The Qualities of Wood. Mary White Vensel

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      He walked towards her and she moved abruptly away.

      ‘What’s your problem?’ he asked, glowering over her.

      She swallowed a gulp of beer. ‘You didn’t have to act like I was some crazy person for asking a few questions.’

      ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to cut you off with the sheriff. I’d already been talking to him for a while, and I figured he probably wanted to get out of here. Besides, I can take care of things.’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘The sheriff. I can take care of it.’ He turned to leave.

      ‘You didn’t ask him when he would call us,’ she said.

      Nowell spun around. ‘That girl was practically in our backyard. You can be sure he’ll let us know.’

      ‘I didn’t realize you were such an expert in the protocol of police investigations.’ She grinned, but now he looked angry.

      ‘You just have to know everything right away,’ he said. ‘But there’s nothing to know yet. You threatened the sheriff…’

      ‘Threatened him, by asking questions? I was just concerned. Aren’t you worried about our safety?’

      ‘Not until I have a reason to worry.’

      They stood several feet apart. An impasse. Outside, tree branches slapped against the north side of the house and leaves blew across the porch. She had noticed, in some peripheral zone of her brain, storm clouds forming. ‘I wonder what happened to her,’ Vivian said.

      ‘I don’t know,’ Nowell said. ‘I really don’t.’ He shook his head, looking down at the weathered yellow floor. Vivian realized that he was more affected by the sheriff’s visit than she had thought.

      ‘It’s going to rain,’ she said. ‘My elbow hurts.’

      ‘We should close the windows,’ Nowell said. He walked down the hallway.

      She went to the back door, rubbing her elbow and watching the flurry of weather outside. The night had come alive; the sky was brooding and thickly dark. A strong wind pushed the trees crazily into each other and lifted leaves and papers into tiny, racing cyclones. Vivian thought about the girl they had found and tried to picture her splayed across a wide, flat rock. The sheriff told Nowell she was seventeen years old. Vivian wondered how long she was there before the sheriff came, what she’d been wearing. She thought about their neighbor to the east, Mr Stokes, marching over the land like he owned it. The way he looked at her had been strange, judgmental.

      Nowell returned to the kitchen, rubbing his hands together. ‘They’re all closed now,’ he said. ‘It’s really something out there.’

      On cue, a crack of thunder echoed through the yellow kitchen. They both jumped.

      Nowell asked, ‘Do you need ice for your elbow?’ He nestled behind her, wrapped his arm across her collarbone.

      She felt a familiar tingle. ‘So you did hear me,’ she said.

      When the weather was wet and cool, the joints in Vivian’s knees and elbows were prone to soreness. An ingrown barometer, they alerted her with more accuracy than the weather forecast in the newspaper. When she was young, her mother called it growing pains and was uncharacteristically patient with her when it happened. Now that Vivian was an adult, she wasn’t sure what caused it. Surely, she was finished growing.

      That poor woman, Katherine had called the dead girl’s mother. Vivian remembered being seventeen; she and her own mother had rarely seen eye-to-eye. High school changed Vivian, gave her a flavor of independence. By her third year, she was staying out every weekend, often missing her curfew or disregarding it altogether. She argued with her mother constantly, even threatened to move away.

      Nowell had gone into the living room, a small, blue-carpeted area next to the kitchen. Seldom used, the room was cramped with furniture and dimly lit. A brick fireplace took up most of one wall, on its mantle sat a porcelain owl with wide, black eyes. As Vivian entered, lightning brightened the room, throwing stark shadows against the walls. A clap of thunder followed, echoing in the chimney. Rain pelted the windows; fat drops slid down the glass. She sat next to Nowell on the sofa, pulling her knees up to her chest. He was watching a nature program. On the screen, two female tigers squared off against each other, their backs and ears raised. She thought about Katherine’s tattoo and suppressed a grin.

      ‘Let’s go into town tomorrow morning,’ she said.

      ‘Why?’

      ‘I want to sign up for the newspaper. Maybe we could have breakfast while we’re down there.’

      ‘Why don’t you just call the newspaper office?’

      ‘I want to buy one for tomorrow, see if there’s anything on that girl. We could see a movie afterwards, and…’

      ‘I can’t,’ Nowell said. ‘I’m not at a good stopping point.’

      She sighed. ‘I’ll go by myself then. I guess I have to drive that truck sometime.’

      The tigers were in a group of five now. Two of them had young to look after. The cubs rolled around on the dirt, smacking each other with their large paws.

      ‘How’s the book coming?’ she asked.

      ‘Good,’ he said.

      ‘How far have you gotten?’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘How many chapters?’

      ‘About nine I guess.’

      On the television screen, the cubs frolicked in the grass. ‘Is it going to be like the other book?’ she asked.

      ‘I hope not.’

      ‘I mean, the same kind. A mystery.’

      ‘Yes.’

      She put her legs down and leaned over, pressing her hand on Nowell’s chest. ‘Come on, tell me something about it.’

      ‘You know I don’t like to. It’s not complete, not even the idea of it. Right now, it’s all stored in my mind, in some sort of inexplicable order.’

      ‘I don’t get it.’

      ‘You don’t have to get it.’

      She sat upright. ‘I guess that’s just one more thing we can’t talk about tonight. Can’t talk about the sheriff, can’t talk about your book.’

      A vulture watched the group of cubs as they dove in and out of the tall meadow grass.

      ‘I talked to my mom today,’ Nowell said. ‘They’re trying to reduce her pension.’

      ‘Who?’ Vivian asked.

      ‘My dad’s old company. They’re saying something about СКАЧАТЬ