by Ellen Block
Abigail half-expected an angry mob to be waiting outside the sheriff’s station. The only crowd was in front of Island Hardware.
“Where you been, Merle?” one man hollered. “We got us a storm comin’.”
“Hurry up,” another shouted. “Haven’t got all day to wait on you.”
Abigail was confident that if any of them had heard the news about Hank Scokes, it would have been the first thing out of their mouths, trumping the hurricane.
“Keep your caps on, boys.”
Merle unlocked the store and the group piled in behind him.
“Why didn’t they go around back?” Abigail asked Bert.
“Just because it’s common knowledge the other door’s unlocked doesn’t mean Merle lets everybody go in that way.”
Abigail felt a swell of honor. Among the islanders, the natives, Merle had afforded her a special distinction, a mark of his trust, even after knowing her for such a short time. If Merle was, indeed, an excellent judge of character, then that raised another issue. He was as dubious of Nat Rhone’s story as was Sheriff Larner, which made Abigail second-guess herself. She had come to rely on Merle. Since he had qualms, maybe she should too. She’d spent two days with Nat, enough to form an opinion but little else. But instinct was the one sense the fire hadn’t fully stripped from her. Regardless of the incriminations and recriminations, her instincts told her Nat Rhone was innocent.
“Can you guys pitch in?” Merle was limping around the store, assisting customers. “I got to go to the storage shed for more sheets of plywood. Bert, you see to those ladies there. Abby, you ever worked a register?”
“No.”
“It’s a piece of cake. If you can use a calculator, you can use a register. Heck, this clunker’s more like an abacus.” Merle gave her a speedy tutorial on how to operate the antiquated machine.
“What if I mess up?”
“Then it’s coming out of your pay,” he said with a wink.
People were waiting, so Abigail hurried to punch in the prices and tally the tax and totals. Five customers in, she had the swing of it. The flashlights were flying off the shelves, along with the batteries.
“You best get to the market soon yourself, dear,” an older woman suggested. “Another hour and there’ll be no more bottled water.”
“If we’re going to be evacuated, why would you need bottled water?”
“It’s not written in stone they’ll do that. Storm’s coming whether we’re here or not.”
At that moment, it crystallized for Abigail that there truly was a hurricane heading for Chapel Isle. She’d experienced run-of-the-mill weather changes back in Boston, such as snowstorms and humid summers, but nothing with the intensity of a hurricane.
Storm’s coming whether we’re here or not. And whether we’re ready or not.
Once the store eventually cleared out, Abigail and Bert found Merle hefting sheets of plywood onto the flatbed of a truck parked in front of the shop. Another car with boards strapped to the roof was pulling away. Merle laid the last piece of wood on the flatbed and hobbled onto the sidewalk as he bid the driver goodbye.
“The upside to a hurricane is extra revenue.”
“Then you’ve got a lot of upside,” Abigail informed him. “I was making change for people with nickels and dimes instead of dollars.”
“You should have told me.” Bert produced a slew of quarters from his pocket.
“See, Bert’s ready for the hurricane,” Merle joked. “He’s got himself weighted.”
The comment was meant in fun, yet Abigail had to wonder, could anyone ever really be ready for a hurricane?
“Hey, y’all. Hey, Abby,” Denny called, coasting up to store in a green truck.
“Denny, my friend, you’re just the man I was looking for,” Merle told him.
“Really?”
“Abby here has to be prepped for the hurricane. There are sheets of plywood in the basement of the caretaker’s house. I ripped ’em down to fit the windows years ago. What I need you to do is get them nailed in.”
Denny jumped at the opportunity to impress her. “I’m on it.”
“Bert, you go with them.”
“Righto,” Bert replied.
Denny and Bert, Abigail thought. Talk about a dream team.
“Thanks, guys,” she said, trying to sound enthusiastic. It took effort.
