The Qualities of Wood

by Mary Vensel White

  She kept thinking about their quiet neighbor. At the mention of Nowell’s father, Mr Stokes had acted strangely and he seemed to harden each time she brought up Mrs Brodie. That Lonnie. He’s got a bad temper. When he told her about Lonnie throwing the fishing pole, it seemed like he was trying to get some point across, to warn her about something. Vivian was no stranger to Lonnie’s drinking and the tense moods that followed. But who was Mr Stokes to make a remark like that? He didn’t know Lonnie, or any of them. Why did he look at her with a sense of knowing that felt alternately comforting and disturbing? Why was he suddenly in their lives, starting with the day they found the Brodie girl? Who was he to them?

  She quietly closed the door and crossed the porch. The wind rustled the grass, making a great hushing sound. As she walked around the side of the house, a droning noise started up, and she turned in time to see the headlights of a car rising over the hill. As the car passed, she put her back against the wall of the house, holding the flashlight near her side, pointed to the ground. You’re acting like a television detective, she chastised herself as the taillights shrunk. Crickets chuckled at her from their vantage point under the house.

  The grass, which was still uncut, crackled and broke under her feet. The tallest blades sparkled in the ivory glow of the half-moon. Hanging slightly above the treetops and surrounded in the velvety blue-black of night, this moon reminded her of a smile, a lopsided, toothy one not unlike Mr Stokes’s. She walked by its radiance until she reached the line of trees, which seemed denser and taller at night, and then she turned on the flashlight and waved the beam in a half-circle in front of her feet.

  She walked slowly, straining her ears and scanning the area, side to side with the beam of the flashlight. The woods were pungent with sun-baked earth, grass, and blooming things; the piney fragrance of the trees enveloped her in the darkness. After a short time, her pace quickened involuntarily and she reminded herself to be alert and slow down. Estimating that she had walked about half the distance to Mr Stokes’s house, Vivian kept on at a steady pace. When something glinted in the flashlight’s glow, she diverted her course and walked towards the object. Soon, she stood directly over it: an empty beer can. Lonnie drank a variety of brands, but she had only seen this one in the store. She kicked it with the toe of her sandal.

  She continued in the direction of Mr Stokes’s house. Overhead, a branch cracked loudly and she paused, watching the treetops. The branch splintered again then fell, its leaves rustling when it landed. The noise startled her and as she quickened her steps, she suddenly tripped. She stumbled for a few more steps, juggling the flashlight and finally, she steadied herself inches from a flattened, slate-gray boulder that had risen suddenly from the ground, blocking her path.

  Moving the flashlight slowly from top to bottom, she examined the surface of the large rock. Under the corner near her feet was a thin yellow piece of paper, partially hidden from view under the bulky stone. Vivian reached down and picked it up, noticing the bold, black letters on its plastic-like surface. Police tape. She looked at the rock, realizing at once that it was the same place, the same rock where Chanelle Brodie died.

  She dropped the flashlight; the ray of light danced crazily then bounced against the trees when it hit the ground.

  Calm down, she told herself. Get it together. She took a deep breath and retrieved the flashlight. Scanning with its stark beam, she checked out her surroundings.

  Aside from the small bit of yellow tape, the area looked pristine, unspoiled. The rock was roughly oval-shaped, about three feet wide and five feet long. Its surface was clean, white in the moonlight that fought its way through the mesh of high branches. The side of the rock closest to Vivian’s feet protruded just above the ground, but the other end was thicker and raised about three feet, so that the great stone angled from the ground upwards, sloping like a horseshoe might after being thrown. She imagined Chanelle Brodie sprawled over the rock, her arms pinned underneath her body. Your hands would be up here. You would try to break the fall, by instinct. Sometimes Vivian liked to sleep like that, on her stomach with her arms at her sides. Chanelle’s hair, thick and dark like her father’s, like Vivian’s, would have been fanned around her head.

