The Qualities of Wood (17 page)

‘Vivian was saying that you were,' Lonnie said.

‘No way.' He pounded his chest with his fists.

Dot lifted the cooler and took it outside to dump the ice.

Nowell asked: ‘Did you show Dot that place where the road curves, past those rocks?'

Lonnie nodded. ‘We drove about forty miles past the fishing spot, past the state line. We had fried fish for lunch at a shack down by the river, some old-timer with his own little place. Unbelievable.'

‘How did your writing go today?' Vivian asked Nowell. Her blood was pumping; she felt like her chest was expanding.

‘I finished a chapter and started a new one.' His face was lined with perspiration.

‘Great,' she said.

Lonnie pushed Nowell as he walked by and Nowell lunged toward him.

Dot came back into the kitchen, her arms damp after hosing off the cooler. ‘No wrestling in the house,' she said. ‘You animals take it outside.'

Vivian looked at Nowell, wondering where he'd been. Had he really climbed out the window? Was there any other explanation? For weeks he had claimed to be working in his private room, separated from her and all outside activity by a ridiculous makeshift wall, and now she had to wonder what he'd really been doing. Was he trying to get away from her? Where did he go?

She shut the cupboard loudly. If Nowell could sneak around, so could she. Mr Stokes had said that he'd be gone for a few days, so there was no chance of running into him back there. There had to be some reason why Nowell had gone into the woods. Mr Stokes had seen Lonnie in the woods, two nights before, when he invited him on the fishing trip. She wondered if Lonnie and Nowell had some special place, some clearing where they cooked-out before she arrived. Maybe she could find it, figure out what drew them there.

She knew that everyone was tired, whether they wanted to admit it or not, and while she had felt sluggish earlier, she was now strangely rejuvenated by her plans, excited in the same way as when she and Linda secretly plotted to attend that party. She waited anxiously for them to sleep.

Everyone retired early. Once Nowell was asleep, Vivian eased herself out of bed and picked up her jeans from the floor. The bedroom was lit by the greenish tint of the half-moon outside, but in the hallway it was darker. Feeling her way with her fingertips, she paused briefly at Dot and Lonnie's door. It was quiet everywhere, just after eleven o'clock.

In the kitchen she pulled on her jeans and slipped into the sandals she'd left by the door. In a drawer near the pantry, she found the flashlight that had recently been replenished with new batteries.

She didn't fully understand why she was going into the woods. The idea struck her that afternoon, when she discovered that Nowell was missing. She couldn't get over what a strange thing that was for him to do. Maybe he wanted to take a break but didn't want to spend it with her, didn't want to have to explain why he wanted to be alone. There were other, half-formed reasons. Both Nowell and Mr Stokes had warned her against venturing beyond the trees alone, and she wanted to prove her independence, if only to herself. But it was even more than that. Lonnie had been seen twice in the woods by Mr Stokes; once before she arrived, the night he was cooking his cobbler, and again two nights ago. And, Mr Stokes had been popping up quite a bit, despite Katherine's description of him as a veritable hermit. And now Nowell. What was everybody doing
back there? Chanelle Brodie, Nowell, Lonnie, Mr Stokes. Vivian didn't know exactly what she would look for: perhaps some sign of their clandestine wanderings, some trace left behind. What she did know is that she would head in the general direction of Mr Stokes's house.

She kept thinking about their quiet neighbor. At the mention of Nowell's father, Mr Stokes had acted strangely and he seemed to harden each time she brought up Mrs Brodie.
That Lonnie. He's got a bad temper.
When he told her about Lonnie throwing the fishing pole, it seemed like he was trying to get some point across, to warn her about something. Vivian was no stranger to Lonnie's drinking and the tense moods that followed. But who was Mr Stokes to make a remark like that? He didn't know Lonnie, or any of them. Why did he look at her with a sense of knowing that felt alternately comforting and disturbing? Why was he suddenly in their lives, starting with the day they found the Brodie girl? Who was he to them?

She quietly closed the door and crossed the porch. The wind rustled the grass, making a great hushing sound. As she walked around the side of the house, a droning noise started up, and she turned in time to see the headlights of a car rising over the hill. As the car passed, she put her back against the wall of the house, holding the flashlight near her side, pointed to the ground. You're acting like a television detective, she chastised herself as the taillights shrunk. Crickets chuckled at her from their vantage point under the house.

The grass, which was still uncut, crackled and broke under her feet. The tallest blades sparkled in the ivory glow of the half-moon. Hanging slightly above the treetops and surrounded in the velvety blue-black of night, this moon reminded her of a smile, a
lopsided, toothy one not unlike Mr Stokes's. She walked by its radiance until she reached the line of trees, which seemed denser and taller at night, and then she turned on the flashlight and waved the beam in a half-circle in front of her feet.

