The Qualities of Wood

by Mary Vensel White

  Vivian nodded. ‘Is there anything I can do? I mean, help you pack or talk to Nowell?’

  ‘Thanks. Lonnie’s going to take me to the airport. It’s not too far?’

  ‘No. It’s a tiny place, just one rectangular building with check-in desks on one side and the gates on the other. You’ll have a small plane like mine.’

  ‘I’m not crazy about that,’ Dot said. She opened the screen door, then turned back. ‘Lonnie’s afraid, you know? He feels like he’s finally getting Nowell to open up about things.’

  ‘What things?’ Vivian asked.

  ‘Family things.’

  ‘Lonnie should worry more about his temper,’ Vivian said.

  Dot looked surprised but didn’t say anything. ‘I’m leaving Sunday morning and I bought a return ticket for the next Saturday. I hope that’s okay. I’ll miss the fireworks.’

  Vivian nodded.

  The screen door bounced back and forth on its spring, gradually closing.

  Vivian took her purse outside and climbed into the truck. Lonnie was poking through the things laid out on the lawn. Both Vivian and Dot had asked him to look through the boxes for the sale, but neither he nor Nowell had taken the time. Now and again, Vivian asked Nowell about a specific item and she pointed out a few things to Dot for Lonnie. Beverly had told Vivian that Nowell’s aunts had already been through the house to claim the things they wanted. So most of what remained would be sold; the men attached little or no sentiment to the belongings of a grandmother they hardly knew.

  Vivian followed the now-familiar rolling road into town. When she pulled up to the elementary school, Katherine and two male teachers were standing in front of the building and the tables were propped against a brick wall. She parked near the curb and hopped down. The men were already moving toward the truck bed with the first table.

  ‘Right on time,’ Katherine said. She introduced the two teachers. ‘They’re in a hurry to get home. The principal decided to close the place tomorrow too, so everybody got a nice break.’

  ‘That’s great,’ Vivian said. ‘They’re having the big welcoming ball for the reunion, right?’

  Katherine snickered. ‘Yes, the glamorous formal affair is tomorrow evening. Not that any of us are invited.’

  Vivian laughed. ‘You’re a cynic.’

  Katherine put her arm around Vivian. ‘As for me,’ she said, ‘I’ll be attending the yard sale of my friend here. It promises to be a truly upscale affair.’

  Vivian had two copies of the yard sale flier to post. She thanked the men for their assistance and climbed back into the truck. Katherine waved. Vivian drove past the Best Western, where the billboard in front read: ‘No Vacancy.’ It also said: ‘Welcome Clements, One and All.’ When Vivian reached the narrow, tree-lined streets of the old, inner part of town, she parked the truck. Across the street, William Clement’s bronze statue stood proudly in the plaza.

  There was a marked difference in the town. Brightly clothed shoppers flowed down the central road; the bells of shop doors clanged as customers weaved in and out. Two street vendors had set up tables for business, both selling a variety of reunion souvenirs – t-shirts, books and postcards. The landscaped islands at each end of the street had been planted with bright pink and purple flowers, and a banner stretched overhead commemorating the date of the town’s founding and that of the current year. The community center was two blocks from the plaza. Above the steps that led into the building, Vivian noticed a group of people surrounding a table. One was Deputy Bud Winchel, outfitted in his uniform just as he had been the other times she’d met him. To his right, a slender woman in a cream-colored suit hugged a black notebook against her chest. Next to her stood another woman, as expensively dressed but shabbier in appearance, in part because of her curly brown locks, which sprung and leapt from her head like an explosion.

  Vivian began to climb the stairs and as she reached the top, the people behind the table came into view. Both were seated: a man with round, metal-rimmed glasses and a woman with long, dark hair.

  ‘How many vendors are licensed for this area?’ Bud asked.

  The white-haired woman opened her notebook and pulled out a piece of paper.

  ‘Two souvenir vendors, but also a table for materials from the museum inside and an information table for local businesses.’

  ‘So four tables, plus Mr Delaney’s here?’