  Footsteps dotted the dirt in places and near the rock; the ground was pocked with tiny gouges. About two yards to the left, a wide-trunked tree, its roots bent above the ground like a spider’s legs, sprouted to the sky. Beneath the overhang of the higher section of the large rock, a cluster of small bushes crowded furtively together in what must be a shaded area during the hot part of the day. Shaking the dirt from her sandals, Vivian backed away from the scene.

  It seemed like a very long time since she had left the old white house. The air was cool deep in the woods; the soft earth crept into her sandals and left her feet chilled. Pushing her way through the undergrowth, she found what appeared to be a path, an area where the foliage was trampled into a narrow groove. She followed it and soon found herself in the place where Mr Stokes chopped wood. She breathed a sigh of relief. The wide trunk he used for a worktable jutted from the center of the clearing. A few pieces of kindling were scattered nearby. Shining the flashlight in wide arcs, Vivian picked up a glare from what appeared to be a window. Mr Stokes’s house, she thought. She headed towards it.

  As she neared the dark house, the voice of caution spoke and she shook off its message: What are you doing? Where do you think you’re going? She avoided the wheelbarrow at the edge of the yard and stepped over a row of flowering bushes. A quick scan with the flashlight revealed tiny red blooms and leaves that were fat and round like tongues. She thought: Why am I suddenly suspicious of him?

  The house was dark save an amber-tinted porch light buzzing with insects. The light seemed harsh and discriminating, leaving deep, dark shadows under the concrete steps leading to the door. The landing glowed like a pool of water. Like a Rembrandt painting, a dark canvas lit in parts from some external source. Dr Lightfoot had talked about Rembrandt’s fascination with light and the way objects could appear entirely different at various times of the day. Many times, a single beam or sheet of yellow light cut across a painting, illuminating only certain things. It was another way for a painter to be subjective, he said. To decide how much light and what it would reveal.

  Vivian walked to a set of windows and peered inside, using the flashlight to see. The kitchen had dark cupboards and softly gleaming countertops and in the next room, a small wooden table was pushed against the wall, surrounded by three chairs. In a moment she spotted the fourth chair, set apart against an adjoining wall. She walked to the next window and looked into the living room. There was one leather armchair, a table with a lamp, and a couch. Everything in the room seemed dark: the polished wood of the square table, the upholstery of the furniture. She was reminded of the house where she had taken refuge after getting lost, the uncluttered tidiness of Joe Toliver’s living room. A bachelor’s home.

  She walked back to the door, an informal rear entrance, and watched the bugs bang against the cylindrical porch light. No one is home, she thought. Should I? The doorknob was cold to her fingertips and acquiescent when, on impulse, she turned it. The door opened soundlessly, like some well-oiled machine. Vivian stood for a moment on the landing as the voice of reason and caution fired missives in a rapid, confusing sequence – what are you, this is not your, against the law, you don’t know, what if you get – then she looked over her shoulder and went inside.

  The house was still and airless. She walked through the kitchen and maneuvered around the dining table into the living room. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the dark. Copies of Reader’s Digest and Newsweek were stacked on the small table she had seen from the window. In the seat of the armchair was a thick book titled Wildlife on the Plains. Over the couch, a framed picture of a black Labrador hung next to an antique candle lamp.

  She found Mr Stokes’s bedroom at the end of the short hallway. She paused in the doorway, shining the flashlight around. A roughed-up
pair of work boots stood to attention next to a small bookshelf, and the closet door was open, revealing a neat row of shirts and pants. On a long dresser, several pictures were arranged on a wooden tray. Vivian imagined that the young couple in the wedding photo were his parents; the boy with the fire engine Mr Stokes as a boy. One yellowing picture was a group photo of six young men, all outfitted in camouflage suits; two had rifles propped against their shoulders. Vivian searched for a youthful Mr Stokes, but didn’t recognize him in any of the faces.

