The Qualities of Wood (16 page)

‘Me, too,' Vivian said.

‘I used to want to invent things,' Dot said. ‘As a kid, I would spend hours and hours sitting around, trying to think of inventions. I thought a lot about being a scientist. There was a chemistry set I wanted so badly one year.'

‘I didn't know any girls who thought about being scientists.'

‘Neither did I.' Dot swung her legs from the swing. ‘I worked at it, though. I mixed up secret ingredients, collected spare parts, things I found in the street. Once I thought I could invent something to bring things back to life.'

‘Like what?'

‘Eventually people, I thought. It was a potion. It had
Still Grow
in it, you know, that plant food for bigger tomatoes, and I used eggs, since I had recently found out that they were actually unborn chickens.'

‘Brains,' Vivian said, grinning. ‘How old were you?'

‘Ten or eleven. I don't remember what the other ingredients were, but there was a simple kind of logic to all of them, you know? The main thing was the
Still Grow
, I remember that. I had a parakeet that died and I kept it hidden under my bed for almost three weeks. Every morning and every night I'd put the secret potion down its throat with a medicine dropper.'

Vivian handed Dot a towel. ‘For three weeks?'

She nodded. ‘It started to smell of course, but I really wanted the bird back. I'd only had it for a few months. My dad gave it to me. By the time it died, my father was already gone.' She reached over and picked up some silverware to dry.

‘What finally happened?' Vivian asked.

‘To the bird?'

She nodded.

‘It shriveled up, got smaller and smaller. At first I pretended that it was transforming into another life form. Even then, I'd seen too many science-fiction shows. It was strange, you know, the way it shrunk. Like it was collapsing into itself. Sometimes I think about that on days when I feel like being alone, you know, when you want to stay in bed all day. I think about collapsing into myself, like that bird. Maybe that's how death feels.' She shook her head slightly. ‘Anyway, I had this whole method for giving the bird the secret potion. I'd tie a bandanna around my face because of the smell. I kept it in a shoebox. Oh, and I wore gloves, you know, the kind for washing dishes. So all of this stuff was under my bed, and my mom found it.'

‘She could smell it?'

‘No. She went on a rampage one day, clearing all of my dad's things out of the house.'

‘Oh.'

‘Normally she wouldn't have come into my room.'

‘Was she mad?' Vivian asked.

‘Not really. When I came home from school she told me that she had thrown my bird away, and I went out to the garbage can and there was everything—the gloves, the box, the bandanna laid over the top. There were stacks and boxes of things next to the trash, all of my dad's belongings. His clothes, his old record player. The shoebox was on top of his collection of
Playboys
.'

‘Didn't your mom think it was strange that you'd kept a dead bird?'

Dot shrugged. ‘I was always doing weird things. Only child, you know?'

Vivian dried the last piece of silverware and set it in the drawer. ‘My friend Diane's father kept
Playboys
in his night stand,' she said. ‘She was my best friend from the second to the fifth grade. We used to sneak in and look at them.'

‘Really?'

‘It was one of the most exciting things about going to her house. We'd pick favorites and pretend to be models.'

Dot shrugged. ‘I saw them all around my house, so it wasn't a big deal with me, you know?'

‘I always thought it was strange that my dad didn't have any,' Vivian said. ‘I looked all over, but never found anything except history books and news magazines.'

‘Maybe you just never found them.'

‘No. He didn't have any. I'm sure he didn't.'

The sun was descending, leaving a twilight of smoky air and quiet. The trees, a natural frame to the scene, had grown silent since the felling of their tall, seasoned brother; the air was unnaturally motionless, the moon a chalky impression on the sky. As the day drained away, the men's voices grew louder and then quiet again. Vivian went into the house and heard the traveling remnants of conversation as the party broke up, then the grinding of dirt and metal as someone put the domed lid back on the barbecue and wheeled it into the shed.

Vivian's mother once spent a month interviewing descendants of coal mine strikers and researching black lung. She was gone the entire month of August that year; Vivian was sixteen.

