The Language of Sand

by Ellen Block

  “Ruth, you’re not a priest or an attorney.”

  “I’m not a doctor either. Doesn’t stop people from asking my advice. If I’m asked, I give it.”

  “Ruth, please,” Abigail implored.

  “All right, but don’t tell nobody else. Bad enough I’m telling you. Hank stopped by my house one night not long after his wife passed. He hadn’t been drinking. He was stone sober. I sat with him on my porch and he told me he was thinking of, well, doing himself harm. He was saying he wanted to be in heaven with his wife. That he didn’t have the patience for waiting.”

  “Do you believe he’d kill himself?”

  “He begged me not to breathe a word. Said he was ashamed for even mentioning it. He didn’t want anybody else to know. I told him I’d thought about it too when Jerome died. That seemed to make him feel better.”

  It would have been untrue if Abigail said suicide wasn’t a tempting option for her as well. At least the pain would end, she’d reasoned in those first dark days, and then she would be with her husband and son. Logic wouldn’t let her go through with it. Paul had wanted her to live. That was why he’d saved her.

  “Ruth, you didn’t answer my question.”

  “Because the answer doesn’t sit right with me.”

  “If Hank did this to himself, Nat would try to protect his honor. He’d take the rap for it.”

  “That’s what’s making me worry. Have to trust Caleb will see this for what it is.”

  “He doesn’t and he won’t. And now he’s trying to pin the robberies on Nat as well.”

  At that, Ruth’s resolve hardened. “I’ll go and see Caleb tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Ruth. Thank you.” Abigail meant it more than she could say.

  The caller was announcing the next number. “B-9. The number is B-9.”

  Ruth’s eyes fell to her cards and she froze.

  “Bingo,” she whispered. Soon she was repeating it louder and louder, “Bingo. Bingo. Bingo.” She sprang from her chair, waving the paper card.

  “We have a winner,” the caller hollered.

  “What’d I win? What’d I win?” Ruth was hopping up and down like a kid.

  “That game was worth fifty-eight dollars. You can collect it after the final round.”

  Beaming, Ruth had to sit down and fan herself with her winning card. “I haven’t won in so long, I can’t tell you, Abby. I feel like I’m having a hot flash. Only way, way better.”

  People came and patted Ruth on the shoulder. She basked in the attention, savoring the moment. Watching her, Abigail caught a glimpse of her future. Ruth had faced widowhood, yet she’d found something that she looked forward to and enjoyed. It wasn’t exactly happily ever after. The happily part might be plenty.

  welter1 (wel′tər), v.i. 1. to roll, toss, or heave, as waves or the sea. 2. to roll, writhe, or tumble about; wallow, as animals (often fol. by about): pigs weltering about happily in the mud. 3. to lie bathed in or or be drenched in something, esp. blood. 4. to become deeply or extensively involved, associated, entangled, etc.: to welter in setbacks, confusion, and despair. —n. 5. a confused mass; a jumble or muddle: a welter of anxious faces. 6. a state of commotion, turmoil, or upheaval: the welter that followed the surprise attack. 7. a rolling, tossing, or tumbling about, as or as if by the sea, waves, or wind: They found the shore through the mighty welter. [1250–1300; ME, freq. (see –ER6) of welten to roll, OE weltan; c. MD welteren, LG weltern to roll]

  Abigail awoke in her bed, uncertain if it was morning or night. The boards on the windows blocked the sunlight, transforming the bedroom into a cave. She pawed the nightstand for her glasses and watch, which sat atop the ledger. It was almost six. She wondered how early the ferry would start running.

  “Maybe not this early.”

  The floor was freezing. Abigail didn’t bother with socks. This was her last day in the caretaker’s cottage. She wanted to soak it all in, even if that meant cold feet.

  She poured a glass of milk and sipped it sitting in the wingback chair. The absence of natural light gave the room the feel of a museum exhibit, a model recreated to show modern people how their forefathers lived. The house was like a time capsule. It had no heating or air-conditioning, no television or microwave, no washer or dryer. The modicum of current-day conveniences it did have, like the plumbing and the oven, functioned poorly. On top of that, everything creaked. And there might or might not be a ghost.

