The Qualities of Wood (7 page)

The funeral for Chanelle Brodie was small and uneventful.
The Sentinel
printed a short obituary and a news article that summarized and in effect, closed the case of her death. The coroner ruled it an accident. The photograph printed with the obituary looked like a school photo, grainy and white-framed. Chanelle had a round, heart-shaped face,
full lips and straight, dark hair. She looked like an average teenager, but Vivian saw something in her eyes, a spark of defiance. Fearlessness, Katherine had called it.

Work on the house proceeded. Twice, Vivian drove into town to deliver clothing and other small household goods to the Salvation Army. There was an old hand-held blender, a metal juicer, a set of hot hair rollers. Boxes of towels and sheets, bags of knick-knacks: candleholders, glass figurines, homey plaques. Things she didn't think anyone wanted, but Vivian felt a twinge with each item. She couldn't help but imagine someone going through her own things after she was gone. The personal items were harder, a drawer of nail polishes and files, a small box of costume jewelry, a gold, silk-trimmed bathrobe. Things that meant nothing to others but probably quite a bit to Grandma Gardiner.

The larger items, the newer things and everything else would be saved for a yard sale. Vivian was getting used to driving the truck. On a third trip into town, she and Nowell saw a matinee and did some grocery shopping. He was in high spirits that day, having just finished a major segment of his book. In the empty theater, they ate popcorn and joked through the entire film, a mediocre comedy about a man with supernatural powers. Then they went home and lounged in bed until dinnertime. It was a glimmer of their old life.

The crew working on the road was progressing rapidly. In the afternoons when Vivian walked to the mailbox, she could see them at a distance, their trucks and orange flags moving closer until they were over the small hill and finally, nearing the house.

One morning, someone knocked on the door while Nowell was still in the shower. Groggy and squinting in the yellow kitchen, Vivian opened the door in her robe.

‘Morning, ma'am.' Five feet from the screen stood a man in an orange vest. ‘I'm with the county. We're paving the road out there.' White teeth gleaming from his tanned face, he said this like a question.

She nodded, smoothing her hair back.

‘We're set to start in front of your house. You need to get out?'

‘I hadn't planned on going anywhere today,' she said.

He leaned back onto his heels. ‘We're mostly smoothing and clearing today. Tomorrow we lay the asphalt.'

‘So we can get out today?'

He nodded, taking in her legs under the short robe. ‘We'll try to get it down early tomorrow. Should take most of the day to set. You'll have to stay put then.'

Vivian noticed his attention and adjusted the robe around her neck. She noticed his broad shoulders, his rugged and dirty hands and the roughness of his skin. ‘Well, thanks for letting me know,' she said.

He nodded, staring.

Vivian closed the door, her face flushed.

Nowell poked his head around the corner. ‘Who was that?'

‘Someone from that road crew,' she told him. ‘They're working out front today and tomorrow, so if we need to go anywhere we should go today.'

‘That was fast. I thought it would take them longer.' He walked back into the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist.

She thought that maybe the road was to be finished in time for the reunion Katherine told her about. It was for the descendants of the town's founder, William
Clement, and would be held at the end of the summer. The ballroom at the local Best Western had been rented out and hundreds of people were expected.

The newspaper had run a few stories about the reunion. In a biographical piece about William Clement, Vivian learned that he came from old money, much of which he invested in the town. Most of the older downtown section was built under his direction; he financed the construction of the Sheriff department, the Post Office, and the office building for town officials, which now served as a community center. He populated the buildings with relatives and friends, even appointed his oldest son as the town's first sheriff. He opened a bank and began to help people build homes, run farms and start businesses. Various real estate developments were handled from a corner office with windows that looked out over the plaza where he was now immortalized in bronze.

The newspaper story named a few singular descendants, those who had risen to some level of greatness. One of Clement's sons had served three terms in the state senate, and a granddaughter had a short-lived career on Broadway. Katherine claimed that William Clement sired another batch of descendants with several Native American women who worked for him, but this lesser-respected line was not identified in the article. When Vivian mentioned this to Katherine, she merely laughed and said, ‘Who do you think owns the newspaper?'

Her thoughts returned to the construction worker, his bold stare. Why is it always like that, she wondered. You always have to be on guard. And yet a part of her was flattered and excited, and she couldn't help but pull back the kitchen curtains to catch a glimpse of the crew where they worked further down the road.

