by Ellen Block
“Caffeine might make this more tolerable.”
She set the kettle on the stove to boil water for tea, but the burner wouldn’t light. She could hear the gas hissing. The pilot light was out.
“Great.”
Relighting a gas burner was a household chore Abigail always abhorred. Vacuuming couldn’t hurt you. Neither could scrubbing the bathtub. Or waxing the floors. Once she’d waved clear the gas that had wafted into the air, Abigail struck a match. The gas instantly snatched the flame, sending her backpedaling. She doubted she would ever become accustomed to the fright that leapt through her as the match caught fire. Yet here in the caretaker’s cottage, she would have to face that fear again and again, whether she was accustomed to it or not.
Abigail let the water come to a boil, pulling the teapot off the burner before it could whistle, a habit she’d adopted from living with Paul. For years she’d risen a half hour earlier than he did and conducted her morning routine in silence, careful not to wake him. She would shower, then make toast and tea, taking the kettle from the stove at just the right moment to prevent it from blowing. That was no longer necessary. She could allow the teapot to whistle if she pleased. Or she could leave the bed unmade or her hair unbrushed. There were a lot of things Abigail could do but ultimately wouldn’t. She hadn’t lived alone since college, but now that she was by herself, Abigail wondered if, in time, her routines from when she was a wife and mother would disintegrate and morph into new habits. Single-person habits. Maybe they already were.
Two botched attempts at making toast in the oven made Abigail give up. Both times the bread turned coal black despite the temperature setting. As with the rest of the lighthouse, the stove had its own fussy personality, to which she’d have to acclimate.
Breakfast was a yogurt. Afterward, she busied herself by taking out the trash and tidying where she could until it was late enough to go into town to the hardware store.
“No small talk this time. No chitchat. No tall tales. Supplies and that’s it.”
Finding a parking spot in the town square was about as difficult as finding hay in a haystack. There were more parking spaces than people. Abigail chose the same spot from the prior day, for no reason other than that it was familiar.
It was after ten, and the front door to Island Hardware was locked tight. She went around to the rear. Merle was sitting at a picnic table, gutting a large fish.
“Morning. It’s, um, Abigail Harker. From yesterday.”
“Morning, Abby.”
That name again.
She gritted her teeth into a smile. “Yes, it’s me.”
Merle was carving out the fish’s innards with a curved knife and flicking them into the grass. “She’s a beauty, ain’t she?” he said, cracking his catch open like a magazine. “Eight-and-a-quarter-pound Southern flounder. Got some hogchokers and whiffs too. This was the pick of the litter.”
“Not to be rude, but is there something wrong with your fish?”
Amazingly, its eyes were on the same side of its head, so when Merle flipped it, one side was blank except for gills and a crescent of mouth.
Her remark gave Merle a chuckle. “Flounder are in the flatfish family,” he explained. “They have real lean, compressed bodies and they swim on their sides, so their eyes are on the side that faces upward. That side’s usually dark and the underside’s white. Some are left-eyed, meaning their left side faces up. Others are right-eyed.”
“Any particular reason for that evolutionary quirk?”
“Dunno. Maybe it’s the same as some people being right-handed and some being lefties. That’s how nature created them.”
This was the sort of statement Paul might have made, boiling down the vast peculiarity of the universe to a plain, blunt fact, incontrovertible simply because that was the way it was.
“Well, I’m here because I’d like to buy some things from your store. Primer, sandpaper, brushes.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re—”
“Painting? That’s precisely what I’m going to do.”
“Can’t say I’d recommend it.”
“Merle, the house is a disaster. Everything’s falling apart. It looks terrible. How am I supposed to live like that?”
“Disaster? Don’t you think that’s a smidge harsh?”
“The place hasn’t seen a scrub brush or a paintbrush since the hippie split.”
“I’ll admit the interior needs improvement. That said, allow me to propose two reasons why it might not be wise for you to paint. First, you’re not allowed to. Says so in your lease. Second, what if Mr. Jasper doesn’t take kindly to you messing with his lighthouse?”
“I’ve had enough of this nonsense, Merle. I don’t want to hear about Mr. Jasper or any ghosts or any…anything that isn’t normal.”
“If you came to Chapel Isle for normal, Abby, you came to the wrong place.”
He flopped the fish closed, so both of its eyes were facing skyward, and walked inside.
Under her breath, she said, “You may be right about that.”
Abigail followed him into the store to the paint aisle.
“Any specific colors you fancy?”
She hadn’t planned that far ahead and quickly skimmed the selection. “I’ll take the light blue, the butter yellow, and the white.”
“Is that it? How ’bout a new refrigerator? Big-screen TV?”
Abigail rolled her eyes. “Batteries. I need some for the flashlight I found in the shed.”
“Don’t bother. That flashlight’s busted.”
“You were holding on to it because…?”
“Never got around to throwing it in the garbage.”
“All righty. Here’s another question I’m sure I’ll regret asking. Why is the firewood in the shed? Shouldn’t it be stored outdoors to keep it at ‘outdoors’ temperature or something?”
“Not much of an authority on wood, are you?’