News of the hurricane had shaken loose the townsfolk of Chapel Isle. The square was bustling the way Abigail imagined it did during the summer season. Drivers were cruising for parking spots, and pedestrians were rushing from place to place, weaving through the stopped cars, carrying grocery bags. Abigail didn’t mind leaving the chaos behind for the calm of the lighthouse.
Denny and Bert followed her home in Denny’s truck. When they arrived, the two men were staring at the lawn as though it were a mirage.
“How’d you cut all this grass?” Denny asked her in awe.
“With a lawn mower.”
“The whole place?” Bert said. “By yourself?”
The men were flabbergasted. It was as if Abigail had moved a mountain with a shovel.
“I knew Merle’d been meaning to get around to cutting it himself,” Bert told her. “It was the getting-around-to-it part that gummed him up.”
“Guys, I didn’t cut the lawn with a pair of scissors. It’s only grass.”
“But it’s a ton of grass,” Denny exclaimed. “Where’d you get the new mower?”
“New? I used the hand mower from the shed.”
Bert tsk-tsked. “The blades on that thing wouldn’t cut butter.”
The sprawling property was larger than she’d realized. Abigail hadn’t been aware of how much grass she’d cut. Upon closer examination, it was a considerable amount. What bothered her was that, according to her science expert, the mower shouldn’t have been able to cut the lawn at all. Then why had it worked?
“Makes the lighthouse look a lot nicer,” Denny acknowledged.
“Could do with some new paint,” Bert added.
“Fix the shutters.”
“Front steps are a wreck. Maybe get ’em relaid.”
“Put in a new handrail.”
“Guys,” Abigail butted in. “There’s a lot wrong with this lighthouse. What we need to focus on is what we can make right before the hurricane hits.”
She led them inside, and both men stopped dead at the threshold.
“This is amazing,” Denny gushed. “It’s like a magazine.”
“When’d you do this?” Bert asked. “Does Lottie know?”
“I don’t want to let Lottie in on the refurbishments quite yet. Catch my drift, fellas?”
“I won’t say a word.”
“Bert?”
“Me too. I won’t tell.”
“Good. Then let’s find the plywood Merle was talking about.”
They toted the boards up from the basement. Abigail was grateful they were light. Her knees cracked as she climbed the stairs.
You’re getting as creaky as this house.
One flight of steps and she had to take a break. Bert needed one as well. He took a box from his pocket and showed it to Abigail. “Merle gave me some nails.”
“Bert, what don’t you have in those pockets of yours?”
“Let’s see, I—”
Foreseeing the list might be lengthy, she said, “Why don’t you tell me while we install the plywood.”
The sheets had been cut to slot into the window frames because nails couldn’t be driven into the brick exterior. Bert handed the nails to Abigail, who passed them to Denny, who knocked them into the casings using Abigail’s hammer. Without a ladder, they could reach only the lower windows.
Bert pulled at his lip. “The second floor has to be covered too. If any of the glass breaks, the wind will change the pressure inside the house and blow out the rest of the windows, boarded or not.”
“We definitely wouldn’t want that.” There was that we again. Abigail quickly corrected h
erself. “I mean, Lottie and me. Lottie wouldn’t want that either.”
“I’ll go get a ladder from my place. Be right back.” Denny drove off before Abigail could argue, leaving her alone with Bert.
“Want to hear what’s in my pockets now?”
On the scale of things she didn’t want to do, that fell someplace in the middle. “Why not?”
Fatigued, Abigail rested on the front steps. The news of Hank’s death, Nat’s arrest, and the pending hurricane were taking a toll. Bert joined her on the stoop and systematically emptied his pockets.
“There’s quarters, of course. And my wallet. And my keys. And some mints. And there’s my pocket watch.” He displayed a gold watch with ornate engraving and a roped fob.
“Bert, this is beautiful. Where did you get it?”
“My father. It was my grandfather’s. See? That’s his name there on the inside. Elias Van Dorst. It was his, then it was my father’s, and now it’s mine,” he said, as if the order was paramount.
