Ellen Block - The Language of Sand

“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 people 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.”