In high school, a boy had taken Vivian to a party then abandoned her near a cavernous overpass, a concrete structure lined with yellow lights, when she wouldn't do what he wanted. He was a popular boy, one whom everyone liked and admired, and up until his fit of anger, Vivian had been feeling quite special. As he drove off, she pulled her jacket around her throat and watched the receding taillights. Then she walked to a convenience store and called home. Her mother was up late reading.

Once Vivian was inside the family Buick, her mother stared at her. ‘Are you alright?' she finally asked.

‘Yes,' Vivian said.

‘You smell like a brewery.'

Vivian didn't answer. Being in the car, drunk, with her mother, was surreal. Outside, things looked strange and desolate and lonely. The sole cashier in the mini-mart watched them over the stacks of newspapers.

Her mother turned the car onto the empty road. ‘So what happened?'

‘I told you,' Vivian said, ‘I couldn't get a ride home.'

‘I thought that boy who picked you up would be bringing you back.'

‘So did I.'

‘If he drank as much as you, I hope he's not driving.'

She shrugged.

‘Listen, Vivian, I'm relieved that you called me.' She ran her hand through her curly reddish hair.

From the side angle, Vivian could see smudges on her oval glasses, places where her fingers had been.

‘I even understand this rebellion to some extent,' her mother said in a practical tone. A lecture tone. ‘It's very natural, I suppose. I don't want to make a big deal out of it.'

‘Good,' Vivian said, thinking: here it comes.

‘What I am concerned about, however, is your general lack of purpose. You're not getting the kind of grades that'll get you into a good college.'

Vivian groaned.

‘That's what I mean. You'd cut off your nose to spite me. Why? If I told you not to go to college, would it make you want to go?'

‘I don't know.' She leaned her head against the seat and closed her eyes.

‘I suppose you don't know much of anything right now, do you? In your present condition…' Her voice droned on and on and in a weak moment Vivian wished she could tell her about Scott Ridling, about the smooth ride in his Camaro and the way his blue eyes glinted when he laughed. About the awed expressions on the faces of her friends that day he crossed the concrete courtyard and asked her to the party, and about the way her skirt swished lightly over her thighs when they danced together. But her mother's world was too matter-of-fact for such things. She would say that Vivian didn't need Scott or his approval, which Vivian, in her rational mind, already knew very well. But that wasn't the point. He had made her feel small and she needed rebuilding. And she realized that once again, she'd have to do it herself. Her mother didn't have the tools.

In the afternoon, Vivian went out to retrieve the mail. She had just showered, and her wet hair slapped against her back as she walked. The dirt road in front of the house was smooth and packed, and the crew was working some distance away, about a hundred
yards towards town. One man drove the roller truck over the thick asphalt, another marched ahead directing him, and a third leaned against a hand-held Stop sign. The man with the sign looked over and held up his hand. It was the one she had spoken to earlier. She raised her hand and turned abruptly, careful to pace herself up the driveway, feeling his gaze on her back. At the side of the house, she glanced over her shoulder and caught him watching her through the scattered trees.

She wasn't ready to go inside. She dropped the mail on the porch and proceeded toward the back yard. She stopped at the well Nowell showed her the day she arrived. Behind the brush and beyond the small shed, the well blended into its surroundings, its brick like the reddish parts of the earth, its chain and bucket like the drooping, leaf-heavy branches of the trees. Leaning over the side, she smelled mildew and metal. She picked up a small stone, dropped it inside, and waited for the small plunging sound. She listened to the sound of her name echoed down the cold tunnel, felt a chill on her face as it faded then disappeared.

In the back yard, the sun beamed hot over the trees. She turned to see if Nowell was watching her through the window of his study, but the curtains were closed. She walked down the slope toward the line of trees that stood unyielding, their backs turned. They were closer than she had thought. She kept walking until she was immersed; their wide scaly trunks smelled old and sharp and their shiny leaves were a fluttering palette of greens. Vivian kicked earth up as she walked. A chirping sound came from her left and overhead, something scampered through a tree, the weight of its body rustling the leaves. She walked for some time, careful to look back once and again to keep track of how to get back. Through the density of trees, a rust-colored object caught her eye, appearing
then disappearing among the wide trunks. Vivian watched for a moment. A sudden cracking sound echoed through the woods. She strained her eyes and made out a shirt, a flash of face. Must be that Mr Stokes, she thought. He's cutting wood. She turned around and began to retrace her steps. A snapping sound reverberated as another log splintered, but this time the noise was followed by a long wail. Vivian perked her ears.

‘Ohhhhh.'

She realized that the wailing was coming from the opposite direction. She was disoriented, looking one way then the other.

‘Oh, my poor baby.'

