by Ellen Block
Abigail was considering a second pass around the room when the next radio program started. It was a topical phone-in chat show hosted by a gravelly-voiced man named Dr. Walter. What his degree was in wasn’t mentioned.
A woman phoned in to complain about the closing of a gun shop, saying, “Guns don’t kill people. People kill people.”
To which Dr. Walter replied, “Thank you for your highly original comment. Please do call back as soon as you’ve mastered the obvious.”
That made Abigail laugh out loud, something she hadn’t done in a while. Feeling guilty, she shut her mouth and locked her teeth together to prevent it from happening again. She was supposed to be in mourning. People in mourning didn’t laugh. Or so Abigail presumed. Bereavement was her new job, a position for which she was unqualified and untrained. Whether this would be a lifelong career or temporary employment remained a mystery.
One after another, callers parried with Dr. Walter, who dismissed most of their comments as asinine and plowed onward with the show. Meanwhile, Abigail was reviving the windows and trim, care of a crisp coat of white, which she cut in with precision that would make her surgeon father proud. With the moldings painted, the dingy ceiling begged to be done as well. Because the chairs had proven unsteady, Abigail commandeered the table, rolling paint onto one section of ceiling at a time by standing on the table and pushing it from one side of the room to the other until she was finished.
“A first-rate job, if I do say so myself,” she pronounced, touring the space from corner to corner.
The living room had been rejuvenated. Abigail, on the other hand, was spent. She’d been painting for hours, and the smell was giving her a headache. Being cooped up inside made her long to be outdoors. She was also starving.
Choosing a picnic on the beach rather than a meal at the now footprint-splotched dining room table, Abigail packed a sandwich and grabbed her keys, which she’d placed on an end table beside the house’s old rotary-model telephone. Seeing the phone set off a spasm of guilt. Abigail had promised to contact her parents once she was settled. She’d been avoiding the call. The conversation would undoubtedly be fraught with staged questions about the island and the lighthouse, each intended to gauge her mental state, to determine if she was in immediate need of rescue. Abigail gave the big black rotary phone a final glance, opened the door, then locked it behind her.
The sun was leaning low by the time she reached the strip of shore she’d passed the day she arrived on Chapel Isle. She parked next to the boarded-up snack stand, hiked over the dune ridge, and took a seat on a sandy crest above the tide line. From her perch, Abigail ate her sandwich and watched the waves slide up the beach languidly. The island was magnificent. She understood why Paul had loved it here. She could picture him walking along the water, holding Justin’s hand. She could almost hear the splashing of their footsteps, Justin giggling as water sloshed over his tiny legs. The images were palpable. They felt real. Abigail could see Paul and Justin anywhere if she let herself. They could appear across from her in a room, riding in the car with her, beside her in bed, everywhere and nowhere at once.
As dusk descended on the coast, it grew too cold to stay by the water. Abigail had been crying and unconsciously churning her hands through the sand, as if to dig herself out of her misery. When she stood and brushed herself off, she thought of how similar sand was to language. A single grain or a single word meant little compared to the effect it had in concert with its own kind. Millions of granules made a beach; millions of combinations of words, a language. The whole would cease to exist without its parts. Grief was a word, a grain, Abigail wished she could separate from the whole, but that wasn’t an option.
She wiped the sand from her hands and returned to her car.
jeremiad (jer′ə mi′əd, –ad) n. a prolonged lamentation or mournful complaint. [1770–80; JEREM (AH) + –AD, in reference to Jeremiah’s Lamentations]
In the absence of streetlights or porch lamps or the glow from a neighbor’s window, the night was overwhelmingly dark. So was the caretaker’s house. Abigail had forgotten to leave any lights on. She fumbled for the front door. Inside, she groped at the switch. The living room looked better than she remembered, and the smell of paint had faded.
“That’s because you left the windows open, genius,” she scolded. “Didn’t Sheriff Larner tell you to be ‘cautious’?”
