Read the book: «The Qualities of Wood»

MARY VENSEL WHITE
The Qualities of Wood

Copyright

Authonomy

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.authonomy.com

www.harpercollins.co.uk

THE QUALITIES OF WOOD. Copyright © Mary Vensel White. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Mary Vensel White asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Source ISBN: 9780007523580

Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2012 ISBN: 9780007469505

Version: 2015-02-09

Dedication

For Jason, for everything

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

Thanking

About the Author

About Authonomy

About the Publisher

1

In the small, congested airport, Vivian didn’t recognize her husband. Summertime. Outside, the sun beamed white on the runway and grassy fields. Inside, the terminal was stuffy and warm. Vivian passed a group of brightly-clothed summer travelers, this haze of blue, pink, yellow and green, and walked slowly along an eye-level, smudged window and into the crowded inlet beside the gate, all the while hunting for Nowell. Somehow, she walked right by.

She imagined the terminal was normally empty, the surrounding community being rural and unworldly. But it was the season of vacations: eastern hometowns, tropical beaches, exotic cities. Not everyone was headed to an abandoned house in the country, she thought. The travelers dispersed purposefully, trailing loved ones or heading solo toward the cars parked in rows at the front of the building. Vivian was pulled along with the crowd. Nowell was late. At first she felt irritated but quickly dismissed the feeling. It was a reunion, she reminded herself.

A large hand gripped her shoulder and she spun around.

‘Where are you going?’ Nowell’s deep voice. His dark eyes.

‘I couldn’t see you,’ she said. She reached up for him, grasped his shoulders as though to pull herself up. ‘I didn’t see you.’

On the way to the house, she soaked him in: the shadowed gash of his cheekbone, his ruddy lips. Nowell kept his hand on her thigh. His touch felt curiously foreign after their four-week separation, but it ignited something too.

The drive wasn’t long, the countryside a blur of sameness. Fields of indecisive green, hills falling short of remarkable. Here and there a white or brown-shingled house, some shadowed by barns. The predictable Midwest.

Nowell’s hand left her leg to steer the car onto a dirt driveway. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

Vivian peered through the windshield. The small, white house was set back from the road and elevated slightly, like a judge on his bench. The sun lit the house from behind. White with dark green trim, there were wide strips of paint missing altogether; these sections of bare wood gave the impression of something bursting its seams. Two narrow windows gazed at the newcomers and beneath them, a bluish shadow stretched, tongue-like, down the front steps and onto the lawn.

‘It looks stable,’ Vivian said.

He chuckled. The truck made a strange revving sound after he removed the key. ‘Just the timing,’ he told her.

Vivian nodded. She knew the truck was like the house, old and in disrepair. Nowell had traded in their Honda when he left the city. They gave up the lease on their apartment and he moved first to arrange things. For a month, Vivian stayed at her parents’ house, working at her job for a couple more paychecks. It was the longest they had ever been apart.

She hadn’t been particularly attached to their Honda, a blue hatchback with gray seats, but the truck was big and awkward. The worn seat belt was loose over her lap, leaving almost enough room for another person. Vivian’s feet grazed the floor. Like a child, she had only a limited view over the dash.

Nowell opened the passenger door and lifted her out of the truck. Vivian stood about five-four and her husband was over six feet. Everyone in her family seemed shorter than average, while his whole family was tall. At their wedding, the first few rows in church seemed like a tilted painting, or a photograph enhanced for effect: his family on one side, hers on the other. Four years married, she thought. She would be twenty-eight this summer.

Late July heat lingered in the air and warmed the lawn, though the sun was beginning to fade. The air was fragrant with live things. In the shaded areas, cool grass poked through Vivian’s sandals. She stood for a moment, studying her new home. Nowell’s grandfather had built the house as a newlywed and when he died in a hunting accident, Nowell’s grandmother stayed and finished raising their three children.

His grandmother was stubborn and tied to the place, Nowell said. She seldom took vacations or visited family. Vivian met Grandma Gardiner twice: at their wedding, and when Nowell’s brother, Lonnie, had a serious accident. The old woman hadn’t left much of an impression on her; she remembered spindly legs and gray hair pinned above one ear with a clip.

At one time, the house was probably fresh and welcoming: now it showed its age. A wooden swing, dusty from neglect, hung unevenly from the porch rafters. Its chains were pocked with rust. Three small windows formed a triangle at the peak of the roof, under a section of roof where the tiles had bubbled up. An attic, Vivian thought.

