‘You don’t strike me as the lazy type.’
‘Don’t I?’ She pulled her feet onto the trunk and hugged her knees. ‘Maybe it’s giving up my job, I don’t know. I’ve been restless lately.’
‘What did you do before?’
‘My job?’
He nodded.
‘I worked in an office, a water management company.’
‘Managing water?’ he asked.
She smiled. It sounded misguided, even unnecessary, the way he said it.
He poured coffee from a thermos and gave her the plastic cup-shaped lid. It reminded her of the thermos her father took on their picnics back east, the same one she used at school for several years.
‘Where’s Mrs Brodie’s house from here?’ she asked.
He pointed to his right. ‘A good distance that way.’
‘Do you know her well?’
‘We’ve been neighbors a long time. Almost fifteen years now, ever since old Mrs Duncan died.’
Vivian sipped her coffee. It was strong and tasted of walnut. Abe Stokes cleaned the edge of his axe with a ragged yellow cloth that looked like it used to be part of a curtain then continued to chop wood.
‘Why are you cutting so much firewood in the summer?’ she asked during one of his pauses.
‘It wouldn’t do to try and cut it in a snowstorm. Haven’t you ever seen squirrels collecting nuts for the winter?’
‘The other day you said I might be afraid of squirrels.’
He smiled his lop-sided grin. ‘If you quit running from them long enough, you’d notice that they store things. Didn’t you ever have a hamster as a kid?’
‘My mother wouldn’t allow pets.’ She watched as he drove the ax through the log. ‘How much wood does one person need?’
‘I usually burn a couple of logs a night in the winter months.’
‘I guess that adds up,’ she said. ‘Don’t you worry about depleting your supply of trees?’
Mr Stokes put one foot on the trunk and leaned on his knee. His face was serious. ‘No, I don’t. I only use what I need and I get kindling from what’s laying around or from trees that are already dead.’
A few awkward moments passed, and then she stood up. ‘I guess I should get going. I didn’t mean…’
‘Wait,’ Mr Stokes said.
She turned towards him.
His ran his hand through his hair. ‘Listen, I know you didn’t mean any harm. I’m not so great with people, with conversation.’
‘Mr Stokes, don’t worry about it. I’m sure you’re very responsible with your land.’
The muscles underneath his shirt clenched and released as he gripped the axe. Vivian thought about the story Katherine told her about the woman who abandoned him without warning. ‘We all have things that we’re sensitive about,’ she said.
The glint returned to his clear eyes. ‘I thought we agreed that you’d call me Abe. Why did you come out here, other than to tell me to stop making such a racket?’
‘Actually, I came to give you a hard time about what you said to Katherine and Max Wilton. About my snooping the other day.’
‘I didn’t…’
‘Because if that’s what you think, you’re wrong. I was just enjoying nature, like you this morning.’ She crossed her arms and looked up at him through her eyelashes.
‘That’s it, is it?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s all.’
Abe Stokes took an awkward drink from the narrow opening of the thermos then wiped his lips with his sleeve. Vivian thought about the way her father dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin, first one side and then the other. She heard a rustle in the trees.
‘Good thing for squirrels,’ Mr Stokes said, ‘they help spread around more trees.’
‘What?’ Vivian said.
The sunlight cast geometric shapes on his chest and shoulders as he lifted a log onto the cutting block. ‘Savers and burrowers are liable to drop things now and again in their rush. All of these squirrels running around collecting nuts makes for a pretty good planting system. So you don’t have to worry about the tree supply.’
‘I bet you know a lot about nature,’ Vivian said.
‘I’m no expert,’ he said. ‘I just try to get along out here, but sometimes I wonder…’ He looked away.
‘What?’
‘What you said about my chopping wood.’
‘I didn’t mean anything,’ she objected.
‘I know. But sometimes I wonder if we should cut trees or not.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Evolution.’ He brought the ax down with a crack. ‘Survival of the fittest and all that. Aren’t we the fittest? Maybe it’s our duty to take over the land, to build on it.’