Vivian and her father had always gotten along in a quiet, comfortable way. They talked about worldly things such as baseball or foreign affairs, or local things: their cranky next-door neighbor, what to have for dinner, the items Vivian's class was including in their time capsule. Or they were quiet together, watching television or sitting with their books or magazines, sharing tidbits from their reading now and then as Vivian imagined he and her mother did. Her father was an equalizing force to her mother's high-strung ways, a ground to absorb the shocks of her irregularities. Vivian relied on his steadiness. Because her mother often had evening classes or was working on a book, Vivian and her father became fast-food connoisseurs, sometimes eating out every night of the week.

As a young man, her father had been straight and lean, with a full head of dark hair and muscular legs. Vivian saw a high school picture. His hair had thinned on top, but he still combed it straight back. The points over his temples receded further each year, making his face larger. At the time her mother left for the book on black lung, he had recently quit walking the two miles to the university as had been his custom in the warmer months. The lack of exercise and unhealthy diet had taken their toll; at forty, her father seemed in some ways like a much older man.

That summer she was sixteen, Vivian enjoyed the great freedoms that her mother's trip afforded. Her father was teaching a summer class three afternoons a week, and her curfew had recently been adjusted by one hour. She half-heartedly looked for a
summer job. She had one interview at a convenience store, but her mother wouldn't allow her to work past nine o'clock.

Vivian's best girlfriend at the time didn't have a job either. Linda lived in a large, two-story house with a tennis court and pool in the back. Vivian spent most of her days there, watching television or laying out on lawn chairs, hoping to catch a glimpse of the two good-looking brothers who lived next door. She and Linda played tennis sometimes, but Linda was bored with the sport. And there were parties on the weekends, and hanging out at the mall. Linda had her driver's license and a brand new convertible. They drove everywhere, showing off around town.

At home, Vivian and her father passed each other like two lodgers in a hotel. She often stayed for dinner at Linda's and sometimes, she'd notice his failed attempts at cooking dumped into the trashcan, or the cardboard and paper remnants from whatever place he had stopped for a burger or burrito. A few times they went to their old favorite restaurants, but they brought their meals home. Vivian suddenly felt awkward eating in public with her father. Besides, she didn't want to miss any calls.

When she was home, she spent most of her time in her bedroom, talking on the telephone or listening to the radio. Her father sometimes checked on her before he went to bed, and Vivian would let him know if she'd be home for dinner the next day, or whether she'd be sleeping over at Linda's.

After a couple of weeks of this schedule, her father knocked on her door one night.

She was talking on the telephone as usual.

He opened the door slowly and peered in. ‘Can you hang up the phone? I want to ask you something.'

Vivian's eyes rolled back in her head, almost before she could stop them, but she ended the call. Her father stepped inside, leaving his hand on the doorknob. He cleared his throat. ‘Would you like to go to a movie on Saturday, a matinee? They're showing that new one, about the alien.'

‘Linda said that movie was stupid,' she said.

‘Or another movie. Your choice.'

‘What time?'

‘In the afternoon. I told your grandparents that we'd come over for dinner afterwards.'

‘This Saturday?'

‘Yes, this Saturday.'

She pushed herself up. ‘I can't. I already have plans to spend the night at Linda's.'

She watched the transformation in his face. The corner of his mouth twitched and his jaw went rigid.

‘You'll have to change your plans,' he said. ‘I've already told them, and we're going.'

‘But…'

‘Listen, Vivie. You've had your run of the place for these two weeks. You know as well as I do that your mother wouldn't let you spend every weekend at your friend's house.'

‘Yes, she would.'

‘Well, I won't,' he said. ‘I've asked you for one day.'

‘But we're doing something special that night.'

His tone was flat. ‘Reschedule your plans for the following weekend.'

‘I can't.'

‘You have to.'

