Vivian wondered why Mrs Brodie had said that she hardly knew Betty Gardiner. Did Mrs Gardiner exaggerate or had Sherman hidden the frequency of his visits for some reason? Maybe Sherman was embarrassed by the way his mother needed him, she thought, much like Nowell’s mother continued to ask so much of him. Maybe he disguised his visits as business trips, keeping them from his wife and family in order to appease everyone involved. Or maybe it was more complicated; perhaps Sherman had more to hide than a strong attachment to his mother. Vivian felt sure there was something else.
17
‘I’ve got two containers of casserole getting cold in the car,’ Katherine said.
Vivian leaned against the kitchen table. ‘What for?’
‘Oh, I help take food to people who are feeling poorly or can’t get out much anymore. Today, I’m headed to Mrs Grossmont’s – she’s out here by you – then I’ve got another run further up in the hills to Mr Miller’s.’ She moved towards the door. ‘How about I stop back by after I’m finished and we’ll see if you two are up for lunch?’
Vivian followed her gaze, down to the wrinkled tee shirt she had worn to bed. Her hair must be a mess. ‘Thanks, Katherine. That would be great.’
‘We’ll be ready,’ Dot added.
They watched Katherine’s green car turn onto the main road.
Dot turned to her with wide eyes. ‘We need tools,’ she said.
‘I don’t think we have time,’ Vivian said. ‘She’s coming back…’
‘Let’s just start. We need a scraper thing.’
The warm feeling from Dot’s hangover remedy still coursed through Vivian. She remembered Nowell’s directives, to finish sorting things before they started doing anything about the painting or décor. ‘I’ll go out to the shed and look.’
The shed was a bountiful source. Vivian found hammers, rusty screwdrivers, a mallet with a cracked wood handle, a dust-choked electric sander, a box-cutter, even a scraper. When she brought the items to the kitchen and set them down, Dot handed her a tall green thermos.
‘What’s this?’
‘More motivation.’ Dot’s eyes were gleaming, and she reached over and picked up another thermos, maroon and black.
‘Where did you get these?’ Vivian asked, lifting the thermos. It was plastic, with an airtight lid that Dot had removed. Inside, orange liquid swirled within the metallic lining.
‘The cupboards,’ Dot said. ‘I had to dig through all the tea cups. How many tea cups can an old lady use, anyway?’
Vivian sputtered orange liquid at this, then wiped her mouth and laughed some more. As far as she could tell, the concoction was orange juice and vodka only.
‘We have our manly thermoses and our manly tools,’ Dot said. ‘Let’s go.’
At first they had no system. Vivian tried cutting the wallpaper with the box-cutter, which left long ridges in the wall. Dot hacked away with a flat screwdriver and the mallet, which left gouges but sometimes provided a corner that they could tear. They set their thermoses on the ground and returned to them often, and they thought of ways to describe the horses.
‘This one has gas,’ Dot said. ‘He’s so uncomfortable.’
‘There’s a gray one here,’ Vivian said. ‘He looks lost, can’t find his family. He’s going to cry any minute.’
They laughed and drank and worked on the wallpaper until they had developed a system. Vivian used the screwdriver to pry away the paper in the corners, then Dot followed up with the scraper. They had to lean over each other at times, which also led to laughter and once, to Vivian falling onto the carpet.
‘This one is evil,’ Dot said between gulps of air. ‘Look at him.’
Vivian crawled over to see the horse, which was low on a pole half-way down the hall. On the way, she knocked over her thermos, which had been recently emptied.
The horse was brown with a jewel-encrusted headband. His eyes were small, black and decidedly evil. The two girls rolled around on the floor, clutching their stomachs in a giggling fit. Every time they would stop and look again at the horse, they’d start again. Eventually, the laughter subsided.
‘We’re doing a good job,’ Dot said, sitting up. ‘I’m going to make another drink.’
‘Good idea,’ Vivian said. She stood up and surveyed their work. They had done quite a bit, almost half of the hallway on one side. The wallpaper came off more easily than she had imagined it would. Here and there, they had missed little sections, so she took the scraper and went to finish up.