Vivian ran towards the edge of trees. It seemed to take a long time but finally, the grassy field of their backyard appeared in glimpses through the trunks. She stopped. Three figures stood in the high grass at the peak of the gradual slope. The one in the middle, a woman, leaned on the arm of the tall man next to her. By his hat and bearing, Vivian recognized him as Sheriff Townsend. The three began to descend towards the woods.

Behind her, she heard a branch snap.

‘Of course I'm sure,' the woman said loudly, ‘I've got to see where my baby, I've got to, ohhh.' Her voice faded and then, she gasped.

Vivian had emerged from the trees.

The sheriff, the woman, and the third person, whom Vivian now saw to be his deputy, stopped. They stared at her across the high grass.

‘Who's that?' Sheriff Townsend called.

‘It's Vivian Gardiner,' she called back.

‘Oh, Mrs Gardiner.'

She kept walking and when she had almost reached them, Bud stepped to the side, looked over her shoulder, and said incredulously, ‘Now who could that be?'

As they followed his gaze, a rust-colored figure emerged from the trees, walking purposely towards them into the light.

Vivian heard a whooshing sound, like air pressed out of a cushion, and she turned back in time to see the sheriff reach across and catch the woman as she swooned, her knees buckling underneath her.

Sheriff Townsend steadied the woman, who shook her head and pressed a palm to her cheek. Vivian, the deputy, and Mr Stokes stood a short distance away, watching her.

Vivian turned to Mr Stokes and whispered, ‘You scared me back there.'

His eyebrows raised but he didn't answer.

The woman said, ‘I'm sorry. I don't feel well.'

‘You had a fright when Mrs Gardiner came out of the woods,' the sheriff told her. ‘This is Mrs Brodie,' he explained. ‘She's here to see where we found Chanelle.'

‘I'm so sorry about what happened,' Vivian said, realizing as she spoke that it wasn't quite the right thing to say.

Mr Stokes shifted on his feet. ‘Mrs Brodie,' he said.

The haziness melted from Mrs Brodie's face as the full realization of where she was and why she was there came back to her. Vivian wondered if she woke each day like that, forgetting for a few peaceful moments about her daughter's death, only to suddenly and painfully remember. At Grandma Gardiner's house, in the sleepy, early mornings,
Vivian stared at the vague outlines of the furniture before they sharpened and took shape, smelling the unfamiliar scents of the house, the old wood of the doors and the starchy sheets, until she remembered where she was. Perhaps it was like that for Mrs Brodie, she thought, the slow focusing of perception.

Vivian pictured a teenage girl with a round, childish face sprawled awkwardly over a large boulder. Her long hair was dark like Vivian's, her face expressionless. The defiance of the obituary photo was gone; only a crumbled form, a spent energy. The girl's arms were down at her sides.

Mrs Brodie regained her footing, and the sheriff let go.

‘Like I mentioned,' he told her, ‘Mrs Gardiner and her husband are staying in Betty Gardiner's place for a while.'

Mrs Brodie smoothed her green sweater. ‘It's nice to meet you.' Tears flooded her eyes. Her eyelashes left brushstrokes of mascara on her skin.

Mr Stokes pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and stepped across the short distance to hand it to her.

The policemen took Mrs Brodie to the edge of the trees. In their tan uniforms, they blended immediately into the background; only Mrs Brodie's vibrant sweater, an unnatural green, was visible as they weaved in and out of the tree trunks.

Soon, Vivian and Mr Stokes could see nothing. ‘How far back did they find her?' She asked him.

‘Not too far. About half-way between the end of my property and where you were a minute ago.'

‘I don't know where the property lines are,' she said.

‘Don't you though?' Mr Stokes's eyes seemed to taunt her, like the evening they met.

She felt defensive. ‘No, I really don't. How far would you say it is?'

He opened his mouth then closed it. She realized she may have misjudged him. He had no reason to accuse her of anything.

Mr Stokes rubbed his chin. His rust-colored shirt was tucked into a loose-fitting pair of jeans. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbow and the top button was undone. Perspiration dotted his brow and moistened the chest hairs that poked through the shirt. He appeared to be about forty-five, older than she had originally thought. He had a well-used, tanned face with deep wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and creases in his forehead. The day was hot, but Vivian couldn't imagine that he ever wore shorts or short-sleeved shirts. He was just one of those types of men, old-fashioned and modest.

‘Listen,' she said, ‘I'm sorry if I barked at you. I was flustered when I saw you in the woods.'

He nodded. ‘Maybe you shouldn't walk around back there by yourself.'

‘I don't see any reason why not,' she said.