She walked slowly, straining her ears and scanning the area, side to side with the beam of the flashlight. The woods were pungent with sun-baked earth, grass, and blooming things; the piney fragrance of the trees enveloped her in the darkness. After a short time, her pace quickened involuntarily and she reminded herself to be alert and slow down. Estimating that she had walked about half the distance to Mr Stokes's house, Vivian kept on at a steady pace. When something glinted in the flashlight's glow, she diverted her course and walked towards the object. Soon, she stood directly over it: an empty beer can. Lonnie drank a variety of brands, but she had only seen this one in the store. She kicked it with the toe of her sandal.

She continued in the direction of Mr Stokes's house. Overhead, a branch cracked loudly and she paused, watching the treetops. The branch splintered again then fell, its leaves rustling when it landed. The noise startled her and as she quickened her steps, she suddenly tripped. She stumbled for a few more steps, juggling the flashlight and finally, she steadied herself inches from a flattened, slate-gray boulder that had risen suddenly from the ground, blocking her path.

Moving the flashlight slowly from top to bottom, she examined the surface of the large rock. Under the corner near her feet was a thin yellow piece of paper, partially hidden from view under the bulky stone. Vivian reached down and picked it up, noticing the bold, black letters on its plastic-like surface. Police tape. She looked at the rock, realizing at once that it was the same place, the same rock where Chanelle Brodie died.

She dropped the flashlight; the ray of light danced crazily then bounced against the trees when it hit the ground.

Calm down, she told herself. Get it together. She took a deep breath and retrieved the flashlight. Scanning with its stark beam, she checked out her surroundings.

Aside from the small bit of yellow tape, the area looked pristine, unspoiled. The rock was roughly oval-shaped, about three feet wide and five feet long. Its surface was clean, white in the moonlight that fought its way through the mesh of high branches. The side of the rock closest to Vivian's feet protruded just above the ground, but the other end was thicker and raised about three feet, so that the great stone angled from the ground upwards, sloping like a horseshoe might after being thrown. She imagined Chanelle Brodie sprawled over the rock, her arms pinned underneath her body.
Your hands would be up here. You would try to break the fall, by instinct
. Sometimes Vivian liked to sleep like that, on her stomach with her arms at her sides. Chanelle's hair, thick and dark like her father's, like Vivian's, would have been fanned around her head.

Footsteps dotted the dirt in places and near the rock; the ground was pocked with tiny gouges. About two yards to the left, a wide-trunked tree, its roots bent above the ground like a spider's legs, sprouted to the sky. Beneath the overhang of the higher section of the large rock, a cluster of small bushes crowded furtively together in what must be a shaded area during the hot part of the day. Shaking the dirt from her sandals, Vivian backed away from the scene.

It seemed like a very long time since she had left the old white house. The air was cool deep in the woods; the soft earth crept into her sandals and left her feet chilled. Pushing her way through the undergrowth, she found what appeared to be a path, an area
where the foliage was trampled into a narrow groove. She followed it and soon found herself in the place where Mr Stokes chopped wood. She breathed a sigh of relief. The wide trunk he used for a worktable jutted from the center of the clearing. A few pieces of kindling were scattered nearby. Shining the flashlight in wide arcs, Vivian picked up a glare from what appeared to be a window. Mr Stokes's house, she thought. She headed towards it.

As she neared the dark house, the voice of caution spoke and she shook off its message:
What are you doing? Where do you think you're going?
She avoided the wheelbarrow at the edge of the yard and stepped over a row of flowering bushes. A quick scan with the flashlight revealed tiny red blooms and leaves that were fat and round like tongues. She thought: Why am I suddenly suspicious of him?

The house was dark save an amber-tinted porch light buzzing with insects. The light seemed harsh and discriminating, leaving deep, dark shadows under the concrete steps leading to the door. The landing glowed like a pool of water. Like a Rembrandt painting, a dark canvas lit in parts from some external source. Dr Lightfoot had talked about Rembrandt's fascination with light and the way objects could appear entirely different at various times of the day. Many times, a single beam or sheet of yellow light cut across a painting, illuminating only certain things. It was another way for a painter to be subjective, he said. To decide how much light and what it would reveal.

Vivian walked to a set of windows and peered inside, using the flashlight to see. The kitchen had dark cupboards and softly gleaming countertops and in the next room, a small wooden table was pushed against the wall, surrounded by three chairs. In a moment she spotted the fourth chair, set apart against an adjoining wall. She walked to the next
window and looked into the living room. There was one leather armchair, a table with a lamp, and a couch. Everything in the room seemed dark: the polished wood of the square table, the upholstery of the furniture. She was reminded of the house where she had taken refuge after getting lost, the uncluttered tidiness of Joe Toliver's living room. A bachelor's home.

