Mary White - The Qualities of Wood

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.’

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 officials, 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.