He shook his head. ‘Not just 'cause of the Brodie girl. It's easy to get lost when you're not used to the area. All those trees start to look the same. Maybe it's not someplace you'd get lost for days, but you sure could spend most of an afternoon wandering around in there. We're the biggest animals around here, but there are raccoons and good-sized squirrels that might scare you.'

‘I've seen squirrels before,' Vivian said. ‘They don't scare me.'

Mr Stokes grinned, revealing hidden laugh lines and straight, clean teeth. ‘No, I don't suppose they do. I didn't mean to tell you your business. That other fella at your place didn't like me telling him what to do either.'

‘What other fellow?'

‘A few weeks ago. Tall, strapping guy?'

‘Oh, Lonnie.'

‘I saw him back there a couple of times, walking around. One night there was smoke coming up through the trees, so I came over to make sure everything was all right. He was cooking a pie or something, down in the ground.'

‘Apple cobbler,' she said.

‘A real outdoorsman,' Mr Stokes said, and Vivian couldn't tell how he meant it.

Lonnie had a rough, natural quality; at least to her, he seemed more at home outside. His career choice in construction attested to this, as did his hobbies: hunting, fishing, camping. How the two brothers grew up so differently was difficult to say. Vivian wasn't much for nature, either. After eloping to Reno, Lonnie and his wife pitched a tent in the mountains for a week, which wasn't her idea of a honeymoon at all. Grandma Gardiner's house, surrounded by trees, tall grass and birdsong, was as close to nature as she ever wanted to get.

‘Nice fella,' Mr Stokes added. The sun highlighted the white amidst his dark hair.

‘What did you tell him?' she asked.

‘When?'

‘You said that he didn't like it when you told him what to do.'

‘Oh.' He chuckled. ‘I did my Smokey the Bear impression, about starting fires in the woods.'

Vivian laughed.

‘Mrs Gardiner,' he said, meeting her eyes. ‘Do you suppose you could do me a favour?'

Vivian felt a churning in her stomach, a slight warning. ‘Oh, sure.'

‘Just call me Abe, that's all. Everyone in this town calls me Mr and it makes me feel awful old.' He looked down, kicked at the dirt almost shyly. ‘I think it's because my father insisted on it for himself. But I'm not my father.'

She smiled, relieved. ‘Only if you'll call me Vivian.'

Mrs Brodie returned, the sheriff leading her by the elbow. Her face was pale, but she held herself erect and walked with recovered confidence, a comfortable awareness of her body that Vivian envied.

Mr Stokes said goodbyes and headed home beyond the tree line. Vivian walked Mrs Brodie and the police to the driveway.

‘Damn car is covered with dust from that road work,' the sheriff said. ‘But it's about time we got some civilization around here. You'd think we're in the backwoods, the way the county doles out money.'

Mrs Brodie reached out and clasped Vivian's hand. ‘Thanks for letting us on your land.'

‘It's not my…' Vivian started, but stopped. ‘You're welcome,' she said, and that seemed wrong too.

‘We'll meet again, when this is, well, at a better time,' Mrs Brodie said. Daintily, she reached for Sheriff Townsend's arm.

The police car drove slowly over the packed dirt of the road and headed toward town. Vivian picked up the mail from the porch and looked through it. An assortment of advertisements, an electricity bill, a letter from Nowell's agent. The road crew's machinery was abandoned on the embankment. The dirt road was even and smooth, ready for asphalt in the morning.

Nowell was standing in the kitchen when she got to the door. ‘Where were you?' he called through the screen. ‘Did you see the sheriff?'

‘Yeah. And the deputy, and that girl's mother.'

‘What happened?' He pushed the door open.

She walked under his outstretched arm into the kitchen. ‘Nothing, really. Mrs Brodie almost passed out when she saw me coming out of the woods.'

‘The woods? What were you doing back there?'

‘I went for a walk.'

‘I don't know if you should be back there, Viv.'

‘Why not?' She spun around. ‘Doesn't anyone read the newspaper around here? What happened to that girl was an
accident
.'

‘You don't know your way around.'

‘It's not the
forest
,' she said, ‘and I'm not a child.'

‘Alright, alright.' Nowell put his hands up in surrender. ‘What happened with the sheriff?'

‘Mrs Brodie wanted to see the spot where they found her. I talked to Mr Stokes while they went back.'

‘Mr Stokes?'

‘You remember, our neighbor?'

Nowell nodded. ‘Did he say anything?'

‘Who?'

‘The sheriff.'

‘About what?' she asked.

‘I don't know, whether they'd be coming back. I thought that was important to you, his future contacts.'

