The Qualities of Wood (11 page)

‘I can imagine. Listen, Vivie, your mother's not home right now. She ran over to the library to do some research.'

She tried to think of something to ask him.

‘Wish Nowell good luck with his writing,' he said. ‘When are you coming to visit?'

‘I don't know. Lonnie and his wife are coming for a couple of weeks.'

‘I'll tell your mother that you called.'

‘Okay, Dad.' Vivian hung up. Outside, the mailman maneuvered his shiny white truck over the embankment then back onto the asphalt after he deposited their mail.
What do you think about evolution
, she imagined herself saying to her father. She could ask him:
Why do you suppose a girl, a young woman really, would fall forward but be unable to break her fall?
She recalled the open-ended but leading style of the questions on many college exams:
What does this suggest about gravity
, she would ask,
about human behavior and reflexes?

She noticed the mud caked around her toenails and the green grass stains on her heels. It reminded her of being young, of skinning a knee or stubbing a toe, and the way children smelled after a day of playing outdoors. She walked down the hallway toward the sound of Nowell's humming. Maybe he was finished with his shower so she could wash her feet in the tub.

Vivian discovered at an early age that behind closed doors, her parents had intellectual conversations. Their house was a single-level with four small bedrooms, one of which was a study. There was a wooden table for a desk, shelves of books, and two tall file cabinets. Her father kept his books in the study but usually spread his things over the dining room table when he worked. The clutter rattled her mother's nerves, but she never complained, because this reserved the study for herself. Many nights, Vivian was comforted by the soft glow of the reading light across the hall.

In Vivian's presence, her parents talked about day-to-day things – a student who handed in a paper two weeks late, the unreasonable demands of a dean, the long line at
the grocery store – but they stayed away from the topics that motivated their research, writing and teaching. While growing up, Vivian hardly noticed this, but now she regretted that she knew little about the subjects that fuelled their intellects. They saved the passionate subjects for after she'd gone to bed.

They met in graduate school, that much Vivian knew. They did things in a proper order: first graduation, then marriage and teaching appointments. Then Vivian. They had wanted two or three children, but her mother was unable to have more. Her mother named her after the Spanish verb,
vivir
. Vivian always wished that she'd been named something more modern, and from a less odd source.

As a girl, Vivian was shy around adults and older kids. She had a few playmates in the neighborhood. Her mother gave her a boundary for her outdoor roaming, and it widened as she got older. By the time she was eleven or twelve, she could canvas the entire neighborhood on her bicycle, eight blocks of houses just like hers, painted in varying colors. She spent time alone, losing herself in private games and daydreams or working on secret projects. Her mother took her to get a library card when she started kindergarten and they made regular trips for books. There was one author in particular she loved, a woman who wrote stories about real-life adventures for children. In one book, two friends were trapped in a museum after hours and in another, a brother and sister were separated from their parents during a cross-country train ride. The children in these books were forced to rely on their own ingenuity, and Vivian always dreaded the endings, when they returned home to normal life.

During the summer, Vivian occasionally stayed at her grandmother's when her parents were away. Grandma Shatlee, her father's mother, was a serious but lenient
woman with long, graceful limbs. Although she was unaffectionate in a physical way, Grandma Shatlee was trustworthy and kept Vivian's confidences. Her only inflexible rule was that Vivian join her and Grandpa Shatlee for each meal: breakfast at eight o'clock, lunch at noon, and dinner promptly at five. As the taillights of her parents' car receded, Vivian watched, still as a soldier, refusing to wave. The car grew smaller and smaller and Vivian felt the same way, as if she was shrinking into herself, folding up like a summer lawn chair.

They took a few family trips, but her father was right: her mother was the traveler in the family. She made the plans and coerced her father into taking the time away from the university. Of the occasions they went without her, Vivian thought they wanted to be alone or didn't think she'd be interested in going. Her mother also left for research sometimes, collecting information for one of her books.

Vivian would never forget the way her mother ruined their vacation at the cabin. After the day she got lost, she dragged Vivian to the writing workshop each day. Vivian sat sullenly in the back, looking through books and writing bitter letters to her friends back home. Her father distanced himself, angry that her mother was angry. Many times when Vivian and her mother returned to the cabin, he was gone. He started taking long drives through the countryside. For three days in a row, he didn't come back until after dinner.