  In spite of it all, Abigail felt at home.

  Ironically, the part of the house she favored most was the place she’d taken the least advantage of. She hadn’t gone into the lighthouse since devising her scheme with the oil pail, and she’d missed her opportunity to take Bert up on his offer to check it for her.

  “You could do it now.”

  She awaited a noise, some discouraging response from the lamp room. The house was silent.

  Perhaps Wesley Jasper doesn’t mind what you’ve done with the place.

  The answer was based on a bigger question, one that would entail a trip to the lighthouse. With the hurricane quite literally on the horizon, Abigail’s courage was in dwindling supply.

  “You could check on the pail after the hurricane has passed. That’s not an unreasonable arrangement.”

  For days, she had been avoiding going to the lamp room and facing her fears; however, there would be no evading the storm.

  Dark clouds menaced overhead as Abigail loaded the station wagon. The packing finished, it was time to go. She was having trouble leaving. She stood at the front door, staring in.

  “I’ll be back soon,” she said, a pledge to the house and herself.

  The grass out front had already grown perceptibly. In another week it would need cutting again. Abigail wanted to be here to cut the grass. She wanted it more than she’d wanted anything in months.

  Cars crammed the island’s narrow sandy roads. Families were packed into trucks and minivans, luggage strapped to the roofs. Everyone was en route to the ferry, the mass exodus building into a traffic jam.

  “This is what it must be like on Labor Day weekend.”

  Only this was different. This was an evacuation.

  Soon Abigail’s car was at a standstill. She couldn’t see far enough ahead to discern why. She decided to cut around the line by taking a side street and quickly got lost.

  “I have absolutely no clue where I am.”

  She traversed several roads until she saw a landmark she did recognize; Merle’s house. His windows had boards on them, and the floral wreath had been removed from the front door.

  “You’re supposed to be on the ferry.” Merle was standing on his dock as she rounded into his backyard.

  “I got stuck in traffic. Then I got lost.”

  “Those are two phrases not normally uttered on Chapel Isle,” he said, putting a cooler in his boat.

  “Do you think it’s wise to go fishing in this weather?”

  “What weather?”

  “Look at the sky. It’s about to rain.”

  “It’s not raining yet. And I won’t be fishing. I’m checking my nets. Wanna come?”

  “Me?”

  “Why not? You missed the first ferry as it is. The line for the next is going to be as long as the Great Wall of China. Maybe longer.”

  “When you put it that way, how could I resist?”

  Merle climbed into the outboard with care. Given his size, the boat might have flipped if he got in too fast. With his injured ankle, he was taking it extra slow. As he helped Abigail in, she was already reconsidering.

  “If this old tub will hold me, it’ll hold you, Abby. You can swim, though, right?”

  “Very encouraging.”

  The rain held off, thunderheads loitering in the sky. Merle headed into the bay with the boat riding low. The wake disappeared as fast as it rose.

  “You ever been fishing before?”

  “Once. My husband’s firm took its employees on a cruise to go snorkeling and deep-sea fishing. Ther
e was dinner and dancing afterward.”

  “That’s not fishing. That’s yachting.”

  The details of the company trip had remained sequestered in the recesses of Abigail’s mind until that very moment. She recalled being introduced to Paul’s coworkers and their spouses. There were hors d’oeuvres and chilled wine and soft music. She remembered being served grilled halibut and having sorbet for dessert. Paul was new to the firm at the time and was occupied making conversation as well as a good impression. He stole a second to come over and tell her how pretty she looked in her white cotton sundress, then kissed her on the cheek. For an instant, Abigail thought she could feel the kiss. It was only the wind on her face.

  “Here we are.”

  Merle slowed the motor when they entered a cove where groups of tall wooden poles jutted from the water.

  “What are those?”

  “Impoundments.”

  Maneuvering between the poles, he released the line on one of them and hooked it to a peg on the side of the boat. Merle repeated the process until a net full of squirming fish floated to the surface.

  “Let’s see what we got.”

