The Qualities of Wood (24 page)

‘What do we need to work out?'

She shook her head. ‘I think we both know there's something, we just haven't figured out what it is.'

‘You're speaking so cryptically,' he said. ‘I have no idea how to respond. As for Lonnie and Dot, I didn't know you wanted them to leave.'

‘I never said…'

‘I thought they were helping you with the house, which made me feel better because I haven't been. I also thought that you liked Dot and that they were keeping you company, something else I felt sorry about because I know I've been putting most of my energy into this book. The last time I talked to Lonnie about it, he told me they were having a great time. His new job starts soon, but if you want me to ask them to go earlier…'

‘You're taking what I said out of context. The main point was that we haven't had any time together.'

He nodded. ‘To work things out, you said. Other than the one issue we've been
discussing, I didn't know there was anything else. I thought we both agreed, without saying so, to drop the issue of children for a while. Are there other problems I don't know about?'

‘I'm not sure. Sometimes I feel like I don't know you anymore.'

‘What?' Nowell was losing his patience.

‘I think I'm a little depressed over my birthday,' Vivian said. ‘I'm feeling restless, like I'm between acts.' She was losing her nerve. ‘Don't worry, I'm just a little tired today. Maybe I'll take a nap later. Let me know when you're ready for lunch; I'll make you a sandwich.'

‘You don't have to do that.'

‘And you really should open a window. It's cooling down today, finally. There's a nice breeze and if we open this side of the house, the air can circulate.'

‘You know it blows all my papers around.'

‘Weigh them down with something.' She picked up the coffee cup that Dani had inscribed for him after his book was published. In black cursive letters it said Nowell S. Gardiner, Author. ‘Use this.' She kissed him on the forehead and walked toward the kitchen.

After she let the curtain divider fall back into place, she turned and almost ran into Dot, who was hurrying past her into the hallway. ‘Sorry,' Vivian said.

Dot's face was pale and her eyes darted around. Vivian could smell her vanilla scent and could see the faint line across the bridge of her nose where her sunglasses had blocked the sun. Dot smiled weakly and continued down the hall, softly closing their bedroom door behind her.

Did she hear our conversation, Vivian wondered. She may have misunderstood, thought that Vivian wanted them to leave. She didn't know if she should go after Dot or let it go. Part of her was getting tired of having so many people in the house, and part of her was afraid to be alone with Nowell, without diversions.

On the porch, leaves and debris danced in a circle, thankful and joyous in the cool breeze. Throwing her head back and feeling the muscles in her neck stretch and pull, Vivian let the first fingers of the wind reach her.

The next day, Vivian and Dot started hauling boxes out to the front yard for the sale. Lonnie tied a rope between two trees and they hung most of the clothing from it. The rest would be stacked on the tables, along with other items: small appliances, lamps, kitchen tools, pillows, linens and knickknacks. Furniture was placed on the porch, except for the pieces they were keeping until they moved out.

That morning, Katherine phoned to ask if Nowell could come down to the school earlier to pick up the tables. Because of all the incoming traffic for the reunion, the children were being sent home early. Vivian decided to make the trip herself. She wanted to hang a flier about the yard sale in the community center, in case many of the out-of-towners didn't pick up
The Sentinel
. She also wanted to get a glimpse of some of the Clements. The community center was being used as a meeting place for the reunion, along with the park across the street and for the evening events, the ballroom at the Best Western.

‘Are you sure you don't want me to go with you?' Dot sat cross-legged in the center of the lawn, clothing fanned around her on the grass. On red stickers that they had
purchased at the arts and crafts store, she wrote prices with a thick black marker, then affixed the stickers to the labels in the clothing or inside, along a hem. They hadn't been able to find a price gun like she'd wanted.

‘No, thanks,' Vivian said. ‘A couple of the teachers will help me load the tables, then I'll just stop by and post that sign.'

‘I thought I'd make iced tea for customers, you know? Do you think we should put out some cookies?'

‘Sure.'

Dot squinted through the amber-colored lenses of her sunglasses. Whitish cream was smeared on both of her shoulders, probably the citrus-smelling sunscreen that she used. Pale and prone to sunburn, she wore one of Lonnie's t-shirts over her bikini. It reached to her knees. Blonde wisps had escaped from the plastic, shell-like thing that held her hair in a messy crescent, and she occasionally blew them off her face. ‘Lonnie was asking about the lawn again,' she said.

‘Tell him not to worry about it. That's Nowell's job.'

Dot nodded and went back to her work. Vivian wondered again if she had overheard her discussion with Nowell the day before. She didn't know what to say or do about it. She went into the house to get her purse and when she turned back towards the door, Dot was on the porch.