Vivian was confined to the area directly in front of the cabin, and none of her former playmates were willing to stick around to keep her company. She spent long hours staring down the path toward the makeshift parking lot, straining her eyes and ears for the old Ford Pinto they owned then. For the remaining two weeks of the vacation, Vivian
sulked around, and neither of her parents seemed to notice. They were too absorbed in their latest battle of wills, a contest that inevitably, her mother would always win because of the lengths she was willing to go. Neither Vivian nor her father were a match for her; they needed her more than she needed them.

Nowell finished his shower and started moving boxes from one of the spare rooms to the other, preparing for his brother's visit. In the hall closet, Vivian found a set of sheets and threw them into the washing machine.

The spare room seemed larger after the floor was cleared, brighter with the faded gauzy curtains pulled back from the window. Vivian dusted off the dresser and swept the hardwood floor while Nowell moved back and forth between the rooms.

‘So your mother was busy?' she asked.

A box had left a strip of dust across his thighs. He slapped at the dirt, causing tiny clouds to disperse into the air. ‘She was down at the church until almost ten o'clock last night. We talked for a while when she got in.'

‘Was she glad to see Lonnie this morning?'

‘I think so. It was unexpected, but that's Lonnie. They showed up early.'

‘You wouldn't recognize him if he arrived at a decent hour.'

‘True.' Nowell reached for a box in the closet and it tipped over, spilling its contents over his head.

Vivian couldn't reach the box, which tilted precariously against his shoulder, but she picked up the shoebox and square-heeled leather shoes that had fallen out. Nowell bounced the larger box onto the bed.

‘Whose are these?' she asked.

‘I don't know. They look pretty old.'

‘I'm starting to get the impression that your grandmother never threw anything away.'

‘Sometimes people are like that,' he said. ‘Sentimental. Maybe once we have a big house we'll feel differently about throwing everything away. It's hard to use space you don't have.'

She followed him into the other room, carrying the shoebox. ‘I found some clothing in the attic, all folded and put into a dresser drawer like someone had used it recently.'

‘I don't think she went up to the attic much,' Nowell said, ‘but maybe she kept some of her things up there.'

‘No, it was men's clothing. Reminded me of the type of things your dad wore, I mean, from the photos I've seen. And there was a gun,' she added, watching his face.

Nowell looked up. ‘A hunting gun? My grandfather used to hunt.'

‘I don't think so,' Vivian said. ‘It was a hand gun.'

‘What did you do with it?' Nowell asked.

‘It's on a dresser in the attic.'

‘I'll go up later and make sure it's not loaded.'

Vivian lowered her voice. ‘But why is it here? Whose is it?'

Nowell rolled his eyes. ‘My grandma lived out here alone for many years, Viv, and this isn't the city. Everyone out here probably owns a gun.' He turned to leave. ‘And the clothes, you can get rid of them.'

Seven years earlier, Nowell's father died suddenly of a massive stroke during the hottest part of a hot summer. He was fifty-seven years old, so active and healthy, Nowell said, that it had been hard to imagine anything happening to him. Beverly found Sherman on the kitchen floor and woke Nowell. Together, they moved him to a more dignified position before she called the paramedics. Nowell was home from college that summer, helping his father with the repair business to earn spending money. Lonnie was away on a fishing trip. Everything was over within two weeks: the funeral, the packing of Sherman's things, the selling of the family's share of the repair business. In three weeks, Nowell was back at school. He said later that he couldn't believe how quickly his whole life changed.

‘Dorothy can help you out with the house while they're here,' Nowell said.

Vivian looked at him. ‘Are you sure she's coming here to work?'

‘They'll benefit from the sale of the house, too,' Nowell said. ‘Lonnie knows that.'

‘My mom always says that one kitchen is too small for two women,' Vivian said.

‘That's not very progressive of her,' Nowell remarked.

Vivian heard the sound of gravel crunching under tires. She pulled back the curtain and saw a faded black jeep with an open top. Lonnie jumped from the driver's seat and a blonde woman turned and pulled a duffel bag from the back seat.

‘They're here already,' she said.

Nowell galloped to the kitchen entrance and stood with a fixed grin, hands on his hips and head tilted to one side, like a dog listening to a rustle in the grass.

Lonnie's bulky form eclipsed the sunlight as he stood in the doorframe.

Nowell had moved to the far end of the kitchen, at the square entry to his study. The dark support beams of the ceiling tapered off like bars behind his head. ‘So you made it in one piece,' he said.

‘Number One, what's new?' Lonnie stepped onto the yellow-patterned tile. ‘Hey, Vivian.'