  After raking clumps of sea grass from the net with his fingers, he tossed aside the unwanted horseshoe crabs along with the punier fish. “Fortunately, I don’t have to measure like the commercial fishermen do. Any catch over thirteen inches is legal in the bay. Fourteen inches is legal in the ocean.”

  He selected a meaty flounder, then dropped the net so the rest could escape.

  “That’s a tremendous effort for one fish.”

  “I’m an old man. Haven’t got much else to do. Say, I’m sorry about earlier.”

  “Earlier?”

  “When I mentioned fishing it seemed to, well, remind you of the past. I overheard Ruth telling you about my ex-wife and my boy. Wanted you to know it happens to me too. You’re going about your day and somebody says something that makes you think of them. Blindsides you.”

  “Merle, I wasn’t prying. I—”

  He waved away her concern. “Didn’t think you were. I just brought it up because I can commiserate.”

  Merle placed the flapping fish in a cooler and shut the lid on it as it thrashed. Initially, that struck Abigail as callous. But what other choice did he have? Bludgeon it to death? Slit its torso with a knife? Suffocation was kind by comparison.

  “What should I do?” Abigail asked in earnest.

  “’Bout what?”

  “About me, my life, what’s left?”

  He thought hard before answering, as the fish continued to bump around inside the cooler. “I remember the first time I heard that phrase about the only sure things in life being death and taxes. I always took it to mean that what was for sure was that I was going to die and that I was going to have to pay taxes. Took a while to get it through this thick skull o’ mine that what it really means is that none of us goes without losing somebody we love. You can’t tell when you’re going to go or when somebody you care about will. What you can do is hope it’s later rather than sooner.”

  Despite Merle’s fondness for skewed logic, he had distilled the enormity of grief into a simple, objective truth. The objectivity was what Abigail grappled with.

  Dictionaries were intended to be impartial and exact, yet the act of defining a word reflected the passions and prejudices of the definer. Dictionaries required the faith of the user, faith dependent on the belief that the dictionary was beyond subjectivity, but the best dictionaries had come from those with the strongest personalities, the zealots and idealists who sought to teach and to preach, to politicize and to moralize. Abigail could try to be objective about her grief and acknowledge it for what it was, or she could define it by her own biases and feel it as it came. Either way, the definition didn’t make the hurt subside any faster.

  “How do you do it, Merle? All I can think about is before and all I’ve got is after. What do I do after after?”

  “Want me to tell you the secret?” he asked as he rehitched the lines to the poles.

  “There’s a secret? What secret?”

  “You positive you want to hear?”

  “Yes, of course. What is it?”

  “It’s shoes.”

  “Come again?”

  “Shoes.”

  “Your secret to getting over your ex-wife is shoes?”

  “Scout’s honor.”

  He sat down to explain, and the small boat rocked at the change in weight. “Every morning I would wake up and I’d hate knowing I was awake. I would stay in bed for hours trying to go back to sleep. Took weeks for me to get out of bed. Took even longer for me to be able to put my clothes on. For a while, I couldn’t do much else. I puttered around the house in my slippers. Couldn’t leave. ’Cept I knew if I could eventually put on my shoes, I’d make it. Didn’t happen right off the bat. I left them in the closet and wouldn’t open the door. Then one day I took out a pair of loafers and put them on and walked outside. Went to the end of my dock. That was it. That was the farthest I could go for a while. Over time, it got easier. Just kept putting on my shoes.”

  “Merle, I have my shoes on. I don’t feel better.”

  “Point is, Abby, you got ’em on.”

  No more noise came from the cooler. It sat motionless. So, it seemed, did Abigail’s heart.

  Xenod′ochy′, n. [Gr. ?.] Reception of strangers; hospitality. [R.]

  Merle walked Abigail to her car. She wanted to tell him what Ruth had confided about Hank Scokes, but she wasn’t supposed to have told Ruth about Nat Rhone in the first place. Merle and Hank had been friends, though they’d chosen different paths. Merle was still walking along his, his shoes laced tight.

  “You moving away?” he asked, regarding the giant duffel bag in the backseat of the station wagon.

