Mary White - The Qualities of Wood

Perhaps it was the wooded backdrop, or his dramatic entrance, that made Vivian think of Joe Toliver when Mr Stokes stood before them in the high grass of the backyard the day the sheriff found the dead girl. Maybe it was his plaid flannel shirt or the light-and-dark combination of his hair. Or the way he talked, with one side of his mouth lower than the other, or maybe it was the time of day, that same pre-dusk time when she had leaned against the scratchy brown couch and slept.

For any one of these reasons, Mr Stokes evoked the image of Vivian’s kind savior from that summer afternoon when she was nine, and as the sheriff recounted the day’s events for him, she relived her initial feelings of panic and fear at the news of the dead girl and felt again for a moment, lost. When Mr Stokes finally spoke, his calm voice had the soothing effect that the memory of Joe inspired, even now, and Vivian forgot her panic for the second time that day.

‘It’s a tragedy to lose a young one,’ Mr Stokes said when he heard what had happened. ‘I run into Mrs Brodie on occasion, and I’ve seen her girl now and then.’ He scratched the side of his jaw. His deep-set eyes and unwrinkled brow gave the impression of practiced patience.

‘I’d like to ask you a few questions,’ Sheriff Townsend said. ‘Do you have the time?’

He nodded. ‘Why don’t you come up to the house now? We can talk on the way back.’

Sheriff Townsend explained to Vivian and Nowell that Mr Stokes owned much of the land directly behind the Gardiner acreage. His house was about a half-mile to the west, deep in the trees.

‘These are Mrs Gardiner’s relatives, Mr and Mrs Gardiner,’ the sheriff said.

Vivian watched as Mr Stokes greeted Nowell, then she shook his rough, warm hand. He wasn’t much older than them, maybe Katherine’s age, but there was a maturity about him that made Vivian feel childish in his presence.

‘I’ll drive you around to your side road,’ the sheriff said. ‘Let’s leave these people to their dinner.’

‘Yes, Max will be wondering about me,’ Katherine said.

As a group, they all started to move.

Nowell touched Vivian’s elbow to lead her but she turned instead toward the sheriff. ‘You’ll let us know what you find out?’

He nodded.

‘Especially,’ she continued, ‘if you think there’s any danger…’

‘Come on, Viv.’ Nowell pulled on her arm.

She looked up at him irritably. ‘What?’

Sheriff Townsend cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Gardiner, I’ll keep you apprised.’

Katherine fidgeted with her purse.

Mr Stokes watched Vivian intently and she began to get the impression that she was making everyone uncomfortable but didn’t know why.

‘Thank you,’ she mumbled. ‘Thanks, Katherine, for the tour.’ She turned and walked toward the house, looking back once to see Nowell raise his hand in silent farewell to their visitors. Vivian took his gesture as an act of sympathy between them, between the men, as though apologizing for her outspokenness. She strode angrily to the house, not waiting for him to catch up and not looking back again.

Vivian was standing at the refrigerator opening a beer when Nowell came in.

He walked towards her and she moved abruptly away.

‘What’s your problem?’ he asked, glowering over her.

She swallowed a gulp of beer. ‘You didn’t have to act like I was some crazy person for asking a few questions.’

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to cut you off with the sheriff. I’d already been talking to him for a while, and I figured he probably wanted to get out of here. Besides, I can take care of things.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The sheriff. I can take care of it.’ He turned to leave.

‘You didn’t ask him when he would call us,’ she said.

Nowell spun around. ‘That girl was practically in our backyard. You can be sure he’ll let us know.’

‘I didn’t realize you were such an expert in the protocol of police investigations.’ She grinned, but now he looked angry.

‘You just have to know everything right away,’ he said. ‘But there’s nothing to know yet. You threatened the sheriff…’

‘Threatened him, by asking questions? I was just concerned. Aren’t you worried about our safety?’

‘Not until I have a reason to worry.’

They stood several feet apart. An impasse. Outside, tree branches slapped against the north side of the house and leaves blew across the porch. She had noticed, in some peripheral zone of her brain, storm clouds forming. ‘I wonder what happened to her,’ Vivian said.

‘I don’t know,’ Nowell said. ‘I really don’t.’ He shook his head, looking down at the weathered yellow floor. Vivian realized that he was more affected by the sheriff’s visit than she had thought.

‘It’s going to rain,’ she said. ‘My elbow hurts.’

‘We should close the windows,’ Nowell said. He walked down the hallway.

She went to the back door, rubbing her elbow and watching the flurry of weather outside. The night had come alive; the sky was brooding and thickly dark. A strong wind pushed the trees crazily into each other and lifted leaves and papers into tiny, racing cyclones. Vivian thought about the girl they had found and tried to picture her splayed across a wide, flat rock. The sheriff told Nowell she was seventeen years old. Vivian wondered how long she was there before the sheriff came, what she’d been wearing. She thought about their neighbor to the east, Mr Stokes, marching over the land like he owned it. The way he looked at her had been strange, judgmental.

Nowell returned to the kitchen, rubbing his hands together. ‘They’re all closed now,’ he said. ‘It’s really something out there.’

On cue, a crack of thunder echoed through the yellow kitchen. They both jumped.

Nowell asked, ‘Do you need ice for your elbow?’ He nestled behind her, wrapped his arm across her collarbone.

She felt a familiar tingle. ‘So you did hear me,’ she said.

When the weather was wet and cool, the joints in Vivian’s knees and elbows were prone to soreness. An ingrown barometer, they alerted her with more accuracy than the weather forecast in the newspaper. When she was young, her mother called it growing pains and was uncharacteristically patient with her when it happened. Now that Vivian was an adult, she wasn’t sure what caused it. Surely, she was finished growing.

That poor woman, Katherine had called the dead girl’s mother. Vivian remembered being seventeen; she and her own mother had rarely seen eye-to-eye. High school changed Vivian, gave her a flavor of independence. By her third year, she was staying out every weekend, often missing her curfew or disregarding it altogether. She argued with her mother constantly, even threatened to move away.

Nowell had gone into the living room, a small, blue-carpeted area next to the kitchen. Seldom used, the room was cramped with furniture and dimly lit. A brick fireplace took up most of one wall, on its mantle sat a porcelain owl with wide, black eyes. As Vivian entered, lightning brightened the room, throwing stark shadows against the walls. A clap of thunder followed, echoing in the chimney. Rain pelted the windows; fat drops slid down the glass. She sat next to Nowell on the sofa, pulling her knees up to her chest. He was watching a nature program. On the screen, two female tigers squared off against each other, their backs and ears raised. She thought about Katherine’s tattoo and suppressed a grin.

‘Let’s go into town tomorrow morning,’ she said.

‘Why?’

‘I want to sign up for the newspaper. Maybe we could have breakfast while we’re down there.’

‘Why don’t you just call the newspaper office?’