The Qualities of Wood. Mary White Vensel
‘Besides, you haven’t seen the town yet. It has modern conveniences.’
‘Do they have a movie theater?’
‘I think they do,’ he said.
‘It’s probably a drive-in.’ She rose and took her plate to the sink.
Nowell came up behind her. ‘A drive-in might be fun.’ He kissed her just behind the ear, dropped his hands to her waist. His breath was warm. ‘We could take our new truck and break it in.’
‘Your new truck,’ she said. ‘I don’t think my feet will reach the pedals. I’ll have to get those stilts that handicapped people use.’
He slid his hands upward from her stomach and she stepped back, forcing him to move away.
‘Let me rinse these dishes,’ she said, ‘so there won’t be ants or mice or whatever lives out here. I’ll be there in a minute.’
‘Deal.’ He grabbed his beer from the table and leaned his head back, swallowing the last of it.
‘Will you start unpacking my suitcase?’ she asked.
He tossed the empty can into the trash and walked down the hallway.
Vivian hid a smile, imagining his reaction. She had purchased new lingerie, an emerald satin chemise and shorts, and packed it at the top of her bag for him to find. She hurried to clear the table.
Her attraction to Nowell was reliably strong, especially after a month’s absence. There was something so comforting about the feel of his arms, something still so exciting about their legs entwined, her long hair spilling around them. She lost herself during their intimacies.
Afterwards, they turned down the quilt and lay on the bed backwards, looking out at the moon. The carved headboard blocked part of the window, which was wide and low like the one in Nowell’s study. The moon, almost a full circle, sat in perfect view over the trees. There were so many more stars in the country, Vivian thought. The night was lit up by them.
The bedroom had been his grandmother’s. It was small and exactly square, just wide enough for the bed and two wooden nightstands. Each table held a lamp shaped like a lighthouse, white with black details, the light beaming from the top. On the far wall hung an oil painting, a picture of a house and the surrounding field but the colors were strange: orange grass, green sky, a pink, tilted roof.
Nowell lay still, the sheet draped over his mid-section like a loincloth.
‘You’re quiet,’ Vivian said.
He brought his arm around to rest heavily on her stomach. ‘I guess you haven’t changed your mind about things.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because of what you said just now, at the end. And you’re drinking beer.’
Vivian tensed. ‘It’s not even the right timing. Besides, you promised you wouldn’t bring this up for a while.’ She swung her legs around and sat on the edge of the bed, then leaned over and picked up the green chemise.
‘I know. Sorry. Come on, don’t be mad.’
‘You’re always thinking about having a baby,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it enough for now that I’m here?’
‘I just don’t see why, I mean, I thought we agreed to talk about it.’
‘I’m not having this conversation again.’ She found her shorts underneath the pillow at her feet and pulled them on. ‘I’ve had a long day traveling. I want to wash my face, and I might drink that last beer before I brush my teeth.’ She added this last part to annoy him.
It worked. ‘I have a lot on my mind too,’ Nowell said. ‘Just forget it.’ He turned his back to her and pulled up the sheet. He left the blanket bunched at his feet. A ceiling fan whirred overhead, stirring the warm air into feathery layers of discontent.
Vivian walked down the hall and looked into the other rooms, flipping lights on and off. There were two bedrooms across the hall. In one, a small white dresser sat opposite a double bed. The other was filled with boxes.
In the kitchen, she opened the last can of beer and took a long drink. A narrow, circular staircase jutted through the ceiling in the far corner of the room. An odd entry to the attic, the room with the triangular windows.
She had to step down when she walked into Nowell’s study because it was built lower to accommodate the slope of the land. Feeling along the wall for a light switch, she remembered that Nowell had said there was no electricity. She let her hand drop. Moonlight reflected from shiny surfaces and her eyes began to focus in the darkness. To her left, a narrow, cluttered bookshelf extended to the ceiling. To her right, a brown leather couch took up most of the wall. Against the window was the antique secretary. Vivian noticed the thick electrical cord that ran down the center of the room and into the kitchen. A metal floor lamp sat beside the desk, connected to the cord. She didn’t turn it on.
She looked at the backyard, the expanse of grass that stretched to the thick line of trees, now silver in the moonlight. She thought about the bouncing lights they’d seen and wondered how much of the land belonged to them, at least for a time.
The paper tray of Nowell’s printer extended over the side of the desk. A stack of freshly printed sheets was in the wire holder. She picked up one page and squinted to read it in the dim light.
She was young and fast, a girl who knew too much and would soon understand why this was dangerous. She walked with purpose, swinging her lush hips and her long silky hair, as she glanced back over her shoulder at him, beckoning. He was unaffected at first, watching her this way, but his interest grew and he determined to see her. He waited, for days it seemed, always looking for her at the usual time, at the usual place, but for days and days she didn’t come. He grew restless, angry. She was the kind of girl who didn’t keep people waiting for long, and now here he was, waiting like a fool.
Vivian placed the paper back with the others in the tray. Nowell liked to give her portions of his writing in his own good time, like gifts meted out to an impatient child. His first book was a murder mystery and from the looks of it, this new one was too. It seemed strange that a sensitive, easy-going person like Nowell would write about deranged people and horrific events but it was imagination, which could come up with just about anything, she supposed.
Why couldn’t he be content with just her, at least until they could get back to the city? Their life wasn’t suited for a family right now, she thought. There was no room.
In the kitchen, she poured the last of the beer down the sink. With the yellow-patterned tile under her bare feet and only the thin layer of green satin against her skin, she was getting cold. She turned off the light and felt her way along the wall to the bedroom. In the morning, she would take a better look around.
3
The sun rose at the front of the house and gleamed through the kitchen window, bright and overwhelming, like a camera flash. Vivian liked the room’s energy, the unrelenting yellow a shock to her senses.
The place needed a lot of work. The house had stood abandoned for almost three years and every cupboard and closet was stuffed with clothing, books, papers, the assorted junk of a household. The boxes in the bedroom at the end of the hall needed unpacking, their contents dispersed between the Salvation Army and the dump. Vivian would have to go through everything.
The real work would begin after the sorting and clearing. The entire house needed a fresh coat of paint, inside and out. Many of the curtains and shades could be salvaged, but needed washing or mending. A couple of the windows were rusted shut. Repair jobs ranged from a broken doorknob to the huge mildew stain on the ceiling in one of the bedrooms. The attic was its own unique challenge, as Vivian discovered after breakfast.
The stairs from the kitchen were steep and narrow, blocked at the top by a trap door. Vivian pushed and with a reluctant groan it swung open, landing with a bang on the floor above. She pulled herself up and looked around, surprised