Книга - The Qualities of Wood

The Qualities of Wood
Mary Vensel White


‘A haunting and provocative debut.’ – Christina Baker Kline, #1 New York Times bestselling author of ORPHAN TRAINWhen Betty Gardiner dies, leaving behind an unkempt country home, her grandson and his young wife take a break from city life to prepare the house for sale. Nowell Gardiner leaves first to begin work on his second mystery novel. By the time his wife Vivian joins him, a real mystery has begun: a local girl has been found dead in the woods behind the house. Even after the death is ruled an accident, Vivian can’t forget the girl, can’t ignore the strange behaviour of her neighbours, or her husband. As Vivian attempts to put the house in order, all around her things begin to fall apart.The Qualities of Wood is a novel about secrets. Family secrets. Community secrets. And secrets between lovers, past and present. And all of these secrets have their price.









MARY VENSEL WHITE

The Qualities of Wood










Copyright


Authonomy

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.authonomy.com (http://www.authonomy.com)

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://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 (#ulink_b57428e8-1f1f-5abc-aa12-6a58c506bafc)

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.’

Katherine’s hand moved quickly to her mouth, her rings shooting yellow and orange sparks.

‘Back in the trees,’ Nowell added.

Vivian shuddered. ‘Where?’

Sheriff Townsend motioned with his hand. ‘Just ’bout a half-mile, northwest towards Stokes’s land.’

They all stood looking beyond the trees. After a moment, Katherine asked, ‘Who was it, Sheriff?’

‘Chanelle Brodie.’

She gasped loudly and closed her eyes. ‘Her poor mother,’ she said. ‘Her poor mother.’

Vivian glanced from the sheriff, who was staring at Katherine with his hard, gray eyes, to Bud, whose eyes were lowered, to Nowell, who was watching her reaction. All of them were eerily illuminated by the liquid-orange sunlight behind them. ‘What happened to her?’ she asked.

The sheriff’s forehead creased into deep lines.

Bud said, ‘Hard to say. We found her face-down on a rock with her head split open.’

Sheriff Townsend’s eyes shot him a warning and Bud quickly corrected himself. ‘Severe head trauma, looks like.’

Katherine was incredulous. ‘Someone killed her?’

‘Now, Mrs Wilton,’ the sheriff said. ‘We don’t know anything yet. We just found the girl this morning. So far, it looks like an accident.’

‘Oh my God.’ She shook her head.

‘Is that what you were looking for last week?’ Vivian asked.

The sheriff nodded.

‘Mrs Brodie reported Chanelle missing,’ Bud said, ‘so we conducted a preliminary search of the area.’ He glanced at Nowell. ‘The Brodies live on the other side of your land.’ He pointed towards town. ‘After a few days went by, we decided to give it another look-through.’

‘Probably didn’t look too hard the first time,’ Katherine said, ‘since that girl was running off every few weeks. Not the easiest child to keep track of, I would think. That poor woman!’

‘We’re just about finished here,’ Sheriff Townsend said. ‘I was asking your husband whether he’d seen or heard anything, Mrs Gardiner. He told me that you just arrived last Thursday.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you both saw lights back there that evening?’

She nodded. ‘Nowell said it was probably the sheriff, well, you, looking around.’

‘Have you seen or heard anything since then?’

‘No.’

He nodded slowly then turned abruptly to Bud. ‘Let’s get going, Deputy.’

‘Wait.’ Vivian touched Nowell’s arm and he flinched. ‘Is she…?’

‘The coroner’s been and gone,’ Bud said.

The men turned again to leave. Vivian turned to look at the trees, to imagine what was beyond them, when all at once, a lone figure emerged from the woods and advanced slowly but steadily, up the incline and through the high grass, the tall trees at his back like a house he’d just left through the front door. ‘Look,’ she said.

The sheriff’s hand went to his holster; Nowell and Katherine took a collective step backwards.

The grass crunched under the feet of the stranger, closer and closer until Vivian could make out a plaid shirt, blue jeans, black and silver hair. Something about his stride was familiar, the loose-jointed smoothness of his gait, like her father’s. This man was much younger, his face more angular, she thought.

Sheriff Townsend called, ‘Evening, Mr Stokes.’

They sighed, leaned back on their heels, and began to stir again.

Flushed slightly from his walk and his eyes shiny with moisture, the man looked around at each one of them. ‘Evening, all,’ he said.




5


The summer Vivian was nine, she and her parents spent a month in the east, in a cabin surrounded by trees. Her mother was participating in a seminar for writers, having been invited to give two workshops on non-fiction. Backed by a well-known writing school, the seminar ran for six weeks and drew fledging writers from all over the country. Her mother directed a general course titled Writing about History and another on Finding the Story within the Story. Vivian remembered these details from the brochure that arrived several weeks before the trip. She had been intrigued by the picture of her mother inside, a grainy, indistinct photograph, black print on brownish paper. Held at a distance, it looked like her mother, but held closer, it was only a pattern of tiny dots, uneven splotches of ink.

A genuine log cabin was their home for the month-and-a-half, gratis for her mother’s efforts with the struggling writers-in-residence. Her mother, Dr Shatlee to her students at the university and simply Margery to the workshop participants, dreaded the time with the amateur writers. But she was excited by the prospects of a real vacation for Vivian.

‘You always teach summer courses,’ she said to Vivian’s father, who was also Dr Shatlee to his students but Drew to his fellow teachers, ‘and the past two summers I was busy with the Tiwi book. It’ll be good for us to get away.’

