The Qualities of Wood by Mary Vensel White Page A

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 againstthe 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.
    â€˜Let’s go into town tomorrow morning,’ she said.
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜I want to sign up for the newspaper. Maybe we could have breakfast while we’re down there.’
    â€˜Why don’t you just call the newspaper office?’
    â€˜I want to buy one for tomorrow, see if there’s anything on that girl. We could see a movie afterwards, and…’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜How’s the book coming?’ she asked.
    â€˜Good,’ he said.
    â€˜How far have you gotten?’
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    â€˜How many chapters?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜I hope not.’
    â€˜I mean, the same kind. A mystery.’
    â€˜Yes.’
    She put her legs down and leaned over, pressing her hand on Nowell’s chest. ‘Come on, tell me something about it.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜I don’t get it.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜I talked to my mom today,’ Nowell said. ‘They’re trying to reduce her pension.’
    â€˜Who?’ Vivian asked.
    â€˜My dad’s old company. They’re saying something about a time limit or something. She’s really upset about it.’
    â€˜I thought pensions were forever.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜What’s she going to do?’
    Nowell shrugged. ‘She’s worried about losing that money. She’s never had a real job.’
    â€˜How much is it?’
    â€˜Not much, but