Mary White - The Qualities of Wood

In the week since her arrival she hadn’t accomplished much with the house, but she didn’t feel guilty. After all, she’d waived her annual vacation from the water management agency because Nowell had said the extra money would help. She deserved to take it easy after having worked straight through the last eight months.

So she was spending another afternoon relaxing. That morning, she had unpacked some boxes, mostly trash: used paperback romances, sewing things and scraps of fabric, an entire box of plastic silverware, plates and cups. She found it strange, going through someone’s belongings, without knowing the person or their reasons for keeping things. Now she lay on her stomach in the front yard with her arms at her sides, feeling the sun bake her back. Eventually she sat up to look at a magazine. The heat felt good on her skin and caused a thin, sparkly layer of sweat to bead between her breasts.

She heard the low hum of a car approaching. The postman was early, she thought. It was just after one o’clock and he usually arrived closer to three. Vivian leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, pushing the magazine underneath her leg so it wouldn’t fall. The car’s engine grew louder until she heard dirt crunching under the tires. She looked up as a long, metallic-green car rolled up the driveway. The postman never came up the driveway, only stopped his little truck at the silver mailbox on the main road.

The driver’s door opened and a woman got out. ‘Hello,’ she called cheerily. ‘Don’t get up, now. I’m nobody important.’

Vivian squinted up at her. She was tall, older than Vivian. Maybe almost forty. Over a pair of dark lavender pants hung a long blue t-shirt, decorated with a pattern of hearts and flowers. She walked up the driveway and stood towering over Vivian.

‘I’m Katherine Wilton,’ she said. ‘I knew Betty, uh, Mrs Gardiner.’

Vivian extended her hand. ‘I’m Vivian Gardiner. Mrs Gardiner was my husband’s grandmother.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I met your husband at the grocery store a couple weeks back.’ Katherine Wilton’s voice was pleasant, almost musical. ‘I almost knocked a chicken out of his arms, wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. I get distracted by the displays in the deli.’

‘That deli is famous,’ Vivian said. ‘My husband and his brother couldn’t say enough about it. I’ll have to see it for myself soon.’

Katherine Wilton laughed again, crossing her arms over the flowers on her ample chest. ‘The employees are all women with too much time on their hands, as far as I’m concerned. Anybody who has time to make a pie from scratch has got their priorities all messed up.’ She dropped her key-ring into a tan leather handbag. ‘Your husband told me you were arriving. I thought I’d see how you’re getting on.’

‘That’s really nice of you,’ Vivian said. ‘I just got in a week ago. I haven’t even left the house yet.’

‘I see you’re taking it easy. Good for you. City living gets hectic, I suppose.’

Vivian flushed, embarrassed at being caught doing nothing. ‘Yes, I’ve been lazy.’

‘Nonsense! You’re spending quality time, as they say, rejuvenating mind and body.’

‘That’s a nice way of saying it. Would you like to come inside for something to drink, Mrs Wilton?’

‘Only if you call me Katherine. ‘Mrs Wilton’ always makes me think of my mother-in-law, and the less I think of her the better.’

Vivian laughed and stood up. The magazine stuck to the back of her thigh for a moment then fell to the ground between their feet.

Katherine scooped it up before Vivian could. ‘That magazine’s left an imprint on your leg,’ she said.

‘What, where?’ Vivian twisted her hips, trying to find the spot where the magazine had stuck.

‘It’s kind of weird, really, a little face right on your leg.’ Katherine covered her grin with a ring-adorned hand. Brassy gold and multi-colored gemstones flashed in the sunlight. ‘It looks like a tattoo, although I don’t know why you’d want some supermodel’s face on your thigh.’

Vivian could make out only a small patch of color, reddish with some black. She studied the magazine page: an ad for hair coloring. She wrapped a towel around her waist and picked up her glass.

Katherine leaned closer. ‘I have a tattoo from my wilder days.’

‘I always wanted one,’ Vivian said. ‘What’s yours?’

‘A black panther. Right here.’ She pointed to a spot just above her pelvic bone. ‘Nothing political intended. I just think big cats are so amazing. Believe it or not, I ran on the track team in high school. So that was it, speed and grace.’ She smiled. ‘It sounds stupid, but I never realized the implications of having a cat so close to … well, right there.’

Vivian inadvertently opened her mouth.

‘It’s alright.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘My husband laughs about it all the time.’

They stepped onto the porch.

‘What tattoo would you get?’ Katherine asked.

Vivian paused. ‘A rose, I think. On my ankle.’

‘The ankle might not be a good choice. Too exposed, don’t you think?’

‘Well, I’d never do it anyway. Nowell wouldn’t like it.’

Katherine slowly nodded. ‘It’s the thought of something permanent. They like to think they invented you. Men, I mean.’ She touched Vivian’s arm. ‘I don’t know your husband well, of course. I was thinking more about an old boyfriend of mine.’

They lingered on the porch. Katherine had beautiful greenish eyes and clear skin. She’s quite pretty, Vivian realized with surprise.

‘Betty used to sit out here all the time,’ Katherine said a little wistfully, ‘working on her needlepoint or crocheting.’

‘Really?’

‘She used to throw bread to the birds, just like a regular old lady.’ Katherine laughed and Vivian joined in, as though old age was something they’d never have to worry about. She already felt comfortable around Katherine. She was easy to be with.

The kitchen was cool and dark. Katherine sat at the table and Vivian poured lemonade into two of Grandma Gardiner’s glasses.

‘Betty was a sweet lady,’ Katherine said. ‘Always served me something. Just like you.’

‘How did you meet her?’

‘At a quilting class they had down at the high school. Max, my husband, thought it would be nice for me to have a hobby. I’ve never been one for sewing, but I thought it sounded alright.’

‘I’m no good at things like that,’ Vivian said.

‘What kind of women are we?’ She laughed. ‘But quilts are nice, right? I figured it might be fun to choose the pieces of fabric from things I had laying around the house, saving for God-knows-what. Like the dress I wore when I graduated from high school, or the kitchen curtains from our first apartment. When I started putting things together, pulling a shirt from here and an old sheet from there, it was real interesting.’

‘Things you had forgotten you had,’ Vivian ventured.

Katherine nodded, leaning back so the chair made a crackling sound. ‘Going through those things was like looking through a photo album. Sometimes I’d sit with an old skirt or something, just feeling the fabric and remembering the way it felt to wear it. Quilting brings up memories as much as anything.’

‘I never thought of it that way,’ Vivian said, ‘and now I’m remembering all of the old clothes and things I probably have stored in boxes, tucked away and forgotten.’

‘It’s amazing what we keep lying around. The quilting class seemed like a good way to put some of it to use.’

‘So Mrs Gardiner was in the same class?’

Katherine nodded. ‘She was the sweetest woman. The first night, she brought a big box of fabric and we reminisced over it.’