Ellen Block - The Language of Sand

Afternoon sunlight was flooding into the caretaker’s house. Since the property was so secluded, there was no need for what little privacy the ashen drapes had provided. That left Abigail in limbo between liberation and loneliness.

“You have new doorknobs. That’s something.”

Insignificant as they were, the knobs were the high point of her day. Before installing them and reassembling the kitchen, she went through the hordes of crockery on the dining table and sifted out what was worth saving. Among the rejects were blackened pans, more ladles than anyone could ever need, and a cracked mug with a cartoon of a fish wearing a sailor’s cap.

“Seems a waste to throw these in the trash. Maybe I could give them away. Though I’m not sure who’d want them.”

All the less-than-desirable dishware went into grocery bags, then Abigail put everything else back in the cabinets. Anxious to install the drawer pulls, she was glad to have the screwdriver Merle gave her. She pitched the other one into the garbage. With the cupboards repainted, the knobs replaced, Abigail reviewed the completed kitchen and said, “ Better Homes and Gardens , here we come.”

Finishing the grass and tackling the grout were her next chores. But Abigail had been running a debt with her body, the balance of which was constant soreness. Pushing and pulling the lawn mower might bankrupt her altogether.

“Grout it is.”

It was two o’clock, time for Dr. Walter’s show. She brought the radio and the ungainly tub of grout up to the bathroom. Abigail tuned in as Dr. Walter was announcing that day’s topic.

“For those of you just joining us, we’re talking about how to discipline your children. Our first call is from Sue. She says her five-year-old son refuses to sleep in his own bed.”

“That’s right,” Sue interjected. “He wants to sleep with me and my husband. Every night without fail he comes in crying, begging to stay with us.”

“And you’re wondering if you should continue to allow him to sleep with you or if you should—”

“Put my foot down. Make him sleep in his own room. It’s hard. He says he can’t fall asleep if he’s not with us, and if I tell him no, he cries and cries. I feel awful.” Dr. Walter couldn’t get a word in. The woman was spilling over with desperation. “I’m not a bad mother. At least, I don’t think I’m a bad mother. I don’t want to be a bad mother.”

“You’re not a bad mother, Sue.”

The doctor’s voice was calm, convincing, comforting. He could have said anything in that voice and Abigail would have trusted him.

“The lines are burning up with listeners who want to speak to this issue. We’ll hear what they have to say after this commercial.”

During the break, Abigail read the instructions on the grout container.

“This doesn’t seem too hard.”

Using the trowel Merle had supplied, she slopped a dollop of grout into the far corner of the bathroom, slathering it into the crevices between the tiles. White and thick as cake icing, it was an immense improvement over the dingy grout.

“We’re back,” Dr. Walter said, “and the switchboard is on fire.”

Phone calls were streaming in from mothers who sympathized with Sue. They, too, found themselves unable to turn their children away from their beds at night. Each was more racked with worry than the woman who preceded her.

A fearful mother asked, “Am I ruining my kid for life by letting her sleep with me?”

“There are hundreds of ways you can ruin your child for life,” Dr. Walter assured the woman. “Letting her sleep with you on occasion isn’t one of them.”

He went on to give suggestions about how to wean children into their own beds and instructed the women to be gentle yet firm. Abigail nodded in agreement as she continued to grout, edging toward the door.

“Hold on, we have a listener who has a differing opinion. Go ahead, Charlene, you’re on the air.”

“I think your callers are sick,” she began. “Children have nightmares. Comes with the territory. As soon as you let them start sleeping with you in your bed with your husband, you’ve crossed a line. A very sick line. I have five kids, and I never let them sleep with me and my husband. They’re grown and there isn’t a thing wrong with them.”

“I’m sure they’re right as rain,” Dr. Walter said.

The woman continued her tirade, unaware that she was being made fun of. “And that’s because I didn’t let them share my bed. I can’t understand these mothers today. They let their kids run wild in the stores, mouth off, scream in restaurants—behavior that shouldn’t be tolerated.”

Abigail stopped grouting. She was growing more and more agitated by the woman’s arrogance, her insensitivity. She envisioned her as the type who threatened to get a switch if her kids didn’t do as they were told.

“You want my advice?” Charlene boomed.

“I’m all ears,” Dr. Walter replied.

“Women today need to be stronger. Children want discipline. They need it. If they don’t have it, they run right over you.”

Unlike the rest of the women who had phoned in, Abigail wouldn’t get the chance for her child to crawl into bed with her again. She’d never get the chance to cuddle with him after he had a nightmare or feel him sleep against her in the shelter of her body. A spike of sorrow shot through her.

Charlene was winding up for another diatribe when Dr. Walter put her on mute. “If anyone is interested in responding to these statements, please feel free to call in.”

“Interested?” Abigail said. “Let me at her.”

She threw aside the trowel and went for the stairs as Dr. Walter relayed an 800 number. Her hands were shaking so violently, she couldn’t get her finger into the rotary slots. The harder Abigail tried, the more frustrated she became. Incapable of dialing, she slammed down the receiver.

“Is this ‘Abby’? Is this who you are now?”

Abigail had to conjugate in Latin to regain her composure.

Invenio, invenire, inveni, inventum.

Operor, operari, operatus sum.

Beside the telephone lay the newspaper article about the Bishop’s Mistress . She’d moved it while clearing the table. Sadly, the weight of the skillet hadn’t removed the wrinkles.

“I’m going to make it up to you,” she told the clipping.

Grabbing the flashlight, which she’d left beside the phone along with the hammer, Abigail made for the basement door, set on learning more about the ship’s demise. She dragged the crates into an open area of the basement and searched their contents for a reference to the Bishop’s Mistress . Eventually she found a ledger that corresponded to the year the ship sank, 1909. It was shoved at the bottom of one of the crates, out of order from the rest. The first portion of the ledger was reminiscent of the others. Details of the tides and the weather were scrupulously penned in a rigid script that was plumb with the margins. Then came the date of the sinking of the Bishop’s Mistress .

The page appeared to be written in an entirely different hand. Notes about the morning tide and wind were at the top in a wavering scrawl. From there, the writing turned illegible. Abigail held the flashlight close to the page, trying to decipher it. A single sentence mentioned the Bishop’s Mistress , something she was able to deduce only because she recognized how Wesley Jasper formed his S ’s. The rest of the words were too mangled to decode, except for a pair toward the end: oil and pail .

The entry ceased cryptically. Abigail flipped the page. The ledger returned to normal. The penmanship was clear and upright and didn’t meander outside the lines.