The Tiwis were a group of pygmies in New Zealand. Her mother had written a book about the construction of a hospital in a remote Tiwi village. She spent over a month in New Zealand interviewing people and sifting through records. Overall, she worked on the book for almost three years. By focusing on a small group of villagers, she made it a personal tale but she wove historical information throughout the narrative. This was the general method for each of her five books. Her most successful one, about the sinking of a cruise ship, came later, when Vivian was thirteen. By far the best-selling of her books (most of which appealed only to specialized groups), Down Goes the Ambassador had a title like an action movie and chronicled the sinking of an Alaskan cruise ship. The Tiwi, with their wide-set facial features and caramel-colored skin, were too strange and distant for a popular audience, but the cruise ship seemed to be peopled with one’s family, neighbors and co-workers. The tragedy was imaginable.

‘It’ll be nice to spend time as a family,’ her mother said. ‘You and your father can explore the woods while I’m suffering through readings, and I’ll be free in the afternoons.’

‘It’s a great opportunity,’ her father agreed. ‘What do you think, Vivie?’

Vivian shrugged. She had been looking forward to swimming at her friend’s house during the warm weather, but now she’d be cloistered away with her parents in the middle of nowhere for half the summer. It wasn’t fair.

Upon their arrival, she immediately liked the log-stacked cabin, which was nestled between fir trees and set a good distance from the cabins on either side. Beginning in the clearing that served as a parking area, a narrow path branched and formed trails between the cabins. Rustic and comfortable, their cabin was equipped with fresh linens, firewood, and all the necessities for cooking. Above the kitchen was a loft where Vivian would sleep.

‘Careful up there. Don’t come near the edge,’ her mother instructed. ‘I don’t know if she should be up there, Drew.’

‘It’s fine,’ he answered. ‘She’s smart enough not to jump. Right, Vivie?’

‘Yes,’ she called down. When her mother went back to the car, Vivian kneeled and peeked over. Her father was putting food away in the kitchen. He turned around, saw her, and pointed his finger in silent warning. She grinned and crouched out of sight.

Her mother was the disciplinarian, while her father was a protector and ally. He had certain limits though, and his disapproval was heavier to bear than her mother’s, which was more easily and often provoked.

In the mornings while her mother was teaching, Vivian and her father cooked strange, inventive breakfasts: pancakes with raisins and brown sugar or omelets with green olives and cheese. For lunch, they packed cold chicken or sandwiches into backpacks and took long walks through the woods. Her father told Vivian things about the plants and the dangerous wildlife they hoped to see. Mostly, they encountered birds and small creatures, squirrels eating with their miniature arms and twice, lean brown rabbits. Her father didn’t know much about nature. His specialty was ancient cultures, Greek mostly, although he did know a fair amount of other things. At least, it seemed so to Vivian, who liked to hear him talk.

In the afternoon, her mother would return, usually tired and cranky. Her patience with her students dwindled as the days went on, and she never wanted to do much in the afternoons but linger about the cabin. Vivian made friends with a small group of kids. They played chasing games or swam at a roped-off, shallow area in the lake.

Her parents seemed closer than they had for some time. At night, they sat outside, laughing and reading aloud to each other from their books. Her mother talked about the workshop classes, lowering her voice if she thought Vivian was still awake. But Vivian knew how she talked about the novice writers, about their unsophisticated methods and childish themes. It was a struggle for her mother, Vivian knew, to circulate in less intelligent crowds.

During the third week of their stay, Vivian got lost in the woods. It was a turning point and in many ways, the end of the vacation. Nothing was the same after that. The day started in the usual way. They had gone for their lunchtime walk, and when they reached a spot Vivian thought she recognized from her trips to the lake with the other children, she suggested they have their picnic there. Busy spreading the blanket on the ground, her father didn’t notice when she slipped away behind the thick trees.

She noticed the spot where they had gathered pinecones, she and the garrulous blonde girl in the cabin four down. Just beyond a shallow ditch and over the spot where they’d found a fallen bird’s nest. After a short time, Vivian realized that she truly had no idea where she was, nest or pinecones or not, and that maybe things had gotten out of her control. She didn’t panic right away. She walked and walked, staring at the sky beyond the green clouds of trees. She called out but heard nothing in return.

The sun began to abandon its position. Vivian sat down on a rock. The two pieces of gum she found in her backpack made her even hungrier. The day was getting cooler, shadowy, and she didn’t have a watch or a jacket. When she began to walk again, her chest was tighter, her breaths short. Eventually, she found a house. She walked up the stone path and knocked on the door. A man opened the door and looked down at her. A marbled-wood pipe hung from the side of his mouth.

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 waiting for him to catch up and not looking back again.




6


Vivian was standing at the refrigerator opening a beer when Nowell came in.

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 a time limit or something. She’s really upset about it.’

‘I thought pensions were forever.’

‘There’s a new tax law. She told me all about it, but I couldn’t follow half of it, the rules and regulations. That place has turned very corporate since Dad died. I can’t believe his old partner would do this to her.’

‘What’s she going to do?’

Nowell shrugged. ‘She’s worried about losing that money. She’s never had a real job.’

‘How much is it?’

‘Not much, but she depends on it.’

‘She has savings and the house, the money from your grandma…’

Nowell leaned forward. ‘But it’s regular income and she’s entitled to it. She got a lawyer, an old friend of my dad’s.’

Nowell kept in very close contact with his mother, and it had taken some time for Vivian to get used to it. Communication between herself and her own parents was more sporadic and less involved. She spoke to her mother every other week, about mundane things – jobs, illnesses, the weather. And her mother talked about her work. She taught Sociology courses at the university and was usually working on another book.

Vivian’s father didn’t like the telephone. Normally, all she could get out of him was a general statement about what he was doing before he passed the receiver on. In person, he could be quite animated about his work. He was a good listener and never gave advice.

