He shrugged. ‘Maybe that was the way he saw it. He might talk about things that were more important to him.’
Vivian sighed. ‘It’s not the greatest example. Writing fiction isn’t the same as writing history or choosing items for a museum.’
After some time, Dot fixed sandwiches and sliced a watermelon for lunch. They ate outside in the shade. Vivian poured the seeds and the pale pink juice from her slice of watermelon onto the grass and wondered if watermelons would sprout there, under the bushes at the front of the porch. Lonnie cut a large wedge from the end and held it to his face, spitting the seeds onto the ground like tiny black bullets. When Nowell came out for his sandwich, he was surprised that they’d sold the armchair already and asked how much they took for it. Then he disappeared again into the shady house.
After one o’clock, people arrived in a light but steady stream. Katherine stopped on her way home from the dry-cleaning store. She asked Vivian to set aside a leather tool belt for Max and promised to come back the next day when they could look more.
Vivian was helping an elderly woman search for sweaters through the stacks of winter clothing when another set of tires pressed the dirt of the driveway. An old blue-gray truck ambled along, patches of rust at the tire wells and along its tall underbelly. Dust swirled behind the back tires like smoke. At that moment, a police car passed slowly on the main road. Vivian only glimpsed the driver – dark sunglasses and bulky shoulders – but was certain that it was Sheriff Townsend. The cruiser climbed the small hill to town as the door of the blue truck creaked open. A man stepped down from the cab and shut the door firmly. He ran his hand over his black-and-silver hair. When his angular body cleared the truck, Vivian recognized the familiar, uneven rhythm of his gait, the way his legs swung forward in a series of connected jolts. Mr Stokes.
She raised her hand silently and he nodded. When Dot rushed over to greet him, she felt a slight pang, anxiety about entering his house that night. She hadn’t seen him for over two weeks, since the barbecue when he told her that he’d be away for a few days. He had dropped out of their lives as rapidly as he appeared, on that afternoon when he parted the trees and strode onto the undulating grass. Or was it something else she was feeling? She watched as Dot showed him the tools and outdoor equipment from the shed, leaning her head back and laughing, her teeth flashing in the sunlight like sparks.
The elderly woman found a white cardigan and a pale green pullover amidst the multi-colored piles. They walked together to the front table, where Lonnie was guarding the shoebox full of money and listening to a baseball game on the radio. After she gave the woman her change, Vivian found a plastic bag in the kitchen and slipped the sweaters inside. Mr Stokes had parked behind the old woman’s car; he went to move his truck so that she could pull out. Three people were poking around, and Vivian asked the most recently arrived if they needed help finding anything. When she looked over again, Mr Stokes had parked his truck along the main road and was making his way back up the long driveway. She met him halfway. ‘Hello there,’ she said. ‘Haven’t seen you around much.’
‘It’s been a while.’
She put her hand up to block the sunlight. ‘How did you hear about the yard sale?’
‘Saw your ad in the paper.’ He squeezed his hands into the tight front pockets of his blue jeans, hunching his shoulders and letting his elbows extend to each side.
‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’
‘I thought I’d look at your tools,’ he said. ‘And I could use a new dresser.’
Vivian looked towards the porch, where some smaller furniture was lined up against the house. She suddenly remembered that she had forgotten to have Nowell and Lonnie bring down the larger items from the attic. There was also the tall mahogany bureau, which she had considered keeping for themselves.
‘Actually, I do,’ she said. ‘Only I’ve forgotten to bring it out. It’s a short, long dresser. Medium-colored wood. Pine or oak, I guess.’
‘Reddish?’
‘Yes.’
‘Probably pine.’
‘You can see it if you want,’ she said. ‘It’s up in the attic.’
‘I wouldn’t mind taking a look at it. The one I’ve been using isn’t good for much anymore. The other day, I opened a drawer and the front panel came off in my hand. It’s an old piece of furniture, but it isn’t made well like some of those antiques are. My grandfather built it, and he wasn’t the greatest craftsman. More of a hobby.’
‘It’s lasted this long,’ Vivian said.
‘That’s true.’
They neared the front table, where Dot and Lonnie spoke in low tones.
‘Hey,’ Lonnie said to Mr Stokes. ‘How’s it going?
