The Qualities of Wood

by Mary Vensel White

  18

  Nowell took the radio outside and in a moment Vivian heard music on the porch, a soft rock number turned up rather loud. He rushed through the screen door again, grabbed the platter of meat from her hands, and took it outside. She decided to make more iced tea. The pitcher was washed and dried and had been placed next to the sink by Katherine, who had also mopped the kitchen and cleaned up while they got dressed that morning. Vivian dragged a chair over to the pantry. As she reached for the box of tea bags on the highest shelf, she heard a deep voice: ‘Need any help with that?’ and suddenly, she was aware of the brevity of her shorts and the angle of vision that her elevated position afforded the person at the door.

  ‘No thanks.’ She quickly stepped down from the chair, the box pressed against her chest. She saw that it was Mr Stokes. ‘Please, come in.’

  ‘My shoes are a little muddy,’ he said through the screen. ‘It was damp up there, and we had to walk a good ways back to the river.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Vivian said. ‘Come on in.’

  ‘Thanks. I wouldn’t mind getting out of the heat for a while.’ He opened the door and stepped inside. His work boots and rough, nicked hands seemed out of place in the delicately colored kitchen, with its hues of yellow and its cheery, lace-trimmed curtains. It was strange to see him indoors, under artificial lighting. His presence saturated the room like steam, the briny smokiness of him, the suntanned ruggedness of his face. ‘Do you have a glass of cold water?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure,’ Vivian said. ‘Why don’t you sit down for a minute?’

  ‘I really feel my age on a day like today. Can’t seem to keep up with those young ones.’

  ‘Right now they’re running on pure alcohol,’ Vivian said. ‘Nowell will be exhausted tomorrow.’

  ‘Will he? Yeah, we were up before the sun. My favorite time of day, the morning, but then you know that already.’

  Vivian handed him a glass of water, then, removing the tea bags from their paper holders, draped them one by one over the wide mouth of the pitcher. ‘I had no idea you were going fishing with them,’ she said.

  ‘I ran into your brother-in-law last night and he asked me to come along.’

  ‘Last night?’

  He nodded as he gulped the water. ‘I was smoking some beef outside. I like to make jerky for the winter. He said he could smell it all the way over here.’

  ‘Hm,’ she said. ‘Excuse me for one minute while I set this out in the sun.’ Vivian had to walk to the side of the house for sunlight because the shade had stretched almost the entire length of the driveway. Dot was sitting in the open, back doorway of the blue-and-white van with one of the road crew. Nowell was engaged in a deep discussion with the other man; something about a new gun law, and Lonnie and Jerry had taken a break from the tree and were standing near the barbecue, eyeing the meat. She went back into the house.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, I helped myself to another glass of your tap water,’ Mr Stokes said.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I guess this isn’t the barbecue you had in mind,’ he said.

  ‘We’ll just have to have two. Katherine couldn’t stay this time, and Max wasn’t here. We’ll invite you back some other time.’

  Mr Stokes held his water glass with both hands. ‘Tomorrow I’m going out of town for a few days.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Vivian asked, quickly adding: ‘I don’t mean to be nosy.’

  He swirled his finger around the rim of his glass. ‘I have some relatives up north. I try to visit once or twice a year. They’re elderly and really enjoy the company.’

  ‘You’ll drive?’

  He nodded. ‘I have a beat-up truck that won’t quit working. I’d like a new one, but can’t seem to let go of it.’

  ‘Sentimental value?’

  ‘No. Just practical, I guess.’

  Vivian pulled her hair over her shoulder, ran her fingers through it and flipped it back.

  ‘That meat sure smells good,’ he said. ‘I think I’d better fight for position out there.’

  ‘Mr Stokes?’ she said. ‘Um, Abe?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Do you think it would be inappropriate, I mean, would it be insensitive or strange to invite Mrs Brodie to the barbecue?’

  His brow wrinkled into deep crevices and his eyes turned hard and dull. The mention of her had pained him in some way. ‘I didn’t know you knew her.’