“Does it show?”
“I put the logs in there so nobody’d steal them.”
“Who’d steal firewood?”
Merle brought her cans of paint to the register, saying, “You’d be shocked what people’ll steal. ’Specially here. Most of the houses on the island are rentals, occupied three or four months out of the year tops. And they’re chock full of televisions, radios, small appliances. Ripe for the taking. Lottie’s husband, Franklin, has me doing security at night on his properties so he won’t get robbed blind.”
“Security?”
“I drive around. Check each of his rental properties. See if anybody’s broken in.”
“Has that happened?”
“Three nights ago. East end of the island. Summer cottage got its window busted. They took the microwave, the toaster, and one of those video game machines.”
“Maybe I should get in on this. I could use a microwave and a toaster.”
“Not a joking matter if it’s your stuff being stolen.”
Abigail felt bad about the remark. Of all people, she was thoroughly acquainted with the anguish of losing possessions. “Should I start locking my door at night?”
“You? Naw, nobody’d come near that lighthouse.”
“Why? A ratty couch and chipped soup bowls aren’t good burglar bait?”
“No, because they’d be afraid to.”
The insinuation irritated her. “Merle, if this is personal or territorial or you don’t like me, so be it. However, you should know that if you’re trying to get me to leave the lighthouse, to scare me away, it won’t work.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like you, Abby. Contrary to your landlord, I’m trying to give it to you straight.”
In her heart, Abigail believed that Merle meant well and that he was looking out for her best interests, which was what worried her.
“Then give me my paint so you can finish your filleting.”
Merle rung her up and tossed in a plastic flashlight for free. She got out her wallet.
“You don’t have to pay
me now.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “That’s how it is here.”
“What is it with this town? Yesterday I traded detergent to cover the cost of doing my laundry, and now you won’t take a cent for more than a hundred dollars in merchandise.”
“Met the Professor, eh?”
“If that’s what you call him.”
“It’s not what I call him. That’s what his students at MIT called him.”
“Pardon me?” Abigail was stunned.
“Name’s Bertram Van Dorst. He taught astrophysics at MIT for twenty years. He was born on the island, and when he retired, he moved home.”
“You’re telling me that man is a rocket scientist?”
“He is a wee bit eccentric, I’ll grant you.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“Bert’s the smartest guy to ever live here. Won awards. Worked with NASA. If a guy as brilliant as him wants to come back to Chapel Isle, must mean Chapel Isle’s worth coming back to.”
Merle’s pride reminded her of Denny and how he’d encouraged her to stay. Abigail suddenly saw Chapel Isle as a pretty girl who wanted to be appreciated for more than her looks. To most, the island was a summer destination, an escape. To the people who lived here, Chapel Isle was their world.
“So you’ll run a tab for me?” Abigail asked.
“Depends on if you’ll be sticking around.”
“You know where to find me when you need me to pay. I’ll be there.”
“With this much painting to do, you definitely will be.” He opened the store’s front door, holding it for her as she hauled out the paint cans and supplies. “You want a hand getting to your car?”
“No, I’ve got it.” Although straining, she was determined to do this on her own. “Oh, wait. I need more matches.”
Merle slid a box into one of the bags Abigail was juggling, another gift.
“Good luck,” he said.
“I might need more than luck.”
“That you might.”
instauration (in′ stô rā′ shən), n. 1. renewal; restoration; renovation; repair. 2. Obs. an act of instituting something; establishment. [1595–1605; < L instaurātiōn –(s. of instaurātiō) a renewing, repeating. See IN−2, STORE, –ATION] —instaurator (in′ stô rā′ tər), n.
Luck was a word Abigail knew a lot about. The term was derived from the Middle English lucke, and from the Middle Dutch luc, short for gheluc. It meant an event, good or ill, affecting a person’s interests or happiness, which was deemed casual, occurring arbitrarily. Depending on how she chose to view it, Abigail had been short on luck of late, having lost her family, or long on it, because she survived. So she was loath to leave anything but luck to chance.
Not taking Merle up on his offer had been a mistake. Her sore arms felt as though they were going to break off at the elbows. Abigail was packing the supplies into the station wagon, ready to head back to the lighthouse, when she recalled the other errand she had to do in town.
“Lottie.”
A new note was taped to the door of the real estate agency. Gone to the mainland, was written in cursive. The i in mainland had a heart for a dot. Abigail ripped the note from the door and tore it to pieces as the gaggle of gnomes clustered along the front path smiled at her gleefully.
“Wipe those grins off your faces or I’ll kick you in your little gnome teeth.”
“Not very nice to threaten somebody one-tenth your size,” a male voice cautioned.
A man in an official-looking uniform was studying her from the sidewalk. He wore gold-rimmed sunglasses, and what was left of his hair had been buzzed into a brush cut.
Abigail’s cheeks went red. “That probably sounded a little…”
“Wacko?”
“Inappropriate.”
“In these parts, we take bullying small ceramic men pretty serious.”
The man’s expression was unwavering.
“I’m just pulling your leg,” he said after a moment’s pause.
“Oh. Oh, yeah. I knew that.”
