Mary White - The Qualities of Wood

Vivian leaned on the banister enclosing the porch. ‘When are we going to meet Dorothy?’

Nowell’s face relaxed. ‘He said they’ll try to visit while we’re here.’

Her stomach tightened. ‘That’s good,’ she said, moving towards him. ‘We might get lonely out here.’

He wiped his hands on his jeans and leaned down, setting his large hands on her hips. ‘I’ve been lonely.’

His touch still had an effect on her, a physical charge, and she had missed it. ‘Even though your brother was here?’ she teased.

He smiled. ‘Somehow it’s not the same.’

The breeze picked up. It blew through Vivian’s hair and brought goose bumps out on her arms. Nowell pulled her close then held her at arm’s length. ‘Let’s look at the back before we go in.’ His eyes fairly gleamed. He was proud of the house, Vivian realized.

The grass was high in the front yard, higher still at the sides of the house. Nowell led Vivian by the hand, all the while talking enthusiastically. He showed her the well, dug a short distance away. When they leaned over, it smelled damp and musty. Since Vivian left the rural airport, she had been intensely aware of the new sounds and smells around her.

‘The chimney is unblocked,’ Nowell said. ‘And we cleared most of the leaves and large trash.’ He shook his head. ‘Three years of neglect. You wouldn’t believe what was lying around.’

‘Looks good,’ Vivian acknowledged.

‘A road crew is paving the main road,’ he added. ‘They’re about five miles away now, just outside of town. They should be past here by the end of the summer.’

‘It’ll be nice having a paved road,’ she said.

‘But that’s why I bought the truck, for the bumpy dirt roads.’

She pushed his arm. ‘Poor Nowell. Your fantasies of country living.’

They turned at the back corner of the house and the open space hit her like a deep breath. The backyard was a large and unfenced expanse. Here grass grew unchecked into a knee-high field, all of it shimmering in the gentle wind and crackling as they walked. About forty feet from the house, the land sloped downward. In the distance stood a line of trees, fairly thick against the sliver of orange that remained of the sun.

‘We could barbecue out here if we cut the grass,’ Nowell said. ‘I found an old grill in that shed near the well. And look. This is the room where I’ve been working.’

Vivian was distracted by the fading sunlight, crisscrossing like lattice against the trees. As she stared at the pattern, she thought she saw a movement amid the dark trunks. She strained her eyes, but the light was too dim.

‘Viv, did you hear me?’

‘What?’

He stood near a wide window. ‘This is the room where I’ve been writing.’

Vivian walked over and, cupping her hands around her eyes, pressed up against the glass. The room was mostly dark, but a streak of garish light from the kitchen divided the floor in half. She could make out the corner of a table or desk, the flowered pattern on the rug, and the keys of Nowell’s computer keyboard.

‘You left a light on,’ she told him. ‘How’s the book going?’

‘What?’ Now he was distracted. She caught him gazing over her shoulder toward the line of trees.

‘Your writing,’ she said. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Fine.’

‘Is that your desk, there by the window?’

He nodded, bringing his attention back to her. ‘An antique secretary. You know, one of those old desks with drawers and secret compartments.’

‘You found secret compartments?’

‘Not yet, but there has to be some.’ He paused. ‘I had to run a twelve-foot extension cord from the kitchen for my computer. No outlets. My grandfather added this back room much later. I guess he didn’t want electricity in there. Or it was an oversight.’

Vivian looked again towards the trees. ‘You have a good view of the forest from here.’

Nowell laughed and reached for her.

‘What’s funny?’

‘I never thought of it as a forest.’

‘What is it, then?’

Small wrinkles radiated from the corners of his eyes. He kissed her forehead, ran his fingers through her long brown hair. ‘I guess you’re right. I just think of forests as being vast, you know, near mountain ranges. Not a small parcel beside some meager hill in the flatlands.’

‘I still don’t see why it’s so funny.’

‘It sounded wild and dangerous the way you said it: the forest.’

Two quick whistles sounded behind the trees, startling them apart.

‘What was that?’ Vivian asked.

‘Probably a bird.’ He coaxed her toward him and held her back against his chest, his chin resting on top of her head as he leaned against the house. ‘How was the office party?’ he asked.

‘The usual, only me this time. They had a cake and bought me a pair of overalls.’

‘Overalls?’

‘For living out here,’ she said. ‘A joke.’ She relaxed a little more into Nowell. ‘I worked there seven years. I can’t believe it.’

Nowell squeezed her waist. ‘But you didn’t care much for that job, did you? I mean, you weren’t solving the world’s problems or anything.’

‘I won’t miss it,’ Vivian agreed. ‘But who says water management isn’t important?’

‘You weren’t managing the water, just the paperwork.’

‘Right,’ Vivian said.

Nowell shifted his weight but she stayed against him. ‘I think I’ll get the book done out here,’ he said. ‘Do you think you can stand it for a year?’

‘Of course,’ she said.

The sun was completely gone now, the sky a darkening blue above the leaves, dotted with stars just blinking to life. In the cooling air, Vivian smelled the trees, like pine furniture polish but sweeter, and from somewhere, the faint scent of smoke. A small white light appeared amidst the trees.

‘Someone’s back there,’ she said.

She followed Nowell’s eyes as they picked up the white dot. It quickly turned into three more.

‘It’s probably that sheriff,’ he said.

‘What sheriff?’

‘From town. I thought they were finished when I left to pick you up. They’re looking for something.’

‘What?’

‘He didn’t say.’

‘Isn’t that part of your grandmother’s land?’

‘Yes. That’s why he told me, I guess.’ Nowell broke away from her. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing. Maybe someone reported an injured deer or something. Let’s get your bag out of the truck.’

Vivian watched the lights a moment more. As Nowell tugged her toward the house, she glanced back over her shoulder beyond the high, swaying grass, which was quickly becoming invisible, still whispering in the wind and crackling again under her feet.

In the kitchen, Vivian opened and shut cupboards. Almost everything in the house had belonged to Nowell’s grandmother. In one drawer, crocheted potholders, in another, faded telephone books. Here and there she saw something of theirs – a block of knives, Nowell’s favorite coffee mug – and felt an odd kinship with the items. Their things stood out from the rest, their familiarity like a signal. Most of their belongings were still in a storage place outside of the city.

‘Where are the glasses?’ she asked.

Nowell pointed to a pantry door near the entrance to the hallway.

Strange place to put glasses, she thought. She would rearrange things in the morning.

‘You’re having beer?’ he asked.

There were three cans of beer in the refrigerator and she had set two of them on the table. Between them, steam rose from the bowl of pasta. Nowell went back to the oven for the bread.

‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Do you want one?’

He nodded without looking at her.