But Beverly Gardiner unburdened all of her problems onto her sons. Nowell helped her decide on appliances, insurance and doctors, and he worried about every problem with her house or car. At first, Vivian thought him kind and responsible for assuming some of his father’s responsibilities but recently, she’d witnessed the unnecessary worry Beverly caused. The pension issue, like many others, would probably end up being nothing.

After a long commercial break, the vulture carried off a tiger cub that had fallen sick and died.

‘That’s disgusting,’ Vivian said. ‘Is he going to eat it?’

Nowell chuckled, pulling her next to him with his long arm. ‘It’s the way of nature.’ Then he coaxed her onto his lap so that they faced each other.

After a moment he asked, ‘What’s all that stuff out in the garbage?’

‘Assorted junk. A whole box of plastic silverware and plates, sewing stuff, stacks of paperbacks.’

‘You could take the books to a used book store.’

‘They’re romance novels,’ she said, leaning in. ‘I figured you’d think the world is better off without them.’

Nowell gripped her hips. ‘Because of poverty, I’ve had to reconsider my high ideals.’

‘We’re not in poverty.’

‘Okay. Without means.’

‘You’re right, I could have traded them for something to read.’ She shrugged. ‘They’re all wet now.’

‘What else have you uncovered?’ he asked.

‘Nothing exciting. Mostly clothes, junk. I really haven’t gotten much done yet.’

‘There’s no rush. You deserve a break.’

‘So do you, so how about that movie tomorrow?’

He shook his head. ‘I told you. I can’t.’

‘It’s only one day.’ She moved back to her spot next to him on the couch.

‘Viv, please. I’m trying to do something here, for both of us. I have a hard enough time staying focused. Random Victim did pretty well, but I’ve got to produce something else. Besides, Dani wants me to start doing some promotion in the fall for Random Victim, getting ready for the new book.’

Dani was Nowell’s agent. She had a husky voice and like a used car salesman, was overly and suspiciously friendly.

The rain had let up; occasional drops splashed against the windows and the wind was calmer.

‘Let’s plan a day off soon,’ she said, ‘you and me. We’ll pack a picnic lunch and go for a long walk.’

‘Maybe next week,’ he said.

The remaining tigers were enjoying the spring sunshine. They were leaner now, learning to hunt. In the high grass, they crouched and chased each other around.

Maybe the girl was taking a walk when it happened, Vivian suddenly thought. Sometimes it’s nice to be alone, only your thoughts for company and no one telling you what you should be doing. Maybe someone saw the girl, someone with bad motives and a sudden opportunity. But the sheriff had said that it looked like an accident. Maybe someone was with her and the other person ran off afterwards. But people don’t normally run away from accidents, she thought, unless they’re guilty in some way. She squeezed her elbow, trying to rub away the insistent throb.

‘I’ll get you that ice,’ Nowell said, and he went out to the kitchen.




7


The storm had pushed soggy leaves against the house and left a puddle directly below the porch steps. Broken branches lay scattered about, their leaves still green and beneath the bark, clean white fiber gleamed. Vivian kicked off her shoes, the damp grass cool between her toes as she gathered the debris. In the shed next to the well, amidst rusty gardening tools and bags of old potting soil, she found a straw broom. She swept the porch and gathered everything into a black garbage bag. By mid-morning, the grass dried into scented vapors and the dirt driveway lightened, strip by strip, as the sun moved higher over the trees.

Nowell was in his airless study, hidden behind the curtain like a sick ward. Vivian’s mind had started to believe that the divider was solid and soundproof; it gave the illusion of complete separation. Nowell’s touch on the keyboard was light. She seldom heard any sounds from the room. If she strained, sometimes she could make out a soft, steady tapping, like raindrops on a distant roof. Most of the time, she forgot he was in the house.

She telephoned her parents but reached their answering machine, her mother’s staid, succinct recording. Then she went to the study.

‘Nowell? Can I come in?’

‘Hey, Viv,’ he called back.

She pulled aside the curtain, an old sheet with delicate baby blue stripes, and stepped down. ‘It’s so stuffy in here,’ she said without thinking.

This was a continual disagreement between them, at their apartment and now here, at Grandma Gardiner’s house. Nowell kept windows sealed; Vivian liked to air things out, even in the winter.

‘It’s cold in the morning,’ Nowell said. ‘There’s no sun back here. I wish you’d leave the windows alone.’

‘I opened them in the afternoon, when it was warm.’

He raised his eyebrows.

‘Alright,’ she said. ‘It’s your room.’ She perched on the edge of his desk. ‘I’m going to head into town now. I’m going to the newspaper office and having lunch with Katherine. She called earlier.’

He moved some papers to the side. ‘Are you sure you’re comfortable driving the truck?’

‘I think so.’

The night before, he adjusted the seat and brought a pillow from the house for her to sit on. It seemed demeaning to her, like a booster seat for a child, but she was determined to drive the thing.

She climbed into the cabin as effortlessly as possible given its height, started the truck, and backed it slowly down the driveway. As she turned onto the road, she glanced up at the house, looking for Nowell in the windows. She felt sure he was watching, to see how she’d do.

Vivian had no trouble driving to town and finding the newspaper office. The Sentinel was tucked between two squat office buildings, its white-painted brick façade standing stubbornly between the modern structures. She walked through the double doors at the front and a bell tied to the doorknob jangled, reminding her of Christmas. The woman at the desk looked up and smiled. Above her, a wooden placard that said ‘Customer Service’ hung from the ceiling under two thick cables. She had a double chin that protruded underneath her first chin. Bulbous and jiggling, it extended down in a rounded curve to the opening of her shirt. ‘Hello there,’ she said.