She thought about the house and its small rooms, and the trees brushing against each other with their soothing sound, and the smell of damp grass and wood. Maybe we could live here, she thought. We could paint the walls and get our things out of storage. Nowell would have his own room for writing, and I could get a job in town like Katherine. She shook her head as she peeled a small square of paper from the wall. I would feel trapped, she reminded herself. And as she stood there, the scrap of wallpaper hanging from her hand as the horses pulsated in front of her eyes, she realized that the house had grown very quiet. What’s happened to Dot? she wondered.
Slowly, she walked to the end of the hall. The fresh air in the kitchen hit her face like a cool breeze. The orange juice container, now empty, was on the counter, as was the vodka bottle. The thermoses had been filled, but Dot was missing. Vivian would have seen her if she had headed to the bathroom. She checked in the living room and Nowell’s study. She climbed the steps to the attic and peered inside. Finally, she opened and screen door and stepped onto the patio.
Suddenly, a blast of cold water hit her in the chest and trailed down her legs. She crouched down and when she looked up, Dot was laughing hysterically at the side of the house, holding the green garden hose.
Vivian hurried into the house, opening cupboards until she found something: a pitcher they used to make iced tea. She filled it at the sink. Water bubbling over the edges, she carried it onto the porch, went down the steps, around the side of the house, looking for Dot. A streak of red from the back yard, the flapping of bare feet, and Vivian managed to get most of the water onto Dot as she flew by. Then she grabbed the hose and soaked her more, as Dot tried to make it back to the house. Their squeals echoed through the open space and the world became a blurred, frenetic place. Dot filled the pitcher and doused Vivian again; neither of them was really trying to avoid each other. They ended up at the back of the house, each tugging at the extended hose, screaming and laughing, with a spout of water drenching them both. They were having so much fun that they didn’t hear the green car, didn’t hear the soft music of the bracelets, didn’t hear the footsteps.
‘Girls!’
They both froze at the spot, the water gurgling out and over their hands.
‘What in the world is going on?’ Katherine stood at the threshold to the back yard, hands on her hips.
Vivian chuckled and pulled the hose away from Dot. She walked over and shut it off. Dot walked with her, head down, a stifled smile on her face.
‘There’s water all over the patio, like a flood,’ Katherine said. ‘Water in the kitchen. Somebody’s gonna break their leg.’
Vivian shrugged. ‘We were just having some fun.’
Katherine grinned, looking from one to the other as they stood shoulder-to-shoulder before her. ‘Well, my, my. Are you girls drunk?’
Dot snickered, then covered her mouth. ‘No, of course not.’
Katherine shook her head, her hair sending reddish sparkles in the sunlight. ‘It’s eleven o’clock in the morning, girls.’ She turned. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up.’
In the kitchen, Vivian explained their morning’s project. They showed Katherine their handiwork and explained how they just couldn’t stand the demented horses for one more day.
‘They’re awful,’ Vivian said. ‘How anyone could pick that out…’
‘Maybe a circus clown, the kind with the sad face!’ Dot laughed again then noticed Katherine’s expression.
‘Everybody’s got
their own tastes,’ she said. She leaned down and started picking up the scraps of wallpaper they’d left on the floor, her bracelets clinking as she gathered them.
‘We were going to pick that up,’ Vivian said. ‘We weren’t finished.’
‘Oh, I’m happy to help out,’ Katherine said, looking up to smile. ‘Why don’t you girls get dressed and you can drive with me to Mr Miller’s? I didn’t make it out there yet because Mrs Grossmont had lots to tell me this morning. Poor lady, all by herself out there.’
Dot and Vivian exchanged a glance then went to their respective bedrooms to change. Soon, they were sitting in the car, with their hair brushed and dry clothes. Dot sat in the front with Katherine.
‘Where are your men, anyway?’ Katherine asked.
‘They went fishing,’ Vivian said. ‘Lonnie met some of the men who’ve been paving the road. I guess they have a boat at some river.’
She nodded. ‘There’s a great fishing river past town, up in the hills. Remember I told you we should take a picnic up there one day? It’s very scenic, lots of greenery and rock formations. The roads are curvy and lined with trees. Max and I go up there sometimes.’