  ‘I don’t, really. I saw her that day, when we both saw her. And she came over today.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Just stopped by. She’s still torn up about the, about her daughter. She said they were very close.’

  He looked away.

  ‘What?’

  He brought his gaze back to her. ‘I just wondered why the girl kept running off if they were so close. I’ve heard that woman screaming for her through the woods, hollering her head off like somebody had…’

  ‘…died,’ Vivian finished.

  He looked down, embarrassed.

  ‘Teenagers fight with their parents,’ she said. ‘I know I did.’

  ‘I suppose Mrs Brodie doesn’t want to remember it that way,’ he said.

  Vivian leaned against the counter. ‘Maybe that’s not the important part,’ she said. The air in the kitchen was stagnant and warm. She sat at the table, and Mr Stokes seemed to flinch when she did. ‘Did you ever meet Mrs Gardiner’s son, Sherman?’ she asked.

  He lifted his glass and set it down gently, then lifted it, then set it down. The glass made low thuds like fingertips drumming. ‘I did, once or twice,’ he finally said.

  ‘He used to help Mrs Brodie out with repairs, things around her house?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  She remembered that Katherine had said Mrs Brodie’s father and Sheriff Townsend were old friends. ‘Does Mrs Brodie have relatives or friends nearby?’

  Mr Stokes left the glass in the center of the table and wiped his palms on his thighs. ‘Not anymore.’

  ‘That’s too bad,’ she said. First Katherine’s behavior, she thought, and now this. Why did everyone act so uncomfortable when she brought up Nowell’s father? Or Mrs Brodie, for that matter?

  ‘Your brother-in-law has quite a temper,’ Mr Stokes said.

  Vivian shook herself from her thoughts. ‘What?’

  ‘That Lonnie. He’s got a bad temper.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘They were having a competition all day, who could catch the most fish. That Lonnie was behind, and when everyone was packing up, he started yelling.’

  ‘Yelling?’

  ‘He didn’t want us to leave. He threw his pole into the water.’

  ‘I’m afraid Lonnie drinks a little too much sometimes,’ she said, ‘and if you were out in the sun all day…’

  ‘It wasn’t liquor,’ Mr Stokes said. ‘Something else.’

  ‘He competes with Nowell,’ Vivian said quietly.

  ‘He apologized, made a joke out of the whole thing.’

  Vivian looked into his eyes. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  Outside, someone yelled: ‘There it goes!’

  They heard the snapping and creaking as the tree began its descent to the earth, and they reached the patio in time to see it rest, pushing up flurries of dust and sending birds fluttering through the standing trees.

  ‘Are you happy now?’ Dot called.

  Lonnie made celebratory whooping noises: ‘Yes, I sure am!’

  Nowell called from the yard. ‘Viv, bring the buns, would you? And some napkins, and the ketchup. Oh, forget it, I’ll come in.’

  ‘Soup’s on,’ Mr Stokes said, and he lumbered towards the door.

  The hamburgers were thick and tasted of smoke. The men remained around the fire eating. Vivian went to the shaded porch and set her plate on the banister. The men stood in two small groups, one near the jeep and the other next to the barbecue grill.

  Dot brought her hot dog towards the house. ‘G
ot room up there for one more?’

  ‘Sure,’ Vivian said. ‘Didn’t you get anything else?’

  She settled into the peeling porch swing. ‘I didn’t want anything. I had a lot of that casserole.’

  ‘I don’t know why I’m so hungry,’ Vivian said.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Dot said. ‘You’re thin.’

  ‘I wasn’t always,’ she said.

  The men erupted into laughter, deep tones like thunder. Vivian peered around the porch column. Jerry was talking, gesturing emphatically with his hands. She noticed again his broad shoulders and narrow waist, the rough quality of his skin. Suddenly expressive, his face was sunburned across his forehead and cheekbones, but still white around his eyes. She remembered the sunglasses he’d worn the day he waved at her from the road. The oval, mirrored lenses reflected the world as a tiny microcosm of shrunken, distorted forms. She had glanced at them as they picked up the fleshy hue and sloping curve of her bare legs.