  “Did I pack too much?”

  “These storms usually blow over in a day or so. And they don’t have a dress code at the shelter. Won’t be serving high tea or nothin’.”

  “I wasn’t certain how long I’d be gone.”

  “Not long,” he assured her. “Better try to catch the next ferry. If you thought traffic here was congested, wait ’til you get to the mainland.”

  “Thanks.”

  “For advice about the ferry?”

  “No, for taking me fishing.”

  “My pleasure, Abby.”

  At the main road, she merged in with what had become an exceedingly lengthy line of cars. Traffic crept across the island. Abigail’s speedometer topped out at ten miles per hour. Forty minutes later, the dock finally came into sight. A man in uniform was presiding over the procession, a patrol car parked nearby. It wasn’t Sheriff Larner, so it had to be his deputy.

  Dozens of vehicles awaited a spot on the ferry, which hadn’t returned from the mainland. The trip back and forth to Chapel Isle took more than an hour. Since the ferry held a finite number of cars, Abigail calculated that she’d be waiting until late into the afternoon for her turn.

  The minutes dripped by. While children played by the dock and adults decamped from their cars to stretch their legs, Abigail stared at the clock sullenly. Once the ferry arrived, the deputy waved the cars at the head of the line aboard, then the ship departed, making a small dent in the swarm of people waiting to get off the island.

  Even after the ferry returned three more times, Abigail was nowhere near the front of the queue. With every passing second, she grew more irate with herself, because she realized she had left her books behind.

  “What if the hurricane demolishes the lighthouse? What if your books are lost? You’ll have nothing.”

  As she debated what to do, the cloud cover darkened and down came a steady drizzle. Parents who’d been chatting with one another hastened their kids to their cars. Abigail wasn’t at the end of the line, although she was nowhere near the middle. If she left, she’d lose her space. She didn’t care. She angled out of line and sped away.

  “This’ll take fifteen minutes. Maybe ten. You’ll probably
get back before the ferry does.”

  Rain tapped on the roof of the station wagon, the wipers hurling water from the windshield. To save time, she took a side road, confident it crossed the lane closest to the lighthouse. Except she was wrong. Abigail couldn’t tell where she was, and the weather was exacerbating matters. She tried another road, willing it to intersect with one she knew. It didn’t. In her haste, Abigail wound up in the tony enclave of large, modern homes Merle had sent her to inspect when she was handling his rounds for Lottie.

  “Think. You’ve been here before. Merle marked the houses on the map. Wait. The map.”

  She pulled over and put the car in park. The map wasn’t in the seat pockets, under the seats, or behind the visor.

  “It’s got to be at the house. With your books.”

  The windows were opaque with condensation. Even if she could see through them, Abigail was lost.

  “You got yourself into this mess. You’re going to have to get yourself out of it.”

  She shifted gears, depressing the accelerator. The station wagon wouldn’t budge.

  “Oh, no. Please don’t be stuck.”

  When she gently upped the gas, the wheels whirred. Thinking a jolt might give the car momentum, she floored it. The tires hissed and buried themselves in sand.

  “You’re definitely stuck.”

  Donning the hood on her windbreaker, she ventured into the rain. Her rear tires were embedded in a rut, which the rain was rapidly turning into a sinkhole.

  “So much for shortcuts.”

  A blast of wind peeled away her hood, drenching her. She scrambled inside the car. There would no shortcuts for Abigail, not around the island or around her bereavement.

  “You have two choices. Seems to be a running theme lately. Stay here or start walking.”

  Walking won. In preparation, she changed out of her wet sweater and into another from her duffel bag. Her one essential, her glasses, she tucked in her pocket. Jacket zipped, hood pulled tight, Abigail faced the rain.

  “Lovely day for a stroll.”

  Trudging through the mud, she monitored for signs of life. This area of the island was summer rentals exclusively. Despite the grand scale of the homes as well as their luxury and cost, Abigail was definitely in the wrong part of town. What had been a twenty-minute drive from the lighthouse during her route for Merle was about to translate into a punishing hike.