The Qualities of Wood

She liked Katherine’s easy manner. She reminded Vivian of her mother, the way she took charge of things, planning and deciding and leaving little for anyone else to worry about. But Katherine was much younger than her mother, at an age where Vivian imagined herself carpooling children to soccer games and band practice, staying home to nurse sore throats. Yet here was Katherine, childless and seemingly unharmed by it.

‘Your husband says you’re staying for a year?’

Vivian looked over. ‘Give or take. Nowell’s writing his book and I’ve got the house to organize.’

Katherine shook her head. ‘Big job.’

‘I’m starting to think so.’

‘I’m happy to help out,’ Katherine said.

‘Oh, I couldn’t ask you…’

‘I’d be glad for the work and glad for the company,’ she interrupted.

They passed a road maintenance crew. A large truck pressed the newly laid asphalt like a rolling pin on dough while two workers in orange vests sat at the edge of the road, shouting to each other over the truck’s clamor and eating their lunches from brown paper sacks. One of the men leaned back and laughed, slapping his thigh. A third man turned a hand-held stop sign around and waved Katherine through.

‘I can’t believe they’re finally paving this,’ she said. ‘All of the roads out here are still dirt. There’s a main interstate nearby, but it leaves off miles outside of town. Just swings right by us, never comes close. It’s bizarre, I swear, like this town’s been bypassed by the entire modern world.’

The scattered farmhouses along the road started to appear more frequently and form neighborhoods. Suddenly, they were in town. They passed other buildings, a square gray post office, a blue-shuttered Sheriff Department. In a plaza surrounded by cobblestone and benches, a tall statue cast a narrow shadow over the road.

‘Who’s the guy on the horse?’ Vivian asked.

‘William Clement, the founder of the town.’

‘Was he a soldier?’

‘I don’t think so. Why?’

‘I thought with statues, they only put soldiers on horses. One foot of the horse is raised if the man died in battle, or something like that.’

‘Really?’ Katherine’s eyebrows made two reddish-brown points above her sunglasses. ‘I never heard of that. As far as I know, he wasn’t a soldier. He thought he was pretty important, though. Huge ego. Named everything after himself and kept a pack of Indians as slaves, just about. Of course they were here in the Midwest before we came along. Lost everything.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Yet everyone wants to look up to Clement, make him a hero. Some people around here claim to be descendants, either on the white side or the Indian side, and they make a big deal out of it. Back in ’82 when the new library was dedicated, there was a peaceful demonstration that ended not so peacefully. Made the national news.’

Vivian gazed out the window. ‘People like to have heroes, I guess.’

‘So do I, but I like mine realistic like people are, with good and bad parts but trying to do right. From what I’ve heard, Willie wouldn’t have known right if it hit him upside the head. He did terrible things, and people line up to claim they’re related.’ She turned the car into a mini-mall parking lot. There were plenty of open spaces and she took one in front of Clement’s Hardware. ‘See what I mean?’ She motioned toward the store sign and turned the engine off. ‘Here’s one of the famous descendants now.’

Inside, they bought cleaning supplies, wood stain, and a small tool set. There was no one in the store except for the elderly man who took their money. As they left, Katherine grabbed Vivian’s arm and turned her towards the far side of the mall where there was a donut shop and a dry-cleaners. ‘The dreaded enemy,’ she whispered.

‘What? Is that the other dry-cleaners?’

The store had faded posters in the windows, photographs of models in outdated clothing. The sign read ‘Kwik Kleaners’ in cursive red letters.

‘At least they’re not Clements,’ Vivian said.

Katherine chuckled. ‘Oh, but they could be. On the Indian side somewhere, possibly migrated south and now they’ve returned for their rightful place. They’re everywhere!’ She pretended to choke herself and Vivian laughed.

They stopped at an ice-cream parlor for double scoops and ate them at a table outside. The ice-cream melted quickly in the afternoon sun and Vivian felt like a kid sneaking a snack close to dinner, something that was never allowed when she was growing up. She felt guilty and excited, as though Nowell would care.

‘So what kind of books does your husband write?’ Katherine asked. ‘Betty only said that one of her grandsons was a writer and one worked construction.’

‘She passed away before Nowell’s first novel was published. He’s written one book, a mystery, and is working on the second.’

‘You’re kidding! I love mysteries. I’d like to read it. Would he autograph a copy for me?’

‘He’ll be flattered that you asked.’

‘I’ll pick up a copy in town this week. What’s the title?’

Vivian wiped the corner of her mouth with a napkin. ‘Actually, it’s in limited release. You may have some trouble finding it. Besides, I’m sure Nowell would love to give you a copy. He has some at the house.’

‘Great!’ Katherine said. ‘What’s it about? Don’t tell me too much, I hate that.’

Vivian bit her lower lip, contemplating what to say. ‘It’s a murder mystery about the deaths of two young men. Is that enough?’