‘Then some people would question what we use the wood for,’ she said, ‘whether the things we build are necessary for survival or not.’
‘What does it matter, if we’re the fittest? Animals don’t kill just for meat. They have their own ways of showing strength.’
‘But shouldn’t we worry about the future? About trees?’
Mr Stokes raised his eyebrows. ‘And water?’
‘Yes,’ she laughed, ‘and water. We’re arrogant, aren’t we, to think that we can have a big effect on this planet, and we’re naive if we don’t?’
He took another swing at the log. ‘It has to matter. It’s morality, really. I have to believe that it matters.’
‘Morality?’
‘Whether our actions matter or not,’ he said. ‘Morality.’
Vivian noticed the narrow rivulets at the corners of his eyes, like a tangle of thin branches. ‘That’s a complicated issue for so early in the morning, isn’t it?’ She stood and wiped the dirt from her shorts. ‘Thanks for the coffee and the conversation. You’ve given me something to think about today.’
‘Sorry again for the noise.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Vivian started to walk back the way she came, but turned abruptly and caught him watching her leave. Quickly, he began straightening the pile of kindling at his feet.
‘We’re going to have the Wiltons over for a barbecue one night,’ she said. ‘You should come, too.’
He slid his right hand into the front pocket of his jeans. ‘Thank you. I can bring something for the grill.’
‘Okay,’ she said.
Vivian walked back through the trees, confident of her direction now. Back at the house, she made scrambled eggs and toast. She was hungrier than she’d been in the morning for some time. As she ate, she heard the rumble of the road crew’s truck outside and realized that it was just about the time she got up most mornings. The whole incident with Abe Stokes could have been a dream; it might never have happened. As the birds raised their voices in competition with the drone of the truck and the occasional shouts of the men who were now working some distance from the house, she thought about Abe Stokes, about his confident movements and the vulnerability in his eyes. He was a man with a story waiting to be unraveled and for the first time since she had arrived at the house, Vivian felt truly interested in something.
She took a quick shower then sat down to write a grocery list. She wanted to plan the barbecue for the following weekend. Earlier than expected, she heard the old truck rumble up the driveway.
When she went outside to greet him, Nowell pulled her down from the porch. Her legs dangled above the ground as she clung to his neck. ‘How’s your mother?’ she asked.
‘I didn’t see her much.’
‘How did things go with the lawyer?’
‘He seemed to have everything under control. I don’t know why my mom is so worked up.’
What a surprise, Vivian thought.
In the kitchen, Nowell set his bag on the table. ‘I have some great news,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Lonnie showed up this morning to introduce Dorothy to my mom. I invited them to come out and stay with us for a couple of weeks.’
‘Oh?’
&
nbsp; ‘He got a new construction job, but it doesn’t start until the fall. They’ve got some time to help out.’
Vivian followed him as he took his bag to the bedroom. ‘So you met Dorothy?’
‘Yes.’
‘What was she like?’
‘Nice. They seem to get along great.’ Nowell motioned to one of the spare bedrooms. ‘Do we have sheets for the extra bed?’
‘I think so. There are linens in one of these hall closets.’
‘I’ll help you get the room ready today. We’ll just move those boxes into the other one.’
‘We don’t have to do it today,’ she said. ‘You had a long drive.’
‘They’ll be here tonight.’
‘Tonight?’ She felt the grip of something, like a cool breeze across her skin.
‘I know it’s short notice, Viv, but we don’t have much going on. Everything doesn’t have to perfect. They know we’re in the process of cleaning this place up.’
‘But we don’t have much food in the house…’
Nowell pulled her against his chest. ‘Poor Viv. Spontaneity isn’t your thing, is it?’
‘What do you mean? I don’t mind last-minute planning, I just like to have certain things ready.’
‘Then it’s not last-minute, is it?’