  The woman perused another sheet of paper. ‘The information tables will have the position near the doors and the souvenir vendors should be away from the edge of the stairs.’

  ‘I believe there’s room up here for everybody,’ Bud said.

  The man at the table cleared his throat: ‘We’d be happy to move over, if someone else has reserved this particular space.’ His face was emotionless but pleasant, his eyebrows lifted slightly above his glasses. Next to him, the woman held a similar complacent expression. She gazed directly at the older women and at the deputy as each spoke. Her posture was rigid and her mane of black hair fell straight down her back like a cape.

  ‘Mr Delaney,’ the white-haired woman said tersely. ‘You applied for a permit in order to sign and sell copies of your book.’

  ‘And that’s exactly what I’m doing.’

  ‘If you had mentioned that your purposes were to distribute incendiary materials…’

  Vivian tried not to stare at the scene as she passed. Deputy Winchel acknowledged her with an almost imperceptible nod. She opened one of the glass doors at the entrance of the building and stepped inside. As the door closed, she heard the deputy’s voice: ‘Now, Mrs Montrose, the man has a permit. I’ve seen it. It’s perfectly legal.’

  The voices were softer but still audible through the door.

  ‘Excuse me, Deputy, but at the council meeting a few weeks ago, this woman was refused permission to attend this function.’

  ‘That is untrue,’ a feminine voice said. ‘I was denied admission to the reunion ball and a permit to stage a peaceful demonstration.’

  The man spoke. ‘She’s here as a friend to me, that’s all. She agreed to man the table with me and help me with sales of my book. She brought a small informational brochure with her, which I am allowing her to set out on my table, in case anyone wants to pick one up. We won’t be soliciting them in any way.’

  ‘It was agreed at the meeting that this is not the proper place for this type of brochure,’ the older woman said. ‘We held a vote, Deputy, and I expect it to be enforced.’

  ‘Now, Mrs Montrose, I know you’ve put a lot of work into this reunion, and I’d hate to see it start off on the wrong foot. I know your son still runs The Sentinel, but something like this could get out in other ways. It seems to me that these people intend to be peaceful and they’ve given their word that they won’t be approaching or agitating anybody.’

  ‘They’re agitating me, Deputy Winchel. Come on, Frances. We need to take our complaint to a higher authority.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Montrose, I just have no cause.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Deputy Winchel. I’m aware of your limitations.’ The women’s heels clicked sharply against the cement steps.

  Vivian turned away from the door and immediately noticed a young man at a desk in the center of the room. His thin, sandy hair was pulled back into a short ponytail that hung limply against the back of his neck. He raised his eyebrows at her and smiled. ‘Good conversation? I see one of the sheriff’s lackeys out there.’

  Vivian felt the heat in her face. ‘Just being nosy, I guess.’ She noticed that he held a book. ‘What’s that all about?’

  ‘She’s got a brochure that says she’s a Clement too, but they don’t believe it.’

  ‘Oh,’ Vivian said.

  ‘Are you here to see the museum?’

  ‘No,’ she said, then reconsidered. ‘Well, yes and no. First, I’d like to hang up a flier. Is there somewhere I can do that?’

  ‘Around this corner,’ he pointed, ‘there’s a bulletin board that says “Public Act
ion.”’

  ‘How much does it cost to enter the museum?’

  ‘Normally it’s free, but this weekend, it’s two bucks. One dollar goes toward defraying the cost of the festival and one goes into a museum improvement fund. Contributions in excess of this fee are encouraged.’

  Vivian handed him a five-dollar bill. ‘Seems like a good cause.’

  ‘Up the stairs and to your left, if you want to start in chronological order.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’m going to hang these first.’

  She walked to the bulletin board and pinned a flier at each end with bright-colored tacks, then scaled the steps to the exhibit.

  At the top, a white placard directed visitors with a thick black arrow and the words ‘Start of Exhibit.’ She walked into the first room, which was subdivided into cubicles hung with an assortment of maps, documents, and photographs. The building had the paper and ink smell of an old schoolhouse. Wood polished to dullness covered the floor and the doors were heavy and tall. The slapping of her sandals was loud and echoed because of the crude acoustics.