Bert’s story tugged at her. The pocket watch had been handed down from generation to generation, a gift of history, of family. Abigail hadn’t had anything similar to pass on to Justin, even if he were alive. After she and Paul had taken him for his first haircut, Abigail considered saving a lock of Justin’s hair. He had curls like his father’s, only lighter, closer to her color. He’d cried as he sat in the barber’s booster seat with the hairstylist gently nipping the scissors around his head. Justin held his arms out to her, begging to be rescued; she and Paul had tried to soothe him, Abigail insisting he was safe and Paul assuring him the hair would grow back. She’d thought her son was frightened of the scissors and the experience. But what if Paul was right? What if Justin was frightened that cutting his hair meant it was gone forever? Even a toddler could fear loss. That was how hardwired the feeling was. Maybe, Abigail thought, it was because the heart knew what the mind couldn’t: that loss was the inverse of love and that it was especially hard to get over.
Sadly, Abigail had no mementos of her family, save the scant trinkets left at her parents’ house—a broken piece of a plastic toy and Paul’s ratchet set he’d let her father borrow. Nothing precious. Nothing sentimental. She regretted not being more sentimental, not stashing more keepsakes. There were so many criticisms Abigail could have heaped upon herself. She should have been a better wife, a better mother, a better person. At the bottom of that mound of should haves was the reality that no matter what she should have done, she did the best she could.
“Bert, can I ask you a question?”
“’Course.”
“You’re a man of science, a man of logic—why do you believe in…?” She motioned toward the lamp room.
He thought for a second. “Even though the atom was first proposed by a Greek philosopher in 500 B.C., it wasn’t until 1857 that a scientist identified what he called a ‘negative corpuscle,’ an electron, the first atomic particle. That’s a fancy way of getting to the point, which is that there are a lot of things we can’t see, but they’re there. So many things we can’t taste or touch or hear, but they’re there. Since I was a kid, folks have claimed they’ve seen the ghost of Mr. Jasper. I don’t know anybody personally who has. Can’t say for certain anybody does. That’s how a story becomes a story. People talking about something until what may be fiction becomes fact. Even if nobody ever does see Mr. Jasper, that doesn’t mean he isn’t here.”
“I did something,” Abigail admitted. “I moved the oil pail in the lamp room. It was a test to determine if it would move back by itself. Not very scientific, huh?”
“Did it move?”
“I’ve been too nervous to look.”
“Would you feel better if the pail was in the same place?”
“I’m not sure. I wanted some sort of corroboration, I suppose.”
“Will you feel better if you find out one way or the other?”
“I’m not sure about that either.”
“Want me to check for you?”
“Would you?”
Bert nodded, happy to oblige.
“You won’t be scared?”
“What scares me is that.” He pointed to the ocean and the horizon beyond.
“The hurricane?”
“I don’t understand much in this world. I do understand physics. A hurricane is a force of nature. Nothing else that can compare.”
“You’re afraid of this hurricane.”
“You can be afraid of the known or the unknown,” Bert replied. “Me, I pick the known. Then again, if I’m choosing, I’d pick not to be afraid at all.”
“Me too, Bert. Me too.”
usufruct (y′ z frukt′, –s–, yz′y–, ys′–), n. Roman and Civil Law. the right of enjoying all the advantages derivable from the use of something that belongs to another, as far as is compatible with the substance of the thing not being destroyed or injured. [1620–30; < LL ūsūfrūctus, equiv. to L ūsū, abl. of ūsus (see USE (n.)) + frūctus (see FRUIT)]
The caretaker’s house looked like a condemned building. With the plywood covering the windows and the chipping paint, a casual observer would have guessed it was uninhabited. Abigail had to remind herself she lived there.
“That’s that,” Denny declared, hammering in the final nail. “You’re as ready as you can be.”
“Only I won’t be able to see the storm coming.”
“You won’t have to see it,” Bert told her. “You’ll be able to hear it.”