‘I’m always up for adventure,’ she said weakly.
‘You’ve never seemed that way to me.’
‘You’re Mr Schedule, Mr Routine. What time do you get up every morning?’
His brow wrinkled. ‘Seven o’clock, why?’
‘Never seven-fifteen, seven-thirty?’
‘Sleeping in makes someone adventurous?’ he asked.
Vivian broke away from him and stretched out on the bed. ‘It can.’
‘Sleeping in, or staying in bed late?’ He joined her on the bed. When he leaned down to unbuckle her sandals, he said, ‘Your shoes are muddy.’
‘That area out front isn’t dry from the storm yet.’
‘And there’s grass and look, a pine needle stuck in the side of your shoe.’
She thought about her morning visit with Abe Stokes. ‘I was outside yesterday,’ she said, ‘taking things to the garbage in back.’
‘Looks like you’ve been through a jungle.’
Nowell was slow in his lovemaking and for once, Vivian wished he would speed it along. Her mind was on other things, things like evolution and the Midwestern tree supply, and Mr Stokes’ lonely existence in the woods. An hour later, Nowell stood humming in the shower while Vivian called her parents in the kitchen. She felt a need to hear about their normal lives, the subjects they were studying. After four rings, her father picked up. His voice sounded old and tired.
‘Don’t you have a class today?’ she asked.
‘No, but I’ve been reading student papers most of the day.’
‘You could always take a summer off.’
‘Then what would I do?’
‘Mom would say you could take a vacation.’
He laughed. ‘Yes, well, your mother’s the traveler in this family.
She thought: I like to travel.
‘What have you been doing out there, Vivie?’
‘Taking it easy mostly.’
‘How’s Nowell’s work coming?’
‘Fine, I think.’ Vivian suddenly realized she’d forgotten to read the other chapter from the book. She’d have to finish it after Nowell went to bed that night. ‘It’s very peaceful here,’ she said.
‘I can imagine. Listen, Vivie, your mother’s not home right now. She ran over to the library to do some research.’
She tried to think of something to ask him.
‘Wish Nowell good luck with his writing,’ he said. ‘When are you coming to visit?’
‘I don’t know. Lonnie and his wife are coming for a couple of weeks.’
‘I’ll tell your mother that you called.’
‘Okay, Dad.’ Vivian hung up. Outside, the mailman maneuvered his shiny white truck over the embankment then back onto the asphalt after he deposited their mail. What do you think about evolution, she imagined herself saying to her father. She could ask him: Why do you suppose a girl, a young woman really, would fall forward but be unable to break her fall? She recalled the open-ended but leading style of the questions on many college exams: What does this suggest about gravity, she would ask, about human behavior and reflexes?
She noticed the mud caked around her toenails and the green grass stains on her heels. It reminded her of being young, of skinning a knee or stubbing a toe, and the way children smelled after a day of playing outdoors. She walked down the hallway toward the sound of Nowell’s humming. Maybe he was finished with his shower so she could wash her feet in the tub.
14
Vivian discovered at an early age that behind closed doors, her parents had intellectual conversations. Their house was a single-level with four small bedrooms, one of which was a study. There was a wooden table for a desk, shelves of books, and two tall file cabinets. Her father kept his books in the study but usually spread his things over the dining room table when he worked. The clutter rattled her mother’s nerves, but she never complained, because this reserved the study for herself. Many nights, Vivian was comforted by the soft glow of the reading light across the hall.
In Vivian’s presence, her parents talked about day-to-day things – a student who handed in a paper two weeks late, the unreasonable demands of a dean, the long line at the grocery store – but they stayed away from the topics that motivated their research, writing and teaching. While growing up, Vivian hardly noticed this, but now she regretted that she knew little about the subjects that fuelled their intellects. They saved the passionate subjects for after she’d gone to bed.
