Ellen Block - The Language of Sand

“My clothes? Why?”

“They look too fancy to be moving furniture in.”

Abigail couldn’t see how a sweater and a pair of trousers could be construed as overdressed. “It’s not like I’m wearing a ball gown and pearls.”

“Okay.”

“I didn’t have anything else that was clean,” she admitted.

“Okay.”

“I have to go to the laundromat. I’m going tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“I shouldn’t have to explain myself.”

“Okay.”

“Now you’re placating me.”

“I’m trying.”

“Stop.”

Nat motioned at the dining chair she’d brought up. “You started without me?”

“It was a trial run. The basement stairwell is fairly tight, and the one to the second floor is even tighter.”

“We can manage.”

His optimism surprised her. The normally surly Nat was undaunted, while she was ready to throw in the towel. Abigail hoped he wasn’t underestimating the project the way she’d underestimated him.

They descended into the basement, where he appraised the stairs from the bottom. “Small, but somebody got the pieces down here. Which means we can get them back up. They’re actually in decent shape,” he remarked, studying the writing desk.

“You’re familiar with antiques?” Abigail asked, careful not to act shocked. She didn’t want to let what she’d learned about Nat slip, yet she wasn’t inclined to be excessively kind to him either.

“A bit.”

“I can’t understand why somebody left them here, in a musty, dank basement.”

“People hide things for a whole bunch of reasons.”

“Who said the furniture was hidden?”

“Hiding it, storing it, whatever.” Nat got on the other side of the desk. “We should do the heavy pieces first. You ready?”

Abigail was stuck on the notion that the furniture had been hidden intentionally.

“You’ve heard about the, um…How should I put this?”

“Ghost? Yeah. And? You didn’t fall for that story, did you? That’s just the local yokels trying to pull one over on ya.”

“Right. Of course.”

His dismissal made Abigail feel less apprehensive about what they were going to do, although only marginally.

“Ready?” Nat repeated. “Push that wingback chair over and we’ll angle the desk toward the stairs.”

While he removed the drawers, Abigail shimmied the wingback out of their path. Together they moved the desk to the foot of the steps.

“Turn it the opposite way,” he instructed.

“Which direction?”

“In line with the stairs, not perpendicular to them.”

Hearing Nat say perpendicular struck her. Abigail could tell that level of language suited him more than his regular style of speaking. What she respected about language was that it was like a puzzle—crossword rather than jigsaw. It provided a frame and lots of clues for understanding people. There was a distinct possibility Nat was dumbing himself down in order to fit in with the Chapel Isle men he socialized and worked with.

“What?”

Abigail was staring at him, waiting to hear him speak again and confirm her theory.

“Nothing, nothing,” she said, covering.

“Let’s switch places. You go high. I’ll go low. You’ll have to walk backward, but I’ll take most of the weight. This desk isn’t light, so tell me if you need to rest.”

For a change, Nat wasn’t insulting her. He was being honest.

She got into position and they lifted the writing desk in unison. Nat grabbed the legs to steady the load, while Abigail gripped the lip of the desktop. They had three stairs to go when Abigail’s fingers started to slip.

“I’m losing it.”

“We can make it.” He inched the desk higher against his chest, rebalancing.

“It’s going to fall.”

“No, it won’t.”

In a final push, Nat forced the desk over the threshold, safely onto the floor.

“See,” he said, breathing hard. “You didn’t drop it.”

“ Almost didn’t drop it.”

“Where’s this going?”

“The study.”

“After you.” He gestured for her to lead the way.

Upstairs, Nat got out his measuring tape. “Some of this furniture will have go in order for the desk to fit.”

“I won’t need the smaller desk or the chair. And I certainly don’t need that cot.”

“You say that like you don’t plan on having any visitors.”

Abigail felt Nat searching her face. The scrutiny was too intense for her, so she sidestepped him, saying, “This chair is light. I’ll take it down to the living room.”

He followed behind, hauling the wafer-thin mattress from the cot under his arm. “If you aren’t going to use it…”

“It’s all yours.”

“I’ll consider it a loan. Even though the cot isn’t really yours to lend. You are renting this place. You forget?”

She had. “Then loan it is.”

“Might need a hand to get the frame onto my truck.”

They made their second trip to the study and began to disassemble the bed. The legs folded in, making it easy to maneuver through the stairwell. Nat went first, Abigail trailing. Since he had his back to her, she could finally blot the sweat from her forehead.

“At least this isn’t heavy,” she remarked, pretending she wasn’t short of breath. “What are you going to do with it?”

“Sleep on it.”

“What about your bed?”

“You’re carrying it.”

Abigail was astounded. The man literally had no place to sleep. Had he been bunking on somebody’s couch or, worse, the floor? They slid the frame into the rear of his truck and he shut the tailgate.

“Need any other furniture? Seriously. What else am I supposed to do with it?”

“Dunno about that.” Her generosity made him antsy.

Nat was retreating into the house when Abigail said: “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

He turned and hunted for intention in her eyes. This time, Abigail held her ground.

“You’re on.”

Piece by piece, they emptied the basement. For every chair that came up, another went onto Nat’s truck. Soon the living room was full of antiques and his flatbed was piled high. By noon, Abigail was spent. She plopped onto the front steps of the house.

Nat wiped his face with a handkerchief. “You hungry yet?”

“Yet?”

“You don’t seem to eat much.”

“I eat. I eat plenty.”

“Uh-huh.”

Nat headed into the house. Abigail found him in the kitchen inspecting the contents of her refrigerator.

“This is a sorry sight.”

“It’s not very polite to—”

“Go through people’s medicine cabinets. This is your fridge.”

“Laugh it up. I don’t have any food. Ha-ha-ha.”

“This a start,” he said of the frozen dinners in the freezer. “At least you can throw these in the oven and….” He mimed the gesture, inadvertently exposing the half-baked turkey tetrazzini from two nights ago. “Saving this for later?”

Face burning, Abigail stormed out of the kitchen. She sulked on the stoop. Nat appeared minutes later with a sandwich on a plate.

“This must be your favorite, because it’s all you got.”

Abigail took the plate. The sandwich was so artfully presented that her mouth began to water.

“You should’ve made one for yourself. Or I could make you one,” she offered lamely.

“Don’t worry. I brought my own.” Nat unpacked a delectable-looking overstuffed sandwich from his cooler. He saw Abigail eyeing it. “You want some?”

“No, I couldn’t.”

Nat put half of his sandwich on her plate, then took the other half of hers. Abigail had a bite. His sandwich was perfection.