Dot turned in her seat and flung her arm over the back. Vivian could see the shiny, amber hairs in the soft hollow of her armpit. Her own hairs were coarse and dark and seemed to grow quickly and conspiratorially, sprouting up like tiny tracking missiles in areas she had momentarily neglected. Vivian considered the constant regeneration of hair one of the great injustices of life.
They drove with the windows down and the air, although rather warm, had a sobering effect. In about thirty minutes, they pulled into a driveway much like the one at Grandma Gardiner’s. A small brown house with a tin roof, a black and white dog thumping his tail on the porch.
‘Why don’t you come up with me,’ Katherine said. She opened the trunk of her car and pulled out a foil-covered dish. Vivian and Dot followed obediently to the door.
They spent about an hour at Mr Miller’s house, talking about the weather and Mr Miller’s rheumatoid arthritis and his grandchildren and eventually, sharing part of the casserole Katherine had brought for him. As they sat around his table on ancient wooden chairs, passing the sliced bread he had brought from his cupboard, Vivian felt something spread over her. A peace. A sense of being in the presence of something good, something right. Her appreciation for Katherine deepened and she felt ashamed for her own lack of motivation.
On the way back, Katherine took what she called a ‘scenic detour,’ and they passed through areas that were different from the plains and stripes of muted green closer to the house. Here, the land jutted upwards in crags and clumps of reddened earth. The trees remained, stubbornly reaching from the uncertain levels, crowding together at times and sometimes, going it alone. The road was a series of languid turns, slow climbs and gentle descents. Vivian leaned her head against the car window and looked up to the scattering of puffy clouds. She thought about possibilities, about appearances. The sky was three-dimensional, a vivid, jaw-dropping blue with the depth of stained glass and the luminescence of candlelight. It was a sky that seemed, at first, impossible to replicate on a flat surface. Soon, she began to recognize patterns: swirls and ridges, curves and textures, in the consistent blueness of that sky, a blue expanse that was impenetrable at first glance. Vivian remembered staring at her desktop in grammar school, during rainy-day, heads-down games or boring lessons, and noticing the variety within the wood, the scant pencil remains from the students before her, the distinct markings of the grain. Like a fingerprint, each section unique to itself and to the seer. Eyes can become discerning, she thought, if you look long enough. The sky, the qualities of wood. She wondered who invented the microscope, what made them think there was anything to see. Dr Lightfoot said that the motivation driving the scientist and the artist was the same: to create. Vivian thought about pictures she had seen of early autopsies, fifteenth-century artists monitoring dissections in order to paint the body more faithfully. She thought about Da Vinci’s notebooks, the embryo in the womb and his precise sketches. If you look long enough, close enough. Is that what artists do? The sky, the qualities of wood. Dr Lightfoot was wrong. Scientists seek to improve, while artists merely represent, reflect, interpret. Vivian stared through the smudged glass of the car window, wondering how she would describe or paint the sky. She leaned back in the seat, breeze ruffling her long dark hair and, for a moment, perfectly content.
In time, they sailed over the newly asphalted hill before the descent to the house.
‘What’s that?’ Katherine pointed out the window, her bracelets clanking like an alarm.
Over the fields of high grass dotted with pastel late-summer blooms, dark smoke curdled in a narrow cyclone toward the sky. Vivian scooted over and peered at the smoke, trying to estimate its source. Dot leaned over as well, and as the car slowed in front of the driveway, they all swiveled to look through the windshield.
Beside the white house in the dirt clearing next to the driveway, several figures circled a large, black object. From its center, huge flames blazed up and whipped at the air. Katherine parked behind a dusty blue-and-white van that was behind Lonnie’s jeep. As they got out of the car, Vivian heard a reverberating crack, which she immediately recognized as the sound of an ax on wood. They walked around the van and approached the jeep. Lonnie and another man took turns chopping at a wide tree several yards back.
The men around the fire, one of whom was Nowell, talked loudly, each holding a can of beer. They all looked sunburned and jovial.
‘I think it’s a tribal feast,’ Katherine said in a low voice. ‘Like on National Geographic.’
Dot snickered. ‘You don’t see a wild boar roasting on a stick anywhere, do you?’
‘Hello!’ Vivian called.