Katherine nodded. ‘If I know too much beforehand, the whole experience is ruined. That’s the whole point of a mystery, isn’t it? The not knowing.’

Vivian read Nowell’s book for the first time just before it was ready for printing. He had gone to visit his mother and left the manuscript on the kitchen table at their apartment. He had tucked a note under the cover: Couldn’t have done it without you. Two nights later, she finished it. She never read mysteries, although as a child, she loved hiding games and scary movies, the tight feeling of suspense and the release of discovery. Nowell’s book, Random Victim, seemed well written and it held her interest although she had guessed the ending. She couldn’t remember much about the story now.

They finished their ice-cream and started the drive back to the house. Katherine pointed out the library, a two-story brick building near the plaza with William Clement’s statue, and the movie theater on the same street, between a clothing store and a diner. The current film was only about a month old; Vivian was encouraged by this. Maybe she wasn’t out of touch with civilization after all, she thought.

‘This was the first downtown street,’ Katherine told her. ‘Most of these buildings are very old.’ She drove slowly down the street and like a tour guide, described the various businesses: who owned them, how good they were for shopping. They went by the Sheriff Department again, and the Post Office. USPS was stenciled on the front in blue letters.

Then the cool-green car left the heated asphalt of the town’s streets. They passed first the road crew, then the countless rows of grain, then the low, grassy hills.

‘I volunteer down at the grammar school three mornings a week,’ Katherine told her. ‘Right now they’re having summer school. I read stories to the kids, help corral them outside. And I work at our store every now and then, but the rest of the time I’m pretty free.’ An upbeat number played on the stereo; she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. ‘It’ll be nice having you around for a while. Most women in town are older, or tied down with a pack of kids. And I’d be glad to help you out with the house, any time.’

Vivian shook her head. ‘Sounds like you’re pretty busy.’

‘When you’re redoing someone else’s, it’s more fun. Picking out curtains, painting – oh, remind me to give you the number of Max’s friend with the carpet business. He’ll give you a good deal.’

‘That’s probably something we’ll do last, after everything is moved out, including us.’

‘Keep it in mind, anyway.’ Katherine looked over, her eyes shaded by the huge lenses. ‘I never asked, what did you do in the city?’

After a moment, Vivian realized what she meant. Her job. ‘I just worked in an office.’ Down the road a short distance, she recognized the long driveway that led to Grandma Gardiner’s house. She reached down to get her purse.

‘What’s Sheriff Townsend doing out here?’ Katherine said.

Vivian looked up. A police car was parked in the driveway.

Katherine pulled behind the red truck, next to the cruiser. As they walked to the porch, they heard voices in the backyard. They turned and followed the sound. In the high grass behind the house, three men stood in a straight line like the trees behind them. Two wore the ill-fitting beige uniforms of law enforcement. One was taller and broader and wore a hat. He gazed at the tree line as the other one, a shorter and younger man with wispy blonde hair, spoke to Nowell.

The women waded through the tall grass. Nowell noticed them and waved, and the two policemen looked over.

‘Hello,’ Vivian said.

‘Hi, Viv.’ Nowell looked pale, even in the orange late-day sunlight, and he shielded his eyes. Vivian hadn’t seen him outside since the night she arrived.

‘Are you the welcoming committee, Sheriff Townsend?’ Katherine asked.

The taller, older man cleared his throat and said, ‘Mrs Wilton.’

Katherine turned to the younger man. ‘Don’t you two look solemn. What is it, Bud?’

Bud, the shorter and younger man, glanced at the sheriff, who was gazing into the trees again.

Nowell spoke first. ‘They found a dead girl back there.’

Katherine’s hand moved quickly to her mouth, her rings shooting yellow and orange sparks.

‘Back in the trees,’ Nowell added.

Vivian shuddered. ‘Where?’

Sheriff Townsend motioned with his hand. ‘Just ’bout a half-mile, northwest towards Stokes’s land.’

They all stood looking beyond the trees. After a moment, Katherine asked, ‘Who was it, Sheriff?’

‘Chanelle Brodie.’

She gasped loudly and closed her eyes. ‘Her poor mother,’ she said. ‘Her poor mother.’

Vivian glanced from the sheriff, who was staring at Katherine with his hard, gray eyes, to Bud, whose eyes were lowered, to Nowell, who was watching her reaction. All of them were eerily illuminated by the liquid-orange sunlight behind them. ‘What happened to her?’ she asked.

The sheriff’s forehead creased into deep lines.

Bud said, ‘Hard to say. We found her face-down on a rock with her head split open.’

Sheriff Townsend’s eyes shot him a warning and Bud quickly corrected himself. ‘Severe head trauma, looks like.’

Katherine was incredulous. ‘Someone killed her?’

‘Now, Mrs Wilton,’ the sheriff said. ‘We don’t know anything yet. We just found the girl this morning. So far, it looks like an accident.’