The thought of criminals prowling the island for empty houses to plunder was unsettling. Apart from Abigail’s presence and her car in the drive, the caretaker’s cottage could definitely be mistaken for vacant. It was an easy mark.
“On the bright side, the paint does look excellent. You, on the other hand, must look atrocious. You smell atrocious too.”
Abigail hadn’t bathed since she arrived. She’d been putting off cleaning the bathroom and had run out of excuses. Stepping over the radio on the staircase, a bucket of cleansers in hand, she said, “If you want to get clean, it’s got to get clean.”
A single swipe with a paper towel revealed that the bathtub was covered in a patina of dust. Though the tub could be wiped with minimal effort, the rust on the sink was less cooperative. The toilet put up a fight too, but the floor was the most intractable. Deeply ingrained, the dirt refused to be roused from between the tiles, until Abigail assailed it with a caustic soup of products that made her eyes water. Only then did the grime finally relent.
The mirror was last to be cleaned, and Abigail’s reflection made her gasp.
Drops of white paint—some crusted with sand—dotted her face, and her hair was matted with sweat and flecked with yellow. Her clothes were splattered from shoulder to shoe. She hardly recognized her own visage. Abigail ran the bathwater, letting the tub fill almost to the top.
“Too bad you don’t have any bubbles. Or steel wool. Because that’s what it’s going to take to get this stuff off you.”
An image of Justin in the bathtub, clapping bubbles between his hands, floated into her mind, unbidden. Abigail closed her eyes, shutting the emotional door as a barrage of memories rattled the hinges.
Nolo, nolle, non vis, non vult.
Celo, celare, celari, cela.
Steam rose from the hot water waiting in the tub. She hadn’t taken a bath in years. Showering was faster, simpler. Before, she didn’t have time for a bath. Now Abigail had no choice in the matter and more time than she knew what to do with. If the claw-foot tub had been in better shape, it would have been quite grand. In its current state, the tub was ready for the salvage yard. Abigail felt the same way.
As she lowered herself into the bath, the water went spilling over the sides onto the floor. Out of practice, she had filled the tub too high.
“It appears you’ll have to clean the floor again.”
Despite a bumpy start, the steaming water soothed her aching muscles. A pass with a soapy washcloth had her feeling clean and, at least, somewhat human.
“This whole bath concept is actually really pleasant.”
Her words bounced between the bathroom tiles, interposed by a staccato thump. Abigail sat up, covering herself with her arms. After seconds of silence, she made an announcement.
“If that was…somebody, I’m in the bathtub. I’m kind of naked. Could we do this whole banging and bumping act later?”
The house was still. Was that her answer? If not, Abigail didn’t plan to wait around for another reply.
Scrambling from the tub, she grabbed a towel, scurried into the bedroom, and slammed the door. Wet, shivering, she addressed the ceiling: “I’m, um, going to leave for a while. Give you a little private time. You can have the place to yourself.”
She threw on clean clothes and tore down the stairs, then stumbled over the radio. Abigail sailed through the air, missing the last three steps and landing on her hands and knees. Her palms stung from the impact. Her legs were wobbly.
“Ouch,” she groaned, more in shock than in pain.
Abigail hobbled out the front door to her Volvo and sa
t there deliberating what to do. Her hair was dripping, soaking her shirt. She had nowhere to go.
“There’s bingo,” she sighed. “Why not? This night couldn’t get much worse.”
To find the local fire station, all Abigail had to do was follow the line of parked cars that trailed from the center of town along a side street. She tied her wet hair into a bun and tucked in her shirt as an effort to appear more presentable. Having left in such a hurry, she’d forgotten to put on socks, and her shoes squished when she walked.
“Some first impression you’ll make. You have your own sound effects.”
The fire station was an unembellished cinder-block building, two stories tall. A sandwich board propping open the station’s main door read: Bingo Thursday Nights. Abigail smoothed a wet tendril of hair behind her ear and marshaled her strength.
“Here goes nothing.”
