The Language of Sand

by Ellen Block

  “First visit, I take it.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “We don’t see too many new faces after Labor Day.”

  The bell above the door rang again as a woman rushed in, hair wet from a morning shower, her oversize sweatshirt faded from too many spins in the washer. “Can I have a coffee to go, Ruth? I got the kids in the car and I’m running late as it is.”

  “Sure thing, Janine.”

  Abigail poked at her scrambled eggs. They tasted fine, but it hurt to eat. If the soft eggs were problematic, she wasn’t sure she should take a crack at the toast. When she took another sip of water, she found Janine visibly sizing her up. The woman’s eyes dove to Abigail’s left hand, making her the third person in less than twenty-four hours to check for a wedding ring.

  “Here you go.” Ruth was putting a lid on the paper cup. “Tell Clint and the kids hey for me.”

  “Will do.” Janine shot Abigail a withering glare on her way out.

  “Excuse me. Ruth, is it? Did I offend that woman somehow?”

  “Who? Janine? Hon, you could’ve been sitting there in a nun’s habit and she would’ve looked at you funny for not having a wedding ring on.”

  Abigail was impressed. She’d caught everyone else looking at her hand. She hadn’t caught Ruth.

  “Am I missing something?”

  “Chapel Isle’s got two kinds of men: married men and old men. A single woman arrives in town, might as well be a wolf waltzing through a henhouse. Feathers tend to get ruffled.”

  “That would make me the wolf?”

  “Yup. See, island folk are the same as diesel engines. Takes ’em a spell to warm up, especially to out-of-towners. Once they do, they’re as reliable as rubber on a tire. That Janine Wertz, though, I wouldn’t count on her warming up, period.”

  With that, Ruth went to top off the John Deere twins’ coffee cups, while Abigail managed a couple more bites of her eggs, abandoning her toast and coffee altogether. In under an hour, Abigail had endeared herself to the town drunk and unwittingly provoked a woman she had yet to formally meet.

  “Must be a land speed record.”

  “You say something, hon?” Ruth asked, tallying Abigail’s bill.

  “No. I mean, yes. Can you tell me where I could find Merle Braithwaite?”

  “At his store, Island Hardware. If the door’s locked, knock real hard or go ’round back. Shop doesn’t open until ten, but he’s usually in there, puttering about.”

  “Thanks. Again, that is.” Abigail noted the total on the bill, paid, and dropped the tip on the counter, double what was due.

  “Don’t you worry, darlin’,” Ruth said with a wink. “A new face is never new for long.”

  Long was a relative term. At this rate, Abigail wasn’t certain how much longer she would last on the island: the twelve months of her lease, twelve more days, or twelve more hours.

  Her footfalls resounded coldly against the cobblestones in the empty town square. Even the shops that were open looked empty. Denny had warned her about this on the ferry.

  “Cue the tumbleweeds.”

  The door to Merle’s store was locked, as Ruth had mentioned it might be. Like Lottie’s realty agency, Island Hardware had once been a private residence. Where the squat bungalow’s original living room window had been, a large pane of plate glass now stood, the business name foiled onto it in gold and green. Beyond the glass, the interior was dark. Abigail knocked on the door and waited. Then knocked harder. There was no response, so she went around to the rear, following Ruth’s suggestion, and discovered the back door ajar.

  Nudging it open, she said, “Hello? Is anybody here?”

  The door led into a kitchen littered with tackle boxes, fishing supplies, and Styrofoam coolers. Abigail could see straight through the bungalow to the front door she’d been knocking on.

  “Hello?” she called.

  Suddenly a giant man in a navy shirt-coat appeared from around a corner. Abigail jumped, letting out a yelp.

  “Cardiac arrest, here we come,” the equally startled man said, fanning off the fright. He had an immense build and was practically eye to eye with the crown molding, dwarfing everything in the room. “You trying to kill me, lady?” he asked, running a massive palm over his wispy gray hair to collect himself.

  “I scared you?”

  “Pardon me for not expecting some woman to be sneaking around the kitchen at too-damn-early o’clock in the morning.”