  Vivian stopped at a big map that was supposedly the one used by William Clement when he set out on his cross-country journey. The paper was faded and torn at the edges; the state boundaries were clearly outdated but the general terrain was distinguishable by certain features. She wondered if the land turned out to be as William Clement had imagined it, those times that he had stared at the map and plotted the town.

  Next to the map was a picture of the Clement family. Vivian leaned closer for a better look. In front of a modest, wood-framed house, Mrs Clement sat on a chair, nine children of varying ages surrounding her. The youngest was propped on her lap like a puppet, his plump legs straight out. In the back, William Clement towered over the brood, his shoulders thrust back and his hands on his hips. He looked rural and unsophisticated, nothing like the statue.

  Other photographs on display included images of the construction sites of several buildings in town and the blurred, brownish frames of town picnics and dances. In each, the people were dressed in modest style. The women wore long, simple dresses belted with calico aprons. Young girls wore shift dresses with white scallops around the collar and at the ends of the short sleeves. Young and older men dressed alike in plain, light-colored shirts and dark pants, the boys’ reaching just above their knees.

  Vivian found scant evidence of the Native Americans that Katherine had said populated the area at the time. Only in one picture, taken at the house of William Clement’s son, Edward, did she spot one. In the photograph, the family was gathered under the shade of a wide willow tree. Edward and his wife, a wispy, pale-haired girl, had several young children. The wife held their small daughter and a young woman behind her held a baby. The woman had dark hair that was pulled into a large knot and was identified only as ‘Maid’ in the explanation below the photograph.

  Another corner of the room was dedicated to a technical description of the farming that had been developed in the area. In this display, one sentence acknowledged the help of ‘Indian labor’ in the planting and harvesting of the fields.

  Vivian walked slowly through the exhibit, which consisted of the first room then another filled with artifacts. There, she viewed garments of the type she’d seen in the photographs, and a display of crude utensils and tools. When she glanced at her watch, she was startled to find that it was well after two o’clock. She still had to get the tables home and finish setting up for the sale.

  She hurried down the stairs and passed the young man’s desk, now unattended. When she pushed through the front door, the afternoon sun burned her eyes. The woman sat, unmoved, at the table. The man was gone. As Vivian approached, she noticed the title of the books set out on the table: Another History: The Story of a Frontier Family. She smiled at the woman and picked up a copy. On the back cover, it said that Mr Delaney had written an autobiography about his experiences as a member of a prominent family and about his discovery of another, hidden side of that family, the Native American side. She wondered how Mr Delaney had snuck past the reunion censors. ‘How much does the book cost?’ she asked.

  ‘Fourteen ninety-five.’ The woman’s eyes were the brown of rich coffee, her lashes shiny and dark. ‘But I’m afraid the author has stepped away for a soft drink, so you’ll have to wait if you want it autographed.’

  Vivian picked up on the brochures laid in front of the woman in neat stacks. The title on those was An American Family and there was a photo of the woman when she was a bit younger, next to a photo of William Clement. ‘Are you a relative?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, extending her hand. ‘Delta Clement Burnside. You?’

  ‘No,’ Vivian answered. ‘Vivian Gardiner.’ She slipped the brochure into the book. ‘I’ll read this,’ she said, then fumbled around in her purse until she found fifteen dollars. ‘Maybe you could give him this for the book?’

  The woman nodded serenely. There was something so self-assured about her, it was almost irritating. Vivian couldn’t help but think she could be a little more forceful in presenting her case, but then she realized in thinking this, she was doing what those cranky old women were doing, expecting the woman to prove herself.

  She remembered what her mother had said: They talk a great deal about what they would have done, what they could do, what they might do. It’s action that matters. It hardly seemed fair that Delta Clement Burnside was forced into some type of action, when all she wanted was acknowledgment of a fact.

