Ellen Block - The Language of Sand

“You’re not a tourist. You live here now. Start acting like it.”

While she circled the cul-de-sac, the name on the building across from the school grabbed her attention. It read: Chapel Isle Library. A slate roof and stained-glass accents in the windows spiffed up the otherwise plain faade.

“You did say you wanted to act like you lived here.”

Warm, quiet, and well lit, libraries were a favorite of Abigail’s. She always felt at home in a place where books outnumbered people. A library was like a country club for reading enthusiasts, only everybody was welcome.

“You must be here about the loggerheads,” a librarian said, greeting Abigail excitedly when she entered. The woman’s gray hair was cropped short, as if having it any longer would have been a hassle.

“Loggerheads?”

“We have a microfiche machine,” she said proudly. “It’s in the back.”

The small library was empty except for an elderly man in a wool jacket, reading the newspaper at a table. The fluorescent lighting made a low buzzing sound and tinged the entire room with a yellow glow. Even the round braided rug in the children’s reading corner took on an amber cast.

“I think you have me confused with someone else,” Abigail said.

“My apologies. A gal from the mainland phoned about doing some research on our loggerhead-turtle population. We don’t get a lot of out-of-towners in, so I thought you were she. What can I do for you?”

The island’s loggerhead turtle population gave Abigail an idea.

“I’m glad you asked. What can you tell me about the lighthouse here on the island?”

“What sort of information are you looking for?” Suspicion starched the woman’s reply.

“General information, historical data, that sort of thing.”

“Well, we have a book on the lighthouses of the Outer Banks, which has details of each of the lighthouses in the area.”

“Do you have anything more specific ?”

“No, we don’t. As you can see, we’re a modest library.”

The woman was giving Abigail the runaround. Saying she was the new caretaker might open a door. Or close it tighter.

“It’s such an interesting old lighthouse. I’m surprised nobody has written a book about it.”

“Yes,” the librarian agreed. “It’s a mystery.”

Unlike at the library, Abigail could get what she was after at the hardware store. She could see Merle through the window in the back door. He had his head buried in the refrigerator.

“Morning,” she said, entering. Startled, Merle jammed the refrigerator door into a pile of fishing rods, which cascaded to the floor.

“Morning, Abby,” he said begrudgingly.

“Sorry. Let me get those. I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.”

“Where would the fun in that be?”

“No more umbrella cane, I see.”

“It was cramping my style.”

“Perish the thought.” Abigail collected the rods and replaced them in the corner.

“You just here to make my life flash before my eyes or do you have some other home improvements you’re undertaking? Bear in mind, I don’t carry wrecking balls.”

“Here.” Abigail handed him the piece of cardboard with her list on it.

Merle flipped it over, revealing a picture of turkey tetrazzini. “I can already tell you’ve left two integral items off o’ this list. Paper and a cookbook.”

“And you said you weren’t funny.”

“Candles, duct tape, water. Take it you heard about the hurricane. Amelia or Amanda or…”

“Don’t say it. It’s not?”

“Nope, it’s not Abigail. Dodged a bullet there.”

“Did I ever.”

“I have a hunch Lottie didn’t tell you diddly about what to do in case we get hit by this hurricane.”

“Not a peep.”

“Then I’ll skip to the important parts. If there’s enough warning, I’ll board up the windows at the lighthouse. That’s what I did in ’96. Wasn’t a scratch on the place. You can ride the storm out as long as you got food and water. Keep your radio close. If the island has to be evacuated, you’ll hear it on there first. Town has an air siren. They tend not to use it. Too apocalyptic. If we do have to evacuate, you get to the dock and take the ferry to the mainland. The police will direct you to a shelter.”

“What about you? Won’t you be going to the shelter?”

Merle tapped the cardboard list against his palm, disinclined to respond.

“What? You’re too macho for a shelter? Or you’re too macho to leave?”

“Not macho—stubborn. Some might say stupid. State’s tried to evacuate Chapel Isle more than ten times in my life. Haven’t left once. If I’m gonna kick the bucket, it’s going to be right here.”

Abigail admired his conviction. It made perfect sense.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Fire away.”

“What happened to the original lighthouse keeper?”

Merle solemnly took a jug of kerosene off a shelf and brought it to the register. “I only know what I’ve heard since I was a kid.”

“And I only know what I’ve read.”

“Meaning?”

“I found a newspaper clipping about the Bishop’s Mistress under the mattress in the caretaker’s house. The article said there was a storm, that the ship sank because there was no light to guide it in.”

“That might be the headline. It’s not the whole story.”

“There’s an unabridged version?”

Merle rested against the counter, taking weight off his healing ankle. “Everyone said Mr. Jasper was diligent, faithful. The lighthouse was his life. This was back at the turn of the century, when Chapel Isle was a one-horse town, an outpost for sailors, fishermen, and their families. Supposedly, one day Mr. Jasper went to the lamp room to put the oil in for the night. On the way down, he slipped, hit his head, and fell; rolled clear to the bottom. Should have killed him. He must have lain there for hours, nobody to help him. By nightfall, the storm had swept in. When people realized there was no beacon for the sailors, somebody went to the lighthouse and found him. It was too late for the Mistress . But not for Mr. Jasper. He was alive. Barely.”

“You’re saying he was hurt and couldn’t have operated the beacon. Then what happened to the Bishop’s Mistress wasn’t his fault.”

“I don’t think that’s how Mr. Jasper saw it.”

On occasions too numerous to recall, Abigail had wished she’d died along with her husband and son. She was ashamed for being able to breathe and speak and smile when they couldn’t. She wore that shame like tight-fitting clothes she couldn’t remove. The ever-present pinch of grief was taut across the shoulders; bereavement laced around the chest, sorrow cinched at the waist, while her anguish was snug at the neck, despair restricting each movement, regret cramping each memory. There was no unbuttoning her heartache. While the fire wasn’t her fault, that didn’t make her loss any easier to wear.

“What happened to Mr. Jasper afterward?”

“Story goes that he healed up, kept tending the lighthouse. Stayed there until he died almost twenty years later.”

“There were a lot of ledgers, so it makes sense.”

“Ledgers?”

“Mr. Jasper wrote a daily record of the goings-on at the lighthouse, like a diary. The ledgers were in the basement.”

Merle did not look pleased.

“What? You figured because Lottie doesn’t go down there, I wouldn’t either? I was in the basement moving furniture for hours yesterday.”

“Abby, who else knows you moved that furniture?”

“Nat. But he won’t tell Lottie, if that’s what you’re thinking.”