Vivian tried to focus instead on her eyes, which were dull green but friendly. ‘My husband and I just moved here,’ she said, ‘and we’d like to receive the newspaper.’

‘Surely.’ She took a sheet of paper from a plastic tray at the side of the counter. ‘Just fill out this form.’

Vivian set her purse on the counter. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but could I borrow a pen?’

‘Surely. Take mine and I’ll fetch another one.’ The woman made slow movements to disembark her chair, which was a high, backless stool pushed up close to the counter. She turned to the side and scooted forward a little, then straightened her torso so that her rear slid over the edge of the seat. Finally, she landed with a grunt on the floor, her neck shaking up and down.

‘There are three different kinds of subscriptions,’ she explained when she came back with the pen. ‘There’s every day service, which includes every day of the week except Tuesday and Thursday. We don’t print those days. So the ‘every day’ title really means every day we print. Then there’s Monday, Friday, and Sunday service. Basically that excludes Wednesday and Saturday. Then there’s Sunday only service.’

‘I’ll take the second one.’ As the woman checked the paperwork, Vivian looked around the office. Behind the counter, two desks sat side by side, each cluttered with papers. A doorway at the back of the reception area opened to a larger room. Two people were working in that section. A man leaned on the corner of a desk, talking to a woman and smoking.

‘I see you’re out on the main road,’ the woman said.

Vivian looked back to her milky green eyes and nodded.

She lowered her voice. ‘Did you hear about the girl they found out there?’

Vivian answered in her normal speaking voice. ‘Yes. She was found near our house.’

The woman’s eyes widened and as she lowered her head, her neck creased into white and pink bands. ‘Right near your place, you say?’

‘Practically our backyard.’

‘Goodness! How terrifying for you!’

Vivian didn’t like her conspiratorial tone or the way she had lowered her voice.

‘You poor thing,’ the woman continued. ‘Your husband’s out there with you?’

‘Well, yes. Why?’

She looked at Vivian curiously. ‘For protection.’

‘The sheriff seems to think it was an accident.’

‘That’s not what I heard.’ At once, the woman changed her posture, straightening her back. She looked over her shoulder. ‘Well, I can’t…’

Vivian leaned forward. ‘What did you hear?’

The woman contemplated for a moment then squinted, her eyes catlike. ‘I heard it’s not a foregone conclusion.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They say the girl fell, right?’

Vivian nodded.

‘And hit her head on the rock?’

‘Yes.’

The woman paused, puckering her lips. ‘Say you’re running and you trip on something and fall. Where would your hands be?’

‘My hands?’

‘You’re running and your feet hit something and you fall forward.’

‘I don’t know.’

The woman shook her head irritably, then glanced over her shoulder again. ‘Your hands would be up, near your chest or your face, depending how far they got.’ She demonstrated. ‘You would try to break the fall, by instinct. That’s why kids on roller-skates are supposed to wear those wrist things, because they break their wrists more than anything else.’

‘So?’

‘Chanelle Brodie’s hands were at her side, like this.’

Vivian peered over the counter to see the woman’s arms, pressed to her sides like a soldier at attention.

‘Weird, isn’t it?’ the woman said.

‘I guess.’

‘Like an execution,’ she almost hissed.

They concluded their business and Vivian thanked the woman. Outside, the morning brightness was a shock. She locked the truck and started down the street toward the restaurant Katherine had suggested, thinking about the conversation with the woman at The Sentinel. What she had said about instinct seemed reasonable. Small children often fell on their faces, cutting their lips open or bruising their cheeks, but after a certain age, injuries happened more to limbs. Older children scraped their knees and elbows, broke arms and fingers. It seemed logical that if a seventeen-year-old girl had fallen in the woods, her hands would have gone up to break her fall.

Vivian passed a toy store and a women’s clothing boutique. The streets were quiet for mid-morning, most businesses still closed. She lowered her sunglasses to read the sign on the door of a flower shop: Open weekdays at eleven. Most of the places were the same. She was meeting Katherine at eleven-thirty, and still had an hour to kill. She reached the plaza with the statue of William Clement, sat on a red-painted bench, and opened her complimentary copy of The Sentinel.

There were two articles about Chanelle Brodie, the first one on the front page: Local Girl, 17, Found Dead. The article was short, just covering the most basic facts; that the body was found face down, on a large rock, and that the death was believed to be an accident. More information would follow after an autopsy, it said. The other article, buried on page six, talked about an impromptu memorial service that took place at Chanelle’s high school. The entire fence surrounding the football field was threaded with flowers. The formal services would be held in a few days.

She wondered again what Chanelle had been doing in the woods behind their property. Vivian thought about a small box she buried in her backyard when she was young. The box contained mementos: notes she had received from a boy, a plastic multi-colored bracelet, a picture of her mother as a teenager. Between the gnarled roots of an old, dried-up tree, she dug a hole and covered the box with a thin layer of dirt. She thought: Maybe Chanelle had a hiding place in the woods; that would explain why she went there alone. Then again, maybe she did most things by herself, being an only child. Vivian could relate to that.

‘Hey there!’

Vivian opened her eyes. The sun glared through her sunglasses.

Katherine moved over, blocking the light. ‘I thought that was you. I drove by a minute ago.’

‘None of the stores were open,’ Vivian said. ‘I thought I’d read the paper and enjoy the sun a little.’

‘I keep telling Max that we should open later like everyone else, but some people like to drop off their cleaning on the way to work.’ She looked up at the sky. ‘Feels like another hot one, doesn’t it? July is going out with a bang, I swear.’

