The Qualities of Wood Page 7

  ‘Viv!’

  Her eyes opened. The lawn chair was mostly covered by shade; only her feet and the bottom half of her legs were still in the sun.

  The screen door squeaked as Nowell poked his head outside. ‘Your mother’s on the phone.’

  Vivian walked gingerly over the still-damp ground, groggy and disoriented.

  Her mother was working on a new book; she’d been distracted and unable to talk about much else. Her research would take her to the site where a volcano erupted fifty years ago. She planned on taking a sabbatical and going in the fall for at least a month. Vivian asked about her father.

  ‘He’s at school,’ her mother said. ‘That summer course.’

  ‘Tell him I said hello.’

  ‘I will. How’s Nowell’s book coming along?’

  ‘He’s been working non-stop since I arrived. It’s so quiet out here. I think it’s been very good for him.’ Vivian shifted her weight on the chair, which was cold and sticky against her bare legs.

  ‘Has he established a regular schedule?’

  ‘For his writing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He works most of the day,’ Vivian said. ‘He starts early, before I get up.’

  ‘And how is your work on the house going?’

  ‘It’s going to be a big job, that’s for sure.’

  Her mother shifted the phone. ‘Worse shape than you’d imagined?’

  ‘There’s a lot of junk around,’ Vivian acknowledged, ‘and the entire thing needs painting.’

  ‘That should keep you busy.’ Her voice sounded doubtful.

  ‘So far I’ve been taking it pretty easy.’

  Neither spoke for a few moments. The silence over the phone line was vapid, like air. Vivian had the impression of pressing her ear against a hole in a wall. On the other side, openness and space. ‘Mom?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you remember that vacation, the summer when you taught the writing workshop?’

  Her mother answered quickly, without thought, ‘Of course.’

  ‘I did it on purpose, you know.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘When I got lost,’ Vivian said, pushing the receiver to her ear. ‘It wasn’t Dad.’

  There was a pause; emptiness again like the line was dead.

  ‘You were eight years old.’

  ‘Nine.’ Vivian stared through the screen door. On the lawn chair, the beach towel rose in ripples with the afternoon breeze, its corners flipping wildly back and forth. She spoke more hesitantly, her voice losing strength. ‘It was my fault.’

  ‘You wandered off, that’s all.’

  ‘Then why…’

  ‘Hold on Vivian.’ Her mother set the telephone on a hard surface. Vivian could hear her definitive steps fading then after a short time, growing louder again. When she came back on the line, she changed the subject.

  ‘What have you been reading, Vivian?’ Her mother believed everyone should constantly be reading something, preferably something of substance.

  ‘Fashion magazines and the TV Guide,’ Vivian answered, to irritate her.

  Another silence like an empty room, like the inside of a bubble.

  They talked about the weather for a while and when this most generic and easy of topics was exhausted, they said good-bye.

  Vivian replaced the receiver in its cradle and walked over to the curtain that divided the kitchen from the study. There was always the faint taste of misunderstanding where her mother was concerned. As much as they went through the motions, neither ever felt entirely comfortable with the other.

  She wondered if Nowell was still angry or if he would, as they had both learned to do, drop the argument before they reached the unsolvable issues at its center. ‘Knock, knock,’ she said loudly.

  The faint clicking sound ceased and she waited while he took a moment, only a brief moment, before his voice called out in answer to hers, ‘Come in.’

  9

  The funeral for Chanelle Brodie was small and uneventful. The Sentinel printed a short obituary and a news article that summarized and in effect, closed the case of her death. The coroner ruled it an accident. The photograph printed with the obituary looked like a school photo, grainy and white-framed. Chanelle had a round, heart-shaped face, full lips and straight, dark hair. She looked like an average teenager, but Vivian saw something in her eyes, a spark of defiance. Fearlessness, Katherine had called it.

  Work on the house proceeded. Twice, Vivian drove into town to deliver clothing and other small household goods to the Salvation Army. There was an old hand-held blender, a metal juicer, a set of hot hair rollers. Boxes of towels and sheets, bags of knick-knacks: candleholders, glass figurines, homey plaques. Things she didn’t think anyone wanted, but Vivian felt a twinge with each item. She couldn’t help but imagine someone going through her own things after she was gone. The personal items were harder, a drawer of nail polishes and files, a small box of costume jewelry, a gold, silk-trimmed bathrobe. Things that meant nothing to others but probably quite a bit to Grandma Gardiner.

  The larger items, the newer things and everything else would be saved for a yard sale. Vivian was getting used to driving the truck. On a third trip into town, she and Nowell saw a matinee and did some grocery shopping. He was in high spirits that day, having just finished a major segment of his book. In the empty theater, they ate popcorn and joked through the entire film, a mediocre comedy about a man with supernatural powers. Then they went home and lounged in bed until dinnertime. It was a glimmer of their old life.

  The crew working on the road was progressing rapidly. In the afternoons when Vivian walked to the mailbox, she could see them at a distance, their trucks and orange flags moving closer until they were over the small hill and finally, nearing the house.

