The Qualities of Wood (25 page)

Next to the map was a picture of the Clement family. Vivian leaned closer for a better look. In front of a modest, wood-framed house, Mrs Clement sat on a chair, nine children of varying ages surrounding her. The youngest was propped on her lap like a puppet, his plump legs straight out. In the back, William Clement towered over the brood, his shoulders thrust back and his hands on his hips. He looked rural and unsophisticated, nothing like the statue.

Other photographs on display included images of the construction sites of several buildings in town and the blurred, brownish frames of town picnics and dances. In each, the people were dressed in modest style. The women wore long, simple dresses belted with calico aprons. Young girls wore shift dresses with white scallops around the collar and at the ends of the short sleeves. Young and older men dressed alike in plain, light-colored shirts and dark pants, the boys' reaching just above their knees.

Vivian found scant evidence of the Native Americans that Katherine had said populated the area at the time. Only in one picture, taken at the house of William Clement's son, Edward, did she spot one. In the photograph, the family was gathered under the shade of a wide willow tree. Edward and his wife, a wispy, pale-haired girl, had
several young children. The wife held their small daughter and a young woman behind her held a baby. The woman had dark hair that was pulled into a large knot and was identified only as ‘Maid' in the explanation below the photograph.

Another corner of the room was dedicated to a technical description of the farming that had been developed in the area. In this display, one sentence acknowledged the help of ‘Indian labor' in the planting and harvesting of the fields.

Vivian walked slowly through the exhibit, which consisted of the first room then another filled with artifacts. There, she viewed garments of the type she'd seen in the photographs, and a display of crude utensils and tools. When she glanced at her watch, she was startled to find that it was well after two o'clock. She still had to get the tables home and finish setting up for the sale.

She hurried down the stairs and passed the young man's desk, now unattended. When she pushed through the front door, the afternoon sun burned her eyes. The woman sat, unmoved, at the table. The man was gone. As Vivian approached, she noticed the title of the books set out on the table:
Another History: The Story of a Frontier Family.
She smiled at the woman and picked up a copy. On the back cover, it said that Mr Delaney had written an autobiography about his experiences as a member of a prominent family and about his discovery of another, hidden side of that family, the Native American side. She wondered how Mr Delaney had snuck past the reunion censors. ‘How much does the book cost?' she asked.

‘Fourteen ninety-five.' The woman's eyes were the brown of rich coffee, her lashes shiny and dark. ‘But I'm afraid the author has stepped away for a soft drink, so you'll have to wait if you want it autographed.'

Vivian picked up on the brochures laid in front of the woman in neat stacks. The title on those was
An American Family
and there was a photo of the woman when she was a bit younger, next to a photo of William Clement. ‘Are you a relative?' she asked.

‘Yes,' she said, extending her hand. ‘Delta Clement Burnside. You?'

‘No,' Vivian answered. ‘Vivian Gardiner.' She slipped the brochure into the book. ‘I'll read this,' she said, then fumbled around in her purse until she found fifteen dollars. ‘Maybe you could give him this for the book?'

The woman nodded serenely. There was something so self-assured about her, it was almost irritating. Vivian couldn't help but think she could be a little more forceful in presenting her case, but then she realized in thinking this, she was doing what those cranky old women were doing, expecting the woman to prove herself.

She remembered what her mother had said:
They talk a great deal about what they would have done, what they could do, what they might do. It's action that matters
. It hardly seemed fair that Delta Clement Burnside was forced into some type of action, when all she wanted was acknowledgment of a fact.

Vivian thanked her, walked to the truck and climbed up. From her elevated position, she left the town's now-bustling streets and headed back to the old white house.

At eight o'clock the following morning, two cars pulled into the driveway as Vivian was bringing out the last few items for the yard sale. Both cars were four-door, older sedans; one a white Oldsmobile and the other a light blue Chrysler. A woman stepped from each car; both were middle-aged and dressed in coordinating running suits and clean white sneakers. They seemed to know each other but went separate ways.
Business-like and somber, they walked around the yard, pausing here to take a blouse from its hanger or there to pick up a glass and check for imperfections in the white morning sun.