‘Trying to stay cool. Some heat wave.’
‘Sure is,’ Lonnie agreed. ‘Done any fishing lately?’
‘Not around here. I was up north a couple of weeks ago, went fishing for walleye with some relatives.’
Vivian stepped onto the porch.
‘Can I get you some iced tea, Abe?’
‘No, thank you. I’ll just take a look at that dresser.’
‘Come on in.’ She explained to Lonnie, ‘I forgot to have you bring down the furniture from the attic.’
‘Do you want me to do it now?’
‘No, that’s alright. I’ll just show it to Mr Stokes and we’ll interrupt Nowell in a little while to help you.’
Mr Stokes followed her into the dark kitchen.
‘The stairs are pretty steep,’ she said as she gripped the handrail. ‘At the top, there’s a trap door so you have to pull yourself up.’ She looked down at him. ‘Are you sure you want to come up?’
A lop-sided grin stretched across his face, his lips whitish like a scar. ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Gardiner, I can make it.’
Encircling the rail with his large, callused hand, Mr Stokes stepped onto the first step. Vivian stood over the opening and looked down as his head poked through like something bobbing to the surface of water. Easily, he pulled himself until he was sitting on the floor, then standing next to her in the attic.
A few assorted boxes, things they were keeping, were stacked in a pyramid against one wall, and the two pieces of furniture stood nearby. From another corner, the brass coat rack threw spindly shadows over the cleanly swept floor.
‘Here it is,’ she said. ‘I was talking about the shorter one, here, but if you’re interested in the bureau, we don’t have any definite plans for it.’
Mr Stokes ran his fingers over the dusty top of the dresser, then knocked on the side, listening to the sharp sound. The drawers slid smoothly when he tried them. Vivian found a rag near the boxes and wiped the front of the purplish bureau.
They spoke at the same time.
‘I found some of Sherman’s things,’ Vivian said, as he said, ‘How much are you asking?’
‘What things?’ Mr Stokes asked after a moment.
‘Clothing, mostly. A gun.’
Mr Stokes closed the bottom drawer and stood back a few feet, looking the dresser over.
Nowell is right downstairs, she reminded herself. You can hear everything from down there. ‘Did you ever see Sherman Gardiner here?’
He leaned back on his heels. ‘Sherman was the same age as my father. They went to school together.’
Vivian said: ‘But you’re older than Nowell,’ and her face flushed for saying it.
‘My father was just twenty when I was born,’ he said.
‘So your father knew Sherman?’
‘Yes.’
She hesitated, watching his face. ‘Nowell heard in town that your father, that he…’
He faced her, looked directly at her. ‘Was the one who shot Russell Gardiner?’
She gave a small nod.
‘That’s the truth,’ he said.
‘But why didn’t you say something?’
‘I thought you knew.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Nowell didn’t know.’
‘But
now he does.’
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe that explains why he was looking around my place,’ he said.
Vivian’s mouth dropped opened. ‘What do you mean?’
He ran his rough hand over the top of the dresser. ‘When he thought I wasn’t home.’
‘But, what…’
He turned away. ‘I’ll take the dresser, if it’s still for sale.’
‘Wait, Mr Stokes, uh, Abe. I don’t mean to accuse you of anything.’
‘You don’t?’
‘No, I don’t. It was a shocking thing for Nowell to hear, after all this time. No one was at your place.’
‘No one was?’ he asked, one black-and-gray eyebrow raised. ‘Someone was.’
Vivian didn’t know what to say.
He crossed his arms, his lean muscles twisting like braided rope. ‘I’ll tell you what I know, Mrs Gardiner. Then, I hope we’ll never have to talk about this again.’ Mr Stokes looked out the triangle-shaped windows at the end of the attic. ‘For a long time, my whole life just about, my father told me it was a terrible accident. He saw motion behind the blur of the trees and shot his rifle. That’s all. He was just a kid then, only fourteen or fifteen. His father took him along on hunting trips, but he never cared for it much. Only did it to please the old man.’ He leaned against the dresser. ‘I’ve heard the rumors.’
‘What rumors?’ Vivian asked in a low voice.
