The Qualities of Wood (18 page)

Looking at the digital clock on her nightstand, Vivian felt the accusation of the three angry red stripes: 1:11. She waited for her heart to return to normal. I must have imagined the light in the house, she thought. She had found nothing in the woods to explain everyone's wanderings, even her own. Now safe in the starchy comfort of the sheets, her adventure began to seem more like a dream. She thought about the copy of
The Sentinel
next to Mr Stokes's bed and the binoculars by the window. She pictured his face, the deep lines radiating from his eyes and the smug tilt of his smile. Why had he made it a point to tell her that he was leaving for a few days?

She recalled the story of Ronella Oates. Something like that could leave a person very bitter. Maybe subconsciously, Mr Stokes blamed all women. He didn't seem to care for Mrs Brodie or Katherine. Maybe she was kidding herself to think that they'd struck up a pleasant friendship. He warned her about walking through the woods and teased her about being afraid. And he made a disparaging remark about Lonnie. He seemed to crop up everywhere: the day they found Chanelle, the afternoon that Mrs Brodie came by, the
fishing trip and the barbecue afterwards. Almost as though he was keeping an eye on them. Even the morning she went over to his house, it was because he was causing a disturbance outside.

She drifted off to sleep thinking of Mr Stokes, the way his powerful shoulders drove the axe into the pliant wood, his awkwardness in speaking to her, his rough hands and beaten-up boots. And she dreamt a surreal dream of the woods between their two houses, as if the night's events were repeating themselves in a distorted, confused form. The dream began in the daytime, with Vivian and her father walking leisurely through the woods, but it ended in the pitch-black of night, with Vivian alone and running from someone.

She twirled around in a circle, searching for her father. The canopy of leaves swirled and dipped above her; the sky turned dark and violent. She was standing on a large, flat boulder, and she jumped down and began to run. Trees began to fall around her, crashing to the ground with an awful clamor. Up ahead, she could see the edge of the woods, the portal to safety. The cracking of an ax echoed through the woods. ‘Number One!' a deep voice called behind her.

She reached the tree line and burst onto the long grass. Falling to her knees, she began to crawl up the small hill, the ache in her throat preventing her from crying out. When she reached the top, she saw her mother through the window to Nowell's study. Her mother was sitting at the desk with her reading glasses on. Vivian tried to call out but it came as a whisper. Her mother's hands moved quickly over the keyboard.

‘Mom!' Vivian squeaked.

Suddenly, something struck her in the back. Framed by the grayish moon, Lonnie juggled empty beer cans, laughing as they fell like bullets against her arms, her upturned face.

The cracking sound, loud as thunder now, rumbled through the air, vibrated through her body. Lonnie's supply of cans never ran out; his juggling became more frenetic as she scrambled away from the shower of aluminum. As she reached the side of the house, a pair of dark, shabby boots stepped around the corner. One boot pressed down on her hand and she struggled to pull it free.

She shook herself awake. It was just after five-thirty. Her limbs were stiff from tension, the back of her neck damp and warm. It took a few moments before she remembered where she was, before she recognized the old furniture and cramped space of Grandma Gardiner's bedroom. She was incredibly thirsty.

For the second time that night, Vivian got out of bed and walked gingerly through the house. In the kitchen, she took a glass from the cupboard and plodded across the cold floor. Her eyes were barely open. The water went down easily, filling her stomach. As she set the glass in the sink, she heard a noise outside, the grinding sound of footsteps. Motionless, she strained her ears, then, as she turned to go back to bed, a heavy footstep sounded on the porch. She jerked her head towards the door as it opened and Lonnie's hulking form blocked the light from the porch. They both jumped.

‘Jesus, Vivian,' he hissed.

‘You scared me,' she whispered back. ‘What's wrong? What are you doing?'

‘Nothing.' He sat on a chair near the table and bent to untie his shoes.

‘Where were you?' she persisted.

‘What time is it?'

‘Almost six.' She rubbed her hands across her arms, suddenly aware of her thin nightshirt.

‘What are you doing up?' he asked.

Vivian noticed now the disorder of his hair and clothing, the mud flaking from his shoes onto the floor. His eyes were small and the skin underneath brownish and puffy.

‘I was thirsty,' she answered. ‘What about you? You don't look like you've been to bed at all.'

‘I fell asleep in the woods.'

‘What?'