A large meeting hall spanned the entire second floor of the fire station. It was packed with rows of folding tables and chairs. Nearly every seat was full. The smell of popcorn and roasting hot dogs seemed to warm the air. Adults and children alike were flocked at the tables, gabbing. Abigail overheard people talking about the burglaries. They were the hot topic at each table, everyone speculating about who the culprits could be. Some thought it was a bunch of teenagers. Others believed it was lowlifes boating over from the mainland at night. The only one not discussing the robberies was a barrel-chested man in suspenders standing at the front of the room. He was too busy announcing numbers into a microphone as he plucked plastic bingo balls from a spinning cage. The plywood bingo board behind him lit up whenever he called a new number.
Abigail was standing by the door, feeling self-conscious and contemplating heading home, until she heard a familiar voice shouting her name.
“Hey, Abby! It’s me, Denny Meloch. From the ferry. ’Member?”
He was pushing through the crowd toward her, a hot dog in one hand, a cup of beer in the other.
“Oh, hi. Of course I remember you.”
Denny’s eyes brightened. “Really? How ya liking it here so far?”
“It’s been…colorful.”
People were giving her passing glances. She was a stranger and she stood out. The women at the table in the far corner were doing more than looking, though. They were staring bullets and whispering.
“Why do I get the feeling I just walked into Salem with a pointy hat and a broomstick?”
Denny’s face was blank, the reference lost on him. “Wanna sit down?” he asked, chewing his hot dog. “I can get you some cards, teach you how to play.”
“Um…”
“There you are, hon. I saved you a seat.” Ruth Kepshaw was motioning to her from a nearby table, supplying Abigail with a welcome excuse.
“Thanks, Denny, but Ruth already…Uh, you don’t mind, do you?”
“No, that’s cool. That’s cool.”
“I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“Sure. Later. Awesome.” He gave her the thumbs-up. Uncertain how to respond, Abigail gave him the thumbs-up, too, then snaked through the crowd to Ruth’s table.
“Thanks for—”
“Rescuing you from Denny? Don’t mention it.”
Ruth had a dozen bingo cards spread before her, which she was skimming and daubing with an ink marker with the smooth speed of a seasoned pro. She gave four of her cards to Abigail, along with an orange dauber.
“Take some of these, will ya? I got a hot one I have to keep my eye on.”
“I haven’t played since I was about eight.”
“It’s not chess. It’s bingo. Now, mind those cards.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Between numbers, Abigail scanned the hall. There were so many people, so many unfamiliar faces. She spotted Sheriff Larner three tables to her right. He saw her too and gave a nod.
Halfway through the round, she became aware that the clutch of women in the corner was keeping tabs on her. One gestured right at her. Janine Wertz was among them, sullenly smoking a cigarette.
“Oh, brother.”
“What is it?” Ruth asked.
“Those ‘hens’ you told me about—they aren’t too pleased that I’m here.”
“Why? What are they doing?”
“They’re ogling and pointing. I don’t understand. I didn’t do anything.”
“Well, they’re probably ogling and pointing because I told them your husband dumped you and ran off with his secretary.”
“What? That’s not—”
“True? Didn’t think so. I took the liberty of concocting that little yarn to stop them from running you off the island. Now they can pity you instead of hating you.”
If they knew what really happened, Abigail thought, they would pity me.
“Take it as a compliment. If you were as ugly as an ox’s ass, none of ’em would give a care.”
“That’s a creative interpretation.”
“I try.”
A girl in braids on the other side of the room called out, “Bingo!” and Ruth cursed, crumpling her cards.
“That brat. I was one N-31 away.”
“We could mug her for her winnings. She’s small. I bet you could take her.”
“Don’t think I hadn’t thought of that.”
Round after round came and went as Abigail allowed herself to get absorbed in the game. Every time someone would shout “Bingo,” Ruth would carp about the loss, then slide a new set of cards to her. When each game ended, people would decamp to the bar at the rear of the hall, where the food was served and a handful of men were stationed on stools.
“Our next round will be an X formation,” the bingo caller announced, swirling the ball cage. He was about to pull the opening number when Hank Scokes, the man Abigail had met at the Kozy Kettle, staggered in the main door, knocking over a sheaf of folding chairs. The clatter echoed and heads turned.