‘They say that Russell Gardiner was messing around with my grandmother. She was a looker, a real beauty queen, and he was a too-friendly neighbor. They say my father was just a kid but he knew about it. They say he shot Russell Gardiner on purpose, for messing with his mother. Is that close to what you heard?’
She nodded, embarrassed.
‘For all those years, it made me angry that my father had to live with this, this accident. It just about ruined him.’ The cords in his neck tightened. ‘Betty Gardiner was a good woman. She made a point of telling my folks she didn’t hold anybody responsible, but my father’s guilt was something nobody could save him from.’
‘It must have been very hard for him.’
‘Yes.’
‘And for you.’
Mr Stokes shrugged. ‘Children have a way of teasing each other. I had my share of misunderstanding. The worst part was the way Sherman treated me. He was almost a grown man when I was born, but he looked down on me. He felt like I’d taken the life that was robbed from his father. I was born five years after the accident, but I think it helped him to blame me.’
‘Did he do anything?’ she asked.
‘Tried to spook me, I think, in the woods. He and his friends used to shoot guns out there, get awful close to our place. Always gave me the evil eye in town. Before he moved away.’
‘How often did he come back here?’
‘Not much at first. I remember once he brought his two sons – they were just little tikes then – and one of them walked right up to my house. I guess now that it was Lonnie. Later, he came more often, especially in the last few years before I heard that he passed.’
Vivian lowered her voice. ‘What did he do here?’
Mr Stokes shifted on his feet. ‘I couldn’t say.’
‘Did he know Kitty Brodie?’
He met her gaze. ‘You’d have to ask her about that.’
‘You were a neighbor to both of them.’
His face spread into his lop-sized grin. ‘If it’s one thing I learned from living with those stories about the hunting accident, it’s don’t open your mouth about your opinion of things.’
Vivian walked over to Mr Stokes. ‘It was an accident,’ she said.
He hesitated, then spoke again. ‘My father had a long illness before he passed. He got weak and small before my eyes. That’s a hard thing for a son. Sometimes he’d get delirious, from the pain or the medication, I don’t know which. One time he said he was glad he shot Russell Gardiner.’
‘He didn’t mean it. He was dying, and…’
‘He said that he waited until everybody was off somewhere. Russell veered to the left, to cover the wide plank, and he followed…’
‘Enough!’ Vivian said, covering her ears. ‘We don’t know if that’s true.’
Mr Stokes gently pulled her arms down. His face was close; she could see the pores of his skin. ‘It might be,’ he said.
‘You shouldn’t repeat that story,’ she whispered.
He released her arms. ‘Don’t you think I feel responsible? I remember those boys when they were young, you see, and I know what it’s like, losing someone. They grew up without a grandfather, and I grew up without a father. He was never the same after the accident.’
Vivian stepped back, trying to process everything he had told her. He didn’t believe that his father had purposely pulled the trigger, but yet Jesper had confessed when he was dying. She was more confused than ever.
‘The minute something happens,’ Mr Stokes said, ‘that moment is lost forever. There’s no truth. Just stories. Just rumors. Isn’t it the same? I know people talk about that accident, even now, just like I know that they talk about Ronella Oates, and about Sherman and Kitty Brodie, and now, about Kitty’s daughter.’
‘What about Ronella Oates?’ Vivian asked.
He shook his head. ‘Ronella would sneak out and meet someone in the woods. She was staying at the house while my father was away. It gave her a kick, I think, to do it right under my nose. The man would park his truck along the main road, not far from the driveway over here, then meet her halfway back.’ Mr Stokes stared through the triangle of windows at the rustling treetops. ‘Everyone’s got a heart-break, Mrs Gardiner. It’s nothing special to me. But there’s something about the woods, haven’t you felt it?’
She looked where he was looking, through the windows. ‘No, I don’t feel anything.’ She turned back towards him. ‘But how can I find out the whole story, I mean, about Sherman and Mrs Brodie?’
A crease spread across Mr Stokes’s forehead. He wiped his palms against his hips. They made a dry, scratchy sound like paper. ‘Haven’t you been listening? The minute something happens, that moment is lost forever. So there is no story, not for sure, and even if there was, why would you want to know it?’
Vivian’s gaze traveled from the swirling trees to a complex spider web she had missed in the far corner of the attic, finally coming back to rest on Mr Stokes’s weathered face. ‘You agreed to call me Vivian,’ she reminded him.