When Vivian realized he wouldn't budge, she got angry. There was a big party Saturday night, and she wasn't going to miss it. ‘I'll try, Dad, but I don't know if Linda can find someone else…'

‘Vivie,' he interrupted. ‘You will be here all day Saturday and you will have dinner at your grandparents' and stay here that night. I don't want to hear another word.' He turned his back and walked out.

Vivian furiously dialled Linda's number, and what they planned was this: Vivian would go along with the movie and dinner at her grandparents'. Grandma and Grandpa Shatlee would start settling into their armchairs around seven, and her father would be ready to come home. She'd tell him she was tired and go to bed. Linda took advantage of the situation to break her own parents' rules. She'd tell them that she had decided to stay home and would go to bed early like Vivian. Then, both of them could sneak out, attend the party, and stay out as long as they liked.

The plan was doomed from the start, although they were foiled in a way that neither of them had considered: Linda's older sister.

The party was one of those crazy, grand events of youth to be recalled countless times later, almost mythologized. Among the monumental things that happened were Linda skinning her knees in the middle of the street after leaving a message in lipstick on
someone's truck and Vivian dancing on top of the covered Jacuzzi in the backyard until the wooden cover splintered, cutting her ankle. They had no idea older kids would be there. By the time Linda's sister reported to her parents (who immediately phoned Vivian's father), Vivian and Linda were intoxicated, injured, and generally, having a great time.

When they brought Vivian home, her father was waiting for her. There was a quiet chill in the air, like before a storm. He opened the screen door and she walked under his outstretched arm into the house as he exchanged a few words with Linda's parents. He didn't yell at her, only asked if she needed any help, then he followed her to her room and lingered in the doorway. His face drooped in soft folds. ‘Who do you think you are, treating me like this?' he asked.

She sat on the bed and looked up at him. She'd never heard his voice so sad.

‘Vivie, I thought we had an understanding, a trust. A way of treating each other.' Slowly, he turned and walked away.

He never told her mother about the incident, and they never spoke of it again. Later, Vivian bragged to her friends that she'd suffered no ill consequences, unlike Linda, who lost her driving privileges for one month. But something had changed; a transition that started quite naturally in her relationship with her father had gone off course somehow, and Vivian felt the gap with every low-lidded look from him, with every strained silence. Who was she, to treat him like that? In those brief moments, the question surfaced and she pushed it out of her mind. Who was she becoming? He'd never given her any reason to lie.

The memory of sneaking out for the great party came to her unexpectedly, during the late afternoon of the day following the impromptu barbecue, when she pulled back the curtain divider and found Nowell's study empty. A thought came quickly: Has he snuck out?

They were alone in the house. Lonnie had taken Dot to the spot where he fished with the other men. Vivian glanced at the clock that morning when she heard the smooth hum of Lonnie's jeep: seven a.m. After the evening of drinking, even Nowell ignored his regimented schedule and slept until after nine, but as always, Lonnie proved himself impervious to lack of sleep.

Vivian had spent most of the morning out in the yard, clearing the debris that seemed to accumulate daily and poking around in the shed, taking inventory. Aside from the tools they had used the day before, there was a push mower, two rakes, some sort of canvas sack, five metal stakes, a proliferation of spiders. Perhaps an entire colony, she thought. Having the house and the land to look after was proving to be a bigger burden than she'd anticipated. She wanted to have a yard sale soon, so she'd been trying to keep the grounds presentable. She didn't want anyone thinking they were low-class squatters, Mrs Gardiner's ignorant relations from the city.

After she had lunch, she unraveled the hose at the side of the house, hooked it up to the faucet under the kitchen window and filled a large pot with soapy water. Under the bright sun, she carefully washed the old red truck. She worked hard, without pause, until her sandals were soaked through and traces of soap and water darkened her t-shirt. A tattered towel made four uneven rags, and she blackened them scrubbing the hubcaps and underside of the truck. After she had hosed the soap from every surface, she stood back
and surveyed her work. The red paint looked sleek and new with the coating of water; the chrome glared in the sunlight. As the water evaporated, Vivian noticed streaks of light-colored dirt. She washed these sections again, rinsing again with water from the hose. After a few trips back to touch up areas, she decided that the job was good enough. She dried the still-wet surfaces than gathered the soggy towels into her arms.