Lonnie scratched his head, ran his hand across the stubble on his chin. Vivian saw the dirt caked underneath his short, jagged fingernails. For a moment, in the pained expression he gave when he had to repeat himself, the hard scowl that changed his face, she saw the resemblance between him and Nowell. There was something in the lines of the mouth, the slight flare of the nostrils, the broad plane of his forehead.

‘I said I fell asleep outside.'

‘Where?' she asked.

‘Just outside.'

‘I thought you went to bed with Dot. What were you doing out there?'

‘I couldn't sleep,' he said. ‘It was so warm, I decided to go for a walk.'

‘In the middle of the night?'

‘What's so strange about that?' He glared at her.

‘You don't think it's strange?' she asked. ‘Were you drinking?'

‘Who are you, the police?' For the first time since he'd walked through the door, his face relaxed into a grin.

‘You just scared me, that's all.'

‘Listen,' he said. ‘I'm beat.' He raised himself slowly from the chair. His knee cracked loudly when he put his weight on it.

‘I can imagine,' she said, making a point to look over his rumpled clothing before she turned and walked to the hallway.

As he followed her, Lonnie seemed groggy, unsteady on his feet. He was so much taller than she was; Vivian knew she wouldn't be able to stop him if he fell.

Is everyone in this house sneaking around? Vivian wondered. She had a difficult time falling back to sleep. When she finally drifted into a restless doze, Nowell's alarm clock buzzed, promptly at seven o'clock. He went into the bathroom and she heard the water running. The aroma of coffee drifted into the room when he opened the door to the hallway. She heard voices in the kitchen.

She couldn't sleep anymore. She pushed back the covers and stretched her legs. Today, I will clear up some things, she thought with resolution. I will stop letting my imagination get the best of me. After a hot shower, she went into the kitchen.

‘Good morning!' Dot said cheerfully, and for some reason, she crossed the room and gave Vivian a hug. She had a clean vanilla-and-soap scent, her usual fresh face and something searching about her eyes.

Vivian released her and headed to the coffeepot.

‘Long night,' Dot said.

Her hand paused for a moment, and she continued pouring the coffee.

‘You know,' Dot continued, ‘I think the weather's turning. I tossed and turned, one minute chilled, the other sweating.'

Vivian faced her with the steaming cup. ‘Well you don't look tired. You never do.'

Nowell entered the kitchen with his coffee cup. He leaned down and nuzzled Vivian's hair before getting a refill. ‘Where's Lonnie?' he asked.

‘Still sleeping,' Dot answered. ‘He barely moved when I got up this morning. Dead to the world.'

‘That's strange,' Nowell said. ‘Viv, the truck looks great. I didn't know you washed it.'

‘I think I'll drive it through the automatic one in town next time,' she said. ‘It was a lot of work.'

‘Thanks for doing it,' he said, and something about his tone made Vivian look up. He was staring at her, his brown eyes glossy. ‘I just want you to know, Viv, that I notice what you do, and I know you're working hard here and well, I appreciate it, that's all. And I love you.'

Dot shifted at the table; Vivian felt heat in her face.

‘Thanks, baby.' She moved towards him, found her position under his arm and leaned in.

Dot sniffed loudly. ‘You're going to make me cry, really, you two. This is just so, so…
precious.
'

Nowell released Vivian and laughed. He made a move as though he would smack Dot playfully on his way to the study, and she ducked.

‘Nowell?' she said.

He paused at the entrance, looked back.

‘You know, we're looking forward to reading your book,' Dot said. ‘I keep asking Lonnie to get a copy. You don't have one here, do you?'

‘Actually, I do. I have some spare copies in the room there. I'll get one for you.'

‘You're kidding?' Dot stood up and Vivian could see the outline of her bra, red or dark pink in color, underneath the sheer fabric of her shirt. On the second toe of her left foot, a gold ring encircled the flesh between the two joints. Her toenails were painted a glittery peach. When did she do that? Vivian wondered.

Nowell brought a copy of
Random Victim
from the study and gave it to her. From across the kitchen, Vivian could see the black, brooding eyes of the man on the cover, the storm cloud like danger over his head.

Nowell went back to work. Dot announced that she was going for a walk, and Vivian declined the offer to join her. When Dot left, she called to Nowell through the fabric divider.

‘Come in,' he answered.

She pushed through the curtain and immediately lost all of her former resolve to remain civil when she encountered the dingy grayness of the room. Why does he sit in the dark? The curtains over the wide window were closed and the air was stagnant and stale. ‘Why won't you open a window in here?' she asked, thinking: You opened it
yesterday to sneak out. Anger overwhelmed reasonableness. Something about his room, this place where he spent so much time without her, incensed her.