  Vivian thanked her, walked to the truck and climbed up. From her elevated position, she left the town’s now-bustling streets and headed back to the old white house.

  27

  At eight o’clock the following morning, two cars pulled into the driveway as Vivian was bringing out the last few items for the yard sale. Both cars were four-door, older sedans; one a white Oldsmobile and the other a light blue Chrysler. A woman stepped from each car; both were middle-aged and dressed in coordinating running suits and clean white sneakers. They seemed to know each other but went separate ways. Business-like and somber, they walked around the yard, pausing here to take a blouse from its hanger or there to pick up a glass and check for imperfections in the white morning sun.

  Directly in front of the porch, Vivian had set up one of the tables and two chairs from the kitchen. She hadn’t yet brought out the cookies, but she offered the women coffee.

  Within minutes, they had scanned the contents of the yard. They met up again at the porch, where one of them asked if the rust-colored armchair could be brought into the sunlight. Vivian called for Lonnie, who was cooking his breakfast in the kitchen, and he easily lifted the chair and set it on the lawn.

  The woman stood a few feet away, her forefinger pressed to her lips, then she circled the chair with long, slow strides. ‘I’ll take it,’ she said.

  Lonnie hoisted the chair into the expansive trunk of her car and tied the door down with the hooked, elastic cord she gave him.

  The other woman bought the small end table from the living room, a wooden magazine stand and three cotton blouses.

  Vivian and Lonnie waved as they got into their cars. The woman in the Oldsmobile almost backed into a car that was trying to turn into the driveway, and both cars paused at the entrance to the main road, waiting to see what the other would do. Finally, the Oldsmobile ambled onto the asphalt and the new car took its place in the driveway.

  ‘This is a good start,’ Vivian remarked.

  ‘No kidding,’ Lonnie replied. ‘What time is it, anyway?’

  ‘Just after eight.’

  ‘These people aren’t messing around.’

  Vivian waved at the next customers, a young couple with a baby in a portable car seat.

  The pace was bound to slacken and it did, shortly after nine o’clock. By that time, Lonnie had taken up a relaxed position on the foldout lawn chair, with the previous day’s copy of The Sentinel and a steaming mug of coffee. Two more cars had arrived after the youn
g couple, but they’d been the last of the early morning sale hounds. The young couple bought some linens and a portable radio, and an elderly man looked at the couch for a while but eventually decided against it. Another woman spent almost five dollars on books. Mid-morning passed slowly; each time they heard a car noise, they perked their ears but only one more car stopped before eleven-thirty.

  ‘Maybe a lot of people are working today,’ Vivian said to Dot as they thumbed through magazines at the table.

  ‘Have you seen any cars from out of state?’ she asked. ‘You know, people who might be here for the reunion?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘What was it like in town yesterday?’ she asked Vivian.

  ‘The parking lot at the Best Western was filling up,’ she said, ‘and there were people up and down the main street. I’ve never seen it so busy. Did I mention that I stopped by the museum in the community center?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There was a woman there with a brochure. She claims to be a Clement but they’re keeping her out of the reunion. She came with a friend who’s a legitimate Clement.’

  Dot shook her head. ‘They should be ashamed.’

  ‘They have a museum on the second floor,’ Vivian said. There’s a special exhibit on the Clements. Maps, photographs, old clothing.’

  ‘Did they have any old guns?’ Lonnie piped up from his lawn chair.

  Vivian smirked. ‘Is this a new interest of yours?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘They had a couple of guns. Oh, and a big sword that was a keepsake from William Clement’s grandfather or something. It had the old family crest engraved on the handle.’

  ‘Really?’ Lonnie said. ‘I should go down there and check it out.’

  ‘That’s why I was late getting back.’

  ‘Was it interesting?’ Dot asked.

  ‘Yes, but everything seems like propaganda. You don’t know if you’re getting more than one side of the story.’

  ‘One side of a story is all people have,’ Lonnie said.

  ‘What if Nowell wrote a book about your family,’ Vivian said, ‘only he left you out completely or just mentioned you once or twice?’