They walked across the plaza, over the jagged shadow of William Clement and horse.

Katherine said, ‘This place has a great salad bar, and it should be pretty fresh since we’ll get there before the lunch crowd.’

Vivian looked up and down the streets, which were clear but beginning to show a few sporadic signs of life. She couldn’t imagine any type of crowd anywhere on this street, lunchtime or otherwise. There was a pregnant stillness, like a suspenseful movie. Any moment, a mad gunman would burst from the bank or someone would scream and fall from the top of a building.

‘Those kids were a handful today,’ Katherine said.

‘What grade?’

‘Third. Eight and nine years old. They’re hard to handle during the summer. It’s like the heat gets to their little brains.’ She laughed, pleased with herself. ‘What did you think of that storm?’

‘Windy, wasn’t it? I filled a trash bag with leaves and branches.’

Katherine grabbed Vivian’s upper arm. ‘I still can’t believe it. One of the teachers at the school heard that Chanelle had been missing for almost three weeks. She has a friend who knows Kitty.’

‘Kitty?’

‘Mrs Brodie, Chanelle’s mother. Her name is Katlyn but she’s always gone by Kitty.’ She made a clicking sound with her tongue. ‘She had a hard time raising that child alone. Chanelle was a magnet for trouble.’

‘More trouble than most teenagers?’ Vivian asked.

‘That’s a good question. It’s been so long since I was one myself.’

They were seated at a table on the restaurant’s patio, and when they were comfortable with iced teas, Katherine resumed the conversation. ‘Chanelle was a very pretty girl and arrogant about it. I think it’s a special time, and a dangerous one, when a young girl discovers her sex appeal. Don’t you?’

Vivian flushed slightly. ‘I guess.’

‘She had a way about her. Arrogant, but sad. She wasn’t going to let anybody tell her anything.’

‘Did she have brothers or sisters?’

Katherine shook her head as she sipped from her straw. ‘Kitty had her real young, in high school.’ She set her glass down. ‘You should know that in a small town, everybody goes to the same school and knows everybody’s business. I swear, it’s almost intimidating sometimes, knowing you can never get away from yourself. You can never change, not really. People are always reminding you who you are.’

Vivian hadn’t lived in her hometown since she moved away to college. She hadn’t ever thought of it in those terms, but she did like the anonymity of the city. ‘Were you and Kitty friends in high school?’ she asked.

‘No. She was a year back, and hung around a different crowd.’

Vivian smiled. ‘Let me guess. She was a cheerleader and you were a diligent student.’

Katherine chuckled. ‘Something like that. She never was a cheerleader, but boy, she wanted to be. She pestered the in-crowd until they had to let her in. She was very pretty. Still is.’

‘So that’s where Chanelle got her looks.’

Something passed over Katherine’s face. Vivian thought that maybe it hurt her feelings, remembering how she and Kitty differed in high school.

‘I see kids around here,’ Katherine said, ‘well, they have no fear. I’ve seen Chanelle riding around at night, six or seven of them in the back of a truck. Cruising up and down the main street, trying to make something happen.’

‘The street with the statue of William Clement?’

‘Yea.’ Katherine paused. ‘I can’t explain it, but they act like they own the town. I was never completely fearless, even at my worst.’

Vivian envisioned the circular plaza surrounding the statue of Clement. ‘That’s probably the turn-around point,’ she said, ‘where the statue is.’

‘You sound like someone who’s done some cruising yourself.’

Vivian shrugged. ‘Maybe once or twice.’

‘There’s something else.’ Katherine lowered her voice. ‘About a year ago, Chanelle and two local boys got arrested for stealing a car from the mini-mall parking lot. They were raging drunk too. Lucky for them, Sheriff Townsend is an old friend of Kitty’s father. They all got bailed out and the charges were eventually dropped. I think they got some kind of probation.’

‘What about the owner of the car?’

‘She used to work for the sheriff when he owned his construction company.’ She winked. ‘Everything worked out.’

Their salads arrived and for a few moments, they ate in silence.

Katherine sighed. ‘I think Chanelle had a lot of boyfriends, that sort of thing. Pretty much like her mother in that way. But she was still in school. She could have done something with her life, especially with that stubborn streak. Life takes perseverance, doesn’t it? It’s a real shame.’

Vivian set her fork down. ‘I saw the story in The Sentinel.’

‘You know,’ Katherine said. ‘It doesn’t give the exact location. People won’t know it was near your place.’

‘Do you think they’ll want to leave flowers at the site or something?’

‘No, I just thought you wouldn’t want people bothering you.’

‘People? What people?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘They can come over and look if they want to,’ Vivian said. ‘Why? Do people think that we know something, do they…’

Katherine waved her hand, bracelets sounding an alarm. ‘Oh, no, no, no. There are all types, that’s all. The curious, the downright nosy.’

Vivian hadn’t once imagined the possible implications of the girl being found on their property. She had been thinking only of their safety.

‘The man who owns this little cafe is so nice,’ Katherine told her. ‘His father designed the fire station, and the county office addition…’ As she talked, Vivian stayed alone in her thoughts, which weren’t about office additions or salads but instead were vivid contemplations about Chanelle Brodie and the nature of her final moments.




8


When Vivian came in, Nowell was on the telephone, speaking patiently into the receiver, which was propped between his shoulder and ear. ‘I can’t tell you anything until I speak to him. What’s his name again?’ He paced the room, very intent on the conversation, pausing only to give her a brief nod. ‘Richards or Richardson? I’ve got it. And his number?’

