The Qualities of Wood. Mary White Vensel

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СКАЧАТЬ on his book. Between her job, housework, and keeping up with friends, Vivian’s life seemed just as full as when she attended classes and studied for finals.

      They settled into steady jobs and a stable routine, but started to fight more for some reason. Nowell was incredibly tense throughout the writing of his book. Frustrated by the long hours at the magazine, he stayed in and wrote most weekends, often from Friday evening until Monday morning. In the cramped apartment, his tension was infectious. They bickered over small matters. Vivian tried to get out of the way during these times. She’d spend a day at the mall with a friend or drive around the city, doing errands. She didn’t mind doing things alone. Being an only child had given her a certain self-reliance. Like her mother, she could content herself with her own tasks and ruminations.

      After the book was finished, Nowell relaxed into his old self and became easier to live with again. When his grandmother died and he presented the idea for an extended working vacation, Vivian had been unwilling at first to leave her job, where she had seniority, three weeks of vacation and a decent salary. But in the end, quitting had yielded no regret, only a slight wistfulness for leaving a part of her life behind. She was ready for something to change.

      In the fragrant grass in front of the old, white house, Vivian laid on the fold-out chair and thought about Dr Lightfoot, the way he paced back and forth in front of the chalkboard, the cable to the slide projector trailing after him like a microphone cord. When he wanted to explain something more clearly, he asked the girl in the last row to flip on the lights then he’d look into the students’ eyes or write on the board in furious scratches of chalk. He showed slides in every class, excitedly pointing out notable features of the art. His hands were delicate over the screen, seemed to curve around the edges of the sculpture or brush the surface of a painting with soft, tenuous fingers. He had a deep respect for art, even the mere projected image of it.

      ‘Viv!’

      Her eyes opened. The lawn chair was mostly covered by shade; only her feet and the bottom half of her legs were still in the sun.

      The screen door squeaked as Nowell poked his head outside. ‘Your mother’s on the phone.’

      Vivian walked gingerly over the still-damp ground, groggy and disoriented.

      Her mother was working on a new book; she’d been distracted and unable to talk about much else. Her research would take her to the site where a volcano erupted fifty years ago. She planned on taking a sabbatical and going in the fall for at least a month. Vivian asked about her father.

      ‘He’s at school,’ her mother said. ‘That summer course.’

      ‘Tell him I said hello.’

      ‘I will. How’s Nowell’s book coming along?’

      ‘He’s been working non-stop since I arrived. It’s so quiet out here. I think it’s been very good for him.’ Vivian shifted her weight on the chair, which was cold and sticky against her bare legs.

      ‘Has he established a regular schedule?’

      ‘For his writing?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘He works most of the day,’ Vivian said. ‘He starts early, before I get up.’

      ‘And how is your work on the house going?’

      ‘It’s going to be a big job, that’s for sure.’

      Her mother shifted the phone. ‘Worse shape than you’d imagined?’

      ‘There’s a lot of junk around,’ Vivian acknowledged, ‘and the entire thing needs painting.’

      ‘That should keep you busy.’ Her voice sounded doubtful.

      ‘So far I’ve been taking it pretty easy.’

      Neither spoke for a few moments. The silence over the phone line was vapid, like air. Vivian had the impression of pressing her ear against a hole in a wall. On the other side, openness and space. ‘Mom?’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Do you remember that vacation, the summer when you taught the writing workshop?’

      Her mother answered quickly, without thought, ‘Of course.’

      ‘I did it on purpose, you know.’

      ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

      ‘When I got lost,’ Vivian said, pushing the receiver to her ear. ‘It wasn’t Dad.’

      There was a pause; emptiness again like the line was dead.

      ‘You were eight years old.’

      ‘Nine.’ Vivian stared through the screen door. On the lawn chair, the beach towel rose in ripples with the afternoon breeze, its corners flipping wildly back and forth. She spoke more hesitantly, her voice losing strength. ‘It was my fault.’

      ‘You wandered off, that’s all.’

      ‘Then why…’

      ‘Hold on Vivian.’ Her mother set the telephone on a hard surface. Vivian could hear her definitive steps fading then after a short time, growing louder again. When she came back on the line, she changed the subject.

      ‘What have you been reading, Vivian?’ Her mother believed everyone should constantly be reading something, preferably something of substance.

      ‘Fashion magazines and the TV Guide,’ Vivian answered, to irritate her.

      Another silence like an empty room, like the inside of a bubble.

      They talked about the weather for a while and when this most generic and easy of topics was exhausted, they said good-bye.

      Vivian replaced the receiver in its cradle and walked over to the curtain that divided the kitchen from the study. There was always the faint taste of misunderstanding where her mother was concerned. As much as they went through the motions, neither ever felt entirely comfortable with the other.

      She wondered if Nowell was still angry or if he would, as they had both learned to do, drop the argument before they reached the unsolvable issues at its center. ‘Knock, knock,’ she said loudly.

      The faint clicking sound ceased and she waited while he took a moment, only a brief moment, before his voice called out in answer to hers, ‘Come in.’

      9

      The funeral for Chanelle Brodie was small and uneventful. The Sentinel printed a short obituary and a news article that summarized and in effect, closed the case of her death. The coroner ruled it an accident. The photograph printed with the obituary looked like a school photo, grainy and white-framed. Chanelle had a round, heart-shaped face, full lips and straight, dark hair. She looked like an average teenager, but Vivian saw something in her eyes, a spark of defiance. Fearlessness, Katherine had called it.

      Work on the house proceeded. Twice, Vivian drove into town to deliver clothing and other small household goods to the Salvation Army. There was an old hand-held blender, a metal juicer, a set of hot hair rollers. Boxes of towels and sheets, СКАЧАТЬ