  “I’m sorry. Truly, I am. I knocked on the front door. There was no answer, and this door was open, so…”

  “You figured you’d give an elderly man a heart attack.”

  “You don’t look elderly to me.”

  “Now you’re just trying to butter me up.”

  “Is it working?”

  “A little,” he admitted. “Store’s not open yet, but you’re welcome to come on in if you can hack a path through this junk.”

  The kitchen was a shrine to fishing. Rods were propped in every corner, and cans of dried bait were stacked on the floor beneath dozens of colorful lures that hung from specially crafted shelves. Photos of prized catches were affixed to the wall wherever there was space.

  “Listen, I apologize for barging in. I’m Abigail Harker. The new caretaker at the lighthouse.”

  “Should’ve guessed it,” he said, warming to her. “I’m Merle Braithwaite. Proprietor of Island Hardware, fishing aficionado, and Chapel Isle’s ‘Tallest Man Contest’ winner for over fifty years running, at your service.”

  She put out her hand and Merle shook it gently, wary of his own strength, as if it was not entirely under his control.

  “Lottie told me you might be stopping by. I’d say have a seat…”

  Each of the chairs was piled high with issues of fishing magazines, topped with spools of line.

  “That’s all right. I can’t stay. Too much to do. I just came by to ask a few questions about the caretaker’s cottage.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Well, the light in the bathroom keeps switching on and off. I’m concerned there might be a problem with the wiring. If you could recommend an electrician—”

  “Wiring’s fine. Checked it myself last week.”

  “Maybe you should check it again, because—”

  “Wouldn’t do a bit of difference if I rewired the whole house,” Merle said, towering over Abigail. “He always messes with that light.”

  “He who?”

  “The caretaker.”

  “I thought I was the caretaker.”

  “You are. Now.”

  “Then who’s he?”

  “Name’s Wesley Jasper.”

  “Lottie didn’t mention another caretaker.”

  “Naw, I bet she didn’t.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because Mr. Jasper isn’t exactly the caretaker anymore.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  Merle leaned heavily against the refrigerator, clearly annoyed that he had to deliver this news. “Ma’am, to put a fine point on it, the lighthouse is haunted.”

  “What?” Abigail was convinced she’d misheard him.

  “Haunted.”

  “Come again.”

  “Haunted,” he said, enunciating. “It ain’t that highfalutin a word.”

  “I understand what haunted means. But you’re kidding, right?”

  “Gotta give it to Lottie. That woman could sell lizard skin boots to a T. rex. Not a shock she didn’t mention the ghost before you signed on the dotted line.”

  Abigail couldn’t believe her ears. “Look, Mr. Braithwaite—”

  “Call me Merle. Nobody calls me Mister anything anymore.”

  “Fine, Merle, if this is some sort of initiation for nonislanders, let’s get it over with. I had an arduous drive, no sleep, and I burned my tongue on my first cup of coffee today, so I’m in no mood for pranks.”

  “Arduous—now that’s a tad highfalutin.”

  “It means—”
r />   “Oh, I know what it means.” Merle began to empty the ice packs from the coolers into the freezer, as if nothing was wrong. “Just not the kinda word you hear often in these parts. I like it. Think I’m going to use it more. ‘I had an arduous morning fishing on the bay.’ Or ‘I had an arduous day working at the store.’ Has a ring, don’t it?”

  Before Abigail could answer, he went on. “Burned your tongue, huh? Must’ve smarted. Ruth Kepshaw does keep that coffee molten-lava hot. Tell her to put an ice cube in your cup next time.”

  “Mr. Braithwaite—Merle, let me get this straight. You’re telling me the reason my bathroom light continues to come on is because of the ghost of the lighthouse’s old caretaker?”

  “Pretty much. And don’t mind the smell of pipe smoke. Supposedly that’s how you can tell Mr. Jasper’s around.”

  That was the scent Abigail had caught a whiff of while she was in the basement by the cistern—sweet pipe tobacco mixed with the incense-thick odor of decay.

