‘I love the perfume. I loved everything. Thank you.’
‘Listen, Viv, I know things have been different lately.’ He turned her around. ‘It’s strange, being here. I feel so much pressure for this new book, not just with the deadlines but because the first one wasn’t everything I thought it would be.’
She set the glass down. ‘What do you mean? The book sold more than you expected.’
‘That’s not it.’ He leaned against the refrigerator, crossing his arms over his chest. ‘You start with an idea, maybe something incredibly simple. In the case of Random Victim, it was a single idea that sort of blossomed in my head to form networks of meaning. At first it all seems so clear in a confused, inexplicable kind of way. Then you try to write it down. Some parts turn out almost exactly as you imagined but some seem so lacking, and you don’t know how to fix them.’
Vivian spoke carefully, as though the wrong word would break a spell and then he wouldn’t talk to her anymore. ‘If things change as you go along, that’s not necessarily a bad thing, is it?’
‘Ideas come along,’ he said, ‘and sometimes they are welcome additions, new avenues to explore.’ He stared at the linoleum, concentrated on its simple pattern. ‘But at some point it got away from me. I could feel it. It turned into something different from what I’d conceived.’
‘Everyone says the book is good.’
‘I’m proud of it, but it isn’t the book I planned to write, not really. With this book, I want to stay in control, finish what I start. It’s important to me that it turns out like I’ve planned it.’
‘Is that possible?’
‘What do you mean?’
She shrugged. ‘The way you updated the first book as you went along, that’s a more natural process, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe,’ he said, his eyes growing distant. ‘I’m going to work for a while.’
He’s like a faucet, she thought. In one instant, he shuts down and shuts me out. These rare glimpses of Nowell – what his writing meant to him and what forces drove him – always left her feeling isolated rather than closer to him.
She went into the living room and watched the end of the horror movie with Dot and Lonnie and that night, she slept comfortably for the last time before the weather changed.
Two days later, she was gathering laundry when she found the birthday package from her parents under a pile of clothes in the bedroom. Nestled inside the packaging material were a sketch-book and pencils (although Vivian had never drawn) and an art book on Édouard Manet. Her mother had scribbled a quick note in her tilted, hurried handwriting:
Dear Vivian,
Just saw a new Manet exhibit and picked up this book for you. It was an unexpected trip. Please spend the money on something fun for yourself. Talk to you soon. I’ll be home on Tuesday.
Love, Mom & Dad.
She took the book to the kitchen.
‘Where did you get that?’ Lonnie asked.
‘From my parents.’
He smelled of sweat and the grainy bitterness of beer. It was around noon and he’d been in town picking up a few groceries. He put down the bags and peered over her shoulder.
The cover of the book was a glossy reproduction of ‘A Bar at the Folies-Bergère.’ In the painting, the young barmaid stared sedately forward, her plaintive brown eyes revealing her despair, her empty spirit. She was the only clearly focused subject in the painting; the lace bodice of her dress and the sprig of flowers tucked inside, the gleam on her bronze bracelet – all were rendered with precise detail. In the background, the wide mirror shimmered back her surroundings, blurring the tables and patrons into patterns of muted color. The faces of the bar patrons were indistinct and in some cases, altogether blank. The mirror seemed to reflect her own perception, the vast, undulating plane of people she faced each night.
Lonnie asked: ‘Isn’t that the guy who painted that church a million times? I saw a documentary about him once.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘He had a pond and he couldn’t stop painting those lily pads…’
‘Oh, you’re thinking of Monet. With an “o.”’
‘Who’s this guy?’
‘Manet. Contemporaries, actually. They’re both Impressionists.’
‘What’s that? I’ve heard that before.’
‘They painted their surroundings in a new way,’ she said, ‘not naturalistically like when you see a picture of a regular tree or a lake. They gathered impressions of things, and tried to paint how the scene felt to them. Their impressions.’
Lonnie nodded.
Vivian remembered when they discussed Monet’s watercolors of Rouen Cathedral in Dr Lightfoot’s art history class. Flipping through several slides, Dr Lightfoot said that the forty pictures were evidence of a methodical and disciplined mind, perhaps even the work of a neurotic. To Vivian, Monet’s effort seemed extraordinary but unmistakably scientific. She wondered how someone could feel inspired to paint the same scene so many times. One good thing about Monet, Dr Lightfoot joked, you can see his work just about anywhere.
Lonnie paused at the screen door. ‘I want to look at that book later. Do you mind?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave it here.’
He started to whistle and went outside. Vivian brought the telephone to the table.
Her mother picked up on the second ring. ‘Hello?’ She sounded annoyed.
‘Mom?’
‘Vivian. How are you?’
‘Fine, everything’s fine. What are you doing?’
‘I’m cleaning up around the house a little. Your dad’s out back, pretending to cut down the weeds.’
‘Pretending?’
‘He does a poor job so I’ll hire a gardener.’
‘I thought you had a gardener.’
‘Ricardo? He quit over a year ago. I’ve been trying to get your father to do it. I tell him it’s to save money for retirement, but I really think it would be good for his health. He doesn’t get any exercise.’