The curtain divider to Nowell’s study had been pulled back. Through the window, the back lawn was a vivid, monochrome green. Vivian noticed an empty plate and a fork on the end table near the couch. She stepped down into the room to get them.

‘I’ll call him today or maybe first thing tomorrow. What are you doing? No, not you. Viv, what are you doing?’

She turned with the plate in her hands to show him.

‘Mom, they can’t do that. No, I will call Richards, or is it Richardson? I’ll call him. You just wait to hear from me. I’ll let you know what I find out.’

Vivian set the plate and fork in the sink then walked down the hallway toward their bedroom.

Nowell came in as she was adjusting the straps of her bikini. ‘You’re going outside?’ he asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘My mom said she’d call to talk to you later this week. She’s too upset today.’

‘Why, what happened?’

He sat on the edge of the bed. ‘The pension thing. She’s all worked up about it and wants me to call that lawyer. She doesn’t trust him.’

‘What are you supposed to do?’

He shrugged. ‘She needs someone to look out for her, and Lonnie’s no good in these situations. I may have to drive over there and meet with this guy.’

She looked up. ‘What?’

‘I don’t know what else to do. I’ve got her calling me in hysterics, and I can’t do anything from here. I’ll stay overnight so I can meet with him during office hours.’

Vivian wrapped a beach towel, a bright print her parents bought on vacation, around her waist. She leaned against the doorframe. ‘I just don’t see why it has to be you. You’re trying to finish your book.’

‘There’s no use arguing about it. I have to go.’ He crossed his arms over his chest, looked at her chest in the bikini top. ‘If you don’t feel comfortable staying here alone, you can come with me.’

She shrugged, watched his gaze and waited.

‘I’ve got to get back to work,’ he said. He left the room and after a few moments, she followed him, suddenly angry. She poked her head into the makeshift office. ‘Am I allowed in here?’ she asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You act like you want me to stay out.’

‘I like my privacy. Is that such a big deal?’

‘No, Nowell. Nothing’s a big deal. You don’t leave this room for days at a time, but you can take two days off to bail your mother out of some imaginary problem. No big deal.’

‘You think I want to do this?’ He sprung from his chair and was suddenly towering over her. ‘Drive all the way there, talk to some lawyer about something I know nothing about, knowing my mother is depending on me? A little support would be nice, Viv.’ He ran his hands through his dark hair and looked, in that moment, vulnerable.

She reached for him. ‘I’m sorry but…’

‘I have work to do.’

‘Okay,’ she said, and went to the kitchen. She knew he needed time to cool off.

They hadn’t fought much during the first years of their marriage, although it was a tense time. Nowell had just graduated from college and Vivian had a year left. He took a low-paying job at a bookstore while she worked part-time at the water management agency. Money was limited and anxieties were high. The rent on their apartment went up twice in one year. Everywhere, real estate prices were skyrocketing and rents were keeping pace. The boom of the 90s, people were calling it. Even with the money difficulties, they were happy.

They married after two years of dating. Although Vivian spent quite a bit of time in Nowell’s studio apartment, she shared a dorm room on campus with three other girls until a few weeks before the wedding. Nowell’s mother sprung for a resort honeymoon, and her parents paid for the small ceremony at Nowell’s family’s church. After the wedding, they rented the one-bedroom apartment and combined their things.

In the beginning, they were both very busy. With Nowell’s encouragement, Vivian finally decided on a Business major. She had been wavering between Art History and Business, taking low-level courses in both. She imagined herself working in a museum, perhaps owning her own art gallery one day.

During her freshman year, she stumbled into an art history class after not getting into an overcrowded introductory literature course. She had been focusing on Business then, but still needed a few liberal arts classes. The professor of the art course was young and hip, enthusiastic and funny. Vivian had a crush on him, with his silver earring and long black ponytail, his tawny skin and brown suede coat. And when Dr Lightfoot showed slides of sculptures and paintings, museums and cathedrals, and talked about the creativity and methods that formed them, it was the ultimate escape. Vivian was hooked.

Nowell said that Art History was a major like English, designed for those who wanted to teach and she’d need a doctorate degree if she followed that course. The Business major was more broadly applicable, he said, non-limiting. She could have Art History as a minor; business would guarantee her a job.

When Vivian announced her plans to her parents over dinner one night, their reactions were restrained. Her mother gazed at her over her tortoise-shell reading glasses. ‘I thought you were really interested in art,’ she said.

‘I am,’ Vivian said, ‘but I think that the Business degree would open up more avenues, that’s all.’

‘Why do you need other avenues, if art is what you enjoy?’ Her mother stared at her plate, slicing her prime rib with the efficiency of a surgeon.

‘I’ll still have a minor in art,’ she said. ‘It’s hard to find a job with a Bachelors degree in Art.’

Her mother only raised her eyebrows but her father lifted his wineglass to Vivian. ‘I think it’s a fine decision, Vivie,’ he said.

She knew they wanted her to follow them into academia, but she lacked their self-discipline, their ability to narrow focus. She didn’t have their attention spans; her mother had said so herself on many occasions when Vivian put down a book to watch television, when she abandoned a project before it was finished.

Vivian kept her office job after graduation and was promoted within a year to Administrative Assistant. Nowell moved from the bookstore to a short stint at a bakery, to his last job at the magazine, editing and proofreading. In the evenings and during weekends, he worked 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, bags of knick-knacks: candleholders, glass figurines, homey plaques. Things she didn’t think anyone wanted, but Vivian felt a twinge with each item. She couldn’t help but imagine someone going through her own things after she was gone. The personal items were harder, a drawer of nail polishes and files, a small box of costume jewelry, a gold, silk-trimmed bathrobe. Things that meant nothing to others but probably quite a bit to Grandma Gardiner.