  ‘So that’s the Mr Stokes you mentioned?’ Dot asked.

  ‘Yes. He lives behind us, back past the trees.’

  ‘He seems nice. Sort of quiet, you know?’

  ‘I’ve only talked to him a few times,’ Vivian said, ‘but he’s interesting. He looks at me like he already knows what I’m going to say.’

  ‘Sometimes we click with certain people,’ Dot said. ‘There’s a chemistry. You meet someone and know right away you want to be around him. Maybe it’s a sense of smell, you know, because they say it’s the most important of our senses for things like memory and longing. Goes back to our animal natures, tracking by scent. Or maybe it’s something else, some hidden instinct.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s anything animal,’ Vivian laughed. ‘He’s just a neighbor.’

  ‘Oh, I know.’ Dot crossed her legs on the swing. ‘But aren’t you drawn to him in a way? If there were twenty people in a crowded room, you’d probably approach him first.’

  ‘You’re making it sound like a sociology experiment. I only said that I found him interesting.’

  ‘Sorry. I guess I was thinking about Lonnie, because that’s how I felt about him when we met. There was an immediate connection, you know, like two planets being pulled together.’

  Vivian shook her head. ‘Maybe I’m intrigued by some gossip Katherine told me about him. Or maybe I’ve got too much time to sit around and imagine things.’

  ‘What gossip?’ Dot asked.

  ‘A story about his lost love.’

  ‘A lost love? That does sound interesting.’

  Vivian smiled and took the last watered-down drink of her tea. The ice cubes had melted and the small lemon wedge lay limp and stringy at the bottom of the glass.

  Suddenly, Mr Stokes stood at the base of the porch steps, a stack of used paper plates in one hand and the greasy tongs that Nowell had used to turn the meat in the other. ‘Which one of you has a long lost love?’ His mouth stretched into a crooked smile.

  ‘Doesn’t everyone?’ Dot asked.

  Vivian looked away, noticing the stubborn weeds that had cropped up next to the house, tangled together in the crevice where grass met wood

  Mr Stokes looked at Vivian. ‘I’m heading home. Thanks for the meal.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she said. ‘Nice to see you again.’

  His eyes met hers briefly. ‘It was real kind of Lonnie to ask me along.’

  ‘That’s Lonnie,’ Dot said. ‘Glad to meet you, Mr Stokes.’

  He nodded at her. ‘I’m not used to having such friendly neighbors. This house has been empty for so long.’

  Vivian wondered again about the strained relationship between him and Mrs Brodie. Although Katherine said that over the years, the rest of the town seldom saw him, Mr Stokes suddenly seemed quite sociable.

  He made his way towards the rest of the men. They were still standing near the barbecue, which was now mostly embers and a few crackling briquettes.

  ‘Have a good trip,’ Vivian called.

  He nodded then continued to the group of men. After goodbyes, he headed towards the woods that led to his house.

  ‘So what do you think your special talent is?’ Dot asked.

  Vivian lowered her hamburger. ‘What?’

  ‘You said your mother was hoping that you had a hidden talent, some calling.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Vivian said.

  Dot leaned forward. ‘Something you’re really good at.’

  ‘What’s yours?’

  Dot shrugged. ‘Well, I can play the piano a little. A girlfriend of mine was rich and I spent a lot of time at her house, you know? She took lessons and taught me. Actually, I wasn’t very good.’ She paused, looking up at the withered porch awning. ‘I’m a good friend, I think. I’m loyal and I try to be honest. Oh, I can make great paper airplanes. I had a book once on how to do it.’

  Vivian laughed.

  ‘I guess I haven’t found one great talent, not yet. I hope I’m not disappointed when I find out what it is.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s possible to be good at many things,’ Vivian said, ‘but not great at any one thing? Your average person. Average talent, average ability.’

