The Qualities of Wood. Mary White Vensel
would, as they had both learned to do, drop the argument before they reached the unsolvable issues at its center. ‘Knock, knock,’ she said loudly.
The faint clicking sound ceased and she waited while he took a moment, only a brief moment, before his voice called out in answer to hers, ‘Come in.’
9
The funeral for Chanelle Brodie was small and uneventful. The Sentinel printed a short obituary and a news article that summarized and in effect, closed the case of her death. The coroner ruled it an accident. The photograph printed with the obituary looked like a school photo, grainy and white-framed. Chanelle had a round, heart-shaped face, full lips and straight, dark hair. She looked like an average teenager, but Vivian saw something in her eyes, a spark of defiance. Fearlessness, Katherine had called it.
Work on the house proceeded. Twice, Vivian drove into town to deliver clothing and other small household goods to the Salvation Army. There was an old hand-held blender, a metal juicer, a set of hot hair rollers. Boxes of towels and sheets, bags of knick-knacks: candleholders, glass figurines, homey plaques. Things she didn’t think anyone wanted, but Vivian felt a twinge with each item. She couldn’t help but imagine someone going through her own things after she was gone. The personal items were harder, a drawer of nail polishes and files, a small box of costume jewelry, a gold, silk-trimmed bathrobe. Things that meant nothing to others but probably quite a bit to Grandma Gardiner.
The larger items, the newer things and everything else would be saved for a yard sale. Vivian was getting used to driving the truck. On a third trip into town, she and Nowell saw a matinee and did some grocery shopping. He was in high spirits that day, having just finished a major segment of his book. In the empty theater, they ate popcorn and joked through the entire film, a mediocre comedy about a man with supernatural powers. Then they went home and lounged in bed until dinnertime. It was a glimmer of their old life.
The crew working on the road was progressing rapidly. In the afternoons when Vivian walked to the mailbox, she could see them at a distance, their trucks and orange flags moving closer until they were over the small hill and finally, nearing the house.
One morning, someone knocked on the door while Nowell was still in the shower. Groggy and squinting in the yellow kitchen, Vivian opened the door in her robe.
‘Morning, ma’am.’ Five feet from the screen stood a man in an orange vest. ‘I’m with the county. We’re paving the road out there.’ White teeth gleaming from his tanned face, he said this like a question.
She nodded, smoothing her hair back.
‘We’re set to start in front of your house. You need to get out?’
‘I hadn’t planned on going anywhere today,’ she said.
He leaned back onto his heels. ‘We’re mostly smoothing and clearing today. Tomorrow we lay the asphalt.’
‘So we can get out today?’
He nodded, taking in her legs under the short robe. ‘We’ll try to get it down early tomorrow. Should take most of the day to set. You’ll have to stay put then.’
Vivian noticed his attention and adjusted the robe around her neck. She noticed his broad shoulders, his rugged and dirty hands and the roughness of his skin. ‘Well, thanks for letting me know,’ she said.
He nodded, staring.
Vivian closed the door, her face flushed.
Nowell poked his head around the corner. ‘Who was that?’
‘Someone from that road crew,’ she told him. ‘They’re working out front today and tomorrow, so if we need to go anywhere we should go today.’
‘That was fast. I thought it would take them longer.’ He walked back into the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist.
She thought that maybe the road was to be finished in time for the reunion Katherine told her about. It was for the descendants of the town’s founder, William Clement, and would be held at the end of the summer. The ballroom at the local Best Western had been rented out and hundreds of people were expected.
The newspaper had run a few stories about the reunion. In a biographical piece about William Clement, Vivian learned that he came from old money, much of which he invested in the town. Most of the older downtown section was built under his direction; he financed the construction of the Sheriff department, the Post Office, and the office building for town officials, which now served as a community center. He populated the buildings with relatives and friends, even appointed his oldest son as the town’s first sheriff. He opened a bank and began to help people build homes, run farms and start businesses. Various real estate developments were handled from a corner office with windows that looked out over the plaza where he was now immortalized in bronze.
The newspaper story named a few singular descendants, those who had risen to some level of greatness. One of Clement’s sons had served three terms in the state senate, and a granddaughter had a short-lived career on Broadway. Katherine claimed that William Clement sired another batch of descendants with several Native American women who worked for him, but this lesser-respected line was not identified in the article. When Vivian mentioned this to Katherine, she merely laughed and said, ‘Who do you think owns the newspaper?’
Her thoughts returned to the construction worker, his bold stare. Why is it always like that, she wondered. You always have to be on guard. And yet a part of her was flattered and excited, and she couldn’t help but pull back the kitchen curtains to catch a glimpse of the crew where they worked further down the road.
In high school, a boy had taken Vivian to a party then abandoned her near a cavernous overpass, a concrete structure lined with yellow lights, when she wouldn’t do what he wanted. He was a popular boy, one whom everyone liked and admired, and up until his fit of anger, Vivian had been feeling quite special. As he drove off, she pulled her jacket around her throat and watched the receding taillights. Then she walked to a convenience store and called home. Her mother was up late reading.
Once Vivian was inside the family Buick, her mother stared at her. ‘Are you alright?’ she finally asked.
‘Yes,’ Vivian said.
‘You smell like a brewery.’
Vivian didn’t answer. Being in the car, drunk, with her mother, was surreal. Outside, things looked strange and desolate and lonely. The sole cashier in the mini-mart watched them over the stacks of newspapers.
Her mother turned the car onto the empty road. ‘So what happened?’
‘I told you,’ Vivian said, ‘I couldn’t get a ride home.’
‘I thought that boy who picked you up would be bringing you back.’
‘So did I.’
‘If he drank as much as you, I hope he’s not driving.’
She shrugged.
‘Listen, Vivian, I’m relieved that you called me.’ She ran her hand through her curly reddish hair.
From the side angle, Vivian could see smudges on her oval glasses, places where her fingers had been.
‘I even understand this rebellion to some extent,’ her mother said in a practical tone. A lecture tone. ‘It’s very natural, I suppose. I don’t want to make a big deal out of it.’
‘Good,’ Vivian said, thinking: here it comes.
‘What I am concerned about, however, is your general lack of purpose. You’re not getting the kind of grades that’ll get you into a good college.’
Vivian groaned.
‘That’s what I mean. You’d cut off your nose to spite me. Why? If I told you not to go to college, would it make you want to go?’
‘I don’t know.’ She leaned her head against the seat and closed her eyes.
‘I suppose