The muscles in her shoulders and the backs of her thighs were sore, but she found the physical labor invigorating. It was a completely different type of work than, for instance, her job at the water management agency. Sitting at a desk gave her aches and pains, but they were of a stiff, fatiguing variety. After a day of work on the house, sorting and clearing things, cleaning and reaching into corners and high up to shelves, her body felt warm and pliant. The blood raced through her limbs.

Vivian glanced at the kitchen clock, a round-faced model with a picture of a rooster, as she took the towels to the washer and drier. Her focused attention to the yard and the truck had taken most of the afternoon and dinnertime was nearing.

She took a quick shower and put on a clean pair of shorts and a t-shirt from one of her parents' vacations. The house was quiet. She could hear the whooshing sound of the breeze through the trees and the soft hum of the refrigerator. Nowell had gone into his study after his late breakfast, and she hadn't seen him since. She knew he must be hungry; there weren't any dishes in the kitchen to indicate that he'd eaten. She stood at the divider to his room, called his name several times, and slowly pulled back the curtain.

The room looked the same as always, neat and shady. On the computer screen, the word processing program was open; at the top of an otherwise blank page, two words were centered: Chapter Thirteen. The curtain billowed with the breeze, and a stack of
blank paper next to the printer ruffled and settled. She pulled back the curtain and saw that the window was open about six inches. There was an opening in the screen, where someone could push two fingers through.

A flash of red caught her eye like a stop sign. Someone was moving behind the trees. Had Nowell worn a red shirt that morning? Where could he have gone? She let the curtain fall. If he had left through the front door while she was washing the truck, she would have seen him. Should she check the other rooms? Did he climb out the window?

A car pulled into the driveway; tires crunched on the dirt. Vivian peeked behind the curtain again. It
was
Nowell, out in the woods. He had cleared the line of trees and strode rapidly towards the house. Out front, a car door slammed. She turned quickly and knocked two books onto the floor. The deep tones of Lonnie's laugh echoed on the porch; his keys jingled. Quickly replacing the books on the desk, she bolted across the room. As the screen door creaked, she raced down the hall. Lonnie's voice reverberated in the kitchen as she leaped into her bedroom. ‘Hello!'

‘I'll be right out,' she called. She draped a towel around her shoulders. Her wet hair had left a v-shaped damp spot between her shoulder blades. She walked towards the window, listening for sounds from the study. She couldn't hear anything.

When she entered the kitchen, Dot was unpacking the cooler they had taken, and Lonnie was washing his hands at the sink. ‘How was your drive?' she asked.

Dot looked up, her face brightening. ‘It was great. Can you tell I got some sun?'

‘Looks good,' Vivian said. ‘You'd better put some aloe on your shoulders, though.'

Dot pressed a finger into the flesh of her shoulder, and watched as the white impression faded quickly to pinkish-red. ‘You're right,' she said.

Lonnie's rough hands strangled a dish towel then left it in a clump on the counter. ‘Where's Number One?'

‘Still working, I guess.' Vivian glanced towards the study and watched as Dot took two beer cans from the cooler and carried them to the refrigerator. ‘I guess you weren't too thirsty for beer after last night,' she said.

Dot wrinkled her nose. ‘I couldn't even finish one. You know, I think I had five or six at the barbecue. And that was after our morning festivities.'

‘How do you feel today?' Vivian asked.

‘A little tired.'

‘You didn't seem tired to me.' Lonnie winked one of his red-rimmed eyes.

‘Oh, please.' Dot pushed his chest.

He staggered back. ‘I feel great.'

‘Not even a little tired, Lonnie?' Vivian asked.

‘Who's tired?' They all turned as Nowell emerged from behind the curtain divider.