The larger items, the newer things and everything else would be saved for a yard sale. Vivian was getting used to driving the truck. On a third trip into town, she and Nowell saw a matinee and did some grocery shopping. He was in high spirits that day, having just finished a major segment of his book. In the empty theater, they ate popcorn and joked through the entire film, a mediocre comedy about a man with supernatural powers. Then they went home and lounged in bed until dinnertime. It was a glimmer of their old life.

The crew working on the road was progressing rapidly. In the afternoons when Vivian walked to the mailbox, she could see them at a distance, their trucks and orange flags moving closer until they were over the small hill and finally, nearing the house.

One morning, someone knocked on the door while Nowell was still in the shower. Groggy and squinting in the yellow kitchen, Vivian opened the door in her robe.

‘Morning, ma’am.’ Five feet from the screen stood a man in an orange vest. ‘I’m with the county. We’re paving the road out there.’ White teeth gleaming from his tanned face, he said this like a question.

She nodded, smoothing her hair back.

‘We’re set to start in front of your house. You need to get out?’

‘I hadn’t planned on going anywhere today,’ she said.

He leaned back onto his heels. ‘We’re mostly smoothing and clearing today. Tomorrow we lay the asphalt.’

‘So we can get out today?’

He nodded, taking in her legs under the short robe. ‘We’ll try to get it down early tomorrow. Should take most of the day to set. You’ll have to stay put then.’

Vivian noticed his attention and adjusted the robe around her neck. She noticed his broad shoulders, his rugged and dirty hands and the roughness of his skin. ‘Well, thanks for letting me know,’ she said.

He nodded, staring.

Vivian closed the door, her face flushed.

Nowell poked his head around the corner. ‘Who was that?’

‘Someone from that road crew,’ she told him. ‘They’re working out front today and tomorrow, so if we need to go anywhere we should go today.’

‘That was fast. I thought it would take them longer.’ He walked back into the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist.

She thought that maybe the road was to be finished in time for the reunion Katherine told her about. It was for the descendants of the town’s founder, William Clement, and would be held at the end of the summer. The ballroom at the local Best Western had been rented out and hundreds of people were expected.

The newspaper had run a few stories about the reunion. In a biographical piece about William Clement, Vivian learned that he came from old money, much of which he invested in the town. Most of the older downtown section was built under his direction; he financed the construction of the Sheriff department, the Post Office, and the office building for town officials, which now served as a community center. He populated the buildings with relatives and friends, even appointed his oldest son as the town’s first sheriff. He opened a bank and began to help people build homes, run farms and start businesses. Various real estate developments were handled from a corner office with windows that looked out over the plaza where he was now immortalized in bronze.

The newspaper story named a few singular descendants, those who had risen to some level of greatness. One of Clement’s sons had served three terms in the state senate, and a granddaughter had a short-lived career on Broadway. Katherine claimed that William Clement sired another batch of descendants with several Native American women who worked for him, but this lesser-respected line was not identified in the article. When Vivian mentioned this to Katherine, she merely laughed and said, ‘Who do you think owns the newspaper?’

Her thoughts returned to the construction worker, his bold stare. Why is it always like that, she wondered. You always have to be on guard. And yet a part of her was flattered and excited, and she couldn’t help but pull back the kitchen curtains to catch a glimpse of the crew where they worked further down the road.

In high school, a boy had taken Vivian to a party then abandoned her near a cavernous overpass, a concrete structure lined with yellow lights, when she wouldn’t do what he wanted. He was a popular boy, one whom everyone liked and admired, and up until his fit of anger, Vivian had been feeling quite special. As he drove off, she pulled her jacket around her throat and watched the receding taillights. Then she walked to a convenience store and called home. Her mother was up late reading.

Once Vivian was inside the family Buick, her mother stared at her. ‘Are you alright?’ she finally asked.

‘Yes,’ Vivian said.

‘You smell like a brewery.’

Vivian didn’t answer. Being in the car, drunk, with her mother, was surreal. Outside, things looked strange and desolate and lonely. The sole cashier in the mini-mart watched them over the stacks of newspapers.

Her mother turned the car onto the empty road. ‘So what happened?’

‘I told you,’ Vivian said, ‘I couldn’t get a ride home.’

‘I thought that boy who picked you up would be bringing you back.’

‘So did I.’

‘If he drank as much as you, I hope he’s not driving.’

She shrugged.

‘Listen, Vivian, I’m relieved that you called me.’ She ran her hand through her curly reddish hair.

From the side angle, Vivian could see smudges on her oval glasses, places where her fingers had been.

‘I even understand this rebellion to some extent,’ her mother said in a practical tone. A lecture tone. ‘It’s very natural, I suppose. I don’t want to make a big deal out of it.’

‘Good,’ Vivian said, thinking: here it comes.

‘What I am concerned about, however, is your general lack of purpose. You’re not getting the kind of grades that’ll get you into a good college.’

Vivian groaned.

‘That’s what I mean. You’d cut off your nose to spite me. Why? If I told you not to go to college, would it make you want to go?’

‘I don’t know.’ She leaned her head against the seat and closed her eyes.

‘I suppose you don’t know much of anything right now, do you? In your present condition…’ Her voice droned on and on and in a weak moment Vivian wished she could tell her about Scott Ridling, about the smooth ride in his Camaro and the way his blue eyes glinted when he laughed. About the awed expressions on the faces of her friends that day he crossed the concrete courtyard and asked her to the party, and about the way her skirt swished lightly over her thighs when they danced together. But her mother’s world was too matter-of-fact for such things. She would say that Vivian didn’t need Scott or his approval, which Vivian, in her rational mind, already knew very well. But that wasn’t the point. He had made her feel small and she needed rebuilding. And she realized that once again, she’d have to do it herself. Her mother didn’t have the tools.