Nowell kicked up a cloud of dust. ‘Lonnie left this morning,’ he said. ‘Sorry to miss you, but he wanted to get back.’

‘Well, you had him for two weeks,’ she said, picturing his burly brother. ‘Did you get much done?’

‘Definitely. I was glad for the help.’ He rummaged through the bushes beside the porch, picking up twigs and scraps of paper with his long, elegant fingers.

‘Do they still have that apartment?’ Vivian asked.

‘Yeah, but they want to move.’

‘Why?’

‘Too small. It’s only a one bedroom.’

She looked at him. ‘Ours was a one bedroom.’

‘And it was too small.’ Nowell dumped the handful of garbage into a metal trash can, then stared at the tall grass. It sprouted in clumps, trapping bits of rubbish next to the house.

‘Is Lonnie working now?’ Vivian asked.

‘He’ll look for something as soon as he gets back. They still have some of the money my grandma left.’

‘That won’t last forever.’

Nowell looked at her quickly. A warning. ‘Dorothy has a job,’ he said.

Vivian couldn’t help but be skeptical where Lonnie was concerned. When Nowell had told her Lonnie was coming to help clean up the house, she figured there was something he wanted. And now there was a wife, too, whom Vivian hadn’t met. She could only imagine a woman with the same lack of ambition if she’d been foolish enough to marry Lonnie. They’d been married for a few months now, had known each other for only two weeks when they headed for city hall. Vivian’s mother-in-law, Beverly, harped on and on about the elopement, a welcome change since she usually overlooked Lonnie’s faults.

Vivian leaned on the banister enclosing the porch. ‘When are we going to meet Dorothy?’

Nowell’s face relaxed. ‘He said they’ll try to visit while we’re here.’

Her stomach tightened. ‘That’s good,’ she said, moving towards him. ‘We might get lonely out here.’

He wiped his hands on his jeans and leaned down, setting his large hands on her hips. ‘I’ve been lonely.’

His touch still had an effect on her, a physical charge, and she had missed it. ‘Even though your brother was here?’ she teased.

He smiled. ‘Somehow it’s not the same.’

The breeze picked up. It blew through Vivian’s hair and brought goose bumps out on her arms. Nowell pulled her close then held her at arm’s length. ‘Let’s look at the back before we go in.’ His eyes fairly gleamed. He was proud of the house, Vivian realized.

The grass was high in the front yard, higher still at the sides of the house. Nowell led Vivian by the hand, all the while talking enthusiastically. He showed her the well, dug a short distance away. When they leaned over, it smelled damp and musty. Since Vivian left the rural airport, she had been intensely aware of the new sounds and smells around her.

‘The chimney is unblocked,’ Nowell said. ‘And we cleared most of the leaves and large trash.’ He shook his head. ‘Three years of neglect. You wouldn’t believe what was lying around.’

‘Looks good,’ Vivian acknowledged.

‘A road crew is paving the main road,’ he added. ‘They’re about five miles away now, just outside of town. They should be past here by the end of the summer.’

‘It’ll be nice having a paved road,’ she said.

‘But that’s why I bought the truck, for the bumpy dirt roads.’

She pushed his arm. ‘Poor Nowell. Your fantasies of country living.’

They turned at the back corner of the house and the open space hit her like a deep breath. The backyard was a large and unfenced expanse. Here grass grew unchecked into a knee-high field, all of it shimmering in the gentle wind and crackling as they walked. About forty feet from the house, the land sloped downward. In the distance stood a line of trees, fairly thick against the sliver of orange that remained of the sun.

‘We could barbecue out here if we cut the grass,’ Nowell said. ‘I found an old grill in that shed near the well. And look. This is the room where I’ve been working.’

Vivian was distracted by the fading sunlight, crisscrossing like lattice against the trees. As she stared at the pattern, she thought she saw a movement amid the dark trunks. She strained her eyes, but the light was too dim.

‘Viv, did you hear me?’

‘What?’

He stood near a wide window. ‘This is the room where I’ve been writing.’

Vivian walked over and, cupping her hands around her eyes, pressed up against the glass. The room was mostly dark, but a streak of garish light from the kitchen divided the floor in half. She could make out the corner of a table or desk, the flowered pattern on the rug, and the keys of Nowell’s computer keyboard.

‘You left a light on,’ she told him. ‘How’s the book going?’

‘What?’ Now he was distracted. She caught him gazing over her shoulder toward the line of trees.

‘Your writing,’ she said. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Fine.’

‘Is that your desk, there by the window?’