  One morning, someone knocked on the door while Nowell was still in the shower. Groggy and squinting in the yellow kitchen, Vivian opened the door in her robe.

  ‘Morning, ma’am.’ Five feet from the screen stood a man in an orange vest. ‘I’m with the county. We’re paving the road out there.’ White teeth gleaming from his tanned face, he said this like a question.

  She nodded, smoothing her hair back.

  ‘We’re set to start in front of your house. You need to get out?’

  ‘I hadn’t planned on going anywhere today,’ she said.

  He leaned back onto his heels. ‘We’re mostly smoothing and clearing today. Tomorrow we lay the asphalt.’

  ‘So we can get out today?’

  He nodded, taking in her legs under the short robe. ‘We’ll try to get it down early tomorrow. Should take most of the day to set. You’ll have to stay put then.’

  Vivian noticed his attention and adjusted the robe around her neck. She noticed his broad shoulders, his rugged and dirty hands and the roughness of his skin. ‘Well, thanks for letting me know,’ she said.

  He nodded, staring.

  Vivian closed the door, her face flushed.

  Nowell poked his head around the corner. ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Someone from that road crew,’ she told him. ‘They’re working out front today and tomorrow, so if we need to go anywhere we should go today.’

  ‘That was fast. I thought it would take them longer.’ He walked back into the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist.

  She thought that maybe the road was to be finished in time for the reunion Katherine told her about. It was for the descendants of the town’s founder, William Clement, and would be held at the end of the summer. The ballroom at the local Best Western had been rented out and hundreds of people were expected.

  The newspaper had run a few stories about the reunion. In a biographical piece about William Clement, Vivian learned that he came from old money, much of which he invested in the town. Most of the older downtown section was built under his direction; he financed the construction of the Sheriff department, the Post Office, and the office building for town officia
ls, which now served as a community center. He populated the buildings with relatives and friends, even appointed his oldest son as the town’s first sheriff. He opened a bank and began to help people build homes, run farms and start businesses. Various real estate developments were handled from a corner office with windows that looked out over the plaza where he was now immortalized in bronze.

  The newspaper story named a few singular descendants, those who had risen to some level of greatness. One of Clement’s sons had served three terms in the state senate, and a granddaughter had a short-lived career on Broadway. Katherine claimed that William Clement sired another batch of descendants with several Native American women who worked for him, but this lesser-respected line was not identified in the article. When Vivian mentioned this to Katherine, she merely laughed and said, ‘Who do you think owns the newspaper?’

  Her thoughts returned to the construction worker, his bold stare. Why is it always like that, she wondered. You always have to be on guard. And yet a part of her was flattered and excited, and she couldn’t help but pull back the kitchen curtains to catch a glimpse of the crew where they worked further down the road.

  In high school, a boy had taken Vivian to a party then abandoned her near a cavernous overpass, a concrete structure lined with yellow lights, when she wouldn’t do what he wanted. He was a popular boy, one whom everyone liked and admired, and up until his fit of anger, Vivian had been feeling quite special. As he drove off, she pulled her jacket around her throat and watched the receding taillights. Then she walked to a convenience store and called home. Her mother was up late reading.

  Once Vivian was inside the family Buick, her mother stared at her. ‘Are you alright?’ she finally asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Vivian said.

  ‘You smell like a brewery.’

  Vivian didn’t answer. Being in the car, drunk, with her mother, was surreal. Outside, things looked strange and desolate and lonely. The sole cashier in the mini-mart watched them over the stacks of newspapers.

  Her mother turned the car onto the empty road. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘I told you,’ Vivian said, ‘I couldn’t get a ride home.’

  ‘I thought that boy who picked you up would be bringing you back.’

  ‘So did I.’

  ‘If he drank as much as you, I hope he’s not driving.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Listen, Vivian, I’m relieved that you called me.’ She ran her hand through her curly reddish hair.

  From the side angle, Vivian could see smudges on her oval glasses, places where her fingers had been.

  ‘I even understand this rebellion to some extent,’ her mother said in a practical tone. A lecture tone. ‘It’s very natural, I suppose. I don’t want to make a big deal out of it.’

  ‘Good,’ Vivian said, thinking: here it comes.

  ‘What I am concerned about, however, is your general lack of purpose. You’re not getting the kind of grades that’ll get you into a good college.’

  Vivian groaned.

  ‘That’s what I mean. You’d cut off your nose to spite me. Why? If I told you not to go to college, would it make you want to go?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She leaned her head against the seat and closed her eyes.

  ‘I suppose you don’t know much of anything right now, do you? In your present condition…’ Her voice droned on and on and in a weak moment Vivian wished she could tell her about Scott Ridling, about the smooth ride in his Camaro and the way his blue eyes glinted when he laughed. About the awed expressions on the faces of her friends that day he crossed the concrete courtyard and asked her to the party, and about the way her skirt swished lightly over her thighs when they danced together. But her mother’s world was too matter-of-fact for such things. She would say that Vivian didn’t need Scott or his approval, which Vivian, in her rational mind, already knew very well. But that wasn’t the point. He had made her feel small and she needed rebuilding. And she realized that once again, she’d have to do it herself. Her mother didn’t have the tools.

