Mary White - The Qualities of Wood

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.