He nodded, bringing his attention back to her. ‘An antique secretary. You know, one of those old desks with drawers and secret compartments.’

‘You found secret compartments?’

‘Not yet, but there has to be some.’ He paused. ‘I had to run a twelve-foot extension cord from the kitchen for my computer. No outlets. My grandfather added this back room much later. I guess he didn’t want electricity in there. Or it was an oversight.’

Vivian looked again towards the trees. ‘You have a good view of the forest from here.’

Nowell laughed and reached for her.

‘What’s funny?’

‘I never thought of it as a forest.’

‘What is it, then?’

Small wrinkles radiated from the corners of his eyes. He kissed her forehead, ran his fingers through her long brown hair. ‘I guess you’re right. I just think of forests as being vast, you know, near mountain ranges. Not a small parcel beside some meager hill in the flatlands.’

‘I still don’t see why it’s so funny.’

‘It sounded wild and dangerous the way you said it: the forest.’

Two quick whistles sounded behind the trees, startling them apart.

‘What was that?’ Vivian asked.

‘Probably a bird.’ He coaxed her toward him and held her back against his chest, his chin resting on top of her head as he leaned against the house. ‘How was the office party?’ he asked.

‘The usual, only me this time. They had a cake and bought me a pair of overalls.’

‘Overalls?’

‘For living out here,’ she said. ‘A joke.’ She relaxed a little more into Nowell. ‘I worked there seven years. I can’t believe it.’

Nowell squeezed her waist. ‘But you didn’t care much for that job, did you? I mean, you weren’t solving the world’s problems or anything.’

‘I won’t miss it,’ Vivian agreed. ‘But who says water management isn’t important?’

‘You weren’t managing the water, just the paperwork.’

‘Right,’ Vivian said.

Nowell shifted his weight but she stayed against him. ‘I 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.’

‘Lots of people want to live in the country.’ Underneath the table, he surrounded her feet with his larger ones. ‘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 by the expansive size of the room. The rafters met in a point, like a triangle. The ceiling was high, even at the edges, so she could stand and most of the space was easily accessible. Cardboard boxes were stacked along each wall, as in the spare bedroom. She wondered if Nowell’s grandmother had been planning to move and had begun to pack. Intricate patterns of spider webs decorated the corners of the attic and trailed between awnings like delicate suspension bridges. As Vivian walked, dust rose from the floor and fluttered back down.

The triangular windows let the morning sun through; the rays picked up these dust particles and held them in spirals and sheets. Underneath was a window seat. She cleaned it with a rag and sat down. The seat was hard and small, child-sized. Vivian swiveled and saw the red truck in the driveway. At a short distance, the road curved and disappeared over a hill. A few miles beyond that lay the town.

‘Are you alright up there?’ Nowell called, his voice muffled from below.

‘This floor will look great after it’s cleaned and polished,’ she called back.

‘I bet nobody’s been up there for years,’ he said. ‘Be careful.’

In the far corner sat a large wooden bureau, its purplish color muted by a thick layer of dust. A black vinyl garment bag hung from the back. Vivian walked over and unzipped it. Inside, a garment of dark blue fabric was covered in plastic wrap. Next to that, three dress shirts in white and pale blue. More old clothes, she thought. A brass coat rack, tarnished and dented, stood in front of the bureau. Next to that was a small wire cage, a house for a bird but now choked with spider webs. Clearing the attic would be a big job, one that she resolved to leave for later.

The first days at the house passed quickly. Vivian conducted a survey of sorts, working her way from room to room, making lists. In the afternoons, she sometimes pulled a rusty lawn chair from the shed and took some sun in the front yard. She had first tried sitting in the back, where she could have a view of the trees, but the grass was too high; it scratched her between the canvas slats of the chair. Also, biting bugs swarmed, jumped and hid in the tall grass. Nowell had promised to mow the lawn as soon as he reached a good stopping point in his work.

The world seemed to turn more slowly at the house. Lazy afternoons followed bright, sharp mornings filled with bird noises, clear sky, and country smells of warm grass and damp places. At mid-day the air became hazy and heavy and the birds quieted for a siesta. The house was shady then, a cool respite before the sun began its descent and beamed orange through the back windows. It was a lazy time. In the evenings, Vivian’s energy level peaked again and her sense of hearing sharpened. She heard crickets under the house and outside, the green, thick-veined leaves flapping, one against the other in the breeze. When a small branch snapped and fell, the other branches gently guided its descent.

