The Qualities of Wood. Mary White Vensel
think I’ll get the book done out here,’ he said. ‘Do you think you can stand it for a year?’
‘Of course,’ she said.
The sun was completely gone now, the sky a darkening blue above the leaves, dotted with stars just blinking to life. In the cooling air, Vivian smelled the trees, like pine furniture polish but sweeter, and from somewhere, the faint scent of smoke. A small white light appeared amidst the trees.
‘Someone’s back there,’ she said.
She followed Nowell’s eyes as they picked up the white dot. It quickly turned into three more.
‘It’s probably that sheriff,’ he said.
‘What sheriff?’
‘From town. I thought they were finished when I left to pick you up. They’re looking for something.’
‘What?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘Isn’t that part of your grandmother’s land?’
‘Yes. That’s why he told me, I guess.’ Nowell broke away from her. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing. Maybe someone reported an injured deer or something. Let’s get your bag out of the truck.’
Vivian watched the lights a moment more. As Nowell tugged her toward the house, she glanced back over her shoulder beyond the high, swaying grass, which was quickly becoming invisible, still whispering in the wind and crackling again under her feet.
2
In the kitchen, Vivian opened and shut cupboards. Almost everything in the house had belonged to Nowell’s grandmother. In one drawer, crocheted potholders, in another, faded telephone books. Here and there she saw something of theirs – a block of knives, Nowell’s favorite coffee mug – and felt an odd kinship with the items. Their things stood out from the rest, their familiarity like a signal. Most of their belongings were still in a storage place outside of the city.
‘Where are the glasses?’ she asked.
Nowell pointed to a pantry door near the entrance to the hallway.
Strange place to put glasses, she thought. She would rearrange things in the morning.
‘You’re having beer?’ he asked.
There were three cans of beer in the refrigerator and she had set two of them on the table. Between them, steam rose from the bowl of pasta. Nowell went back to the oven for the bread.
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Do you want one?’
He nodded without looking at her.
Vivian’s chair cushion made a shhh sound when she sat. The backs of her thighs pinched as they stuck fast to the vinyl.
Nowell scooped noodles onto her plate. ‘They have a great deli and bakery at the grocery store in town,’ he said.
‘Doesn’t Lonnie like to cook anymore?’
‘Sure. He cleaned that barbecue off and grilled steaks one night. He also made apple cobbler in a clay bowl. Right in the ground, on hot coals. We ate the whole thing.’
Vivian looked around the pale yellow kitchen. The curtains were a darker shade, embroidered with daisies. Mustard-colored specks in the countertop almost matched the dark yellow of the patterned tile. When she had peeked in from the back window, all of the yellow in the room seemed strange and overdone. Sitting inside gave a different impression; the warm hue was soothing.
‘No dishwasher?’ she asked.
‘No, we’ve been roughing it.’
She remembered helping her mother with the dishes after a big, elaborate dinner, standing side to side, arms submerged in warm water. Vivian always rinsed. When she fell behind, her mother floated her hands in the soapy water and stared out the window until Vivian caught up. It felt good, like they were on the same team.
Nowell rose from the table and came back with a plastic tub of butter. She had a sip of beer and studied him. His hair had grown too long and he needed to shave the back of his neck. She thought maybe he had gained a few pounds. The older women who worked at the water management agency told Vivian that once you get married, men have no reason to keep themselves in good shape. They warned her about feeding him too much. But Nowell was tall and slender and had remained so, despite his sedentary job. Youth, the women told her. Just wait until you hit thirty.
‘How are your parents?’ he asked.
‘They’re fine. I think four weeks is beyond my threshold.’
‘Pretty tough going back?’
‘They haven’t changed.’
‘Did your mom have one of her formal dinners for you last night?’ He smiled. ‘I like the way she folds the napkins and puts place cards on the table.’
‘You wouldn’t like it so much if you grew up with that stuff. All that ceremony. And it’s more than just holidays. It was just the three of us this time.’
It had probably been Nowell’s lack of formality that had attracted Vivian to him in the first place. They met in a large Geology class in college: a hundred students enclosed in a theater-like lecture hall. Nowell arrived late, then ducked along the back row to avoid the professor’s gaze. As he slid into his seat, he grinned at her and she noticed his brown eyes, the playful cocking of his eyebrows. Later, they were assigned to a laboratory group together. He was impossible to resist – handsome in the dark way that she liked, smart, confident. Nowell told her later that he’d thought she was funny and independent.
Even back then he knew he wanted to be a writer. He took literature and history classes and published short stories in the undergraduate literary journal. Vivian didn’t settle on the focus of her own studies until her third year, when Nowell helped her decide on a Business major. She took the job at the WMA while still in school and just stayed on after graduation.
Nowell tore off a piece of bread with his teeth. ‘Did you get the whole deposit back from the apartment?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I also have my last paycheck, with the vacation time I didn’t use. And since I stayed the extra month, they said they’d forward my bonus.’
‘Good, we’ll need every bit. No paychecks for a whole year…’
‘But we’ve planned for this,’ she reminded him. ‘We’ve got the money from your first book.’
‘That’s not much.’
‘And the money your grandmother left, and the savings. As long as nothing unexpected happens.’
Nowell looked up from his food. ‘Did your parents drive you to the airport?’
She shook her head. ‘Dad had an early class, so it was just my mom, harassing me all the way.’
‘She thinks you should have kept your job since mine’s so lucrative.’
‘No. She still believes I’ve missed my calling in life, that I’ve overlooked some hidden talent.’
‘She thinks I’m holding you back.’
‘From what?’
‘From something that isn’t me,’ Nowell said.
‘I told her the move isn’t just for you. If I can get this house cleaned up,’ she motioned with her hand, ‘and it looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me, then we can make a little for us when your mom sells it.’
‘She sent some money,’ Nowell said. ‘My mom. She said buy supplies, paint, cleaning stuff, whatever. Keep the receipts.’
‘Do you really think the place will sell?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It seems so out of the way.’