In the afternoon, Vivian went out to retrieve the mail. She had just showered, and her wet hair slapped against her back as she walked. The dirt road in front of the house was smooth and packed, and the crew was working some distance away, about a hundred yards towards town. One man drove the roller truck over the thick asphalt, another marched ahead directing him, and a third leaned against a hand-held Stop sign. The man with the sign looked over and held up his hand. It was the one she had spoken to earlier. She raised her hand and turned abruptly, careful to pace herself up the driveway, feeling his gaze on her back. At the side of the house, she glanced over her shoulder and caught him watching her through the scattered trees.

She wasn’t ready to go inside. She dropped the mail on the porch and proceeded toward the back yard. She stopped at the well Nowell showed her the day she arrived. Behind the brush and beyond the small shed, the well blended into its surroundings, its brick like the reddish parts of the earth, its chain and bucket like the drooping, leaf-heavy branches of the trees. Leaning over the side, she smelled mildew and metal. She picked up a small stone, dropped it inside, and waited for the small plunging sound. She listened to the sound of her name echoed down the cold tunnel, felt a chill on her face as it faded then disappeared.

In the back yard, the sun beamed hot over the trees. She turned to see if Nowell was watching her through the window of his study, but the curtains were closed. She walked down the slope toward the line of trees that stood unyielding, their backs turned. They were closer than she had thought. She kept walking until she was immersed; their wide scaly trunks smelled old and sharp and their shiny leaves were a fluttering palette of greens. Vivian kicked earth up as she walked. A chirping sound came from her left and overhead, something scampered through a tree, the weight of its body rustling the leaves. She walked for some time, careful to look back once and again to keep track of how to get back. Through the density of trees, a rust-colored object caught her eye, appearing then disappearing among the wide trunks. Vivian watched for a moment. A sudden cracking sound echoed through the woods. She strained her eyes and made out a shirt, a flash of face. Must be that Mr Stokes, she thought. He’s cutting wood. She turned around and began to retrace her steps. A snapping sound reverberated as another log splintered, but this time the noise was followed by a long wail. Vivian perked her ears.

‘Ohhhhh.’

She realized that the wailing was coming from the opposite direction. She was disoriented, looking one way then the other.

‘Oh, my poor baby.’

Vivian ran towards the edge of trees. It seemed to take a long time but finally, the grassy field of their backyard appeared in glimpses through the trunks. She stopped. Three figures stood in the high grass at the peak of the gradual slope. The one in the middle, a woman, leaned on the arm of the tall man next to her. By his hat and bearing, Vivian recognized him as Sheriff Townsend. The three began to descend towards the woods.

Behind her, she heard a branch snap.

‘Of course I’m sure,’ the woman said loudly, ‘I’ve got to see where my baby, I’ve got to, ohhh.’ Her voice faded and then, she gasped.

Vivian had emerged from the trees.

The sheriff, the woman, and the third person, whom Vivian now saw to be his deputy, stopped. They stared at her across the high grass.

‘Who’s that?’ Sheriff Townsend called.

‘It’s Vivian Gardiner,’ she called back.

‘Oh, Mrs Gardiner.’

She kept walking and when she had almost reached them, Bud stepped to the side, looked over her shoulder, and said incredulously, ‘Now who could that be?’

As they followed his gaze, a rust-colored figure emerged from the trees, walking purposely towards them into the light.

Vivian heard a whooshing sound, like air pressed out of a cushion, and she turned back in time to see the sheriff reach across and catch the woman as she swooned, her knees buckling underneath her.




10


Sheriff Townsend steadied the woman, who shook her head and pressed a palm to her cheek. Vivian, the deputy, and Mr Stokes stood a short distance away, watching her.

Vivian turned to Mr Stokes and whispered, ‘You scared me back there.’

His eyebrows raised but he didn’t answer.

The woman said, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t feel well.’

‘You had a fright when Mrs Gardiner came out of the woods,’ the sheriff told her. ‘This is Mrs Brodie,’ he explained. ‘She’s here to see where we found Chanelle.’

‘I’m so sorry about what happened,’ Vivian said, realizing as she spoke that it wasn’t quite the right thing to say.

Mr Stokes shifted on his feet. ‘Mrs Brodie,’ he said.

The haziness melted from Mrs Brodie’s face as the full realization of where she was and why she was there came back to her. Vivian wondered if she woke each day like that, forgetting for a few peaceful moments about her daughter’s death, only to suddenly and painfully remember. At Grandma Gardiner’s house, in the sleepy, early mornings, Vivian stared at the vague outlines of the furniture before they sharpened and took shape, smelling the unfamiliar scents of the house, the old wood of the doors and the starchy sheets, until she remembered where she was. Perhaps it was like that for Mrs Brodie, she thought, the slow focusing of perception.

Vivian pictured a teenage girl with a round, childish face sprawled awkwardly over a large boulder. Her long hair was dark like Vivian’s, her face expressionless. The defiance of the obituary photo was gone; only a crumbled form, a spent energy. The girl’s arms were down at her sides.

Mrs Brodie regained her footing, and the sheriff let go.

‘Like I mentioned,’ he told her, ‘Mrs Gardiner and her husband are staying in Betty Gardiner’s place for a while.’

Mrs Brodie smoothed her green sweater. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’ Tears flooded her eyes. Her eyelashes left brushstrokes of mascara on her skin.

Mr Stokes pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and stepped across the short distance to hand it to her.





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