In the week since her arrival she hadn’t accomplished much with the house, but she didn’t feel guilty. After all, she’d waived her annual vacation from the water management agency because Nowell had said the extra money would help. She deserved to take it easy after having worked straight through the last eight months.

So she was spending another afternoon relaxing. That morning, she had unpacked some boxes, mostly trash: used paperback romances, sewing things and scraps of fabric, an entire box of plastic silverware, plates and cups. She found it strange, going through someone’s belongings, without knowing the person or their reasons for keeping things. Now she lay on her stomach in the front yard with her arms at her sides, feeling the sun bake her back. Eventually she sat up to look at a magazine. The heat felt good on her skin and caused a thin, sparkly layer of sweat to bead between her breasts.

She heard the low hum of a car approaching. The postman was early, she thought. It was just after one o’clock and he usually arrived closer to three. Vivian leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, pushing the magazine underneath her leg so it wouldn’t fall. The car’s engine grew louder until she heard dirt crunching under the tires. She looked up as a long, metallic-green car rolled up the driveway. The postman never came up the driveway, only stopped his little truck at the silver mailbox on the main road.

The driver’s door opened and a woman got out. ‘Hello,’ she called cheerily. ‘Don’t get up, now. I’m nobody important.’

Vivian squinted up at her. She was tall, older than Vivian. Maybe almost forty. Over a pair of dark lavender pants hung a long blue t-shirt, decorated with a pattern of hearts and flowers. She walked up the driveway and stood towering over Vivian.

‘I’m Katherine Wilton,’ she said. ‘I knew Betty, uh, Mrs Gardiner.’

Vivian extended her hand. ‘I’m Vivian Gardiner. Mrs Gardiner was my husband’s grandmother.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I met your husband at the grocery store a couple weeks back.’ Katherine Wilton’s voice was pleasant, almost musical. ‘I almost knocked a chicken out of his arms, wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. I get distracted by the displays in the deli.’

‘That deli is famous,’ Vivian said. ‘My husband and his brother couldn’t say enough about it. I’ll have to see it for myself soon.’

Katherine Wilton laughed again, crossing her arms over the flowers on her ample chest. ‘The employees are all women with too much time on their hands, as far as I’m concerned. Anybody who has time to make a pie from scratch has got their priorities all messed up.’ She dropped her key-ring into a tan leather handbag. ‘Your husband told me you were arriving. I thought I’d see how you’re getting on.’

‘That’s really nice of you,’ Vivian said. ‘I just got in a week ago. I haven’t even left the house yet.’

‘I see you’re taking it easy. Good for you. City living gets hectic, I suppose.’

Vivian flushed, embarrassed at being caught doing nothing. ‘Yes, I’ve been lazy.’

‘Nonsense! You’re spending quality time, as they say, rejuvenating mind and body.’

‘That’s a nice way of saying it. Would you like to come inside for something to drink, Mrs Wilton?’

‘Only if you call me Katherine. ‘Mrs Wilton’ always makes me think of my mother-in-law, and the less I think of her the better.’

Vivian laughed and stood up. The magazine stuck to the back of her thigh for a moment then fell to the ground between their feet.

Katherine scooped it up before Vivian could. ‘That magazine’s left an imprint on your leg,’ she said.

‘What, where?’ Vivian twisted her hips, trying to find the spot where the magazine had stuck.

‘It’s kind of weird, really, a little face right on your leg.’ Katherine covered her grin with a ring-adorned hand. Brassy gold and multi-colored gemstones flashed in the sunlight. ‘It looks like a tattoo, although I don’t know why you’d want some supermodel’s face on your thigh.’

Vivian could make out only a small patch of color, reddish with some black. She studied the magazine page: an ad for hair coloring. She wrapped a towel around her waist and picked up her glass.

Katherine leaned closer. ‘I have a tattoo from my wilder days.’

‘I always wanted one,’ Vivian said. ‘What’s yours?’

‘A black panther. Right here.’ She pointed to a spot just above her pelvic bone. ‘Nothing political intended. I just think big cats are so amazing. Believe it or not, I ran on the track team in high school. So that was it, speed and grace.’ She smiled. ‘It sounds stupid, but I never realized the implications of having a cat so close to … well, right there.’

Vivian inadvertently opened her mouth.

‘It’s alright.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘My husband laughs about it all the time.’

They stepped onto the porch.

‘What tattoo would you get?’ Katherine asked.

Vivian paused. ‘A rose, I think. On my ankle.’

‘The ankle might not be a good choice. Too exposed, don’t you think?’

‘Well, I’d never do it anyway. Nowell wouldn’t like it.’