Hank was swaying, visibly drunk. He was wearing the same clothes Abigail had seen him in the day before. “Sorry,” he yelled in a mock whisper, before slipping on the chairs and falling to the floor.
Sheriff Larner leapt from his seat, prepared to drag Hank from the fire hall, but one of the guys from the bar came rushing to his aid. He was younger, the brim of his cap covering most of his face. He hauled Hank to his feet and was guiding him to the exit when Hank’s eyes locked on Abigail.
“Hey. I know you,” he said, as if she was a long-lost friend.
Now heads were turning toward her.
Then his tone changed on a dime. “Whaddaya think you’re looking at,” he sneered. The guy at his side squinted at Abigail, as though she was the one insulting Hank.
If Abigail could have willed herself to dematerialize, she would have.
“Nat, get him out of here,” Larner ordered.
The caller spun the ball cage again and tried to get everyone’s attention refocused on the game. “Check your cards, folks. Like I said, this game will be an X formation.”
Abigail was shaking, she was so humiliated. “That was…” she began, but didn’t finish because she couldn’t decide whether degrading or demeaning was the optimal adjective.
Ruth chose for her. “Sucky. That was sucky.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Heart trouble,” Ruth replied.
“Don’t you mean liver trouble? He was plastered.”
“Hank’s wife passed away about six months ago. That’s his heart trouble.”
“Oh” was all Abigail could say. She experienced an abstract sympathy for the man, unwilling to associate herself with him or acknowledge that she had anything in common with a nasty drunk who made a scene. “Was that his son with him?”
Ruth scoffed. “Lord, no. That’s Nat Rhone. He works on Hank’s fishing rig. Bounced from boat to boat because nobody wanted to take him on full-time.”
“Why?”
“He has a helluva temper.”
“So why did Hank hire him?”
“There aren’t many peo
ple as ornery as Hank Scokes. Nat makes him seem like a pussycat.”
“Is Nat an islander, a native?”
“Nope. Came here about four years ago. Nobody knows where he’s from. Way I heard, last person who asked wound up with stitches.”
“Friendly guy.”
“Somewhere, sometime, somebody did Nat wrong. He’s never forgotten it.”
“Maybe his husband divorced him and ran off with his secretary.”
“Touché,” Ruth retorted. “The real bummer is, Nat Rhone’s the only decent-looking man on this island. Only it’d take a U-Haul truck to carry his emotional baggage.”
“Is that your clinical diagnosis?” Abigail teased.
“Mind those cards, missy.”
The men from the bar were collecting the fallen chairs and making a racket the bingo caller had to shout over.
“What are those guys doing at a bingo game if they’re not playing?”
“Most are members of the volunteer fire crew. They volunteer because they get to drink here for half price two nights a week.”
“How altruistic.”
One of the men, the tallest of the bunch, was offering to lend a hand clearing the chairs. The others waved him off. He was almost as drunk as Hank, teetering on his heels.
“Uh-oh. We might have an instant replay.”
“That’s Clint Wertz. You be careful around him,” Ruth warned.
“Any particular reason?”
“He’s got what a lady might call a ‘wandering eye’ and what I’d call a real lack of zipper control. Gives Janine good reason to be as surly as she is.”
“That’s Janine’s husband?”
“See why she wasn’t real sweet with you? To her, you’re bait.”
Clint Wertz wove toward the bar and ordered another round. Abigail caught Janine watching him with a wistful gaze, equal measures anger and remorse. Her expression reminded Abigail that missing what was still yours could be as painful as missing what was lost.
“Tonight’s final game will be a jackpot round,” the caller announced into the microphone. “The cash prize is worth three hundred dollars.”
At that, the noise level in the hall dropped to a hush. Ruth rolled up her sleeves, as though priming herself for hand-to-hand combat. “This is the biggie, hon, and it’s got my name on it. Granted, I say that every week. This time I mean it.”
