The Qualities of Wood. Mary White Vensel

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      She clenched her jaw and said, ‘I’m lost.’

      ‘Yes, you are.’ He opened the screen door.

      The house was dimly lit but smelled clean. Vivian walked in and looked around. Wood paneling covered the walls and a clock ticked loudly from the hallway. On a short table next to a brown reclining chair were two pictures of school-age children, a boy and a girl. This made her feel better.

      The man motioned to the couch and Vivian sat on the edge. He brought her a glass of water, tepid but clear, and she gulped it down. He made a bologna and cheese sandwich on dry wheat bread and served it to her on a paper napkin. Then she heard him talking in the kitchen, his voice too loud as though he didn’t use the telephone often. ‘Yes, sir … yes, she’s here now…. Alright then, I’ll keep her here.’

      Vivian walked to the kitchen with the crumpled napkin and the empty glass. The man jumped a little when he turned and saw her. ‘You were hungry,’ he said.

      She nodded. ‘Can I use your bathroom?’

      He pointed down the hall.

      When Vivian returned to the living room, the man was leaning back in the recliner, holding a glass of water on the paunch of his stomach. She sat on the couch again.

      ‘They’re coming for you directly,’ he said.

      ‘Okay.’

      The man was nice looking. He had friendly eyes and black wavy hair with gray patches in front of his ears. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

      ‘Vivian.’

      ‘That’s a nice name.’

      They both looked absently around the room, mostly toward the television as though willing it to go on. Then they spoke at the same time.

      ‘What’s your name?’ Vivian said, just as the man said, ‘I have a daughter.’

      He smiled. ‘Joe Toliver, but you can call me Joe. I was saying that I have a daughter about your age. Here’s her picture, and her brother, too. He’s older than her.’

      Vivian walked over to the table and looked at the pictures. Then she returned to her seat, this time relaxing against the couch. ‘Where are they?’ she asked.

      ‘With their mother, but they come here in the summer.’

      ‘Why don’t you live together?’

      He thought about this for a moment. ‘We are better separated than we are together.’

      A blanket was draped over the armrest of the couch, and Vivian pulled it over her legs. ‘What do your kids do when they’re here?’

      ‘Same as you, I expect. Run around and swim.’

      ‘Where do they swim?’

      ‘At the lake down there.’

      Vivian figured it must be a different lake, perhaps a different town. She was sure she’d walked miles. ‘Do you ever take them on vacations?’

      ‘Sure. We used to come here and camp out in a tent when they were real little.’

      After that, Vivian didn’t remember much but the hum of Joe Toliver’s voice, deep-pitched and certain. She felt comfortable and warm underneath the blanket. She fell asleep. Then she was lifted from the couch, her face against Joe’s soft checkered shirt. Her father tumbled from a car and took Vivian into his arms. The whole proceeding was somber and serious and she felt very important. Her parents had been so worried that in the end, she wasn’t punished. Instead, her mother blamed her father and made the rest of the vacation unbearable. She thought it was brave of Joe Toliver to live alone, considering.

      Perhaps it was the wooded backdrop, or his dramatic entrance, that made Vivian think of Joe Toliver when Mr Stokes stood before them in the high grass of the backyard the day the sheriff found the dead girl. Maybe it was his plaid flannel shirt or the light-and-dark combination of his hair. Or the way he talked, with one side of his mouth lower than the other, or maybe it was the time of day, that same pre-dusk time when she had leaned against the scratchy brown couch and slept.

      For any one of these reasons, Mr Stokes evoked the image of Vivian’s kind savior from that summer afternoon when she was nine, and as the sheriff recounted the day’s events for him, she relived her initial feelings of panic and fear at the news of the dead girl and felt again for a moment, lost. When Mr Stokes finally spoke, his calm voice had the soothing effect that the memory of Joe inspired, even now, and Vivian forgot her panic for the second time that day.

      ‘It’s a tragedy to lose a young one,’ Mr Stokes said when he heard what had happened. ‘I run into Mrs Brodie on occasion, and I’ve seen her girl now and then.’ He scratched the side of his jaw. His deep-set eyes and unwrinkled brow gave the impression of practiced patience.

      ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions,’ Sheriff Townsend said. ‘Do you have the time?’

      He nodded. ‘Why don’t you come up to the house now? We can talk on the way back.’

      Sheriff Townsend explained to Vivian and Nowell that Mr Stokes owned much of the land directly behind the Gardiner acreage. His house was about a half-mile to the west, deep in the trees.

      ‘These are Mrs Gardiner’s relatives, Mr and Mrs Gardiner,’ the sheriff said.

      Vivian watched as Mr Stokes greeted Nowell, then she shook his rough, warm hand. He wasn’t much older than them, maybe Katherine’s age, but there was a maturity about him that made Vivian feel childish in his presence.

      ‘I’ll drive you around to your side road,’ the sheriff said. ‘Let’s leave these people to their dinner.’

      ‘Yes, Max will be wondering about me,’ Katherine said.

      As a group, they all started to move.

      Nowell touched Vivian’s elbow to lead her but she turned instead toward the sheriff. ‘You’ll let us know what you find out?’

      He nodded.

      ‘Especially,’ she continued, ‘if you think there’s any danger…’

      ‘Come on, Viv.’ Nowell pulled on her arm.

      She looked up at him irritably. ‘What?’

      Sheriff Townsend cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Gardiner, I’ll keep you apprised.’

      Katherine fidgeted with her purse.

      Mr Stokes watched Vivian intently and she began to get the impression that she was making everyone uncomfortable but didn’t know why.

      ‘Thank you,’ she mumbled. ‘Thanks, Katherine, for the tour.’ She turned and walked toward the house, looking back once to see Nowell raise his hand in silent farewell to their visitors. Vivian took his gesture as an act of sympathy between them, between the men, as though apologizing for her outspokenness. She strode angrily to the house, not СКАЧАТЬ