Ellen Block - The Language of Sand

“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—”

“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.

fan tod(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 –s 3]

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.