Directly in front of the porch, Vivian had set up one of the tables and two chairs from the kitchen. She hadn't yet brought out the cookies, but she offered the women coffee.

Within minutes, they had scanned the contents of the yard. They met up again at the porch, where one of them asked if the rust-colored armchair could be brought into the sunlight. Vivian called for Lonnie, who was cooking his breakfast in the kitchen, and he easily lifted the chair and set it on the lawn.

The woman stood a few feet away, her forefinger pressed to her lips, then she circled the chair with long, slow strides. ‘I'll take it,' she said.

Lonnie hoisted the chair into the expansive trunk of her car and tied the door down with the hooked, elastic cord she gave him.

The other woman bought the small end table from the living room, a wooden magazine stand and three cotton blouses.

Vivian and Lonnie waved as they got into their cars. The woman in the Oldsmobile almost backed into a car that was trying to turn into the driveway, and both cars paused at the entrance to the main road, waiting to see what the other would do. Finally, the Oldsmobile ambled onto the asphalt and the new car took its place in the driveway.

‘This is a good start,' Vivian remarked.

‘No kidding,' Lonnie replied. ‘What time is it, anyway?'

‘Just after eight.'

‘These people aren't messing around.'

Vivian waved at the next customers, a young couple with a baby in a portable car seat.

The pace was bound to slacken and it did, shortly after nine o'clock. By that time, Lonnie had taken up a relaxed position on the foldout lawn chair, with the previous day's copy of
The Sentinel
and a steaming mug of coffee. Two more cars had arrived after the young couple, but they'd been the last of the early morning sale hounds. The young couple bought some linens and a portable radio, and an elderly man looked at the couch for a while but eventually decided against it. Another woman spent almost five dollars on books. Mid-morning passed slowly; each time they heard a car noise, they perked their ears but only one more car stopped before eleven-thirty.

‘Maybe a lot of people are working today,' Vivian said to Dot as they thumbed through magazines at the table.

‘Have you seen any cars from out of state?' she asked. ‘You know, people who might be here for the reunion?'

‘No, not yet.'

‘What was it like in town yesterday?' she asked Vivian.

‘The parking lot at the Best Western was filling up,' she said, ‘and there were people up and down the main street. I've never seen it so busy. Did I mention that I stopped by the museum in the community center?'

‘No.'

‘There was a woman there with a brochure. She claims to be a Clement but they're keeping her out of the reunion. She came with a friend who's a legitimate Clement.'

Dot shook her head. ‘They should be ashamed.'

‘They have a museum on the second floor,' Vivian said. There's a special exhibit on the Clements. Maps, photographs, old clothing.'

‘Did they have any old guns?' Lonnie piped up from his lawn chair.

Vivian smirked. ‘Is this a new interest of yours?'

‘Maybe.'

‘They had a couple of guns. Oh, and a big sword that was a keepsake from William Clement's grandfather or something. It had the old family crest engraved on the handle.'

‘Really?' Lonnie said. ‘I should go down there and check it out.'

‘That's why I was late getting back.'

‘Was it interesting?' Dot asked.

‘Yes, but everything seems like propaganda. You don't know if you're getting more than one side of the story.'

‘One side of a story is all people have,' Lonnie said.

‘What if Nowell wrote a book about your family,' Vivian said, ‘only he left you out completely or just mentioned you once or twice?'

He shrugged. ‘Maybe that was the way he saw it. He might talk about things that were more important to him.'

Vivian sighed. ‘It's not the greatest example. Writing fiction isn't the same as writing history or choosing items for a museum.'

After some time, Dot fixed sandwiches and sliced a watermelon for lunch. They ate outside in the shade. Vivian poured the seeds and the pale pink juice from her slice of watermelon onto the grass and wondered if watermelons would sprout there, under the bushes at the front of the porch. Lonnie cut a large wedge from the end and held it to his face, spitting the seeds onto the ground like tiny black bullets. When Nowell came out for his sandwich, he was surprised that they'd sold the armchair already and asked how much they took for it. Then he disappeared again into the shady house.

