding the football field was threaded with flowers. The formal services would be held in a few days.

  She wondered again what Chanelle had been doing in the woods behind their property. Vivian thought about a small box she buried in her backyard when she was young. The box contained mementos: notes she had received from a boy, a plastic multi-colored bracelet, a picture of her mother as a teenager. Between the gnarled roots of an old, dried-up tree, she dug a hole and covered the box with a thin layer of dirt. She thought: Maybe Chanelle had a hiding place in the woods; that would explain why she went there alone. Then again, maybe she did most things by herself, being an only child. Vivian could relate to that.

  ‘Hey there!’

  Vivian opened her eyes. The sun glared through her sunglasses.

  Katherine moved over, blocking the light. ‘I thought that was you. I drove by a minute ago.’

  ‘None of the stores were open,’ Vivian said. ‘I thought I’d read the paper and enjoy the sun a little.’

  ‘I keep telling Max that we should open later like everyone else, but some people like to drop off their cleaning on the way to work.’ She looked up at the sky. ‘Feels like another hot one, doesn’t it? July is going out with a bang, I swear.’

  They walked across the plaza, over the jagged shadow of William Clement and horse.

  Katherine said, ‘This place has a great salad bar, and it should be pretty fresh since we’ll get there before the lunch crowd.’

  Vivian looked up and down the streets, which were clear but beginning to show a few sporadic signs of life. She couldn’t imagine any type of crowd anywhere on this street, lunchtime or otherwise. There was a pregnant stillness, like a suspenseful movie. Any moment, a mad gunman would burst from the bank or someone would scream and fall from the top of a building.

  ‘Those kids were a handful today,’ Katherine said.

  ‘What grade?’

  ‘Third. Eight and nine years old. They’re hard to handle during the summer. It’s like the heat gets to their little brains.’ She laughed, pleased with herself. ‘What did you think of that storm?’

  ‘Windy, wasn’t it? I filled a trash bag with leaves and branches.’

  Katherine grabbed Vivian’s upper arm. ‘I still can’t believe it. One of the teachers at the school heard that Chanelle had been missing for almost three weeks. She has a friend who knows Kitty.’

  ‘Kitty?’

  ‘Mrs Brodie, Chanelle’s mother. Her name is Katlyn but she’s always gone by Kitty.’ She made a clicking sound with her tongue. ‘She had a hard time raising that child alone. Chanelle was a magnet for trouble.’

  ‘More trouble than most teenagers?’ Vivian asked.

  ‘That’s a good question. It’s been so long since I was one myself.’

  They were seated at a table on the restaurant’s patio, and when they were comfortable with iced teas, Katherine resumed the conversation. ‘Chanelle was a very pretty girl and arrogant about it. I think it’s a special time, and a dangerous one, when a young girl discovers her sex appeal. Don’t you?’

  Vivian flushed slightly. ‘I guess.’

  ‘She had a way about her. Arrogant, but sad. She wasn’t going to let anybody tell her anything.’

  ‘Did she have brothers or sisters?’

  Katherine shook her head as she sipped from her straw. ‘Kitty had her real young, in high school.’ She set her glass down. ‘You should know that in a small town, everybody goes to the same school and knows everybody’s business. I swear, it’s almost intimidating sometimes, knowing you can never get away from yourself. You can never change, not really. People are always reminding you who you are.’

  Vivian hadn’t lived in her hometown since she moved away to college. She hadn’t ever thought of it in those terms, but she did like the anonymity of the city. ‘Were you and Kitty friends in high school?’ she asked.

  ‘No. She was a year back, and hung around a different crowd.’

  Vivian smiled. ‘Let me guess. She was a cheerleader and you were a diligent student.’

  Katherine chuckled. ‘Something like that. She never was a cheerleader, but boy, she wanted to be. She pestered the in-crowd until they had to let her in. She was very pretty. Still is.’

  ‘So that’s where Chanelle got her looks.’

  Something passed over Katherine’s face. Vivian thought that maybe it hurt her feelings, remembering how she and Kitty differed in high school.

  ‘I see kids around here,’ Katherine said, ‘well, they have no fear. I’ve seen Chanelle riding around at night, six or seven of them in the back of a truck. Cruising up and down the main street, trying to make something happen.’

  ‘The street with the statue of William Clement?’

  ‘Yea.’ Katherine paused. ‘I can’t explain it, but they act like they own the town. I was never completely fearless, even at my worst.’

  Vivian envisioned the circular plaza surrounding the statue of Clement. ‘That’s probably the turn-around point,’ she said, ‘where the statue is.’

  ‘You sound like someone who’s done some cruising yourself.’