They met in graduate school, that much Vivian knew. They did things in a proper order: first graduation, then marriage and teaching appointments. Then Vivian. They had wanted two or three children, but her mother was unable to have more. Her mother named her after the Spanish verb, vivir. Vivian always wished that she’d been named something more modern, and from a less odd source.
As a girl, Vivian was shy around adults and older kids. She had a few playmates in the neighborhood. Her mother gave her a boundary for her outdoor roaming, and it widened as she got older. By the time she was eleven or twelve, she could canvas the entire neighborhood on her bicycle, eight blocks of houses just like hers, painted in varying colors. She spent time alone, losing herself in private games and daydreams or working on secret projects. Her mother took her to get a library card when she started kindergarten and they made regular trips for books. There was one author in particular she loved, a woman who wrote stories about real-life adventures for children. In one book, two friends were trapped in a museum after hours and in another, a brother and sister were separated from their parents during a cross-country train ride. The children in these books were forced to rely on their own ingenuity, and Vivian always dreaded the endings, when they returned home to normal life.
During the summer, Vivian occasionally stayed at her grandmother’s when her parents were away. Grandma Shatlee, her father’s mother, was a serious but lenient woman with long, graceful limbs. Although she was unaffectionate in a physical way, Grandma Shatlee was trustworthy and kept Vivian’s confidences. Her only inflexible rule was that Vivian join her and Grandpa Shatlee for each meal: breakfast at eight o’clock, lunch at noon, and dinner promptly at five. As the taillights of her parents’ car receded, Vivian watched, still as a soldier, refusing to wave. The car grew smaller and smaller and Vivian felt the same way, as if she was shrinking into herself, folding up like a summer lawn chair.
They took a few family trips, but her father was right: her mother was the traveler in the family. She made the plans and coerced her father into taking the time away from the university. Of the occasions they went without her, Vivian thought they wanted to be alone or didn’t think she’d be interested in going. Her mother also left for research sometimes, collecting infor
mation for one of her books.
Vivian would never forget the way her mother ruined their vacation at the cabin. After the day she got lost, she dragged Vivian to the writing workshop each day. Vivian sat sullenly in the back, looking through books and writing bitter letters to her friends back home. Her father distanced himself, angry that her mother was angry. Many times when Vivian and her mother returned to the cabin, he was gone. He started taking long drives through the countryside. For three days in a row, he didn’t come back until after dinner.
Vivian was confined to the area directly in front of the cabin, and none of her former playmates were willing to stick around to keep her company. She spent long hours staring down the path toward the makeshift parking lot, straining her eyes and ears for the old Ford Pinto they owned then. For the remaining two weeks of the vacation, Vivian sulked around, and neither of her parents seemed to notice. They were too absorbed in their latest battle of wills, a contest that inevitably, her mother would always win because of the lengths she was willing to go. Neither Vivian nor her father were a match for her; they needed her more than she needed them.
Nowell finished his shower and started moving boxes from one of the spare rooms to the other, preparing for his brother’s visit. In the hall closet, Vivian found a set of sheets and threw them into the washing machine.
The spare room seemed larger after the floor was cleared, brighter with the faded gauzy curtains pulled back from the window. Vivian dusted off the dresser and swept the hardwood floor while Nowell moved back and forth between the rooms.
‘So your mother was busy?’ she asked.
A box had left a strip of dust across his thighs. He slapped at the dirt, causing tiny clouds to disperse into the air. ‘She was down at the church until almost ten o’clock last night. We talked for a while when she got in.’
‘Was she glad to see Lonnie this morning?’
‘I think so. It was unexpected, but that’s Lonnie. They showed up early.’
‘You wouldn’t recognize him if he arrived at a decent hour.’
‘True.’ Nowell reached for a box in the closet and it tipped over, spilling its contents over his head.
Vivian couldn’t reach the box, which tilted precariously against his shoulder, but she picked up the shoebox and square-heeled leather shoes that had fallen out. Nowell bounced the larger box onto the bed.
The Qualities of Wood Page 11