  ‘No,’ Dot said. ‘I like the idea of a special talent. It doesn’t have to be something artistic, you know, or something impressive. Some people are great mothers, that’s their talent. Some people are intuitive, they can read people. Then you have your pianists, your painters.’

  ‘Scholars, writers,’ Vivian added.

  ‘Exactly.’ Dot tilted her head so that her blonde hair waved back and forth.

  ‘Have you always had long hair?’ Vivian asked. ‘I have.’

  ‘Pretty much,’ Dot said. ‘I’m too lazy to change it.’

  ‘In the fourth grade, I had a perm,’ Vivian said.

  ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘My mom’s idea.’

  Dot smiled. ‘How was it?’

  ‘Horrible, of course. At the time I thought it was great, but perms weren’t very advanced back then. It was dried-out and kinky and I had to use a pick.’

  ‘Whoever invented them is very rich today,’ Dot said, ‘especially the ones you can do at home. Women’s vanity is always a good investment, you know? Just look at all the cosmetics we have, all the different kinds of shampoo, hair color, nail polish. It seems like everyone I know has had a perm at one time or another.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Vivian said.

  ‘I used to want to invent things,’ Dot said. ‘As a kid, I would spend hours and hours sitting around, trying to think of inventions. I thought a lot about being a scientist. There was a chemistry set I wanted so badly one year.’

  ‘I didn’t know any girls who thought about being scientists.’

  ‘Neither did I.’ Dot swung her legs from the swing. ‘I worked at it, though. I mixed up secret ingredients, collected spare parts, things I found in the street. Once I thought I could invent something to bring things back to life.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Eventually people, I thought. It was a potion. It had Still Grow in it, you know, that plant food for bigger tomatoes, and I used eggs, since I had recently found out that they were actually unborn chickens.’

  ‘Brains,’ Vivian said, grinning. ‘How old were you?’

  ‘Ten or eleven. I don’t remember what the other ingredients were, but there was a simple kind of logic to all of them, you know? The main thing was the Still Grow, I remember that. I had a parakeet that died and I kept it hidden under my bed for almost three weeks. Every morning and every night I’d put the secret potion down its throat with a medicine dropper.’

  Vivian handed Dot a towel. ‘For three weeks?’

  She nodded. ‘It started to smell of course, but I really wanted the bird back. I’d only had it for a few months. My dad gave it to me. By the time it died, my father was already gone.’ She reached over and picked up some silverware to dry.

  ‘What finally happened?’ Vivian asked.

  ‘To the bird?’

>   She nodded.

  ‘It shriveled up, got smaller and smaller. At first I pretended that it was transforming into another life form. Even then, I’d seen too many science-fiction shows. It was strange, you know, the way it shrunk. Like it was collapsing into itself. Sometimes I think about that on days when I feel like being alone, you know, when you want to stay in bed all day. I think about collapsing into myself, like that bird. Maybe that’s how death feels.’ She shook her head slightly. ‘Anyway, I had this whole method for giving the bird the secret potion. I’d tie a bandanna around my face because of the smell. I kept it in a shoebox. Oh, and I wore gloves, you know, the kind for washing dishes. So all of this stuff was under my bed, and my mom found it.’

  ‘She could smell it?’

  ‘No. She went on a rampage one day, clearing all of my dad’s things out of the house.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Normally she wouldn’t have come into my room.’

  ‘Was she mad?’ Vivian asked.

  ‘Not really. When I came home from school she told me that she had thrown my bird away, and I went out to the garbage can and there was everything—the gloves, the box, the bandanna laid over the top. There were stacks and boxes of things next to the trash, all of my dad’s belongings. His clothes, his old record player. The shoebox was on top of his collection of Playboys.’

  ‘Didn’t your mom think it was strange that you’d kept a dead bird?’

  Dot shrugged. ‘I was always doing weird things. Only child, you know?’

  Vivian dried the last piece of silverware and set it in the drawer. ‘My friend Diane’s father kept Playboys in his night stand,’ she said. ‘She was my best friend from the second to the fifth grade. We used to sneak in and look at them.’

  ‘Really?’