Katherine slowly nodded. ‘It’s the thought of something permanent. They like to think they invented you. Men, I mean.’ She touched Vivian’s arm. ‘I don’t know your husband well, of course. I was thinking more about an old boyfriend of mine.’

They lingered on the porch. Katherine had beautiful greenish eyes and clear skin. She’s quite pretty, Vivian realized with surprise.

‘Betty used to sit out here all the time,’ Katherine said a little wistfully, ‘working on her needlepoint or crocheting.’

‘Really?’

‘She used to throw bread to the birds, just like a regular old lady.’ Katherine laughed and Vivian joined in, as though old age was something they’d never have to worry about. She already felt comfortable around Katherine. She was easy to be with.

The kitchen was cool and dark. Katherine sat at the table and Vivian poured lemonade into two of Grandma Gardiner’s glasses.

‘Betty was a sweet lady,’ Katherine said. ‘Always served me something. Just like you.’

‘How did you meet her?’

‘At a quilting class they had down at the high school. Max, my husband, thought it would be nice for me to have a hobby. I’ve never been one for sewing, but I thought it sounded alright.’

‘I’m no good at things like that,’ Vivian said.

‘What kind of women are we?’ She laughed. ‘But quilts are nice, right? I figured it might be fun to choose the pieces of fabric from things I had laying around the house, saving for God-knows-what. Like the dress I wore when I graduated from high school, or the kitchen curtains from our first apartment. When I started putting things together, pulling a shirt from here and an old sheet from there, it was real interesting.’

‘Things you had forgotten you had,’ Vivian ventured.

Katherine nodded, leaning back so the chair made a crackling sound. ‘Going through those things was like looking through a photo album. Sometimes I’d sit with an old skirt or something, just feeling the fabric and remembering the way it felt to wear it. Quilting brings up memories as much as anything.’

‘I never thought of it that way,’ Vivian said, ‘and now I’m remembering all of the old clothes and things I probably have stored in boxes, tucked away and forgotten.’

‘It’s amazing what we keep lying around. The quilting class seemed like a good way to put some of it to use.’

‘So Mrs Gardiner was in the same class?’

Katherine nodded. ‘She was the sweetest woman. The first night, she brought a big box of fabric and we reminisced over it.’

Vivian thought guiltily about the box of sewing things and fabric swatches she had taken out to the trash that very morning. She wondered if it was still undamaged underneath the rest of the garbage. ‘Did she use all of her fabrics in the quilt?’

Katherine laughed. ‘Neither of us did. We both realized we liked sitting around shooting the breeze more than we liked the sewing, so we quit the class. Besides, working with those women was like being in the military. The first week, the woman who elected herself leader of the group gave us an outline of how each meeting should go. They didn’t do any sewing the first three weeks, just sat around discussing the theme of the quilt, and looking over samples people brought in.’

‘Sounds pretty boring.’

‘I guess that’s how you do it, but I swear, it just seemed like a lot of nonsense to sew a blanket. If I ever did a quilt I would want it to be just mine. I don’t want to sew all my precious scraps together with strangers’.’

‘Did Mrs Gardiner like doing crafts and things?’

‘Normally, yes. I was a bad influence on her as far as that class goes.’ Katherine fluttered her fingers at Vivian. ‘We kept talking about doing our own quilts, but when I came to visit we’d usually get to talking about other things.’

They sat quietly for a few moments while the shade enveloped them.

‘Betty was a nice woman,’ Katherine repeated. ‘Didn’t have many visitors, except her son every now and then. Before he passed, I mean.’

‘Her son?’

‘Yes, Sherman.’

Vivian shook her head. ‘Nowell’s father. I don’t think he came out here much. He lived about four hours away.’

‘From what Betty said, he came regular as rain, several times a year. She was real proud of him, always talked about how successful he was and those two tall sons of his.’

Nowell had told Vivian that his grandmother was stubborn and difficult and they hadn’t come to see her much. Even though he lived farther away than the rest, Nowell felt guilty for not visiting, especially now that she was gone and had left them both money and the house. Between the insurance settlement, the grandfather’s pension and Social Security, Grandma Gardiner had amassed quite an inheritance for her family. She divided the money equally between her three children: Nowell’s father and his two sisters, neither of whom had any children. Which left Nowell’s mother in charge of their third since Sherman was deceased.

‘What’s that for?’ Katherine asked.

Vivian followed the direction of her gaze. Katherine was looking at the thick sheet that Nowell had hung, curtain-like, to divide his study from the kitchen. ‘My husband works on his writing in there.’