After one o'clock, people arrived in a light but steady stream. Katherine stopped on her way home from the dry-cleaning store. She asked Vivian to set aside a leather tool belt for Max and promised to come back the next day when they could look more.

Vivian was helping an elderly woman search for sweaters through the stacks of winter clothing when another set of tires pressed the dirt of the driveway. An old blue-gray truck ambled along, patches of rust at the tire wells and along its tall underbelly. Dust swirled behind the back tires like smoke. At that moment, a police car passed slowly on the main road. Vivian only glimpsed the driver – dark sunglasses and bulky shoulders – but was certain that it was Sheriff Townsend. The cruiser climbed the small hill to town as the door of the blue truck creaked open. A man stepped down from the cab and shut the door firmly. He ran his hand over his black-and-silver hair. When his angular body cleared the truck, Vivian recognized the familiar, uneven rhythm of his gait, the way his legs swung forward in a series of connected jolts. Mr Stokes.

She raised her hand silently and he nodded. When Dot rushed over to greet him, she felt a slight pang, anxiety about entering his house that night. She hadn't seen him for over two weeks, since the barbecue when he told her that he'd be away for a few days. He had dropped out of their lives as rapidly as he appeared, on that afternoon when he parted the trees and strode onto the undulating grass. Or was it something else she was feeling? She watched as Dot showed him the tools and outdoor equipment from the shed, leaning her head back and laughing, her teeth flashing in the sunlight like sparks.

The elderly woman found a white cardigan and a pale green pullover amidst the multi-colored piles. They walked together to the front table, where Lonnie was guarding the shoebox full of money and listening to a baseball game on the radio. After she gave the woman her change, Vivian found a plastic bag in the kitchen and slipped the sweaters inside. Mr Stokes had parked behind the old woman's car; he went to move his truck so that she could pull out. Three people were poking around, and Vivian asked the most recently arrived if they needed help finding anything. When she looked over again, Mr Stokes had parked his truck along the main road and was making his way back up the long driveway. She met him halfway. ‘Hello there,' she said. ‘Haven't seen you around much.'

‘It's been a while.'

She put her hand up to block the sunlight. ‘How did you hear about the yard sale?'

‘Saw your ad in the paper.' He squeezed his hands into the tight front pockets of his blue jeans, hunching his shoulders and letting his elbows extend to each side.

‘Are you looking for anything in particular?'

‘I thought I'd look at your tools,' he said. ‘And I could use a new dresser.'

Vivian looked towards the porch, where some smaller furniture was lined up against the house. She suddenly remembered that she had forgotten to have Nowell and Lonnie bring down the larger items from the attic. There was also the tall mahogany bureau, which she had considered keeping for themselves.

‘Actually, I do,' she said. ‘Only I've forgotten to bring it out. It's a short, long dresser. Medium-colored wood. Pine or oak, I guess.'

‘Reddish?'

‘Yes.'

‘Probably pine.'

‘You can see it if you want,' she said. ‘It's up in the attic.'

‘I wouldn't mind taking a look at it. The one I've been using isn't good for much anymore. The other day, I opened a drawer and the front panel came off in my hand. It's an old piece of furniture, but it isn't made well like some of those antiques are. My grandfather built it, and he wasn't the greatest craftsman. More of a hobby.'

‘It's lasted this long,' Vivian said.

‘That's true.'

They neared the front table, where Dot and Lonnie spoke in low tones.

‘Hey,' Lonnie said to Mr Stokes. ‘How's it going?

‘Trying to stay cool. Some heat wave.'

‘Sure is,' Lonnie agreed. ‘Done any fishing lately?'

‘Not around here. I was up north a couple of weeks ago, went fishing for walleye with some relatives.'

Vivian stepped onto the porch.

‘Can I get you some iced tea, Abe?'

‘No, thank you. I'll just take a look at that dresser.'