  “He won’t bother you as long as you keep the lighthouse as it is. Been said for years he’s a bit of a stickler. Which is why he doesn’t care too much for Lottie. ’Cause of how she’s let the place go to pot. You can ask her yourself. She’s convinced Mr. Jasper tried to push her down the basement stairs.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Lottie went to inspect the cistern after we’d had a storm. She was halfway down the steps when the basement door slammed shut. Frightened the bejeezus outta her, and she ‘tripped.’ Sent her ass over elbow. She won’t go near the basement anymore. Has the door locked. The entry to the lighthouse too. You couldn’t get her up that spiral staircase if you dangled a thousand-dollar bill at the top.”

  “I get it. I get it. You’re having a laugh at my expense. Frankly, it isn’t very funny.”

  “I’ve been accused of a lot of things in my day. Being funny isn’t one of them. Scaring small children at Halloween, that I’ve got covered. Comedy, not my bag.”

  Abigail folded her arms indignantly. “Can you honestly tell me you believe there’s a ghost in the caretaker’s house? Honestly?”

  “Could it have been the wind that shut that door on Lottie? Would make sense. Or maybe it wasn’t. Me, I can’t say for certain. But it really ain’t that big a deal,” Merle assured her. “I been taking care of the place for going on twelve years, and—”

  “Twelve years!?! It’s been twelve years since there was a real caretaker?”

  “More, actually. Last guy was here almost twenty years ago. He was this hippie type who drove a Winnebago with feathers in the windows. Claimed he was writing his memoirs and needed a place to ‘connect’ with his spirit. He connected with a spirit, all right. Stayed a whopping two days. Don’t think Mr. Jasper was very fond of him. Maybe he tried puttin’ them feathers in the windows of the caretaker’s cottage.”

  “What do I do if this Mr. Jasper isn’t fond of me?”

  “Why wouldn’t he be? You seem nice enough. Little high-strung perhaps.”

  “I am not high-strung. I’m…conscientious.”

  “Right. Look, whenever I go to check the pipes or whatnot, I say my hellos and tell him I’m there to make sure the lighthouse is shipshape. Show him a little respect. He’ll show you some back. It’s that simple.”

  Nothing about what Merle had said was simple, though, and Abigail had reached her limit. She went charging through the kitchen to the store, past aisles of tools and shelves full of parts, toward the front door. Merle shouted after her, “Where’re you going?”

  “To see Lottie. I want some straight answers.”

  She tried the door. It wouldn’t open. Abigail pulled and pulled at the knob until Merle lumbered over to unhitch the bolt.

  “If a straight answer is what you’re angling for, Lottie’s the last person you should pay a visit to. Don’t get me wrong, I love her like a sister. Well, more like a sister-in-law of sorts, seeing as she’s married to my second cousin. Fact is, Lottie’s not one to fess up to a fib. And she’s not one to lose a tenant if she can prevent it.”

  Merle was being earnest. Nonetheless, Abigail’s feet were moving faster than her brain. She stormed out the door on a collision course for Lottie’s realty agency.

  “Oh, and don’t move the oil pail in the lamp room,” he called. “Mr. Jasper prefers it just so.”

  But Abigail was already gone.

  fantod (fan´tod), n. 1. Usually, fantods. a state of extreme nervousness or restlessness; the willies; the fidgets (usually prec. by the): We all developed the fantods when the plane was late arriving. 2. Sometimes, fantods. a sudden outpouring of anger, outrage, or a similar intense emotion. [1835–40; appar. fant(igue) (earlier fantique, perh. b. FANTASY and FRANTIC; –igue prob. by assoc. with FATIGUE) + –od(s), of obscure orig.; see –s3]

  A strong breeze was coursing in off the bay, sending a discarded soda can skittering across the square and fluttering the flag mounted outside the Chapel Isle post office. Abigail was too infuriated to feel it.

  The cavalcade of pinwheels and whirligigs was yammering away on the lawn in front of the realty agency. Inside, the lights were off. Outside, the door was locked. Abigail pounded and yelled, “Lottie. It’s Abigail Harker. We need to talk.”

  A note was taped to the window. Closed was underlined repeatedly in pink ink.

  “Isn’t that convenient?”

  Abigail stomped down the steps and stood amid the spinning lawn ornaments. The patience she’d afforded Lottie the day before had evaporated into pure outrage.