Their hug was brief and awkward; Vivian turned her head and Lonnie's collarbone pressed into her cheek through his scratchy plaid shirt.

A small woman moved around him and grinned. ‘Hello.' She looked at Nowell. ‘Hello again.'

‘Hi,' Vivian replied. ‘You must be Dorothy.'

‘The one and only,' Lonnie said.

Greenish eyes squinted above Dorothy's small, amber-freckled nose. Her hair was reddish blonde and ended in a gentle wave at her shoulders.

Vivian extended her hand. ‘It's great to meet you at last.'

‘Don't shake her hand!' Lonnie roared. ‘She's family, isn't she?'

Vivian hugged her. Dorothy smelled faintly of vanilla.

Nowell came forward and embraced both of them. They all stood in the centre of the kitchen.

Lonnie looked well. His skin was ruddy, his cheeks like two round apples. His dark hair was very short, like a military haircut.

He noticed her looking. ‘How do you like the hair? Wanna touch it?'

‘Get your own wife to touch it.' Nowell pulled Vivian against him.

Lonnie punched his brother lightly in the arm, then Nowell reached for him quickly, unaware that his elbow collided with Vivian's arm. As the two men struggled into a wrestling hold, she rubbed the sore part of her arm and stole a glance at Lonnie's new wife.

Dorothy's face held the bemused look of a mother watching her toddler. With her pale skin and hair, and her soft, pliant expression, she reminded Vivian of a painting of the Madonna and child they studied in art class. It was Fra Filippo Lippi, she believed, and his rendition stood out from countless others because of the humanistic way he painted. Dr Lightfoot spoke at length about the use of shading and line, but what Vivian remembered most was the animated, loving expression of the young mother; the way the painting came alive. She gazed at Dorothy and as Nowell and Lonnie grunted and pushed against each other, Dorothy turned towards her and rolled her eyes.

‘Enough already,' Vivian said to the men. ‘You're going to break something.'

Lonnie backed Nowell against the table. ‘Give,' he ordered.

Nowell laughed. ‘Okay, okay. When did you get bigger than me?'

Lonnie peeled the checkered shirt from his body and hung it on a hook next to the door. Underneath he wore a plain white t-shirt. ‘Got anything to drink? Heating up out there.'

Dorothy touched Vivian's arm. ‘Where should we put our things? And please, call me Dot.'

Vivian thought that she and Dot were opposites in some ways. Vivian was small and dark, with dark brown, almost black eyes and olive skin. Dot, while similar in size and proportion, had light, gold-blonde hair and fair, freckle-prone skin. At times Vivian
had wished to be taller, but she prided herself on her narrow waist, her silky hair, and her vein-free hands. People used to tell her that she should be a hand model, selling fingernail polish or jewelry, but her mother said that models had to be tall, no matter what kind they were.

Vivian showed her the spare bedroom. Dot walked directly to the window and peered outside. ‘I feel so gritty from the drive,' she said. ‘Lonnie wanted to ride with the top down the whole way. He's like a kid, happy with the smallest things.' Her eyes glistened. ‘He's simple in the nicest ways. Uncomplicated, you know?'

Vivian smiled.

‘So you've been married a long time,' Dot said.

‘Four years, but I remember what it's like to be a newlywed.'

Dot unzipped the duffel bag then straightened up, her hair falling into her eyes. ‘What's it like?'

Vivian shrugged. ‘Exciting, new. You can hardly stand to be apart.'

‘And all that changes?'

She chuckled. ‘No, not all of it. The parts that stay come back really strong at times. They surprise you.' She met Dot's gaze. ‘At least that's how it is for me. By the way, congratulations.'

‘Thanks. I wish we could've had a different kind of wedding, you know, with family and friends. But Lonnie was stubborn about that. It was all pretty sudden.' Dot looked again through the window. ‘It's nice out here.'

‘I've had a hard time getting motivated,' Vivian said.

‘Lonnie says you're fixing up the house?'

‘Trying to. It's not very exciting work.'

Dot started lifting things out of the bag and shoving them into the dresser. ‘I understand. I still haven't unpacked most of the boxes since we got married and moved. It seems like we've been all over since then, and I don't know how long we'll be there, you know? I mean our little apartment. Lonnie wants something with more space, and to me, it doesn't matter. So the boxes sit in our living room. Seems pointless to unpack them just to pack them again.' She shut the dresser drawer. ‘I'll be glad to help you with the house.'