‘Vivian, I wanted to talk to you.' Dot pushed her sunglasses back on her head and stepped into the kitchen. ‘My mother called last night, after everyone had gone to bed. She's not doing very well, you know, and she asked if I would come and see her. Maybe one last time, she said, but I don't think it's that serious.' She twisted the corner of the
long t-shirt in her hand. ‘She can be difficult. Sometimes it's hard to see what's the truth and what isn't. I'd like to stay through the yard sale to help out, but I think it's best if I leave Sunday morning. Do you think you could handle the last day by yourself? You know, Lonnie and Nowell can help.'

‘Of course, but…'

‘Because if you really need me…' She looked down.

‘No, you should go,' Vivian said. ‘What's wrong with her?'

Dot looked up and sighed. ‘She drinks, Vivian. Now there are other health problems, but it all starts with that.'

‘Oh.' Vivian stepped towards her but stopped. ‘Shouldn't Lonnie go? I mean, I don't want you to think he has to help me.'

‘He wants to stay here. He hasn't met her, you know. The whole thing makes him uncomfortable. We'll wait until she's having an easier time.'

‘Listen, Dot, I think maybe you heard me and Nowell yesterday.'

She shook her head. ‘You don't have to say anything. I understand, really.'

‘This has nothing to do with that? Because it's not really about you at all.'

‘Oh, no. She called last night, really late. You were asleep.' Dot rubbed her arm with one hand as though she was cold, but even at mid-morning, it was already hot. ‘To tell you the truth, Vivian, I think it's good that I take a break for other reasons.'

Here it comes, Vivian thought. Why did I say that to Nowell?

‘It's this fight between Nowell and Lonnie, you know? It's making Lonnie cranky and distant, and I feel like I should give him some space to work it out. Because it has
nothing to do with me. All of it was there before I came on the scene. Does that make sense?'

Vivian nodded. ‘Is there anything I can do? I mean, help you pack or talk to Nowell?'

‘Thanks. Lonnie's going to take me to the airport. It's not too far?'

‘No. It's a tiny place, just one rectangular building with check-in desks on one side and the gates on the other. You'll have a small plane like mine.'

‘I'm not crazy about that,' Dot said. She opened the screen door, then turned back. ‘Lonnie's afraid, you know? He feels like he's finally getting Nowell to open up about things.'

‘What things?' Vivian asked.

‘Family things.'

‘Lonnie should worry more about his temper,' Vivian said.

Dot looked surprised but didn't say anything. ‘I'm leaving Sunday morning and I bought a return ticket for the next Saturday. I hope that's okay. I'll miss the fireworks.'

Vivian nodded.

The screen door bounced back and forth on its spring, gradually closing.

Vivian took her purse outside and climbed into the truck. Lonnie was poking through the things laid out on the lawn. Both Vivian and Dot had asked him to look through the boxes for the sale, but neither he nor Nowell had taken the time. Now and again, Vivian asked Nowell about a specific item and she pointed out a few things to Dot for Lonnie. Beverly had told Vivian that Nowell's aunts had already been through the
house to claim the things they wanted. So most of what remained would be sold; the men attached little or no sentiment to the belongings of a grandmother they hardly knew.

Vivian followed the now-familiar rolling road into town. When she pulled up to the elementary school, Katherine and two male teachers were standing in front of the building and the tables were propped against a brick wall. She parked near the curb and hopped down. The men were already moving toward the truck bed with the first table.

‘Right on time,' Katherine said. She introduced the two teachers. ‘They're in a hurry to get home. The principal decided to close the place tomorrow too, so everybody got a nice break.'

‘That's great,' Vivian said. ‘They're having the big welcoming ball for the reunion, right?'

Katherine snickered. ‘Yes, the glamorous formal affair is tomorrow evening. Not that any of us are invited.'

Vivian laughed. ‘You're a cynic.'

Katherine put her arm around Vivian. ‘As for me,' she said, ‘I'll be attending the yard sale of my friend here. It promises to be a truly upscale affair.'

Vivian had two copies of the yard sale flier to post. She thanked the men for their assistance and climbed back into the truck. Katherine waved. Vivian drove past the Best Western, where the billboard in front read: ‘No Vacancy.' It also said: ‘Welcome Clements, One and All.' When Vivian reached the narrow, tree-lined streets of the old, inner part of town, she parked the truck. Across the street, William Clement's bronze statue stood proudly in the plaza.

There was a marked difference in the town. Brightly clothed shoppers flowed down the central road; the bells of shop doors clanged as customers weaved in and out. Two street vendors had set up tables for business, both selling a variety of reunion souvenirs – t-shirts, books and postcards. The landscaped islands at each end of the street had been planted with bright pink and purple flowers, and a banner stretched overhead commemorating the date of the town's founding and that of the current year. The community center was two blocks from the plaza. Above the steps that led into the building, Vivian noticed a group of people surrounding a table. One was Deputy Bud Winchel, outfitted in his uniform just as he had been the other times she'd met him. To his right, a slender woman in a cream-colored suit hugged a black notebook against her chest. Next to her stood another woman, as expensively dressed but shabbier in appearance, in part because of her curly brown locks, which sprung and leapt from her head like an explosion.