  “Hold on,” she told herself. “Some stranger tells you a campfire story and you’re ready to run for the hills? He’s probably the local nutcase. You’re about to take runner-up for standing here on the sidewalk yakking to yourself.”

  She sidestepped the garden gnomes positioned like sentries along the path and returned to her car. The pile of laundry was waiting for her in the backseat of the station wagon.

  “I forgot about you guys,” she said to the bedlinens and towels.

  Abigail swung by the Kozy Kettle to ask where she could find a working washer and dryer. The John Deere twins were still at their booth, sitting guard. Ruth glanced up from a newspaper she was perusing.

  “Back so soon, hon? Food here ain’t that good.”

  “Please tell me there’s a laundromat on Chapel Isle, or I’ll be washing my sheets in the bay.”

  “We may be a backwater town, but this isn’t Mayberry. We got a proper laundromat. Go up the street about a block. You can’t miss it.”

  Since it was a short distance, Abigail bundled the laundry and decided to hoof it. After repeatedly traipsing past the same set of gift shops, her arms were getting tired and her aggravation was piqued.

  “For pity’s sake, where is this place?”

  Abigail was ready to wave the white flag—or rather the white pillowcase—when she spotted an alley between two stores. Hanging over the gap in the storefronts was a plank of wood with the word Laundromat routed out in script.

  “Of course. Can’t miss it. How silly of me.”

  At the end of the alley sat a repurposed garage lined with coin-operated washers and dryers, hidden like a speakeasy for cleaning clothes. Abigail was starting to feel as if Chapel Isle was some sort of private club and she hadn’t been taught the secret knock. She dumped her laundry onto a sorting table and was sifting through the pile, separating the bedclothes from the towels, when she heard somebody behind her announce their presence with a cough.

  “Here to do your laundry?”

  Standing at the threshold to the laundromat was a man wearing wide-wale corduroy pants pulled high around his stout waist. He had the prominent under-bite of a bulldog and was a whole head shorter than Abigail.

  “Um, yes. Yes, I am.”

  “Nothing beats clean clothes.”

  “Agreed.”

  “You’re going to need soap. You have any?”

  “No, now that you mention it, I don’t.”

  The man c
ocked his head ruefully. “Can’t do laundry without soap.”

  “You’ve got me there.”

  “I could lend you some,” he said, emphasis on the word lend.

  “Really? I can pay you for it.” Abigail reached for her purse.

  “Don’t want the money.” The intimation was that he wanted more soap in return. The man tottered over to a closet and retrieved a hulking container of detergent, which he heaved onto the sorting table.

  “Think you have enough?” she quipped.

  His brows pinched as he poured the detergent into paper cups for her. Deadpan, he answered, “You can’t have enough soap. Bring some next time you come. That’s all.”

  “Will do.”

  She went to put the first load of towels into the closest washer, and the man clucked his tongue in disapproval. She tried the next. He did the same. Once Abigail took a step toward the third, he nodded his consent. As she started to put the second load into another washer, the man clucked at her until she picked the correct machine.

  “You got quarters?”

  Abigail dug through her wallet. She didn’t have enough for both loads. “Isn’t there a change machine?”

  “I’ll make change for you.”

  He took her singles and fished through his pocket, producing a fistful of quarters.

  This was too weird. Abigail couldn’t resist asking, “Are you the owner?”

  “Who me?” he replied, flattered. “Nah.”

  “You just like laundry?”

  “You could say that. If you want, you can go. I’ll mind your wash.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  “Twenty-five minutes for the cycle. You’ll need to be here to switch the loads into the dryers.”

  This was more an order than a suggestion. Giving a final glance to the peculiar man with the under-bite, her defenseless laundry already churning in the machines, she grabbed her purse and left.

  Twenty-five minutes wasn’t much time to properly explore, but Abigail could at least take in a bit of the town. Anything would be preferable to staying at the laudromat. The calls of seagulls beckoned her toward the pier. Many of the boats she’d seen the previous day were gone, though some remained. There were no yachts or pleasure cruisers, merely a handful of skiffs and sloops that showed their age, each bobbing serenely. How enviable to be so blithe, Abigail thought, so imperturbable.