  Vivian shrugged. ‘Maybe once or twice.’
/>   ‘There’s something else.’ Katherine lowered her voice. ‘About a year ago, Chanelle and two local boys got arrested for stealing a car from the mini-mall parking lot. They were raging drunk too. Lucky for them, Sheriff Townsend is an old friend of Kitty’s father. They all got bailed out and the charges were eventually dropped. I think they got some kind of probation.’

  ‘What about the owner of the car?’

  ‘She used to work for the sheriff when he owned his construction company.’ She winked. ‘Everything worked out.’

  Their salads arrived and for a few moments, they ate in silence.

  Katherine sighed. ‘I think Chanelle had a lot of boyfriends, that sort of thing. Pretty much like her mother in that way. But she was still in school. She could have done something with her life, especially with that stubborn streak. Life takes perseverance, doesn’t it? It’s a real shame.’

  Vivian set her fork down. ‘I saw the story in The Sentinel.’

  ‘You know,’ Katherine said. ‘It doesn’t give the exact location. People won’t know it was near your place.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll want to leave flowers at the site or something?’

  ‘No, I just thought you wouldn’t want people bothering you.’

  ‘People? What people?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘They can come over and look if they want to,’ Vivian said. ‘Why? Do people think that we know something, do they…’

  Katherine waved her hand, bracelets sounding an alarm. ‘Oh, no, no, no. There are all types, that’s all. The curious, the downright nosy.’

  Vivian hadn’t once imagined the possible implications of the girl being found on their property. She had been thinking only of their safety.

  ‘The man who owns this little cafe is so nice,’ Katherine told her. ‘His father designed the fire station, and the county office addition…’ As she talked, Vivian stayed alone in her thoughts, which weren’t about office additions or salads but instead were vivid contemplations about Chanelle Brodie and the nature of her final moments.

  8

  When Vivian came in, Nowell was on the telephone, speaking patiently into the receiver, which was propped between his shoulder and ear. ‘I can’t tell you anything until I speak to him. What’s his name again?’ He paced the room, very intent on the conversation, pausing only to give her a brief nod. ‘Richards or Richardson? I’ve got it. And his number?’

  The curtain divider to Nowell’s study had been pulled back. Through the window, the back lawn was a vivid, monochrome green. Vivian noticed an empty plate and a fork on the end table near the couch. She stepped down into the room to get them.

  ‘I’ll call him today or maybe first thing tomorrow. What are you doing? No, not you. Viv, what are you doing?’

  She turned with the plate in her hands to show him.

  ‘Mom, they can’t do that. No, I will call Richards, or is it Richardson? I’ll call him. You just wait to hear from me. I’ll let you know what I find out.’

  Vivian set the plate and fork in the sink then walked down the hallway toward their bedroom.

  Nowell came in as she was adjusting the straps of her bikini. ‘You’re going outside?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘My mom said she’d call to talk to you later this week. She’s too upset today.’

  ‘Why, what happened?’

  He sat on the edge of the bed. ‘The pension thing. She’s all worked up about it and wants me to call that lawyer. She doesn’t trust him.’

  ‘What are you supposed to do?’

  He shrugged. ‘She needs someone to look out for her, and Lonnie’s no good in these situations. I may have to drive over there and meet with this guy.’

  She looked up. ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know what else to do. I’ve got her calling me in hysterics, and I can’t do anything from here. I’ll stay overnight so I can meet with him during office hours.’

  Vivian wrapped a beach towel, a bright print her parents bought on vacation, around her waist. She leaned against the doorframe. ‘I just don’t see why it has to be you. You’re trying to finish your book.’

  ‘There’s no use arguing about it. I have to go.’ He crossed his arms over his chest, looked at her chest in the bikini top. ‘If you don’t feel comfortable staying here alone, you can come with me.’

  She shrugged, watched his gaze and waited.

  ‘I’ve got to get back to work,’ he said. He left the room and after a few moments, she followed him, suddenly angry. She poked her head into the makeshift office. ‘Am I allowed in here?’ she asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You act like you want me to stay out.’

  ‘I like my privacy. Is that such a big deal?’

  ‘No, Nowell. Nothing’s a big deal. You don’t leave this room for days at a time, but you can take two days off to bail your mother out of some imaginary problem. No big deal.’

  ‘You think I want to do this?’ He sprung from his chair and was suddenly towering over her. ‘Drive all the way there, talk to some lawyer about something I know nothing about, knowing my mother is depending on me? A little support would be nice, Viv.’ He ran his hands through his dark hair and looked, in that moment, vulnerable.