Vivian began to climb the stairs and as she reached the top, the people behind the table came into view. Both were seated: a man with round, metal-rimmed glasses and a woman with long, dark hair.

‘How many vendors are licensed for this area?' Bud asked.

The white-haired woman opened her notebook and pulled out a piece of paper.

‘Two souvenir vendors, but also a table for materials from the museum inside and an information table for local businesses.'

‘So four tables, plus Mr Delaney's here?'

The woman perused another sheet of paper. ‘The information tables will have the position near the doors and the souvenir vendors should be away from the edge of the stairs.'

‘I believe there's room up here for everybody,' Bud said.

The man at the table cleared his throat: ‘We'd be happy to move over, if someone else has reserved this particular space.' His face was emotionless but pleasant, his eyebrows lifted slightly above his glasses. Next to him, the woman held a similar complacent expression. She gazed directly at the older women and at the deputy as each spoke. Her posture was rigid and her mane of black hair fell straight down her back like a cape.

‘Mr Delaney,' the white-haired woman said tersely. ‘You applied for a permit in order to sign and sell copies of your book.'

‘And that's exactly what I'm doing.'

‘If you had mentioned that your purposes were to distribute incendiary materials…'

Vivian tried not to stare at the scene as she passed. Deputy Winchel acknowledged her with an almost imperceptible nod. She opened one of the glass doors at the entrance of the building and stepped inside. As the door closed, she heard the deputy's voice: ‘Now, Mrs Montrose, the man has a permit. I've seen it. It's perfectly legal.'

The voices were softer but still audible through the door.

‘Excuse me, Deputy, but at the council meeting a few weeks ago, this woman was refused permission to attend this function.'

‘That is untrue,' a feminine voice said. ‘I was denied admission to the reunion ball and a permit to stage a peaceful demonstration.'

The man spoke. ‘She's here as a friend to me, that's all. She agreed to man the table with me and help me with sales of my book. She brought a small informational brochure with her, which I am allowing her to set out on my table, in case anyone wants to pick one up. We won't be soliciting them in any way.'

‘It was agreed at the meeting that this is not the proper place for this type of brochure,' the older woman said. ‘We held a vote, Deputy, and I expect it to be enforced.'

‘Now, Mrs Montrose, I know you've put a lot of work into this reunion, and I'd hate to see it start off on the wrong foot. I know your son still runs
The Sentinel
, but something like this could get out in other ways. It seems to me that these people intend to be peaceful and they've given their word that they won't be approaching or agitating anybody.'

‘They're agitating
me
, Deputy Winchel. Come on, Frances. We need to take our complaint to a higher authority.'

‘I'm sorry, Mrs Montrose, I just have no cause.'

‘Don't worry, Deputy Winchel. I'm aware of your limitations.' The women's heels clicked sharply against the cement steps.

Vivian turned away from the door and immediately noticed a young man at a desk in the center of the room. His thin, sandy hair was pulled back into a short ponytail that hung limply against the back of his neck. He raised his eyebrows at her and smiled. ‘Good conversation? I see one of the sheriff's lackeys out there.'

Vivian felt the heat in her face. ‘Just being nosy, I guess.' She noticed that he held a book. ‘What's that all about?'

‘She's got a brochure that says she's a Clement too, but they don't believe it.'

‘Oh,' Vivian said.

‘Are you here to see the museum?'

‘No,' she said, then reconsidered. ‘Well, yes and no. First, I'd like to hang up a flier. Is there somewhere I can do that?'

‘Around this corner,' he pointed, ‘there's a bulletin board that says “Public Action.”'

‘How much does it cost to enter the museum?'

‘Normally it's free, but this weekend, it's two bucks. One dollar goes toward defraying the cost of the festival and one goes into a museum improvement fund. Contributions in excess of this fee are encouraged.'

Vivian handed him a five-dollar bill. ‘Seems like a good cause.'

‘Up the stairs and to your left, if you want to start in chronological order.'

‘Thanks,' she said. ‘I'm going to hang these first.'

She walked to the bulletin board and pinned a flier at each end with bright-colored tacks, then scaled the steps to the exhibit.

At the top, a white placard directed visitors with a thick black arrow and the words ‘Start of Exhibit.' She walked into the first room, which was subdivided into cubicles hung with an assortment of maps, documents, and photographs. The building had the paper and ink smell of an old schoolhouse. Wood polished to dullness covered
the floor and the doors were heavy and tall. The slapping of her sandals was loud and echoed because of the crude acoustics.

Vivian stopped at a big map that was supposedly the one used by William Clement when he set out on his cross-country journey. The paper was faded and torn at the edges; the state boundaries were clearly outdated but the general terrain was distinguishable by certain features. She wondered if the land turned out to be as William Clement had imagined it, those times that he had stared at the map and plotted the town.