‘I know,’ Vivian said.
‘He sneaks a book with him, tucks it under his shirt. He thinks I don’t know.’
Vivian laughed. ‘He probably knows that you know.’ She twisted the phone cord around her index finger, tightening until the tip turned red. ‘I called to thank you for the Manet book.’
‘You like the Impressionists, don’t you?’
‘Very much. You saw an exhibit?’
‘Yes. Sorry I didn’t phone you, Vivian, before I left. It was all a big rush. I had to fly up to interview a woman for my book about the volcano eruption. An incredible old lady, just recovering from her second stroke. I wasn’t sure how much longer she’d be around, so I decided to go up and get some preliminary work done.’
‘How long were you there?’
‘A week. The old woman, Mrs Pheola H. Roundtree if you can believe it, is eighty-six years old. The H is for Himalaya. Seems her mother was something of an eccentric; she gave each of her children a middle name after a mountain range: Sierra, Andes, Appalachia. Pheola has eight children of her own, all of whom were alive at the time of the volcano eruption. She was just thirty-five. Along with four of her neighbors, all mothers, she saved a group of school children.’
‘Saved them? How?’
‘The children attended school in an old church two miles from the volcano. When they heard the rumble, they all scurried up to the choir loft. At home, Pheola heard it too. She packed up her car with her four youngest children and a few neighborhood women and their young ones, and she drove straight towards the mountain to get her older children.’
‘Wow,’ Vivian said.
‘Along the way, they convinced two farmers to bring their tractors and a long, flat bed on wheels that they normally used for transporting fruit. When they reached the school, the lava was getting near and ash was falling like snowflakes. Pheola kept going back inside for children and in the end, they saved most of them. She suffered scorch burns on her arms and legs and she lost
some sight in one eye. The other mothers pulled her away as the lava rolled down the hill. They could barely see through the black air. There were three children and the young teacher left inside; one was Pheola’s oldest daughter.’
‘How awful. They just left?’
‘There wasn’t anything they could do. The farmers convinced her that the building would stand. They promised to go back after the lava receded, but the town was evacuated that evening. The first eruption was minor compared to the second one the next day. Every building in their small town was leveled, every tree razed and every living thing killed.’
‘Mom, that’s a terrible story.’
Her mother inhaled sharply. ‘But you should see this woman, Vivian. I felt so small in her presence. She was so matter-of-fact about what she did, almost embarrassed when I told her how impressive and inspiring her story was. Anyone would’ve done the same, she told me, and it still wasn’t enough.’
‘Where are the rest of her children now?’ Vivian asked.
‘Here and there, around the country. Most of them are doing well. She lost another daughter in an automobile accident, but the rest have lived long, full lives. She’s got twenty-two grandchildren and six great-grandchildren.’
‘What about her husband?’
‘Mr Roundtree died about ten years ago. Heart attack. Pheola said they threw him a big party for his seventieth. One of her sons has a house out in the country, and most of the family gathered there. She showed me a picture, everyone lined up and her and Mr Roundtree in the center, sitting on chairs. Remarkable woman.’
‘Sounds like it,’ Vivian said.
‘So that’s where I’ve been. What have you been doing out there? How’s the house coming along?’
‘We’re planning a yard sale. Dot and I have started organizing and labeling everything.’ She realized immediately how mundane this sounded after her mother’s story.
‘Did you see anything I might want?’
Vivian laughed. ‘I don’t think so, unless your style of clothing has changed dramatically since I saw you.’
‘No, still the same boring professor look.’
‘We’re hoping for a good turnout. There’s a big reunion in town that weekend. Maybe some of those attending will drive out here.’
‘What kind of reunion?’
‘The family name is Clement. William Clement founded the town. His descendants have a lot of power around here. They own just about everything: the newspaper, the radio station, restaurants. In the town plaza, there’s a big bronze statue of William Clement on a horse, like he was a war hero.’
‘Was he?’
‘What?’
‘A war hero?’ her mother asked.
‘No. In fact, he moved here just about the time the Civil War was breaking out.’
‘You’re saying he avoided service?’
‘I don’t know. There’s such a lack of objectivity about him that I find myself reading between the lines, looking for things to fault him with. They’ve been running historical pieces on the town and the Clement family in the newspaper, but it’s all propaganda.’
‘So how did he set about founding a town?’
Vivian shrugged. ‘The usual way. He brought in engineers to design the downtown area and he financed several of the early buildings. He started the first bank and helped people start farms and businesses. Most of the early real estate development projects have his stamp all over them. Even in recent years, Clements have built the town’s hospital and started a historical museum.’
‘That would make a good book,’ her mother said. ‘You have to admire people like that, Vivian.’
‘People like the Clements?’
‘I don’t know about the whole family, but you have to admire William Clement for his vision and accomplishments. To pick up and move your family across the country and start a new life, to put your money and your hard work into something you believe in – it’s rare.’
‘You hardly know anything about him,’ Vivian protested.