‘Is he working now?’

‘He works most of the day.’

‘I think I’ll just say hello.’

Before Vivian could stop her, Katherine jumped up from the table, crossed the tile floor and flung back the curtain with the zest of discovery. ‘We meet again, Mr Gardiner!’

Nowell looked over from his position in front of the window. He appeared to be looking outside, taking a break from the computer. Vivian expected him to be annoyed, but he smiled. ‘I thought I heard someone out there. Hello again.’

Katherine gestured and her bracelets clinked together. ‘This sheet doesn’t block much noise, I would imagine.’

‘No, it doesn’t,’ he said, ‘but it makes me feel sequestered.’

‘It’s all in appearances, isn’t it, the things we let ourselves believe?’

Nowell made a move to join them, but Katherine waved him off. ‘No, you get back to your work,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to say hello. I thought I might take your wife into town, if she’s interested.’

‘That’s a good idea. I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.’

Katherine took one look around the room, made a quick inventory, then let the curtain fall back. ‘So, what about it? Want to ride into town with me?’

‘I don’t know,’ Vivian gestured to her swimsuit. ‘I’ve been outside sweating.’

‘I’ll wait while you shower. I don’t mind.’ Katherine took her glass to the sink and rinsed it, as comfortable in the kitchen as though she’d been there a thousand times. ‘I thought I’d take you around and show you the hardware store, the crafts place. Your husband said you’d be doing some work around the house. I swear, it’s all I can do to keep my own place from falling into decay and ruin. It’s a big job, keeping a house going. Poor Betty was a hard worker, but her sight and energy were giving out. You should have seen how she kept this place before then. Neat as a pin, as they say.’

‘You’re sure you don’t mind waiting?’ Vivian asked.

‘Not at all. I’ll just sit out front for a while, see if those birds still come around.’

‘It’s very nice of you to take me. I’ve been avoiding driving that huge truck.’

Katherine looked down at Vivian and then through the screen door at the old red truck. She shook her head, eyes gleaming. ‘Ain’t that just the way with men?’

4

The color of Katherine’s car made Vivian think of cool, green things: celery, lime sherbet, mint. Inside, the seats were plush and velvety and Vivian let her body sink in.

When Katherine started the engine, a deep voice crooned from the speakers. ‘Do you like Placido Domingo?’ she asked.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard him,’ Vivian told her.

‘That man’s voice melts me, I swear.’ Katherine turned down the music then went through a series of preparations. She adjusted her seat belt strap and the rearview mirror, retrieved her sunglasses from a tortoise-shelled case, put them on and checked her reflection. Then she twisted in the seat, flinging her right arm across the seat back. Finally, she slowly reversed down the long driveway.

The scenery was just as it had been from the airport to the house, although they were headed in the opposite direction. Green rolling hills were broken up by plowed fields, the measured, parallel rows laid out as if by blueprint.

‘Where do you live?’ Vivian asked.

Katherine’s eyes flickered toward her, then back to the road. ‘West of town. There’s a road that veers off this one; our place is set back about a mile.’

‘Big house?’

Katherine shook her head. ‘No, it’s just me and Max. We’ve lived here all our lives, got married at the local chapel. Max owns one of the two dry-cleaning businesses in town. He used to have the only one until a few years ago. A family from out east moved here and opened one near the town center.’

‘Did they take away much business?’

Katherine waved her hand and her thin gold bracelets clanked against each other. ‘Oh, no. We’ve got loyal customers. Of course, there’s always new people moving in. Mr Vega’s store has a good location in the mini-mall and new equipment, but we’ve done fine, just fine.’ She patted the steering wheel. ‘Max bought me this new car a few years ago for our anniversary. Ten years then, thirteen now.’

‘It’s nice.’

Katherine glanced at Vivian’s hand. ‘How long have you been married?’

‘Just over four years,’ Vivian said.

‘Newlyweds,’ she said, a wry grin spreading across her face. Then she turned towards the window. ‘Sometimes I think I could drive around all day, but there’s not much to look at, just the fields and a cow here and there. It’s peaceful, though. About forty miles outside of town, some scenic roads wind up into the steeper hills. I’ll take you some day. We’ll pack a picnic.’

Katherine was a good driver, cautious but not distractedly so, despite her preliminary procedures in the driveway. Her hands looked natural on the steering wheel and her back fit precisely to the seat. She wore huge, square sunglasses with gold ornamentation that matched the tone of the bracelets jangling on her arm.

