Ellen Block: The Language of Sand

“So help me, there had better be a laundromat on this island. That ancient washer in the basement isn’t going to cut it.”

Abigail got dressed in reverse, removing the clothes she’d slept in before she put on a pair of khakis and a knit top from her duffel. Even though she wasn’t overly concerned with her appearance, she did notice that the house didn’t have a full-length mirror. The puny one in the bathroom was the only mirror in the entire place. Abigail had to wonder if, after a while, she would forget how she looked from the neck down.

elide(i lid´), v.t. , elided, eliding. 1.to omit (a vowel, consonant, or syllable) in pronunciation. 2.to suppress; omit; ignore; pass over. 3.Law. to annul or quash. [1585–95; < L ēlīdere to strike out, equiv. to ē –E–+ – lidere , comb. form of laedere to wound]

Morning’s low tide exposed a forbidding cluster of boulders at the coastline, a natural seawall that protected the lighthouse. Strewn along the shore like the fallen walls of a fortress, not even the pounding surf had been able to wear the massive rocks away. The seawall was a testament to perseverance. Abigail took heart in its presence as she stood on the front stoop of the caretaker’s cottage, attempting to find the right key to lock the door.

“Three down. A dozen to go.”

The sandy, uneven roads made for slow passage into town. She tried to memorize landmarks as she went. The meadow, a listing telephone pole, a barren tree. The names of the streets and small lanes were confoundingly similar. Bayside Drive, Beachcomber Road, Breezeway Avenue. They were easy to mix up.

“According to your lease, you have twelve months to learn them.”

Her family had tried to dissuade her from moving. North Carolina was so far from Boston, a year was so long. Between her savings and the pending insurance settlement, there was no pressing need to get a job, nothing tying her down. If Abigail hated Chapel Isle, she could always move home. In spite of the sorry state of the property and Lottie’s misrepresentations, she didn’t want to hate the house or the island.

The dewy seaside air left a wet sheen on the cobblestones of the town square, which was deserted except for a trio of men loading coolers into a pickup truck and a woman with a cane inching across the sidewalk.

“Wow. Four people. It’s practically a mob scene.”

Compared to Martha’s Vineyard, Nantucket, and the more-popular islands in the Outer Banks, Chapel Isle was a relatively unknown destination. It showed no hallmarks of overcommercialization or overcrowding. Chain restaurants and pricey luxury boutiques would be out of step here. The allure of the island was its lack of pretension. Store windows were spruced up with handmade posters, and the awnings were wind-frayed. The door to a café called the Kozy Kettle had a crack in the glass. Above the crack was an Open sign, which was sufficient invitation for Abigail.

A bell chimed when she entered. The café had the feel of a roadside diner. Red-checked oilcloths were stapled to the undersides of the tables, and the wood paneling was burnished by decades of wear. This was one place where the town’s ad nauseam nautical theme wasn’t in evidence. Perhaps the locals had had enough of it.

Two elderly men, both in John Deere caps, were seated at a booth in the corner. Another man, in a canvas jacket, was nursing a cup of coffee at the counter. A waitress was standing by the register, refilling sugar dispensers.

“Have a seat wherever, hon,” she said. “Be with you in a minute.”

The men in the booth followed Abigail with their eyes as she took a spot at the counter. She offered them a friendly smile but got frowns in return.

“Tough crowd,” she whispered.

“What was that, hon?”

“Nothing.”

Because the fire had temporarily robbed her of a voice, Abigail would often talk to herself. Doing it when other people could hear her, however, was probably not a smart approach, especially for a newcomer. She’d have to curb that.

“Coffee?”

“That would be terrific.”

A pair of bifocals dangled from a chain around the waitress’s neck, and her polyester apron was festooned with buttons and brooches. She appeared to be in her sixties, yet Abigail could tell the woman had been a true beauty in her youth.

“Here you go. It’s a fresh pot.”

She gave Abigail a menu, simultaneously pouring her a brimming cup of coffee. As soon as Abigail took a sip, she almost spit it out. The coffee was scalding hot.

“Burned yourself, huh?” the waitress asked.

In more ways than one , Abigail was thinking.

“I’ll get you some ice water.”

The waitress delivered her drink. The water came in a jelly jar. It was another country touch that reminded Abigail she wasn’t in the big city anymore.

“Decided what you want?”

“Scrambled eggs and wheat toast,” she lisped.

“You got it, hon.”

Whisking away the menu, the waitress disappeared into the kitchen. Abigail chugged water to cool her taste buds, as the men in the corner continued to watch her closely. Uncomfortable under such deliberate gaze, she turned to face in the opposite direction, toward the register. A smattering of photos was taped to its side. Most of the snapshots featured a local baseball league, the guys dressed in matching uniforms and sporting matching toothy grins. Abigail was glad to see this side to Chapel Isle, a side where people actually did smile.

“That’s our team,” the man in the canvas jacket told her proudly. “Took the pennant last year in the playoffs.”

“Good for them,” Abigail replied, thrilled that at least someone was willing to converse with her.

The man removed a picture from his wallet and slid closer to show her. “These are my sons. They played right and left field. This was years ago, mind you. They’re grown. Now their kids are playing Little League ball like they did.”

The old photo was a family group shot from a backyard barbecue. The man had his arm around his wife, who was wearing a floral shift, and the two teen boys on either side of the couple were in bell-bottoms.

“Handsome kids,” Abigail said.

He stared at the picture for a moment. The gratitude on his face told Abigail he hadn’t received a compliment in a while.

“That’s because they favor their mom,” the man answered, with a self-deprecating shrug. “We had some fun times, we did.”

That’s when Abigail smelled the alcohol on his breath and noticed how he’d missed a button on his flannel shirt, causing it to hang crookedly from the collar to the tails. She had a guess who he might be.

“Breakfast is served.”

The waitress set down a plate of food, intentionally intruding. The man tucked the photo into his wallet, tossed two dollars on the counter, and retreated to the door, with a parting nod to Abigail as well as to the waitress.