The Qualities of Wood. Mary White Vensel

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СКАЧАТЬ 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?’

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