In the twilight hours, business at the yard sale slowed again. The trees hung heavy with the day’s heat and a faint buzz sounded through the fragrant air. Lonnie hovered near Dot as she reorganized the tables, shifting and condensing, and he pulled tables where she wanted them. Dot had an endearing vulnerability, which had nothing to do with her size or physical strength, but more with her assenting demeanor, the way she listened and let people make up their own minds. Vivian had felt it from the first moment, when she emerged from behind Lonnie then blushed charmingly when he forced them to embrace. She made people want to take care of her.
Vivian had taken up residence on the foldout lawn chair. John Delaney’s book, Another History, sat in her lap but she was distracted; her thoughts turned constantly to her conversation with Mr Stokes. As Nowell and Lonnie loaded the short dresser onto the back of Mr Stokes’s truck, they waited on the porch with Dot. Mr Stokes asked if they were going to the festival the following weekend.
‘I’ll be gone for a few days,’ Dot said. ‘I’m going to visit my mother.’
‘That’s too bad,’ Mr Stokes said. ‘They’re already setting up a carousel and some tents across from the park in that empty lot.’
‘We’ll be there,’ Vivian said. ‘Will they have a Ferris wheel?’
‘I imagine they will.’
As Nowell pushed, Lonnie pulled the dresser up. His feet made dull thuds on the truck bed and when the end cleared the back, he jumped over the side, landing in a puff of dust. Nowell shut the tailgate, shaking it to make sure it
locked.
They watched as Mr Stokes backed his truck out of the driveway. The late afternoon sky was motionless, a hazy, darkening blue. Here and there a wisp of a cloud, almost translucent, streaked across the sky like a brushstroke. The leaves in the trees shone with a light layer of wax.
‘I’ll be heading to town in a while,’ Lonnie said to Nowell. ‘You should come along. We’ll probably just shoot some darts, maybe have a few beers.’
Dot walked down the steps to the lawn, where she busied herself moving around a stack of books.
‘When are you going?’ Nowell asked.
‘As soon as I have something to eat. Maybe that leftover pizza.’
‘I had the last of it for lunch.’
‘There’s some casserole left,’ Vivian offered.
‘Why don’t we all have dinner in town?’ Lonnie said. ‘Let’s go to that steak place.’
‘We ate there before you were here,’ Nowell told Vivian. ‘It’s in that mini-mall.’
‘That’s the one,’ Lonnie said. ‘Great burgers.’
‘You men and your feedings,’ Dot said.
‘How late do you think people will come for the yard sale?’ Nowell asked Vivian.
‘Not too late.’
‘I don’t really want to leave them alone,’ he said to Lonnie.
‘Don’t worry,’ Vivian said. ‘I don’t think anyone will come after dark.’
‘Why don’t we all go?’ Lonnie said again.
‘Somebody should be here,’ Vivian said. ‘The three of you can go.’
‘I’m staying,’ Dot said.
‘I’m tired,’ Vivian said. ‘Dot and I will put the smaller things away tonight, and tomorrow you can clean everything up. That’s fair.’ She thought it odd that Lonnie would go out, with Dot leaving in the morning, but it was none of her business.
After the men left, Dot went into the house to start packing for her trip, and Vivian leaned back on the porch swing. She watched the faded white planks as they swung, pendulum-like, over her head. But it’s really me that’s swinging, she thought. Maybe Mr Stokes is right, she thought. We’ll never know the truth of what happened that day, the truth of what was in Jesper Stokes’s heart, or any of them. What remains are the survivors, the stories, what people believe. But what if it’s all a misunderstanding? Couldn’t it be cleared up? Shouldn’t it be? What about the time she got lost in the woods? Sometimes, in a dreamy state or her quietest moments, Vivian wasn’t really sure what had happened. Did she wander off on purpose – it certainly seemed that she did – or did her guilt over the years lead her to believe that she had? Because it was terrible when her father came to get her, the way he clutched her and his coat buttons pressed against her side, the way his eyes glistened in the car and the way he lowered his head to her mother’s accusations. Did it really matter what happened, or were they just left to deal with what remained?
The Qualities of Wood Page 26