  On the floor next to the bed was a small stack of newspapers. As Vivian directed the flashlight over this area, something familiar made her stop and walk closer for a better look. The paper on the top of the pile was almost a month old. The headline was the first one about Chanelle Brodie: ‘Girl, 17, Found Dead.’ A shiver ran through her.

  She hurried down the hallway. What am I doing? What if I got caught? A grown woman! She banged her thigh into the shallow table at the end of the hall. She sucked air through her teeth. The painful spot was like fire on her skin. The other door in the hallway was closed, but she’d had enough. She wanted to leave.

  Her breaths were coming fast; her heart beat like a throbbing wound in her chest. As she reached the dining room table, her eyesight started to blur and a wave passed through her. She groped around, finding a chair.

  She sat down, put her head between her knees and took several deep breaths. It was a trick she learned in high school from the gym teacher, Miss Alston. Vivian was always on diets then, prone to dizzy spells and periods of faintness. During her sophomore year, she was on a liquid diet and she had Miss Alston’s class in the afternoons. She almost passed out three or four times that year, each episode provoking a private chat from Miss Alston, who was concerned that she may have diabetes or anemia. Vivian confiscated the notes sent home for her parents and told Miss Alston that the doctor had prescribed vitamins.

  She opened her eyes. Underneath the chair was a set of binoculars. She sat up and looked through them. From the vantage point of the low window, the view was direct east, toward the clearing where Mr Stokes chopped wood and further on, Grandma Gardiner’s house. But the woods were black with night; she could make out only brief glimpses of shadows and light where the moon infiltrated the dense trees. She replaced the binoculars underneath the chair and stood up.

  Closing the door quietly, she stepped back into the night and quickly reached the small clearing. She turned for one last glimpse of the house, perhaps to make sure that she’d left it looking undisturbed, and as she watched, a light flickered behind the second window, in what she now knew to be Mr Stokes’s living room. She thought at first it was the faint hall light that had been on all along, but then realized that it seemed brighter. She turned and walked quickly, dirt and small plants crunching under her feet.

  Her mind racing, she dodged trees and shrubs, reaching further and further ahead with the long arc of the flashlight beam. Through the trees she could barely see Mr Stokes’s house now, but it seemed that the light in the dining room was off again. Your imagination, she told herself, but her heart pounded almost painfully nonetheless. She was almost running, her face burning as she kicked branches out of her path and thought again of Chanelle Brodie, wondering what her last moments were like. Miraculously, she went back exactly as she had come. She walked purposefully, anticipating her route with the flashlight. Despite her fright, she refused to look back again. She had become resolute, driven. There was the outstretched rock and a few minutes later, the line of tree sentinels directing her home.

  When Vivian pushed from the tree line, panting and sweating from her labor, she greeted the sight of the house at the peak of the slow-rising incline with gratitude. Thank you, she whispered over and over under her breath, thank you.

  In the kitchen, the two skinny arms of the rooster clock were past the upright position. After one o’clock, she thought. I must be crazy. She took her sandals off and left them again near the door, then quietly slipped out of her jeans. As she passed Lonnie and Dot’s room, she heard a soft buzzing, almost like a cat purring. Lonnie was snoring. Across the hall, she carefully opened the door, dropped her jeans next to the bed and slid under the covers. Nowell stirred slightly.

  Looking at the digital clock on her nightstand, Vivian felt the accusation of the three angry red stripes: 1:11. She waited for her heart to return to normal. I must have imagined the light in the house, she thought. She had found nothing in the woods to explain everyone’s wanderings, even her own. Now safe in the starchy comfort of the sheets, her adventure began to seem more like a dream. She thought about the copy of The Sentinel next to Mr Stokes’s bed and the binoculars by the window. She pictured his face, the deep lines radiating from his eyes and the smug tilt of his smile. Why had he made it a point to tell her that he was leaving for a few days?

