Ellen Block - The Language of Sand

“Maybe you are a badass,” Abigail told herself. But it was a stretch to feel strong with a hurricane looming.

The lines at the registers were lengthy and comprised mainly of women. Janine was at one register. The woman Abigail had seen with Janine’s husband was working the other. Abigail opted for the mistress rather than the wife. The ladies in line were reminiscing about hurricanes past.

“I lost my front windows in ’96,” one recounted. “Boy, was my husband pissed about having to replace ’em.”

“I lost every window that year. Least I got brand new shutters out of that hurricane,” remarked another.

“I had to put on a new roof after the storm in ’92,” one woman complained, caressing her daughter’s hair. “Hope I won’t have to do that again.”

The consensus appeared to be that, though inconvenient, the hurricane would come and go. All that could be done was to hope for the best. Abigail hadn’t had much hope lately. When she did, it was usually to exclusion: She hoped she wouldn’t have nightmares, that she wouldn’t start crying, that her memories wouldn’t unravel her. Abigail wished she could absorb some of their hope for her own.

When she arrived at the register, the woman pretended not to recognize her. Abigail did the same. While she waited, a gray-haired lady with a walker in Janine’s line accidentally dropped a bag of oranges, scattering them across the floor. Abigail went to gather the fallen fruit and came face-to-face with Janine as they both bent down.

“Thanks,” Janine said to Abigail.

Though there was no irritation or irony in her voice, that was the most she was willing to give. Having a hurricane on the way left no time for animosity, justified or not. They were both in danger, which made them equals.

A note was waiting for Abigail on the back door to Merle’s store. It read: Abby, Had to bring tools to a friend so he could board up his windows. Your stuff is next to the register.

“Merle the mind reader.”

She cut through the kitchen into the shop and ran smack into a heavyset man wearing suspenders.

“Hey there, Abby. Getting ready for Ms. Amelia’s arrival?”

“Um, yes,” she admitted warily. Then she remembered who he was—the bartender at the Wailin’ Whale as well as the caller at the bingo game.

“Some people might start to wonder.”

“About?”

“You get here, then lo and behold, along comes a big ol’ hurricane. Some might say you’re bringing Chapel Isle the wrong kind of luck.”

The man was kidding. Nonetheless, Abigail felt a stitch of personal responsibility. Had she dragged her misfortune with her from Boston, unable to leave it behind or outrun it?

“Aw, I’m joking. Some luck’s better than no luck, right?”

“We’ll have to wait until after the hurricane to decide.”

“That we will,” he replied, and went on his way.

The bartender wasn’t alone in the store. Two other men were milling around, picking items from the shelves. Before leaving, they wrote what they took on a clipboard Merle had beside the register. Abigail was astonished at the amount of trust he put in people. He chose to believe they wouldn’t steal from him, that they would be honest. As far as Abigail could tell, that was exactly what they did. Like hope, trust required a certain amount of willful ignorance. That was why she found it so difficult.

Her shopping complete, Abigail headed over to the Kozy Kettle to find Denny. The café was empty except for a handful of men, including Bert and Denny, who were sitting at the counter along with Sheriff Larner. A radio played, updating the latest on the hurricane.

“Hey, Abby.” Denny waved her over, excited. “Get this. Last report said Hurricane Amelia’s turning into a Category Five. That’s, like, totally huge. We’re going to have to evacuate.”

“Got the final word from the state police,” Larner added. “Denny, that means you and your dad are going to have to run straight shifts.” He turned to Abby. “I suggest you catch an early one. The shelters fill up fast. Want to make sure you get a bed.”

The enormity of what was happening had Abigail’s head throbbing.

“You seem disappointed,” Bert said.

“I just got here and now I have to leave.”

“Chapel Isle isn’t going anywhere, Abby.”

She knew that was true. It helped to hear it, though.

“Yeah, the shelters aren’t the greatest,” Denny remarked. “At least you can come home to a nice house full of pretty furniture.”

Bert elbowed Denny in the side.

“Oops.”

As fast as rumors flew around town, Lottie would learn about the furniture by morning, which made Abigail rue having to decamp even more.

“My bad,” Denny whispered to her, as Ruth came out of the kitchen holding a paper bag.

“Here you are, Caleb. One cheeseburger and one hamburger with pickles on the side. Hey, Abby. What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a—” Ruth stopped herself.

Everyone was quiet save for the newscaster on the radio, who was citing 180-mile-per-hour winds and twenty-foot swells off the Florida coast.

Sheriff Larner handed Ruth a ten, took his food, and left, saying, “Keep the change.”

Ruth watched him go. “Is it me or is Caleb grouchier than normal?”

“He must have a lot to do to prepare for the hurricane,” Abigail said, while Bert stared at the floor.

“Must be.”

“Guess I’ll be seeing the three of you on the ferry tomorrow morning?” Abigail asked.

“You’ll see me for sure,” Denny chirped.

Neither Bert nor Ruth replied.

“Didn’t the radio report say the evacuation was mandatory?”

“Mandatory schmandatory.”

“Ditto,” Bert added.

Abigail had been on Chapel Isle for only a short time, yet she hated the idea of leaving.

“If you guys aren’t evacuating, why should I?”

“You’ve never been through this before,” Ruth told her. “It’s damn terrifying.”

“If it’s so terrifying, why do you stay?”

The answer was the same as Merle’s. Ruth and Bert had lived most of their lives on Chapel Isle. If they were going to die, it was going to be here, in their home.

“Denny, you make certain Abby gets on the ferry with you tomorrow, hear me?” Ruth was insistent.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You ought to get a suitcase together, hon.”

The thought of packing her bags again made Abigail’s heart cramp.

“Can we go, Denny?”

“Sure thing.”

“Don’t forget there’s the bingo tonight,” Ruth mentioned. “The last hurrah, if you’re interested. Get your mind off the hurricane.”

Denny downed the rest of his soda. “Bert, you coming?”

“Nope, I can walk. Bye, Abby,” he said with a wave.

ve rid i cal(və rid′i kəl), adj. 1.truthful; veracious. 2.corresponding to facts; not illusory; real; actual; genuine. Also, ve rid′ic.[1645–55; < L vēridicus (vēr(us) true + –i– –I– + –dicus speaking) + –AL 1] — ve rid′i cal′i ty, n. — ve rid′i cal ly, adv.