‘I think it's over now,' she said.

Nowell took a drink from a bottle of juice and it dribbled down the side of his mouth. He cursed and swiped his hand across his face, then pushed past her into his study. Sometimes, he just seemed to shut down, to leave the conversation without any notice. His moods fluctuated without warning. An artistic temperament, she told herself.

She thought about what Mr Stokes said about Lonnie, about him being an outdoorsman. Nowell and Lonnie were almost the same height and both had the wide brown eyes of their mother. Certain parts of their faces were similar: the curve of the jawbone, the high square forehead, and they had the same shade of dark brown hair. With beards, they looked less alike. Nowell's had a reddish hue while Lonnie's matched his hair exactly, dark and thick. And Lonnie was heavier than Nowell, more muscular from physical work and fleshier because of his appetites.

Vivian often felt sorry for Lonnie. He couldn't seem to get anything right in his life and he continually spurned the efforts of the one person who had always tried to protect him, Nowell. Lonnie called his brother ‘Number One,' because Nowell was born first, but also to imply that he was favored in the family. Sometimes Nowell wouldn't hear from Lonnie for months at a time. He faded in and out of their lives.

When Nowell was born, his father Sherman went to a bar and drank until he passed out. The bar was full of people whose loved ones were in the hospital, and Sherman's news was rare and joyous. They plied him with scotch-and-sodas until his forehead hit the oak table. Sherman's father-in-law came and took him home, and his hangover lasted until two days later, when he drove his wife and the squalling baby home. Nowell's mother said that despite how lousy he felt, Sherman passed around cigars and toasted with seltzer water. She could put a favorable light on anything related to her husband or sons. Nowell would always say that he couldn't picture his dad getting drunk like that, and Beverly would explain that he was too polite to refuse the drinks everyone sent over. She liked telling the story of Nowell's birth. She and Sherman were in their mid-thirties when they started a family. After Nowell, Lonnie followed, thirteen months later. The story of Lonnie's birth was mostly a litany of complaints about how late he was in coming, and how much Beverly had been suffering through the surprise pregnancy with her swollen ankles, sore back, and a heavy toddler.

Sherman spent the early years of their marriage building his appliance repair business. He started out with a truck and a tool set and finished with a partner, twelve employees and a fleet of six vans. Nowell said that his father didn't care that neither of his sons wanted to be involved with the business. Vivian suspected that from Nowell,
Sherman expected greater things, and he didn't think Lonnie capable. Because Sherman died suddenly of a heart attack earlier in the same year that she met Nowell, Vivian never met him.

Lonnie had a certain wariness, like something freed from a trap. But he could also be reckless, with no regard for authority. The first time Vivian met Lonnie, he was unemployed and living with his mother again after a few years out on his own. She didn't know then that these ups and downs were the normal circumstance of his life. In the past six years since Vivian met Nowell, Lonnie had moved back home twice, changed jobs at least six or seven times, and more recently, married on impulse. The last time they saw him was at Beverly's house, over a year ago.

They were having a weekend visit. Lonnie arrived unexpectedly at six a.m. He threw open the door to the guest room and woke them up, threatening to cannonball onto the bed between them.

‘Don't do it,' Nowell warned.

‘Alright, but get up already. Me and Ma have been awake for hours.'

‘When did you get here?'

‘Around three.' Lonnie stood in the doorway, filling it almost, his face spread into a wide, expectant grin.

Nowell rubbed his eyes. ‘Why aren't you sleeping?'

‘Come on, you know it's not my nature to be tired.'

Nowell laughed. ‘Yeah, right.'

‘Hey, Number One, I think your wife is dead. Vivian? How can you sleep like that, so straight? You look like a corpse.'

‘Very easily when people aren't yelling,' she told him.

‘Right.' He put his finger over his lips and backed up. Nowell threw his pillow, barely missing Lonnie as he closed the door.

They played Hearts that day, the two brothers against Vivian and Beverly. Vivian and Nowell had a policy not to play cards as a team if they could help it. They each had different reasons: Nowell because he thought her playing inferior and Vivian because she didn't want him bullying her. They both said it was to prevent arguments, which was, generally speaking, the truth. In the afternoon, the brothers went out for a while and Vivian and Beverly watched a movie on television then started making dinner.

Lonnie and Nowell returned after six-thirty, high-spirited and smelling of liquor.

‘Hitting the bars so early?' Beverly asked.

Nowell smiled. ‘They're open all day.'

‘Looks like you both could use some dinner.' She pointed to the table and said, ‘Sit.'