‘Just what you told me, but it’s enough. The man built an entire town. Do you know what that takes? People who act on their plans, people who make changes. Like Pheola. She’s a hero because she acted, without anyone inciting her to do it. She changed her life. Many people talk a great deal about what they would have done, what they could do, what they might do. It’s action that matters, that defines heroes.’
Vivian couldn’t remember the last time she had had such a long conversation with her mother. But she felt an underlying intent to her mother’s words and it made her uncomfortable.
‘It’s my one big regret, Vivie. I never did anything.’
‘What do you mean? You’ve traveled all over, you’ve written all those books…’
‘But I never did anything. Never fought for anything, never built anything, never made anything.’
‘You made me.’
‘Yes.’ She paused. ‘I know you may not always think so, but you’re lucky.’
‘Why?’
‘We’ve always encouraged you to learn. I may not have done anything to make the world a better place, but I have really enjoyed my life of learning. My father didn’t want me to go to college. He didn’t think I needed to, because I was a girl.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘I think he came to grips with me eventually. I venture to think that he might have been proud, in his own way.’
‘Mom?’
‘Yes?’
‘What would you have done?’
‘What?’
Vivian pressed the phone into her ear. ‘You said that you never did anything. If you could start again, what would you do?’
Silence clung heavy to the air, like thick paint on canvas.
‘I don’t know,’ her mother finally said. ‘I don’t know.’
The fires in the south began the following day, or at least, that was the first day Vivian read about them in The Sentinel, which still was delivered only on Mondays, Fridays, and Sundays. The heat was constant and unforgiving. Katherine knew a woman with a swimming pool, a fellow volunteer down at the grammar school, and a few times, she picked up Dot and Vivian and they went over and swam.
Lonnie had begun to prepare the outside of the house for painting, but none of them could bear the idea of beginning the work. It was too hot to work inside, too. Twice, Vivian went to matinees in town with Lonnie and Dot. The old theater didn’t have air conditioning either, but it was cool and dark inside. Lonnie talked them into seeing an action movie about the end of the world, and during the ‘Tribute to Classics Week’ in honor of the upcoming town festival, they watched a musical.
The heat wave continued for almost two weeks, right up until the week of the yard sale, the week that Clements began to arrive for the reunion.
25
Lonnie decided to cook a whole chicken in the ground. He purchased a huge clay pot, even bigger than the one he used for making his cobbler, and he simmered the bird in a concoction made up of a half-bottle of cheap white wine, the juice from two oranges, and a variety of herbs and spices the identity of which he would not divulge but which Vivian’s nose recognized to be dominated by the distinctive aroma of cilantro.
Vivian helped Lonnie carry his supplies to the woods while Dot lingered in the shower, refreshing herself after another sticky, warm night. Nowell was in the study as usual. Vivian transported the chicken, still snug in its plastic wrap and sealed with small metal staples, and Lonnie carried his cooking utensils and the mysterious brown bag of ingredients.
‘Feels like it’s going to break,’ he said as they rounded the house.
‘The bag?’ she asked.
‘No, the weather.’
There were patches of dry, straw-colored grass that crackled loudly underfoot. Nowell still hadn’t mowed the shorter sections and he hadn’t done anything about the knee-high parts further back. On a couple of occasions, Lonnie had offered to take a look at the rusty old mower in the shed, but Vivian tu
rned him down each time. It was a silent war she waged with Nowell, like the times she still opened the windows in the study. He promised to cut the grass and she’d hold him to it.
As Vivian clutched the chicken against her chest, a timid breeze tested the air. Lonnie was right: the morning was cooler than it had been for a while. They approached the thick line of trees, and she heard the soothing rustling of their leaves overhead. Once in the shade, the chicken felt cold against her body and she transferred its weight to both hands.
Set about fifty feet back and at an angle from the place where they had entered the woods, Lonnie’s cooking spot consisted of two landmarks: an unimpressive shallow hole lined with ash-covered charcoal, and the roundish boulder on which he instructed her to set the chicken. He moved the used pieces of charcoal to the edges of the pit and filled the center with dark, shiny pieces.
Vivian looked through the trees in the direction of Mr Stokes’s house. She hadn’t been in the woods since the night she trespassed on his property, the night she entered his house. ‘We should have been sleeping out here,’ she told Lonnie. ‘It’s so much cooler.’
Leaning over the pit, he looked up at her, grinning. ‘I did sleep out here, remember?’
‘Just that once?’
‘You said yourself, it’s nice and cool.’
She shuddered. ‘There are too many noises out here.’
‘That damn rooster clock in the house just about ticks itself off the wall.’
‘I’d rather be hot than eaten alive,’ Vivian said.
‘I think the weather is finally breaking,’ he said again. ‘Bring me the bird.’
Vivian lifted the chicken from the smooth rock and carried it to Lonnie. He lifted it and bit into a section near its headless neck, ripping the plastic wrap with his teeth.
‘Lonnie!’
‘What?’ He spit fragments onto the ground.
She watched him place the bird in the clay pot and pour the ingredients from a Tupperware bowl on top. The liquid was orange in color and filled with dark, floating bits.
‘Is that cilantro?’ she asked, whiffing at the air.
He looked surprised.
The Qualities of Wood Page 23