‘Obviously, I like them closed. We've had this discussion before, haven't we?' Nowell put his elbow on the antique desk and looked at her, waiting.

‘It's just so musty in here,' she said. ‘You're not getting any fresh air.'

He watched her, tapping his foot against the ornate claw at the bottom of the desk.

She walked further into the room, passing his line of sight until she perched on the arm of the leather couch.

He was forced to swivel in his chair to face her. ‘What is it? You never come to visit me.'

‘That's not true,' she said. ‘In the first place, I didn't think you liked to have visitors while you're working.'

‘Normally I don't, but there are exceptions.'

‘In the second place, I came to visit you yesterday, and you weren't here.'

The smile faded from his lips. He straightened up in his chair. ‘When?'

‘Yesterday afternoon, just before Lonnie and Dot got back.'

‘You came in here?'

‘Listen, I'm not accusing you of anything.'

Nowell leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers against the desktop. ‘It's nothing exciting, Viv. I just went for a walk. Some fresh air, like you're always telling me.'

She tilted her head as though speaking to a small child. ‘Why didn't you ask me? I would have gone with you. We haven't had much time together, with your writing and with Lonnie and Dot here.'

‘Do I have to be with you every second I'm not doing something else?'

‘Well, no…'

‘I went for a walk by myself. That's all. You never used to scrutinize me so closely.'

‘I never had to. Maybe I found it strange that you would climb through a window to go for your casual walk.'

‘Who said that I…'

‘I saw the window, Nowell. Is this a regular thing with you? Is it me, something I did?'

He rose from the chair and sat next to her on the couch.

From her position on the arm, she looked down at him. ‘I saw you coming out of the woods. What's back there?'

‘Nothing.' Nowell patted her knee. ‘Trees and birds and rocks. Nothing.'

‘Were you thinking about Chanelle Brodie?' she asked. ‘Were you thinking about what happened to her?'

His head snapped up, a dark look spreading like ink over his face. ‘Are you still dwelling on that? For God's sake, Viv, read a book or something. You've never been one to create drama like this.'

‘Create drama? A death in our backyard isn't dramatic enough for you? You're the creative one…'

‘Wait. This is getting off course.'

Vivian tucked her hands underneath her thighs.

‘Give me a minute to tell you everything.' He paused. ‘I'll tell you everything.' Faint lines crisscrossed his temples and his skin had an unhealthy pallor. ‘I walked over to Mr Stokes's property,' he said. ‘That's where I was, looking around his place.'

Vivian opened her mouth.

‘Wait, let me finish.' He took a deep breath. ‘I don't know what I was looking for or why I did it. The other day, Mr Stokes said he was going to visit relatives. That's when I started to think about it. Not in a specific way, but just some vague idea of how I would show him.'

Vivian wondered if Nowell went into the house, whether he saw the binoculars or the newspaper in the bedroom. Despite his outward nonchalance about Chanelle Brodie's death, he must have been worried about it all along and suspicious of Mr Stokes.

‘That's all it was,' he continued, ‘my twisted idea of revenge or something. There was nothing productive or sensible about it.'

She looked at him. ‘Revenge? What do you mean?'

‘There's more. The other day when we were fishing, Tom told me something.'

‘Tom?'

‘One of the construction guys,' Nowell said. ‘He didn't mean to tell me, really, it just slipped out. Besides, he thought we already knew.'

Vivian shifted on her seat. It wasn't making sense. ‘Knew what?'

‘You know that my Grandpa Gardiner died when my dad was fifteen, in a hunting accident, around here somewhere?'

She nodded.

‘At lunch time we docked the boat,' Nowell said. ‘Jerry and Mr Stokes walked back to the van to get the sandwiches, and Lonnie went behind some trees to pee. When they were gone, Tom leaned over and told me how surprised he was that we invited Mr Stokes. Because of what happened with his father and my grandfather.' He leaned forward, his dark eyes sparkling. ‘Because it was Mr Stokes's father who shot him. He killed my grandfather.'

‘Jesper Stokes?' Vivian said. ‘Wait. How can that be? It was so long ago, and Mr Stokes is only about forty, so his father…'

‘His father was a kid at the time, a teenager I think. He'd gone along with the men, including his father, Mr Stokes's grandfather.'

