The Qualities of Wood. Mary White Vensel

her skirt swished lightly over her thighs when they danced together. But her mother’s world was too matter-of-fact for such things. She would say that Vivian didn’t need Scott or his approval, which Vivian, in her rational mind, already knew very well. But that wasn’t the point. He had made her feel small and she needed rebuilding. And she realized that once again, she’d have to do it herself. Her mother didn’t have the tools.

      In the afternoon, Vivian went out to retrieve the mail. She had just showered, and her wet hair slapped against her back as she walked. The dirt road in front of the house was smooth and packed, and the crew was working some distance away, about a hundred yards towards town. One man drove the roller truck over the thick asphalt, another marched ahead directing him, and a third leaned against a hand-held Stop sign. The man with the sign looked over and held up his hand. It was the one she had spoken to earlier. She raised her hand and turned abruptly, careful to pace herself up the driveway, feeling his gaze on her back. At the side of the house, she glanced over her shoulder and caught him watching her through the scattered trees.

      She wasn’t ready to go inside. She dropped the mail on the porch and proceeded toward the back yard. She stopped at the well Nowell showed her the day she arrived. Behind the brush and beyond the small shed, the well blended into its surroundings, its brick like the reddish parts of the earth, its chain and bucket like the drooping, leaf-heavy branches of the trees. Leaning over the side, she smelled mildew and metal. She picked up a small stone, dropped it inside, and waited for the small plunging sound. She listened to the sound of her name echoed down the cold tunnel, felt a chill on her face as it faded then disappeared.

      In the back yard, the sun beamed hot over the trees. She turned to see if Nowell was watching her through the window of his study, but the curtains were closed. She walked down the slope toward the line of trees that stood unyielding, their backs turned. They were closer than she had thought. She kept walking until she was immersed; their wide scaly trunks smelled old and sharp and their shiny leaves were a fluttering palette of greens. Vivian kicked earth up as she walked. A chirping sound came from her left and overhead, something scampered through a tree, the weight of its body rustling the leaves. She walked for some time, careful to look back once and again to keep track of how to get back. Through the density of trees, a rust-colored object caught her eye, appearing then disappearing among the wide trunks. Vivian watched for a moment. A sudden cracking sound echoed through the woods. She strained her eyes and made out a shirt, a flash of face. Must be that Mr Stokes, she thought. He’s cutting wood. She turned around and began to retrace her steps. A snapping sound reverberated as another log splintered, but this time the noise was followed by a long wail. Vivian perked her ears.

      ‘Ohhhhh.’

      She realized that the wailing was coming from the opposite direction. She was disoriented, looking one way then the other.

      ‘Oh, my poor baby.’

      Vivian ran towards the edge of trees. It seemed to take a long time but finally, the grassy field of their backyard appeared in glimpses through the trunks. She stopped. Three figures stood in the high grass at the peak of the gradual slope. The one in the middle, a woman, leaned on the arm of the tall man next to her. By his hat and bearing, Vivian recognized him as Sheriff Townsend. The three began to descend towards the woods.

      Behind her, she heard a branch snap.

      ‘Of course I’m sure,’ the woman said loudly, ‘I’ve got to see where my baby, I’ve got to, ohhh.’ Her voice faded and then, she gasped.

      Vivian had emerged from the trees.

      The sheriff, the woman, and the third person, whom Vivian now saw to be his deputy, stopped. They stared at her across the high grass.

      ‘Who’s that?’ Sheriff Townsend called.

      ‘It’s Vivian Gardiner,’ she called back.

      ‘Oh, Mrs Gardiner.’

      She kept walking and when she had almost reached them, Bud stepped to the side, looked over her shoulder, and said incredulously, ‘Now who could that be?’

      As they followed his gaze, a rust-colored figure emerged from the trees, walking purposely towards them into the light.

      Vivian heard a whooshing sound, like air pressed out of a cushion, and she turned back in time to see the sheriff reach across and catch the woman as she swooned, her knees buckling underneath her.

      10

      Sheriff Townsend steadied the woman, who shook her head and pressed a palm to her cheek. Vivian, the deputy, and Mr Stokes stood a short distance away, watching her.

      Vivian turned to Mr Stokes and whispered, ‘You scared me back there.’

      His eyebrows raised but he didn’t answer.

      The woman said, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t feel well.’

      ‘You had a fright when Mrs Gardiner came out of the woods,’ the sheriff told her. ‘This is Mrs Brodie,’ he explained. ‘She’s here to see where we found Chanelle.’

      ‘I’m so sorry about what happened,’ Vivian said, realizing as she spoke that it wasn’t quite the right thing to say.

      Mr Stokes shifted on his feet. ‘Mrs Brodie,’ he said.

      The haziness melted from Mrs Brodie’s face as the full realization of where she was and why she was there came back to her. Vivian wondered if she woke each day like that, forgetting for a few peaceful moments about her daughter’s death, only to suddenly and painfully remember. At Grandma Gardiner’s house, in the sleepy, early mornings, Vivian stared at the vague outlines of the furniture before they sharpened and took shape, smelling the unfamiliar scents of the house, the old wood of the doors and the starchy sheets, until she remembered where she was. Perhaps it was like that for Mrs Brodie, she thought, the slow focusing of perception.

      Vivian pictured a teenage girl with a round, childish face sprawled awkwardly over a large boulder. Her long hair was dark like Vivian’s, her face expressionless. The defiance of the obituary photo was gone; only a crumbled form, a spent energy. The girl’s arms were down at her sides.

      Mrs Brodie regained her footing, and the sheriff let go.

      ‘Like I mentioned,’ he told her, ‘Mrs Gardiner and her husband are staying in Betty Gardiner’s place for a while.’

      Mrs Brodie smoothed her green sweater. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’ Tears flooded her eyes. Her eyelashes left brushstrokes of mascara on her skin.

      Mr Stokes pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and stepped across the short distance to hand it to her.