The Qualities of Wood (6 page)

‘What about the owner of the car?'

‘She used to work for the sheriff when he owned his construction company.' She winked. ‘Everything worked out.'

Their salads arrived and for a few moments, they ate in silence.

Katherine sighed. ‘I think Chanelle had a lot of boyfriends, that sort of thing. Pretty much like her mother in that way. But she was still in school. She could have done something with her life, especially with that stubborn streak. Life takes perseverance, doesn't it? It's a real shame.'

Vivian set her fork down. ‘I saw the story in
The Sentinel
.'

‘You know,' Katherine said. ‘It doesn't give the exact location. People won't know it was near your place.'

‘Do you think they'll want to leave flowers at the site or something?'

‘No, I just thought you wouldn't want people bothering you.'

‘People? What people?'

‘I don't know.'

‘They can come over and look if they want to,' Vivian said. ‘Why? Do people think that we know something, do they…'

Katherine waved her hand, bracelets sounding an alarm. ‘Oh, no, no, no. There are all types, that's all. The curious, the downright nosy.'

Vivian hadn't once imagined the possible implications of the girl being found on their property. She had been thinking only of their safety.

‘The man who owns this little cafe is so nice,' Katherine told her. ‘His father designed the fire station, and the county office addition…' As she talked, Vivian stayed alone in her thoughts, which weren't about office additions or salads but instead were vivid contemplations about Chanelle Brodie and the nature of her final moments.

When Vivian came in, Nowell was on the telephone, speaking patiently into the receiver, which was propped between his shoulder and ear. ‘I can't tell you anything until I speak to him. What's his name again?' He paced the room, very intent on the conversation, pausing only to give her a brief nod. ‘Richards or Richardson? I've got it. And his number?'

The curtain divider to Nowell's study had been pulled back. Through the window, the back lawn was a vivid, monochrome green. Vivian noticed an empty plate and a fork on the end table near the couch. She stepped down into the room to get them.

‘I'll call him today or maybe first thing tomorrow. What are you doing? No, not you. Viv, what are you doing?'

She turned with the plate in her hands to show him.

‘Mom, they can't do that. No, I will call Richards, or is it Richardson? I'll call him. You just wait to hear from me. I'll let you know what I find out.'

Vivian set the plate and fork in the sink then walked down the hallway toward their bedroom.

Nowell came in as she was adjusting the straps of her bikini. ‘You're going outside?' he asked.

‘Yeah.'

‘My mom said she'd call to talk to you later this week. She's too upset today.'

‘Why, what happened?'

He sat on the edge of the bed. ‘The pension thing. She's all worked up about it and wants me to call that lawyer. She doesn't trust him.'

‘What are you supposed to do?'

He shrugged. ‘She needs someone to look out for her, and Lonnie's no good in these situations. I may have to drive over there and meet with this guy.'

She looked up. ‘What?'

‘I don't know what else to do. I've got her calling me in hysterics, and I can't do anything from here. I'll stay overnight so I can meet with him during office hours.'

Vivian wrapped a beach towel, a bright print her parents bought on vacation, around her waist. She leaned against the doorframe. ‘I just don't see why it has to be you. You're trying to finish your book.'

‘There's no use arguing about it. I have to go.' He crossed his arms over his chest, looked at her chest in the bikini top. ‘If you don't feel comfortable staying here alone, you can come with me.'

She shrugged, watched his gaze and waited.

‘I've got to get back to work,' he said. He left the room and after a few moments, she followed him, suddenly angry. She poked her head into the makeshift office. ‘Am I allowed in here?' she asked.

‘What do you mean?'

‘You act like you want me to stay out.'

‘I like my privacy. Is that such a big deal?'

‘No, Nowell. Nothing's a big deal. You don't leave this room for days at a time, but you can take two days off to bail your mother out of some imaginary problem. No big deal.'