“You here to see Lottie too?”
“Trying. Second day in a row.”
“She’s making herself scarce until the ink on your deal as caretaker at the lighthouse is dry.”
Abigail’s jaw genuinely dropped. “How did you…?”
“It’s not intuition. It’s the old-fashioned grapevine. Denny Meloch told me he met you.”
“No wonder everyone seems to know everything about everybody around here.”
“There’s plenty to wonder about on Chapel Isle, believe me. If you ever stop, means you haven’t been here long enough.”
Exactly what I need, Abigail thought. More illogical platitudes.
“Thanks for the tip.”
“I’m Caleb Larner. I’m the sheriff.”
“Abby Harker.” She shook his hand, astonished that she’d introduced herself as Abby. She wrote it off as a subconscious slip.
“Pleasure to meet you,” he said. “It’s nice to have somebody minding the place. The lighthouse is the closest we’ve got to a monument.”
There was that island dignity again. However, if this was how the locals maintained a landmark, historic preservation obviously wasn’t a priority. So what was? Abigail wanted to ask.
“How are you settling in so far?”
She sensed more than interest in the sheriff’s tone. He was probing. For what, she couldn’t tell.
“Fabulous. Love the place,” she lied.
“Glad to hear it.”
An awkward gap in the conversation followed. They were on to each other.
“What are you here to see Lottie about, Sheriff? Has she committed any crimes—say, swindling her tenants?”
“Hardly. I came to talk to her about the robbery a few nights ago. I have to send the serial numbers on the stolen items to the mainland. I was making sure she had hers on file.”
“The mainland? Why?”
“They check the pawnshops. See if any of the numbers pop up, people trying to sell what they stole.”
“Should I be—”
“Nervous? No. Cautious? Yes. These guys seem relatively harmless. Strictly breaking in to take property. Still, you can never be certain.”
That wasn’t reassuring coming from the town’s sheriff.
“Well,” he sighed, “I’ll be seeing you.”
“Yes, you will,” Abigail said, forcing a smile.
Sheriff Larner started to walk off, then turned back. “Hey, you should swing by bingo tonight.”
“Bingo?”
“Thursday is game night at the fire station.”
According to Abigail’s brochure, Chapel Isle was rife with must-see places and must-do activities, the verbiage emphatic. The fire station wasn’t at the top of the brochure’s list or Abigail’s. Neither was an evening of playing bingo.
“It’s fun. Most of the town’ll be there. Give you a chance to meet the natives.”
“I’ll try to stop in.”
“Hope to see you there,” he said, departing with a wave.
Despite his effort, the gesture wasn’t in sync with the sheriff’s inflection. Language was like water. It could carry meaning fluidly, be frozen solid by a change in cadence, or simmer into pure desire by a twist in tone. Abigail decided it wasn’t a coincidence that she and the sheriff had bumped into each other. He was sniffing around for something. The question was what.
On the ride home, Abigail mulled over her encounter with the law. Was it a pretense or should she take the meeting at face value? In lexicography, taking words at face value could amount to being shortchanged. Even the commonest of them could have multiple meanings, differing depending on usage. As a noun, run could signify a journey, a course, a sequence, or a cycle. As a verb, it meant fast movement on foot, to operate, to manage, to circulate, or to compete as a candidate. The first impression of some words was unreliable, a quality Abigail respected because it alluded to the intricacy of language.
Was her first impression of Sheriff Larner reliable? Only time would tell. However, her initial impression of the lighthouse confirmed that some books can be judged by their covers.
Returning to the caretaker’s cottage, she moved all the furniture on the first floor to the center of the living room and opened the windows in preparation for painting.
“You forgot to buy drop cloths. Then again, if you get paint on anything, it’ll be an improvement.”
Abigail turned the radio on and played with the tuner, locking in on the syrupy chords of a country ballad. Another spin of the dial snagged a snippet from a news station broadcasting from the mainland. Yearning for some contact with the outside world, she spent ten minutes dragging the radio around the room and adjusting the antenna until the station came in clearly. The reception was best with the radio positioned on the stairs, the antenna pointing straight up like a dagger. She made a mental note to move the radio once it got dark.
“God forbid you want a glass of water in the middle of the night. You could trip and get skewered. There’s a gory headline.”
Although she’d been racking up imaginary news captions, what Abigail was interested in were the real ones. While the broadcast recapped the important stories locally and across the world, the living room took its first casualty of the day. She removed the faded curtains from each window and stuffed them into a garbage bag.
“Buh-bye. Bon voyage. See ya.”
As she taped off the windowsills, she listened to details about gunfights, car wrecks, and court cases. So much trauma and tragedy; Abigail was totally out of touch. The reports were eventually replaced by a discussion program where pundits contested the merits of senatorial candidates. Abigail wasn’t paying close attention. Instead, she let the contributors’ voices fill the room with human sound as she cracked the first can of paint.
The political discourse began to get heated, but Abigail was happily going from wall to wall, rolling on the warm yellow hue she’d chosen. Another coat was a must. The walls were so thirsty for change that they sucked up the paint and the color dried too pale.