‘Come on in.' She explained to Lonnie, ‘I forgot to have you bring down the furniture from the attic.'

‘Do you want me to do it now?'

‘No, that's alright. I'll just show it to Mr Stokes and we'll interrupt Nowell in a little while to help you.'

Mr Stokes followed her into the dark kitchen.

‘The stairs are pretty steep,' she said as she gripped the handrail. ‘At the top, there's a trap door so you have to pull yourself up.' She looked down at him. ‘Are you sure you want to come up?'

A lop-sided grin stretched across his face, his lips whitish like a scar. ‘Don't worry, Mrs Gardiner, I can make it.'

Encircling the rail with his large, callused hand, Mr Stokes stepped onto the first step. Vivian stood over the opening and looked down as his head poked through like something bobbing to the surface of water. Easily, he pulled himself until he was sitting on the floor, then standing next to her in the attic.

A few assorted boxes, things they were keeping, were stacked in a pyramid against one wall, and the two pieces of furniture stood nearby. From another corner, the brass coat rack threw spindly shadows over the cleanly swept floor.

‘Here it is,' she said. ‘I was talking about the shorter one, here, but if you're interested in the bureau, we don't have any definite plans for it.'

Mr Stokes ran his fingers over the dusty top of the dresser, then knocked on the side, listening to the sharp sound. The drawers slid smoothly when he tried them. Vivian found a rag near the boxes and wiped the front of the purplish bureau.

They spoke at the same time.

‘I found some of Sherman's things,' Vivian said, as he said, ‘How much are you asking?'

‘What things?' Mr Stokes asked after a moment.

‘Clothing, mostly. A gun.'

Mr Stokes closed the bottom drawer and stood back a few feet, looking the dresser over.

Nowell is right downstairs, she reminded herself. You can hear everything from down there. ‘Did you ever see Sherman Gardiner here?'

He leaned back on his heels. ‘Sherman was the same age as my father. They went to school together.'

Vivian said: ‘But you're older than Nowell,' and her face flushed for saying it.

‘My father was just twenty when I was born,' he said.

‘So your father knew Sherman?'

‘Yes.'

She hesitated, watching his face. ‘Nowell heard in town that your father, that he…'

He faced her, looked directly at her. ‘Was the one who shot Russell Gardiner?'

She gave a small nod.

‘That's the truth,' he said.

‘But why didn't you say something?'

‘I thought you knew.'

‘No,' she said. ‘Nowell didn't know.'

‘But now he does.'

‘Yes.'

‘Maybe that explains why he was looking around my place,' he said.

Vivian's mouth dropped opened. ‘What do you mean?'

He ran his rough hand over the top of the dresser. ‘When he thought I wasn't home.'

‘But, what…'

He turned away. ‘I'll take the dresser, if it's still for sale.'

‘Wait, Mr Stokes, uh, Abe. I don't mean to accuse you of anything.'

‘You don't?'

‘No, I don't. It was a shocking thing for Nowell to hear, after all this time. No one was at your place.'

‘No one was?' he asked, one black-and-gray eyebrow raised. ‘Someone was.'

Vivian didn't know what to say.

He crossed his arms, his lean muscles twisting like braided rope. ‘I'll tell you what I know, Mrs Gardiner. Then, I hope we'll never have to talk about this again.' Mr Stokes looked out the triangle-shaped windows at the end of the attic. ‘For a long time, my whole life just about, my father told me it was a terrible accident. He saw motion behind the blur of the trees and shot his rifle. That's all. He was just a kid then, only fourteen or fifteen. His father took him along on hunting trips, but he never cared for it
much. Only did it to please the old man.' He leaned against the dresser. ‘I've heard the rumors.'

‘What rumors?' Vivian asked in a low voice.

‘They say that Russell Gardiner was messing around with my grandmother. She was a looker, a real beauty queen, and he was a too-friendly neighbor. They say my father was just a kid but he knew about it. They say he shot Russell Gardiner on purpose, for messing with his mother. Is that close to what you heard?'