‘You think I want to do this?' He sprung from his chair and was suddenly towering over her. ‘Drive all the way there, talk to some lawyer about something I know nothing about, knowing my mother is depending on me? A little support would be nice, Viv.' He ran his hands through his dark hair and looked, in that moment, vulnerable.

She reached for him. ‘I'm sorry but…'

‘I have work to do.'

‘Okay,' she said, and went to the kitchen. She knew he needed time to cool off.

They hadn't fought much during the first years of their marriage, although it was a tense time. Nowell had just graduated from college and Vivian had a year left. He took a low-paying job at a bookstore while she worked part-time at the water management agency. Money was limited and anxieties were high. The rent on their apartment went up twice in one year. Everywhere, real estate prices were skyrocketing and rents were
keeping pace. The boom of the 90s, people were calling it. Even with the money difficulties, they were happy.

They married after two years of dating. Although Vivian spent quite a bit of time in Nowell's studio apartment, she shared a dorm room on campus with three other girls until a few weeks before the wedding. Nowell's mother sprung for a resort honeymoon, and her parents paid for the small ceremony at Nowell's family's church. After the wedding, they rented the one-bedroom apartment and combined their things.

In the beginning, they were both very busy. With Nowell's encouragement, Vivian finally decided on a Business major. She had been wavering between Art History and Business, taking low-level courses in both. She imagined herself working in a museum, perhaps owning her own art gallery one day.

During her freshman year, she stumbled into an art history class after not getting into an overcrowded introductory literature course. She had been focusing on Business then, but still needed a few liberal arts classes. The professor of the art course was young and hip, enthusiastic and funny. Vivian had a crush on him, with his silver earring and long black ponytail, his tawny skin and brown suede coat. And when Dr Lightfoot showed slides of sculptures and paintings, museums and cathedrals, and talked about the creativity and methods that formed them, it was the ultimate escape. Vivian was hooked.

Nowell said that Art History was a major like English, designed for those who wanted to teach and she'd need a doctorate degree if she followed that course. The Business major was more broadly applicable, he said, non-limiting. She could have Art History as a minor; business would guarantee her a job.

When Vivian announced her plans to her parents over dinner one night, their reactions were restrained. Her mother gazed at her over her tortoise-shell reading glasses. ‘I thought you were really interested in art,' she said.

‘I am,' Vivian said, ‘but I think that the Business degree would open up more avenues, that's all.'

‘Why do you need other avenues, if art is what you enjoy?' Her mother stared at her plate, slicing her prime rib with the efficiency of a surgeon.

‘I'll still have a minor in art,' she said. ‘It's hard to find a job with a Bachelors degree in Art.'

Her mother only raised her eyebrows but her father lifted his wineglass to Vivian. ‘I think it's a fine decision, Vivie,' he said.

She knew they wanted her to follow them into academia, but she lacked their self-discipline, their ability to narrow focus. She didn't have their attention spans; her mother had said so herself on many occasions when Vivian put down a book to watch television, when she abandoned a project before it was finished.

Vivian kept her office job after graduation and was promoted within a year to Administrative Assistant. Nowell moved from the bookstore to a short stint at a bakery, to his last job at the magazine, editing and proofreading. In the evenings and during weekends, he worked on his book. Between her job, housework, and keeping up with friends, Vivian's life seemed just as full as when she attended classes and studied for finals.

They settled into steady jobs and a stable routine, but started to fight more for some reason. Nowell was incredibly tense throughout the writing of his book. Frustrated
by the long hours at the magazine, he stayed in and wrote most weekends, often from Friday evening until Monday morning. In the cramped apartment, his tension was infectious. They bickered over small matters. Vivian tried to get out of the way during these times. She'd spend a day at the mall with a friend or drive around the city, doing errands. She didn't mind doing things alone. Being an only child had given her a certain self-reliance. Like her mother, she could content herself with her own tasks and ruminations.

After the book was finished, Nowell relaxed into his old self and became easier to live with again. When his grandmother died and he presented the idea for an extended working vacation, Vivian had been unwilling at first to leave her job, where she had seniority, three weeks of vacation and a decent salary. But in the end, quitting had yielded no regret, only a slight wistfulness for leaving a part of her life behind. She was ready for something to change.