Vivian leaned back against the seat. She was glad to get away. Being at the house was relaxing, but Nowell immersed himself in his writing and much of the time left her alone. Sometimes at night they watched television together, but there wasn’t much to talk about. During the routine of her job in the city, Vivian had often daydreamed about coming to the house, about long walks in the country and the time to do whatever she wanted. Yet here she was, feeling lonely and a little stir-crazy after only a week. She decided to ask Katherine to show her some places in town, like the library and the movie theater. She needed to find things to keep busy, besides the work on the house.

She liked Katherine’s easy manner. She reminded Vivian of her mother, the way she took charge of things, planning and deciding and leaving little for anyone else to worry about. But Katherine was much younger than her mother, at an age where Vivian imagined herself carpooling children to soccer games and band practice, staying home to nurse sore throats. Yet here was Katherine, childless and seemingly unharmed by it.

‘Your husband says you’re staying for a year?’

Vivian looked over. ‘Give or take. Nowell’s writing his book and I’ve got the house to organize.’

Katherine shook her head. ‘Big job.’

‘I’m starting to think so.’

‘I’m happy to help out,’ Katherine said.

‘Oh, I couldn’t ask you…’

‘I’d be glad for the work and glad for the company,’ she interrupted.

They passed a road maintenance crew. A large truck pressed the newly laid asphalt like a rolling pin on dough while two workers in orange vests sat at the edge of the road, shouting to each other over the truck’s clamor and eating their lunches from brown paper sacks. One of the men leaned back and laughed, slapping his thigh. A third man turned a hand-held stop sign around and waved Katherine through.

‘I can’t believe they’re finally paving this,’ she said. ‘All of the roads out here are still dirt. There’s a main interstate nearby, but it leaves off miles outside of town. Just swings right by us, never comes close. It’s bizarre, I swear, like this town’s been bypassed by the entire modern world.’

The scattered farmhouses along the road started to appear more frequently and form neighborhoods. Suddenly, they were in town. They passed other buildings, a square gray post office, a blue-shuttered Sheriff Department. In a plaza surrounded by cobblestone and benches, a tall statue cast a narrow shadow over the road.

‘Who’s the guy on the horse?’ Vivian asked.

‘William Clement, the founder of the town.’

‘Was he a soldier?’

‘I don’t think so. Why?’

‘I thought with statues, they only put soldiers on horses. One foot of the horse is raised if the man died in battle, or something like that.’

‘Really?’ Katherine’s eyebrows made two reddish-brown points above her sunglasses. ‘I never heard of that. As far as I know, he wasn’t a soldier. He thought he was pretty important, though. Huge ego. Named everything after himself and kept a pack of Indians as slaves, just about. Of course they were here in the Midwest before we came along. Lost everything.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Yet everyone wants to look up to Clement, make him a hero. Some people around here claim to be descendants, either on the white side or the Indian side, and they make a big deal out of it. Back in ’82 when the new library was dedicated, there was a peaceful demonstration that ended not so peacefully. Made the national news.’

Vivian gazed out the window. ‘People like to have heroes, I guess.’

‘So do I, but I like mine realistic like people are, with good and bad parts but trying to do right. From what I’ve heard, Willie wouldn’t have known right if it hit him upside the head. He did terrible things, and people line up to claim they’re related.’ She turned the car into a mini-mall parking lot. There were plenty of open spaces and she took one in front of Clement’s Hardware. ‘See what I mean?’ She motioned toward the store sign and turned the engine off. ‘Here’s one of the famous descendants now.’

Inside, they bought cleaning supplies, wood stain, and a small tool set. There was no one in the store except for the elderly man who took their money. As they left, Katherine grabbed Vivian’s arm and turned her towards the far side of the mall where there was a donut shop and a dry-cleaners. ‘The dreaded enemy,’ she whispered.

‘What? Is that the other dry-cleaners?’

The store had faded posters in the windows, photographs of models in outdated clothing. The sign read ‘Kwik Kleaners’ in cursive red letters.

‘At least they’re not Clements,’ Vivian said.

Katherine chuckled. ‘Oh, but they could be. On the Indian side somewhere, possibly migrated south and now they’ve returned for their rightful place. They’re everywhere!’ She pretended to choke herself and Vivian laughed.

They stopped at an ice-cream parlor for double scoops and ate them at a table outside. The ice-cream melted quickly in the afternoon sun and Vivian felt like a kid sneaking a snack close to dinner, something that was never allowed when she was growing up. She felt guilty and excited, as though Nowell would care.