  She reached for him. ‘I’m sorry but…’

  ‘I have work to do.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, and went to the kitchen. She knew he needed time to cool off.

  They hadn’t fought much during the first years of their marriage, although it was a tense time. Nowell had just graduated from college and Vivian had a year left. He took a low-paying job at a bookstore while she worked part-time at the water management agency. Money was limited and anxieties were high. The rent on their apartment went up twice in one year. Everywhere, real estate prices were skyrocketing and rents were keeping pace. The boom of the 90s, people were calling it. Even with the money difficulties, they were happy.

  They married after two years of dating. Although Vivian spent quite a bit of time in Nowell’s studio apartment, she shared a dorm room on campus with three other girls until a few weeks before the wedding. Nowell’s mother sprung for a resort honeymoon, and her parents paid for the small ceremony at Nowell’s family’s church. After the wedding, they rented the one-bedroom apartment and combined their things.

  In the beginning, they were both very busy. With Nowell’s encouragement, Vivian finally decided on a Business major. She had been wavering between Art History and Business, taking low-level courses in both. She imagined herself working in a museum, perhaps owning her own art gallery one day.

  During her freshman year, she stumbled into an art history class after not getting into an overcrowded introductory literature course. She had been focusing on Business then, but still needed a few liberal arts classes. The professor of the art course was young and hip, enthusiastic and funny. Vivian had a crush on him, with his silver earring and long black ponytail, his tawny skin and brown suede coat. And when Dr Lightfoot showed slides of sculptures and paintings, museums and cathedrals, and talked about the creativity and methods that formed them, it was the ultimate escape. Vivian was hooked.

  Nowell said that Art History was a major like English, designed for those who wanted to teach and she’d need a doctorate degree if she followed that course. The Business major was more broadly applicable, he said, non-limiting. She could have Art History as a minor; business would guarantee her a job.

  When Vivian announced her plans to her parents over dinner one night, their reactions were restrained. Her mother gazed at her over her tortoise-shell reading glasses. ‘I thought you were really interested in art,’ she said.

  ‘I am,’ Vivian said, ‘but I think that the Business degree would open up more avenues, that’s all.’

  ‘Why do you need other avenues, if art is what you enjoy?’ Her mother stared at her plate, slicing her prime rib with the efficiency of a surgeon.

  ‘I’ll still have a minor in art,’
she said. ‘It’s hard to find a job with a Bachelors degree in Art.’

  Her mother only raised her eyebrows but her father lifted his wineglass to Vivian. ‘I think it’s a fine decision, Vivie,’ he said.

  She knew they wanted her to follow them into academia, but she lacked their self-discipline, their ability to narrow focus. She didn’t have their attention spans; her mother had said so herself on many occasions when Vivian put down a book to watch television, when she abandoned a project before it was finished.

  Vivian kept her office job after graduation and was promoted within a year to Administrative Assistant. Nowell moved from the bookstore to a short stint at a bakery, to his last job at the magazine, editing and proofreading. In the evenings and during weekends, he worked on his book. Between her job, housework, and keeping up with friends, Vivian’s life seemed just as full as when she attended classes and studied for finals.

  They settled into steady jobs and a stable routine, but started to fight more for some reason. Nowell was incredibly tense throughout the writing of his book. Frustrated by the long hours at the magazine, he stayed in and wrote most weekends, often from Friday evening until Monday morning. In the cramped apartment, his tension was infectious. They bickered over small matters. Vivian tried to get out of the way during these times. She’d spend a day at the mall with a friend or drive around the city, doing errands. She didn’t mind doing things alone. Being an only child had given her a certain self-reliance. Like her mother, she could content herself with her own tasks and ruminations.

  After the book was finished, Nowell relaxed into his old self and became easier to live with again. When his grandmother died and he presented the idea for an extended working vacation, Vivian had been unwilling at first to leave her job, where she had seniority, three weeks of vacation and a decent salary. But in the end, quitting had yielded no regret, only a slight wistfulness for leaving a part of her life behind. She was ready for something to change.

  In the fragrant grass in front of the old, white house, Vivian laid on the fold-out chair and thought about Dr Lightfoot, the way he paced back and forth in front of the chalkboard, the cable to the slide projector trailing after him like a microphone cord. When he wanted to explain something more clearly, he asked the girl in the last row to flip on the lights then he’d look into the students’ eyes or write on the board in furious scratches of chalk. He showed slides in every class, excitedly pointing out notable features of the art. His hands were delicate over the screen, seemed to curve around the edges of the sculpture or brush the surface of a painting with soft, tenuous fingers. He had a deep respect for art, even the mere projected image of it.