  In the afternoon, Vivian went out to retrieve the mail. She had just showered, and her wet hair slapped against her back as she walked. The dirt road in front of the house was smooth and packed, and the crew was working some distance away, about a hundred yards towards town. One man drove the roller truck over the thick asphalt, another marched ahead directing him, and a third leaned against a hand-held Stop sign. The man with the sign looked over and held up his hand. It was the one she had spoken to earlier. She raised her hand and turned abruptly, careful to pace herself up the driveway, feeling his gaze on her back. At the side of the house, she glanced over her shoulder and caught him watching her through the scattered trees.

  She wasn’t ready to go inside. She dropped the mail on the porch and proceeded toward the back yard. She stopped at the well Nowell showed her the day she arrived. Behind the brush and beyond the small shed, the well blended into its surroundings, its brick like the reddish parts of the earth, its chain and bucket like the drooping, leaf-heavy branches of the trees. Leaning over the side, she smelled mildew and metal. She picked up a small stone, dropped it inside, and waited for the small plunging sound. She listened to the sound of her name echoed down the cold tunnel, felt a chill on her face as it faded then disappeared.

  In the back yard, the sun beamed hot over the trees. She turned to see if Nowell was watching her through the window of his study, but the curtains were closed. She walked down the slope toward the line of trees that stood unyielding, their backs turned. They were closer than she had thought. She kept walking until she was immersed; their wide scaly trunks smelled old and sharp and their shiny leaves were a fluttering palette of greens. Vivian kicked earth up as she walked. A chirping sound came from her left and overhead, something scampered through a tree, the weight of its body rustling the leaves. She walked for some time, careful to look back once and again to keep track of how to get back. Through the density of trees, a rust-colored object caught her eye, appearing then disappearing among the wide trunks. Vivian watched for a moment. A sudden cracking sound echoed through the woods. She strained her eyes and made out a shirt, a flash of face. Must be that Mr Stokes, she thought. He’s cutting wood. She turned around and began to retrace her steps. A snapping sound reverberated as another log splintered, but this time the noise was followed by a long wail. Vivian perked her ears.

  ‘Ohhhhh.’

  She realized that the wailing was coming from the opposite direction. She was disoriented, looking one way then the other.

  ‘Oh, my poor baby.’

  Vivian ran towards the edge of trees. It seemed to take a long time but finally, the grassy field of their backyard appeared in glimpses through the trunks. She stopped. Three figures stood in the high grass at the peak of the gradual slope. The one in the middle, a woman, leaned on the arm of the tall man next to her. By his hat and bearing, Vivian recognized him as Sheriff Townsend. The three began to descend towards the woods.

  Behind her, she heard a branch snap.

  ‘Of course I’m sure,’ the woman said loudly, ‘I’ve got to see where my baby, I’ve got to, ohhh.’ Her voice faded and then, she gasped.

  Vivian had emerged from the trees.

  The sheriff, the woman, and the third person, whom Vivian now saw to be his deputy, stopped. They stared at her across the high grass.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Sheriff Townsend called.

  ‘It’s Vivian Gardiner,’ she called back.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Gardiner.’

  She kept walking and when she had almost reached them, Bud stepped to the side, looked over her shoulder, and said incredulously, ‘Now who could that be?’

  As they followed his gaze, a rust-colored figure emerged from the trees, walking purposely towards them into the light.

  Vivian heard a whooshing sound, like air pressed out of a cushion, and she turned back in time to see the sheriff reach across and catch the woman as she swooned, her knees buckling underneath her
.

  10

  Sheriff Townsend steadied the woman, who shook her head and pressed a palm to her cheek. Vivian, the deputy, and Mr Stokes stood a short distance away, watching her.

  Vivian turned to Mr Stokes and whispered, ‘You scared me back there.’

  His eyebrows raised but he didn’t answer.

  The woman said, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t feel well.’

  ‘You had a fright when Mrs Gardiner came out of the woods,’ the sheriff told her. ‘This is Mrs Brodie,’ he explained. ‘She’s here to see where we found Chanelle.’

  ‘I’m so sorry about what happened,’ Vivian said, realizing as she spoke that it wasn’t quite the right thing to say.

  Mr Stokes shifted on his feet. ‘Mrs Brodie,’ he said.

  The haziness melted from Mrs Brodie’s face as the full realization of where she was and why she was there came back to her. Vivian wondered if she woke each day like that, forgetting for a few peaceful moments about her daughter’s death, only to suddenly and painfully remember. At Grandma Gardiner’s house, in the sleepy, early mornings, Vivian stared at the vague outlines of the furniture before they sharpened and took shape, smelling the unfamiliar scents of the house, the old wood of the doors and the starchy sheets, until she remembered where she was. Perhaps it was like that for Mrs Brodie, she thought, the slow focusing of perception.

  Vivian pictured a teenage girl with a round, childish face sprawled awkwardly over a large boulder. Her long hair was dark like Vivian’s, her face expressionless. The defiance of the obituary photo was gone; only a crumbled form, a spent energy. The girl’s arms were down at her sides.