The men looked over. The fire was issuing from an old barbecue grill; the domed lid sat on the ground. Vivian recognized one of the county road workers, a tall, thin, copper-haired man with a friendly smile. The man next to him was unfamiliar, and next to him was Nowell. The fourth man turned around and it was Mr Stokes.
‘Hello, Mrs Gardiner,’ he said. ‘Mrs Wilton.’
I thought we had agreed on first names, Vivian thought.
Dot had walked toward the two working on the tree, and when Lonnie saw her he called out. ‘Stand back, honey! This tree’s coming down!’ The other man was the road crew worker who had come to the house. Lonnie had said that his name was Jerry.
‘Where were you?’ Nowell leaned over and kissed Vivian’s cheek, his face hot and smoky from the fire.
‘We went with Katherine on an errand.’
‘Hello,’ he said to her.
Dot rejoined them, walking gingerly around the fire.
‘This is Tom, and Eduardo,’ Nowell said. ‘They both work with the county. They’re here paving the road.’
‘It looks like you’re getting ready to do some serious cooking,’ Katherine said. ‘I’d love to stick around and see if it survives that fire, but I’m late picking Max up.’
‘Thanks for taking us,’ Vivian said.
Katherine winked at her. ‘You betcha. I’ll talk to you this week.’ She turned and went to her car. When she reached the road, she honked twice and waved.
Dot asked Nowell: ‘Why are they cutting that tree down?’
‘Mr Stokes said it was dead. It’s rotted out in the middle and it could fall over onto our vehicles.’
‘God forbid,’ Vivian snickered.
‘It doesn’t look dead,’ Dot said.
Vivian wondered if she were one of those people who got all worked up about trees.
‘Well, it is,’ Mr Stokes said. The flames reflected from his wet teeth as he smiled; his eyes were bloodshot and squinty.
‘You really think it would have fallen over?’ Vivian glanced at the beer in his hand and wondered how many he’d had.
He cocked his head to the side, grinning strangely. ‘It could’ve stayed standing for another tw
enty years,’ he said. ‘But that doesn’t mean it was alive.’
The flames died down and Nowell began scraping the bars of the grill with a long metal brush. ‘Lonnie wants to chop the whole thing up and sell it as firewood,’ he said. ‘Make us a little money. This is the time of year people start stocking up, because the wood is dry.’
Vivian glanced at Mr Stokes. ‘Is that right?’
‘I hope they know what they’re doing,’ Tom said. ‘There’s a certain way to cut a tree, so it falls in the right direction.’
‘I’ll be right back,’ Nowell said. ‘Anybody need anything from the house?’
‘Food!’ somebody yelled.
‘Coming right up. Viv, give me a hand?’
She ducked underneath the cloud of black smoke and followed Nowell to the house. When they entered the kitchen she asked: ‘Did you catch any fish?’
‘Lonnie caught two and I caught three. One of mine was huge. Hey, where is this thing plugged in?’
Vivian saw that he had the radio from the counter under his arm and was impatiently pulling on the cord.
‘Oh, here, I got it,’ he said. ‘Do we have batteries?’
‘There’s some in there.’
‘By the way,’ he said, touching her arm. ‘What happened in the hallway?’
Vivian shrugged, looking away. He had told her not to do any redecorating until the clutter was cleared. ‘We just started taking that wallpaper down.’
Nowell patted her back. ‘Can’t say I’ll miss it,’ he said. ‘I always thought those horses were creepy.’
Reaching around his waist, Vivian pressed her face into his chest. He leaned down and she felt his chin on her head. All at once, a memory surfaced: on the day of her graduation from college, Nowell filled their apartment with flowers. Roses, her favorite, in all imaginable colors, overflowing from glass vases placed on every open surface. The graduation ceremony had been in the afternoon, an impossibly sunny day, rows of white fold-out chairs on the school’s grassy field. Afterwards, they had dinner at La Grange, a French restaurant they couldn’t really afford, just the two of them because her parents had to get back home early for their classes the next day. And it was almost as if Nowell had anticipated the letdown she would feel. She wouldn’t forget the sight, their small apartment transformed into a magical place, awash in color, the air fragrant and sweet, and the look on Nowell’s face as he waited to see her reaction.
The Qualities of Wood Page 15