Mary White - The Qualities of Wood

‘It’ll be nice to spend time as a family,’ her mother said. ‘You and your father can explore the woods while I’m suffering through readings, and I’ll be free in the afternoons.’

‘It’s a great opportunity,’ her father agreed. ‘What do you think, Vivie?’

Vivian shrugged. She had been looking forward to swimming at her friend’s house during the warm weather, but now she’d be cloistered away with her parents in the middle of nowhere for half the summer. It wasn’t fair.

Upon their arrival, she immediately liked the log-stacked cabin, which was nestled between fir trees and set a good distance from the cabins on either side. Beginning in the clearing that served as a parking area, a narrow path branched and formed trails between the cabins. Rustic and comfortable, their cabin was equipped with fresh linens, firewood, and all the necessities for cooking. Above the kitchen was a loft where Vivian would sleep.

‘Careful up there. Don’t come near the edge,’ her mother instructed. ‘I don’t know if she should be up there, Drew.’

‘It’s fine,’ he answered. ‘She’s smart enough not to jump. Right, Vivie?’

‘Yes,’ she called down. When her mother went back to the car, Vivian kneeled and peeked over. Her father was putting food away in the kitchen. He turned around, saw her, and pointed his finger in silent warning. She grinned and crouched out of sight.

Her mother was the disciplinarian, while her father was a protector and ally. He had certain limits though, and his disapproval was heavier to bear than her mother’s, which was more easily and often provoked.

In the mornings while her mother was teaching, Vivian and her father cooked strange, inventive breakfasts: pancakes with raisins and brown sugar or omelets with green olives and cheese. For lunch, they packed cold chicken or sandwiches into backpacks and took long walks through the woods. Her father told Vivian things about the plants and the dangerous wildlife they hoped to see. Mostly, they encountered birds and small creatures, squirrels eating with their miniature arms and twice, lean brown rabbits. Her father didn’t know much about nature. His specialty was ancient cultures, Greek mostly, although he did know a fair amount of other things. At least, it seemed so to Vivian, who liked to hear him talk.

In the afternoon, her mother would return, usually tired and cranky. Her patience with her students dwindled as the days went on, and she never wanted to do much in the afternoons but linger about the cabin. Vivian made friends with a small group of kids. They played chasing games or swam at a roped-off, shallow area in the lake.

Her parents seemed closer than they had for some time. At night, they sat outside, laughing and reading aloud to each other from their books. Her mother talked about the workshop classes, lowering her voice if she thought Vivian was still awake. But Vivian knew how she talked about the novice writers, about their unsophisticated methods and childish themes. It was a struggle for her mother, Vivian knew, to circulate in less intelligent crowds.

During the third week of their stay, Vivian got lost in the woods. It was a turning point and in many ways, the end of the vacation. Nothing was the same after that. The day started in the usual way. They had gone for their lunchtime walk, and when they reached a spot Vivian thought she recognized from her trips to the lake with the other children, she suggested they have their picnic there. Busy spreading the blanket on the ground, her father didn’t notice when she slipped away behind the thick trees.

She noticed the spot where they had gathered pinecones, she and the garrulous blonde girl in the cabin four down. Just beyond a shallow ditch and over the spot where they’d found a fallen bird’s nest. After a short time, Vivian realized that she truly had no idea where she was, nest or pinecones or not, and that maybe things had gotten out of her control. She didn’t panic right away. She walked and walked, staring at the sky beyond the green clouds of trees. She called out but heard nothing in return.

The sun began to abandon its position. Vivian sat down on a rock. The two pieces of gum she found in her backpack made her even hungrier. The day was getting cooler, shadowy, and she didn’t have a watch or a jacket. When she began to walk again, her chest was tighter, her breaths short. Eventually, she found a house. She walked up the stone path and knocked on the door. A man opened the door and looked down at her. A marbled-wood pipe hung from the side of his mouth.

She clenched her jaw and said, ‘I’m lost.’

‘Yes, you are.’ He opened the screen door.

The house was dimly lit but smelled clean. Vivian walked in and looked around. Wood paneling covered the walls and a clock ticked loudly from the hallway. On a short table next to a brown reclining chair were two pictures of school-age children, a boy and a girl. This made her feel better.

The man motioned to the couch and Vivian sat on the edge. He brought her a glass of water, tepid but clear, and she gulped it down. He made a bologna and cheese sandwich on dry wheat bread and served it to her on a paper napkin. Then she heard him talking in the kitchen, his voice too loud as though he didn’t use the telephone often. ‘Yes, sir … yes, she’s here now…. Alright then, I’ll keep her here.’

Vivian walked to the kitchen with the crumpled napkin and the empty glass. The man jumped a little when he turned and saw her. ‘You were hungry,’ he said.

She nodded. ‘Can I use your bathroom?’

He pointed down the hall.

When Vivian returned to the living room, the man was leaning back in the recliner, holding a glass of water on the paunch of his stomach. She sat on the couch again.

‘They’re coming for you directly,’ he said.

‘Okay.’

The man was nice looking. He had friendly eyes and black wavy hair with gray patches in front of his ears. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Vivian.’

‘That’s a nice name.’

They both looked absently around the room, mostly toward the television as though willing it to go on. Then they spoke at the same time.

‘What’s your name?’ Vivian said, just as the man said, ‘I have a daughter.’

He smiled. ‘Joe Toliver, but you can call me Joe. I was saying that I have a daughter about your age. Here’s her picture, and her brother, too. He’s older than her.’

Vivian walked over to the table and looked at the pictures. Then she returned to her seat, this time relaxing against the couch. ‘Where are they?’ she asked.

‘With their mother, but they come here in the summer.’

‘Why don’t you live together?’

He thought about this for a moment. ‘We are better separated than we are together.’

A blanket was draped over the armrest of the couch, and Vivian pulled it over her legs. ‘What do your kids do when they’re here?’

‘Same as you, I expect. Run around and swim.’

‘Where do they swim?’

‘At the lake down there.’

Vivian figured it must be a different lake, perhaps a different town. She was sure she’d walked miles. ‘Do you ever take them on vacations?’

‘Sure. We used to come here and camp out in a tent when they were real little.’

After that, Vivian didn’t remember much but the hum of Joe Toliver’s voice, deep-pitched and certain. She felt comfortable and warm underneath the blanket. She fell asleep. Then she was lifted from the couch, her face against Joe’s soft checkered shirt. Her father tumbled from a car and took Vivian into his arms. The whole proceeding was somber and serious and she felt very important. Her parents had been so worried that in the end, she wasn’t punished. Instead, her mother blamed her father and made the rest of the vacation unbearable. She thought it was brave of Joe Toliver to live alone, considering.