‘Manus Stokes,' Vivian said.

‘How do you…' Nowell started.

‘Katherine,' she said. For a moment, she let the information sink in. Jesper Stokes shot Nowell's grandfather, when he was a teenager, before Abe Stokes was born.

‘So you already knew?'

‘No,' she said.

‘Tom felt terrible for bringing it up.' Nowell ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I made him tell me everything he knew.'

‘What else did he say?' she asked.

‘That maybe it wasn't an accident.'

‘What? You said yourself that Jesper Stokes was just a kid.'

‘There are rumors. People say he was never the same afterwards, that he kept to himself and acted strangely.'

‘That's a tough thing to live with,' she said. ‘Even if it was an accident.'

‘They say that something was going on between Mr Stokes's grandmother and my grandfather.'

Her eyes widened. ‘You mean, an affair or something?'

‘I don't know, yes.'

She shook her head. ‘So this young kid, this teenager, shot your grandfather for messing around with his mother?'

‘That's the story.'

‘That's a rumor,' she said.

Nowell shrugged. ‘Tom says it's common knowledge around here. He says that the relations between the families were always strained after the accident, that my grandma had property lines drawn up immediately afterwards.' Nowell pointed towards the desk. ‘She kept a file on everything. I found a copy of those papers; they were dated a year after my grandfather's death.'

Vivian thought for a moment. ‘Maybe someone advised her to have those papers done, because she'd recently been widowed.'

‘Maybe,' he said. ‘But there has to be some basis to this story.'

‘No, there doesn't.' She stood up. ‘Wouldn't Mr Stokes's grandmother have been much older than your grandfather, like Mr Stokes is older than us?'

‘Not necessarily. My parents had me and Lonnie in their thirties, and if Mr Stokes was born when his father was younger…'

‘It doesn't matter. It's crazy to believe some fifty-year-old story. How would this Tom know anyway? I thought those road workers were shipped in from somewhere else. Don't they work for the county?'

‘Tom grew up around here.'

They heard water running in the back corner of the house, an indication that Lonnie was finally awake. Nowell said, ‘He slept late today.'

Vivian nodded and didn't mention that Lonnie had spent most of the night in the woods. ‘I still don't understand why you went to his house,' she said. ‘Even if that story is true, it happened a long, long time ago. It was an accident. I'm sure Jesper Stokes had to live with this his entire life. And Abe Stokes too.'

‘They
should
have to. What if it wasn't an accident? What if it's true?'

How could he have gotten away with something like that? It wasn't possible, she thought.

Nowell looked around the room. ‘I didn't even know him, only from pictures and the few things my dad said. Hell, he didn't even get to know him very well, his own father. My grandfather built this house. Don't you think that's amazing?'

Vivian looked up at the dark wood supports that ran the distance of the room, standing out from the white paint like bars.

‘I've always envied Lonnie for working in construction,' he continued, ‘that he could do something like that, actually make something, something that would last.'

‘Books last,' Vivian said.

He shrugged.

She remembered when Dr Lightfoot had taught a class on linear perspective. He said that it was an architect who rescued the lost theories of perspective, changing the art world forever. It was an architect who pointed out the relationship between reality and representation, between actual and imagined space. Without these practices, paintings would have remained flat, lifeless.

Nowell sighed. ‘When Tom told me that it was Mr Stokes's father who fired that rifle, it made me angry because Mr Stokes never mentioned anything to me. Nobody told us.'

‘What was he supposed to say?' she asked. ‘Hello, Mr Gardiner, welcome to our neighborhood and by the way, my father accidentally shot your grandfather?'

‘You'd think he would have said something,' Nowell said.

‘You want him to apologize.'

He looked at her, considering this. ‘He got to have his father.'

‘But he wasn't even born when this happened.'

‘He should have said something.'

Lonnie plodded down the hallway; his heavy footsteps echoed through the rooms. ‘Hello?'

‘We're in here,' Nowell called.

The footsteps halted in the kitchen. ‘Where's Dot?'

Vivian couldn't see Lonnie through the curtain divider but she could picture him, standing in the middle of the kitchen like a child who's lost his favorite toy, his arms hanging dejectedly at his sides. ‘She went for a walk,' she called. ‘There's sausage in the refrigerator.'

‘We'll finish talking about this later,' Nowell said in a low voice.

‘No.' She leaned forward, catching his arm as he tried to rise from the couch. ‘I want to hear what you did at Mr Stokes's house.'