She walked back to the door, an informal rear entrance, and watched the bugs bang against the cylindrical porch light. No one is home, she thought. Should I? The doorknob was cold to her fingertips and acquiescent when, on impulse, she turned it. The door opened soundlessly, like some well-oiled machine. Vivian stood for a moment on the landing as the voice of reason and caution fired missives in a rapid, confusing sequence –
what are you, this is not your, against the law, you don't know, what if you get
– then she looked over her shoulder and went inside.

The house was still and airless. She walked through the kitchen and maneuvered around the dining table into the living room. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the dark. Copies of
Reader's Digest
and
Newsweek
were stacked on the small table she had seen from the window. In the seat of the armchair was a thick book titled
Wildlife on the Plains
. Over the couch, a framed picture of a black Labrador hung next to an antique candle lamp.

She found Mr Stokes's bedroom at the end of the short hallway. She paused in the doorway, shining the flashlight around. A roughed-up pair of work boots stood to attention next to a small bookshelf, and the closet door was open, revealing a neat row of shirts and pants. On a long dresser, several pictures were arranged on a wooden tray. Vivian imagined that the young couple in the wedding photo were his parents; the boy
with the fire engine Mr Stokes as a boy. One yellowing picture was a group photo of six young men, all outfitted in camouflage suits; two had rifles propped against their shoulders. Vivian searched for a youthful Mr Stokes, but didn't recognize him in any of the faces.

On the floor next to the bed was a small stack of newspapers. As Vivian directed the flashlight over this area, something familiar made her stop and walk closer for a better look. The paper on the top of the pile was almost a month old. The headline was the first one about Chanelle Brodie: ‘Girl, 17, Found Dead.' A shiver ran through her.

She hurried down the hallway. What am I doing? What if I got caught? A grown woman! She banged her thigh into the shallow table at the end of the hall. She sucked air through her teeth. The painful spot was like fire on her skin. The other door in the hallway was closed, but she'd had enough. She wanted to leave.

Her breaths were coming fast; her heart beat like a throbbing wound in her chest. As she reached the dining room table, her eyesight started to blur and a wave passed through her. She groped around, finding a chair.

She sat down, put her head between her knees and took several deep breaths. It was a trick she learned in high school from the gym teacher, Miss Alston. Vivian was always on diets then, prone to dizzy spells and periods of faintness. During her sophomore year, she was on a liquid diet and she had Miss Alston's class in the afternoons. She almost passed out three or four times that year, each episode provoking a private chat from Miss Alston, who was concerned that she may have diabetes or anemia. Vivian confiscated the notes sent home for her parents and told Miss Alston that the doctor had prescribed vitamins.

She opened her eyes. Underneath the chair was a set of binoculars. She sat up and looked through them. From the vantage point of the low window, the view was direct east, toward the clearing where Mr Stokes chopped wood and further on, Grandma Gardiner's house. But the woods were black with night; she could make out only brief glimpses of shadows and light where the moon infiltrated the dense trees. She replaced the binoculars underneath the chair and stood up.

Closing the door quietly, she stepped back into the night and quickly reached the small clearing. She turned for one last glimpse of the house, perhaps to make sure that she'd left it looking undisturbed, and as she watched, a light flickered behind the second window, in what she now knew to be Mr Stokes's living room. She thought at first it was the faint hall light that had been on all along, but then realized that it seemed brighter. She turned and walked quickly, dirt and small plants crunching under her feet.

Her mind racing, she dodged trees and shrubs, reaching further and further ahead with the long arc of the flashlight beam. Through the trees she could barely see Mr Stokes's house now, but it seemed that the light in the dining room was off again. Your imagination, she told herself, but her heart pounded almost painfully nonetheless. She was almost running, her face burning as she kicked branches out of her path and thought again of Chanelle Brodie, wondering what her last moments were like. Miraculously, she went back exactly as she had come. She walked purposefully, anticipating her route with the flashlight. Despite her fright, she refused to look back again. She had become resolute, driven. There was the outstretched rock and a few minutes later, the line of tree sentinels directing her home.

When Vivian pushed from the tree line, panting and sweating from her labor, she greeted the sight of the house at the peak of the slow-rising incline with gratitude. Thank you, she whispered over and over under her breath, thank you.

In the kitchen, the two skinny arms of the rooster clock were past the upright position. After one o'clock, she thought. I must be crazy. She took her sandals off and left them again near the door, then quietly slipped out of her jeans. As she passed Lonnie and Dot's room, she heard a soft buzzing, almost like a cat purring. Lonnie was snoring. Across the hall, she carefully opened the door, dropped her jeans next to the bed and slid under the covers. Nowell stirred slightly.