‘So what kind of books does your husband write?’ Katherine asked. ‘Betty only said that one of her grandsons was a writer and one worked construction.’

‘She passed away before Nowell’s first novel was published. He’s written one book, a mystery, and is working on the second.’

‘You’re kidding! I love mysteries. I’d like to read it. Would he autograph a copy for me?’

‘He’ll be flattered that you asked.’

‘I’ll pick up a copy in town this week. What’s the title?’

Vivian wiped the corner of her mouth with a napkin. ‘Actually, it’s in limited release. You may have some trouble finding it. Besides, I’m sure Nowell would love to give you a copy. He has some at the house.’

‘Great!’ Katherine said. ‘What’s it about? Don’t tell me too much, I hate that.’

Vivian bit her lower lip, contemplating what to say. ‘It’s a murder mystery about the deaths of two young men. Is that enough?’

Katherine nodded. ‘If I know too much beforehand, the whole experience is ruined. That’s the whole point of a mystery, isn’t it? The not knowing.’

Vivian read Nowell’s book for the first time just before it was ready for printing. He had gone to visit his mother and left the manuscript on the kitchen table at their apartment. He had tucked a note under the cover: Couldn’t have done it without you. Two nights later, she finished it. She never read mysteries, although as a child, she loved hiding games and scary movies, the tight feeling of suspense and the release of discovery. Nowell’s book, Random Victim, seemed well written and it held her interest although she had guessed the ending. She couldn’t remember much about the story now.

They finished their ice-cream and started the drive back to the house. Katherine pointed out the library, a two-story brick building near the plaza with William Clement’s statue, and the movie theater on the same street, between a clothing store and a diner. The current film was only about a month old; Vivian was encouraged by this. Maybe she wasn’t out of touch with civilization after all, she thought.

‘This was the first downtown street,’ Katherine told her. ‘Most of these buildings are very old.’ She drove slowly down the street and like a tour guide, described the various businesses: who owned them, how good they were for shopping. They went by the Sheriff Department again, and the Post Office. USPS was stenciled on the front in blue letters.

Then the cool-green car left the heated asphalt of the town’s streets. They passed first the road crew, then the countless rows of grain, then the low, grassy hills.

‘I volunteer down at the grammar school three mornings a week,’ Katherine told her. ‘Right now they’re having summer school. I read stories to the kids, help corral them outside. And I work at our store every now and then, but the rest of the time I’m pretty free.’ An upbeat number played on the stereo; she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. ‘It’ll be nice having you around for a while. Most women in town are older, or tied down with a pack of kids. And I’d be glad to help you out with the house, any time.’

Vivian shook her head. ‘Sounds like you’re pretty busy.’

‘When you’re redoing someone else’s, it’s more fun. Picking out curtains, painting – oh, remind me to give you the number of Max’s friend with the carpet business. He’ll give you a good deal.’

‘That’s probably something we’ll do last, after everything is moved out, including us.’

‘Keep it in mind, anyway.’ Katherine looked over, her eyes shaded by the huge lenses. ‘I never asked, what did you do in the city?’

After a moment, Vivian realized what she meant. Her job. ‘I just worked in an office.’ Down the road a short distance, she recognized the long driveway that led to Grandma Gardiner’s house. She reached down to get her purse.

‘What’s Sheriff Townsend doing out here?’ Katherine said.

Vivian looked up. A police car was parked in the driveway.

Katherine pulled behind the red truck, next to the cruiser. As they walked to the porch, they heard voices in the backyard. They turned and followed the sound. In the high grass behind the house, three men stood in a straight line like the trees behind them. Two wore the ill-fitting beige uniforms of law enforcement. One was taller and broader and wore a hat. He gazed at the tree line as the other one, a shorter and younger man with wispy blonde hair, spoke to Nowell.

The women waded through the tall grass. Nowell noticed them and waved, and the two policemen looked over.

‘Hello,’ Vivian said.

‘Hi, Viv.’ Nowell looked pale, even in the orange late-day sunlight, and he shielded his eyes. Vivian hadn’t seen him outside since the night she arrived.

‘Are you the welcoming committee, Sheriff Townsend?’ Katherine asked.

The taller, older man cleared his throat and said, ‘Mrs Wilton.’

Katherine turned to the younger man. ‘Don’t you two look solemn. What is it, Bud?’

Bud, the shorter and younger man, glanced at the sheriff, who was gazing into the trees again.

Nowell spoke first. ‘They found a dead girl back there.’