  She recalled the story of Ronella Oates. Something like that could leave a person very bitter. Maybe subconsciously, Mr Stokes blamed all women. He didn’t seem to care for Mrs Brodie or Katherine. Maybe she was kidding herself to think that they’d struck up a pleasant friendship. He warned her about walking through the woods and teased her about being afraid. And he made a disparaging remark about Lonnie. He seemed to crop up everywhere: the day they found Chanelle, the afternoon that Mrs Brodie came by, the fishing trip and the barbecue afterwards. Almost as though he was keeping an eye on them. Even the morning she went over to his house, it was because he was causing a disturbance outside.

  She drifted off to sleep thinking of Mr Stokes, the way his powerful shoulders drove the axe into the pliant wood, his awkwardness in speaking to her, his rough hands and beaten-up boots. And she dreamt a surreal dream of the woods between their two houses, as if the night’s events were repeating themselves in a distorted, confused form. The dream began in the daytime, with Vivian and her father walking leisurely through the woods, but it ended in the pitch-black of night, with Vivian alone and running from someone.

  She twirled around in a circle, searching for her father. The canopy of leaves swirled and dipped above her; the sky turned dark and violent. She was standing on a large, flat boulder, and she jumped down and began to run. Trees began to fall around her, crashing to the ground with an awful clamor. Up ahead, she could see the edge of the woods, the portal to safety. The cracking of an ax echoed through the woods. ‘Number One!’ a deep voice called behind her.

  She reached the tree line and burst onto the long grass. Falling to her knees, she began to crawl up the small hill, the ache in her throat preventing her from crying out. When she reached the top, she saw her mother through the window to Nowell’s study. Her mother was sitting at the desk with her reading glasses on. Vivian tried to call out but it came as a whisper. Her mother’s hands moved quickly over the keyboard.

  ‘Mom!’ Vivian squeaked.

  Suddenly, something struck her in the back. Framed by the grayish moon, Lonnie juggled empty beer cans, laughing as they fell like bullets against her arms, her upturned face.

  The cracking sound, loud as thunder now, rumbled through the air, vibrated through her body. Lonnie’s supply of cans never ran out; his juggling became more frenetic as she scrambled away from the shower of aluminum. As she reached the side of the house, a pair of dark, shabby boots stepped around the corner. One boot pressed down on her hand and she struggled to pull it free.

  She shook herself awake. It was just after five-thirty. Her limbs were stiff from tension, the back of her neck damp and warm. It took a few moments before she remembered where she was, before she recognized the old furniture and cramped space of Grandma Gardiner’s bedroom. She was incredibly thirsty.

  For the second time that night, Vivian got out of bed and walked gingerly through the house. In the kitchen, she took a glass from the cupboard and plodded across the cold floor. Her eyes were barely open. The water went down easily, filling her stomach. As she set the glass in the sink, she heard a noise outside, the grinding sound of footsteps. Motionless, she strained
her ears, then, as she turned to go back to bed, a heavy footstep sounded on the porch. She jerked her head towards the door as it opened and Lonnie’s hulking form blocked the light from the porch. They both jumped.

  ‘Jesus, Vivian,’ he hissed.

  ‘You scared me,’ she whispered back. ‘What’s wrong? What are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He sat on a chair near the table and bent to untie his shoes.

  ‘Where were you?’ she persisted.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Almost six.’ She rubbed her hands across her arms, suddenly aware of her thin nightshirt.

  ‘What are you doing up?’ he asked.

  Vivian noticed now the disorder of his hair and clothing, the mud flaking from his shoes onto the floor. His eyes were small and the skin underneath brownish and puffy.

  ‘I was thirsty,’ she answered. ‘What about you? You don’t look like you’ve been to bed at all.’

  ‘I fell asleep in the woods.’

  ‘What?’

  Lonnie scratched his head, ran his hand across the stubble on his chin. Vivian saw the dirt caked underneath his short, jagged fingernails. For a moment, in the pained expression he gave when he had to repeat himself, the hard scowl that changed his face, she saw the resemblance between him and Nowell. There was something in the lines of the mouth, the slight flare of the nostrils, the broad plane of his forehead.

  ‘I said I fell asleep outside.’