‘Oh my God.’ She shook her head.

‘Is that what you were looking for last week?’ Vivian asked.

The sheriff nodded.

‘Mrs Brodie reported Chanelle missing,’ Bud said, ‘so we conducted a preliminary search of the area.’ He glanced at Nowell. ‘The Brodies live on the other side of your land.’ He pointed towards town. ‘After a few days went by, we decided to give it another look-through.’

‘Probably didn’t look too hard the first time,’ Katherine said, ‘since that girl was running off every few weeks. Not the easiest child to keep track of, I would think. That poor woman!’

‘We’re just about finished here,’ Sheriff Townsend said. ‘I was asking your husband whether he’d seen or heard anything, Mrs Gardiner. He told me that you just arrived last Thursday.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you both saw lights back there that evening?’

She nodded. ‘Nowell said it was probably the sheriff, well, you, looking around.’

‘Have you seen or heard anything since then?’

‘No.’

He nodded slowly then turned abruptly to Bud. ‘Let’s get going, Deputy.’

‘Wait.’ Vivian touched Nowell’s arm and he flinched. ‘Is she…?’

‘The coroner’s been and gone,’ Bud said.

The men turned again to leave. Vivian turned to look at the trees, to imagine what was beyond them, when all at once, a lone figure emerged from the woods and advanced slowly but steadily, up the incline and through the high grass, the tall trees at his back like a house he’d just left through the front door. ‘Look,’ she said.

The sheriff’s hand went to his holster; Nowell and Katherine took a collective step backwards.

The grass crunched under the feet of the stranger, closer and closer until Vivian could make out a plaid shirt, blue jeans, black and silver hair. Something about his stride was familiar, the loose-jointed smoothness of his gait, like her father’s. This man was much younger, his face more angular, she thought.

Sheriff Townsend called, ‘Evening, Mr Stokes.’

They sighed, leaned back on their heels, and began to stir again.

Flushed slightly from his walk and his eyes shiny with moisture, the man looked around at each one of them. ‘Evening, all,’ he said.

5

The summer Vivian was nine, she and her parents spent a month in the east, in a cabin surrounded by trees. Her mother was participating in a seminar for writers, having been invited to give two workshops on non-fiction. Backed by a well-known writing school, the seminar ran for six weeks and drew fledging writers from all over the country. Her mother directed a general course titled Writing about History and another on Finding the Story within the Story. Vivian remembered these details from the brochure that arrived several weeks before the trip. She had been intrigued by the picture of her mother inside, a grainy, indistinct photograph, black print on brownish paper. Held at a distance, it looked like her mother, but held closer, it was only a pattern of tiny dots, uneven splotches of ink.

A genuine log cabin was their home for the month-and-a-half, gratis for her mother’s efforts with the struggling writers-in-residence. Her mother, Dr Shatlee to her students at the university and simply Margery to the workshop participants, dreaded the time with the amateur writers. But she was excited by the prospects of a real vacation for Vivian.

‘You always teach summer courses,’ she said to Vivian’s father, who was also Dr Shatlee to his students but Drew to his fellow teachers, ‘and the past two summers I was busy with the Tiwi book. It’ll be good for us to get away.’

The Tiwis were a group of pygmies in New Zealand. Her mother had written a book about the construction of a hospital in a remote Tiwi village. She spent over a month in New Zealand interviewing people and sifting through records. Overall, she worked on the book for almost three years. By focusing on a small group of villagers, she made it a personal tale but she wove historical information throughout the narrative. This was the general method for each of her five books. Her most successful one, about the sinking of a cruise ship, came later, when Vivian was thirteen. By far the best-selling of her books (most of which appealed only to specialized groups), Down Goes the Ambassador had a title like an action movie and chronicled the sinking of an Alaskan cruise ship. The Tiwi, with their wide-set facial features and caramel-colored skin, were too strange and distant for a popular audience, but the cruise ship seemed to be peopled with one’s family, neighbors and co-workers. The tragedy was imaginable.

‘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.

Perhaps it was the wooded backdrop, or his dramatic entrance, that made Vivian think of Joe Toliver when Mr Stokes stood before them in the high grass of the backyard the day the sheriff found the dead girl. Maybe it was his plaid flannel shirt or the light-and-dark combination of his hair. Or the way he talked, with one side of his mouth lower than the other, or maybe it was the time of day, that same pre-dusk time when she had leaned against the scratchy brown couch and slept.

For any one of these reasons, Mr Stokes evoked the image of Vivian’s kind savior from that summer afternoon when she was nine, and as the sheriff recounted the day’s events for him, she relived her initial feelings of panic and fear at the news of the dead girl and felt again for a moment, lost. When Mr Stokes finally spoke, his calm voice had the soothing effect that the memory of Joe inspired, even now, and Vivian forgot her panic for the second time that day.