In the fragrant grass in front of the old, white house, Vivian laid on the fold-out chair and thought about Dr Lightfoot, the way he paced back and forth in front of the chalkboard, the cable to the slide projector trailing after him like a microphone cord. When he wanted to explain something more clearly, he asked the girl in the last row to flip on the lights then he'd look into the students' eyes or write on the board in furious scratches of chalk. He showed slides in every class, excitedly pointing out notable features of the art. His hands were delicate over the screen, seemed to curve around the edges of the sculpture or brush the surface of a painting with soft, tenuous fingers. He had a deep respect for art, even the mere projected image of it.

‘Viv!'

Her eyes opened. The lawn chair was mostly covered by shade; only her feet and the bottom half of her legs were still in the sun.

The screen door squeaked as Nowell poked his head outside. ‘Your mother's on the phone.'

Vivian walked gingerly over the still-damp ground, groggy and disoriented.

Her mother was working on a new book; she'd been distracted and unable to talk about much else. Her research would take her to the site where a volcano erupted fifty years ago. She planned on taking a sabbatical and going in the fall for at least a month. Vivian asked about her father.

‘He's at school,' her mother said. ‘That summer course.'

‘Tell him I said hello.'

‘I will. How's Nowell's book coming along?'

‘He's been working non-stop since I arrived. It's so quiet out here. I think it's been very good for him.' Vivian shifted her weight on the chair, which was cold and sticky against her bare legs.

‘Has he established a regular schedule?'

‘For his writing?'

‘Yes.'

‘He works most of the day,' Vivian said. ‘He starts early, before I get up.'

‘And how is your work on the house going?'

‘It's going to be a big job, that's for sure.'

Her mother shifted the phone. ‘Worse shape than you'd imagined?'

‘There's a lot of junk around,' Vivian acknowledged, ‘and the entire thing needs painting.'

‘That should keep you busy.' Her voice sounded doubtful.

‘So far I've been taking it pretty easy.'

Neither spoke for a few moments. The silence over the phone line was vapid, like air. Vivian had the impression of pressing her ear against a hole in a wall. On the other side, openness and space. ‘Mom?'

‘Yes?'

‘Do you remember that vacation, the summer when you taught the writing workshop?'

Her mother answered quickly, without thought, ‘Of course.'

‘I did it on purpose, you know.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘When I got lost,' Vivian said, pushing the receiver to her ear. ‘It wasn't Dad.'

There was a pause; emptiness again like the line was dead.

‘You were eight years old.'

‘Nine.' Vivian stared through the screen door. On the lawn chair, the beach towel rose in ripples with the afternoon breeze, its corners flipping wildly back and forth. She spoke more hesitantly, her voice losing strength. ‘It was my fault.'

‘You wandered off, that's all.'

‘Then why…'

‘Hold on Vivian.' Her mother set the telephone on a hard surface. Vivian could hear her definitive steps fading then after a short time, growing louder again. When she came back on the line, she changed the subject.

‘What have you been reading, Vivian?' Her mother believed everyone should constantly be reading something, preferably something of substance.

‘Fashion magazines and the TV Guide,' Vivian answered, to irritate her.

Another silence like an empty room, like the inside of a bubble.

They talked about the weather for a while and when this most generic and easy of topics was exhausted, they said good-bye.

Vivian replaced the receiver in its cradle and walked over to the curtain that divided the kitchen from the study. There was always the faint taste of misunderstanding where her mother was concerned. As much as they went through the motions, neither ever felt entirely comfortable with the other.

She wondered if Nowell was still angry or if he would, as they had both learned to do, drop the argument before they reached the unsolvable issues at its center. ‘Knock, knock,' she said loudly.

The faint clicking sound ceased and she waited while he took a moment, only a brief moment, before his voice called out in answer to hers, ‘Come in.'