“That’s the worst,” Denny agreed. “Sounds like the whole world’s crashing down on you.”
“Not helping, guys.”
“Sorry.”
“We should get going,” Bert hinted to Denny, who was reluctant to leave.
“You got everything you need?” Denny asked. “Nothing else we can do? Nothing?”
“I think I’m set.”
Then Abigail realized she didn’t actually have any of the things she needed. She’d left Merle’s store without getting supplies for herself. She’d also forgotten to go to the market for food and water.
“Um, maybe not.”
“I’m heading through town.”
Denny opened the passenger door to the truck as if he were her personal valet. He wasn’t taking no for an answer. So the three of them squeezed into the front seat, with Abigail wedged in the middle.
“Where do you want me to drop you, Abby?”
“At Merle’s, please.”
Bert clucked his tongue, the way he did at the laundromat. “Might want to hit Weller’s first. They’ll be running out of essentials shortly. If they haven’t already.”
“I’ll be at the Kettle when you’re through,” Denny told her as they clambered from of the truck. “You can come get me and I’ll take you home. Door-to-door service,” he said with a grin.
“Are you going with him, Bert?”
“Not much else to do. Laundry’s closed on account of the hurricane. Why?”
“No, no, I was just asking.”
Bert appeared to appreciate her interest. “Okay, then. See you later.” He gave her a nod and toddled off.
A dangerous hurricane was barreling toward Chapel Isle, yet to Denny and Bert, it was another ordinary day. Either they were resigned to the storm or they were putting on a convincing show. Feigning bravery was fine for stoic island men. Abigail had lived through the extraordinary and couldn’t pretend to be anything except anxious.
Most of the shelves at the market had been stripped bare. It wouldn’t be a choice of what Abigail wanted but rather what was left. She loaded her cart with the remaining bottled water, fruit, milk and cereal. The last loaf of bread was pumpernickel, which she didn’t care for much. She took it anyway.
Across the aisle, a mother with two little girls was tossing packs of juice boxes into her cart. One of her daughters pleaded for candy.
“We have candy at home.” The mother was firm. “We’re not here for candy. Not today.”
Not today. That says it all.
“Lordy me, this hurricane. What a pain in my posterior. So much to do. Franklin hates to evacuate. Such a hardship for him. And me, I haven’t left this island since…well, since Jesus was a boy.”
Franklin, Abigail thought. Wasn’t that Lottie’s husband’s name?
She pushed her cart around the corner and discovered her landlord gabbing with another woman.
“Haven’t been off the island since Jesus was a boy?” Abigail demanded. “What about your cousin’s ‘girdle incident’? Were you lying this whole time, Lottie?”
The other woman made a hasty exit, leaving Lottie to fend for herself against an irate Abigail.
“Abby, dear. What a surprise to bump into you. My, you’re looking well. Slender as a rail. How do you keep your figure? You have to tell me your secret.”
Abigail wanted to smack herself for not putting two and two together sooner. Lottie couldn’t have left her wheelchair-bound husband alone for that long. The trip-to-the-mainland story was a ruse, an avoidance tactic. Sheriff Larner’s comment, that Lottie was “making herself scarce,” sprang to mind. Abigail felt like a fool. Everybody around town was wise to what Lottie was doing except her.
“Lottie, stop. Be honest for a change. Why would you lie about something so…ridiculous?”
The short woman appeared to grow shorter as she rallied an answer.
“I’m sorry, Abby. Sincerely, I am. From the minute you called me when you were in Boston, I knew you were desperate for the lighthouse to be what you pictured, what you dreamed. And I knew it wouldn’t be. I just didn’t want you to be sad.”
The truth siphoned all of the bubbliness from Lottie. She wrung her hands, waiting for Abigail to pass judgment.
Though Lottie had tricked her and lied to her and dodged her, Abigail was grateful for the intention. Abigail didn’t want to be sad either.
“It’s all right, Lottie.”