Ellen Block - The Language of Sand

“Would you feel better if the pail was in the same place?”

“I’m not sure. I wanted some sort of corroboration, I suppose.”

“Will you feel better if you find out one way or the other?”

“I’m not sure about that either.”

“Want me to check for you?”

“Would you?”

Bert nodded, happy to oblige.

“You won’t be scared?”

“What scares me is that.” He pointed to the ocean and the horizon beyond.

“The hurricane?”

“I don’t understand much in this world. I do understand physics. A hurricane is a force of nature. Nothing else that can compare.”

“You’re afraid of this hurricane.”

“You can be afraid of the known or the unknown,” Bert replied. “Me, I pick the known. Then again, if I’m choosing, I’d pick not to be afraid at all.”

“Me too, Bert. Me too.”

u su fruct(y ′ z frukt′, –s –, y z′y –, y s′–), n. Roman and Civil Law. the right of enjoying all the advantages derivable from the use of something that belongs to another, as far as is compatible with the substance of the thing not being destroyed or injured. [1620–30; < LL ūsūfrūctus , equiv. to L ūsū , abl. of ūsus (see USE (n.)) + frūctus (see FRUIT)]

The caretaker’s house looked like a condemned building. With the plywood covering the windows and the chipping paint, a casual observer would have guessed it was uninhabited. Abigail had to remind herself she lived there.

“That’s that,” Denny declared, hammering in the final nail. “You’re as ready as you can be.”

“Only I won’t be able to see the storm coming.”

“You won’t have to see it,” Bert told her. “You’ll be able to hear it.”

“That’s the worst,” Denny agreed. “Sounds like the whole world’s crashing down on you.”

“Not helping, guys.”

“Sorry.”

“We should get going,” Bert hinted to Denny, who was reluctant to leave.

“You got everything you need?” Denny asked. “Nothing else we can do? Nothing?”

“I think I’m set.”

Then Abigail realized she didn’t actually have any of the things she needed. She’d left Merle’s store without getting supplies for herself. She’d also forgotten to go to the market for food and water.

“Um, maybe not.”

“I’m heading through town.”

Denny opened the passenger door to the truck as if he were her personal valet. He wasn’t taking no for an answer. So the three of them squeezed into the front seat, with Abigail wedged in the middle.

“Where do you want me to drop you, Abby?”

“At Merle’s, please.”

Bert clucked his tongue, the way he did at the laundromat. “Might want to hit Weller’s first. They’ll be running out of essentials shortly. If they haven’t already.”

“I’ll be at the Kettle when you’re through,” Denny told her as they clambered from of the truck. “You can come get me and I’ll take you home. Door-to-door service,” he said with a grin.

“Are you going with him, Bert?”

“Not much else to do. Laundry’s closed on account of the hurricane. Why?”

“No, no, I was just asking.”

Bert appeared to appreciate her interest. “Okay, then. See you later.” He gave her a nod and toddled off.

A dangerous hurricane was barreling toward Chapel Isle, yet to Denny and Bert, it was another ordinary day. Either they were resigned to the storm or they were putting on a convincing show. Feigning bravery was fine for stoic island men. Abigail had lived through the extraordinary and couldn’t pretend to be anything except anxious.

Most of the shelves at the market had been stripped bare. It wouldn’t be a choice of what Abigail wanted but rather what was left. She loaded her cart with the remaining bottled water, fruit, milk and cereal. The last loaf of bread was pumpernickel, which she didn’t care for much. She took it anyway.

Across the aisle, a mother with two little girls was tossing packs of juice boxes into her cart. One of her daughters pleaded for candy.

“We have candy at home.” The mother was firm. “We’re not here for candy. Not today.”

Not today. That says it all.

Abigail was grabbing rolls of toilet paper when she heard a familiar voice in the next aisle.

“Lordy me, this hurricane. What a pain in my posterior. So much to do. Franklin hates to evacuate. Such a hardship for him. And me, I haven’t left this island since…well, since Jesus was a boy.”

Franklin , Abigail thought. Wasn’t that Lottie’s husband’s name?

She pushed her cart around the corner and discovered her landlord gabbing with another woman.

“Haven’t been off the island since Jesus was a boy?” Abigail demanded. “What about your cousin’s ‘girdle incident’? Were you lying this whole time, Lottie?”

The other woman made a hasty exit, leaving Lottie to fend for herself against an irate Abigail.

“Abby, dear. What a surprise to bump into you. My, you’re looking well. Slender as a rail. How do you keep your figure? You have to tell me your secret.”

Abigail wanted to smack herself for not putting two and two together sooner. Lottie couldn’t have left her wheelchair-bound husband alone for that long. The trip-to-the-mainland story was a ruse, an avoidance tactic. Sheriff Larner’s comment, that Lottie was “making herself scarce,” sprang to mind. Abigail felt like a fool. Everybody around town was wise to what Lottie was doing except her.

“Lottie, stop. Be honest for a change. Why would you lie about something so…ridiculous?”

The short woman appeared to grow shorter as she rallied an answer.

“I’m sorry, Abby. Sincerely, I am. From the minute you called me when you were in Boston, I knew you were desperate for the lighthouse to be what you pictured, what you dreamed. And I knew it wouldn’t be. I just didn’t want you to be sad.”

The truth siphoned all of the bubbliness from Lottie. She wrung her hands, waiting for Abigail to pass judgment.

Though Lottie had tricked her and lied to her and dodged her, Abigail was grateful for the intention. Abigail didn’t want to be sad either.

“It’s all right, Lottie.”

Her face instantly brightened. She belted out one of her signature laughs, relieved. “Gracious, I thought you were about to smack me. I heard what happened at the Kettle. Really, Abby, I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side o’ you. Ever again, I mean,” she said, amending the statement.

Abigail affected a tough stance. “Is that a promise?”

“Oh, yes. Yes. Cross my heart. Not my fingers.”

As Lottie scurried off, Abigail had to admit the debacle at the Kozy Kettle was starting to work in her favor. There was a hidden benefit to being “the Boston Bruiser.” She could intimidate her landlord.