Ellen Block: The Language of Sand

blandish(blan´dish), v.t.1.to coax or influence by gentle flattery; cajole: They blandished the guard into letting them through the gate.—v.i.2.to use flattery or cajolery. [1350–1400; ME blandisshen < AF, MF blandiss– , long s. of blandir < L blandīrī to soothe, flatter. See BLAND, –ISH 2] – blan´disher, n. – bland´dishingly, adv.

As the ferry neared Chapel Isle, the picturesque vista of the island was marred by a troubling sight. One of the dock’s pilings had buckled, and a broken plank dangled precariously over the water. The dock appeared on the verge of collapse.

“That doesn’t look good,” Abigail declared.

Studying language for so long had taught her that initial impressions weren’t necessarily dependable. The spelling of a word and its pronunciation could be astonishingly irreconcilable. That was why every entry in the dictionary had a phonetic guide. Abigail willed herself to believe the same rationale would hold true for Chapel Isle.

“This is it. End of the road,” Denny announced, ambling toward her car. The ferry’s engine whirred to a stop while he wound the lead lines around an intact piling, then slid a ramp out to bridge the gap to the dock.

“Denny, what happened?”

“To what?”

“To this dock.”

“Oh, yeah. Hank Scokes ran into it.”

“Ran into it?”

“With his fishing boat.”

“On purpose?”

“Naw, old guy was drunk as a skunk.”

“Is the structure secure enough to drive on?”

“Plenty o’ people have.”

“How reassuring,” Abigail mumbled. “When did this little ‘accident’ occur?”

Denny had to give it some thought. “’Bout a month ago.”

“And nobody’s fixed it?”

“That’s a seriously messed-up dock. It’s going to take a lot of fixing to get it right again. Don’t you fret, though. I’ll keep an eye on ya. Where are you staying?” he inquired with a suggestive tilt of his head.

“The lighthouse. I’m actually the new caretaker,” Abigail replied, braced for some type of advance.

Instead, Denny’s expression faltered. He pursed his lips to prevent himself from saying what he wanted to say.

“It can’t be that bad,” she joked halfheartedly. “The place isn’t operational anymore, so I can’t get in too much trouble.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s…um, never mind.”

After the lengthy trip, Abigail didn’t have the energy to prod Denny into opening up. Whatever he was holding back would have to wait.

“I’m supposed to go and see the realtor first,” she told him. “Can you give me directions to her office?”

“Lottie Gilquist’s who you need. Ain’t hard to find her. All you gotta do is listen.”

Forgoing any further explanation, Denny went to unhook the chain that barred the front of the ferry.

Confused, Abigail pulled the station wagon alongside him. “Let’s say my hearing’s not very keen; how exactly would I find her?”

“You go straight.”

“Okay, straight. What’s next?”

“Just straight.”

“If I just go straight, I’m going to drive into the ocean on the other side of the island.”

“You’ll spot Lottie’s place before that’d happen.”

A whistle rang out from behind Abigail’s car. Denny’s father was hovering in the doorway to the wheelhouse. He folded his arms in silent command.

“Take the main road,” Denny instructed. “You can’t miss it.” He started to trot away, then stopped himself. “Oops. Promised I’d see you get onto the island safe and sound.”

Abigail was glad he remembered, because she hadn’t forgotten. “Thanks,” she said, easing her foot from the brake.

“Maybe I’ll see you around?”

“I think you will.”

Denny broke into a wide grin, which made Abigail smile too. However, her smile dissolved the instant she let the Volvo inch forward onto the dock. The wood whinnied and groaned under the wagon.

“It’s fine,” he said encouragingly. “Go ahead. Really. It’s solid as a rock.”

Despite the squawking planks, Abigail drove onward while Denny waved goodbye. She would have waved back but couldn’t pry her fingers from the wheel.

As soon as the car coasted off the dock onto a gravel lane, Abigail exhaled, grateful for solid ground. A placard at the side of the road read: Welcome to Chapel Isle.

“Some welcome.”

The island’s dock house was closed tight, and a nearby soda stand had been boarded shut. See You Next Summer was spray-painted on the plywood. The tourist season was decidedly over. Chapel Isle had gone into hibernation. The solitude of seclusion was another reason Abigail had chosen to move here, one she was beginning to reconsider.

“Careful what you wish for.”

Her father had been the first to plant the phrase in her mind, a cautionary quip that stuck with her because it proved true more often than she cared to concede. Like when Abigail was eight and begged her parents for a cat. She’d spent weeks pleading and pledging to be responsible, then ultimately wore them down. The day they brought her home a kitten, Abigail broke out in a case of hives that was so severe, her father had to bring her to the hospital.

“Sometimes what you want is the worst thing for you,” he’d pronounced, as Abigail’s mother slathered her in cortisone cream. “Sounds like the stuff of fortune cookies, except it’s usually true.”

Lesson learned. At least about having pets. With only a gravel lane to guide her and not a single person in sight, Abigail wondered if she’d ever really taken the moral to heart.

The road from the dock fed inland. On either side were wide expanses of salt marsh, punctuated by tidal pools. The tall grass swayed in the breeze, underscoring the cloudy sky with swaths of blond that bled into green.

Abigail caught passing glimpses of the coast where paths to the beach had been trampled through the dunes. The scent of the ocean was heady, tipped with a salty tartness. When she lowered the rest of the windows to let the fragrance fill the car, the sudden rush of air sent her books and boxes flapping frantically.

“That’s enough wind for today,” she said, as she raised the windows and blew a wayward chunk of hair from her forehead.

In the distance, a beach shack hunkered at the edge of the asphalt. Abigail slowed for a better look. It was another food stand, the serving window padlocked.

“The town has got to be somewhere.”

A mile later, the languorous marshland was overtaken by trees and a strand of shingled cabins. Each one was identical to its neighbor, like a row of paper dolls. There were no cars in the driveways, no lights, motion, or noise.

“Summer rentals,” she stated, imagining that if she were to open one of the cabin doors, she would hear the ocean the way one does when putting an ear to an empty shell that has washed ashore.