Ellen Block - The Language of Sand

“This here Hurricane Amelia might be bigger than us and faster than us, but she can’t out-bingo us,” he declared, rousing a cheer from the crowd.

“Keep those cards warm for me for a minute,” Abigail said to Ruth. “There’s something I have to do.”

Denny was standing with his father, waiting in line to order food.

“This is on me,” she told the girl behind the counter.

“That’s okay,” Denny said, still hurt. “I can get my own.”

“Denny, please. I apologize for what I said.”

“What’s going on, Denny?” his father asked gruffly.

“It’s no big deal, Pop.”

“If it’s no big deal, then pay the gal what you owe her and let’s get to our table. Game’s fixin’ to start.”

“Denny, I really am sorry. The least I can do is treat you to a hot dog. You too, Mr. Meloch.”

Denny’s father was so taken aback that he blushed.

“How about some sodas?”

“Whadaya say, Pop?”

“Hold on. What’s this about?” his father demanded.

“It’s about your son giving me the smartest piece of advice I’ve ever heard.”

It was Denny’s turn to blush. “You mean that, Abby?”

“Yes, I do. I’d pay close attention to that son of yours, Mr. Meloch. He could teach you a lot.” The perennially stern man was reduced to a perplexed silence that made Denny grin.

“Mustard and relish?” Abigail asked.

“Why not?” Mr. Meloch shrugged.

She left Denny and his father to eat their dinner while she took a hot dog of her own to Ruth’s table. Famished, she finished half of it before reaching her seat.

“Watch you don’t take off some of your fingers,” Ruth cautioned. “You’ll need ’em to mark these bingo cards.”

Between bites, Abigail said, “I haven’t eaten all day.”

“Me, I’ve been carbo-loading like this bingo game is a marathon. I’m primed for a win. I can tell the cards are hot. Tonight’s my night.”

Five minutes later a teenage boy shouted, “Bingo.”

“That’s it. I’m not talking about the cards anymore. I’m jinxing myself. No more bingo talk.”

The caller started the next game and Ruth went mum.

“How about another topic?” Abigail suggested.

“Be my guest.”

Though Sheriff Larner had sworn her to secrecy, she recounted the story of Hank Scokes’s death in Ruth’s ear, stunning her to the point that she stopped playing altogether.

“You can’t tell anyone, Ruth. Not a soul.”

“Hand to God, I won’t.”

“I only told you because I feel certain Nat had nothing to do with it. I don’t know how to make Larner see that he’s wrong about him.”

“I don’t think Nat did it either, but it’s not my place to say why.”

“I don’t understand.”

She signaled for Abigail to lower her voice. “Hank came to me in confidence. Told me private information. Very private.”

“Ruth, you’re not a priest or an attorney.”

“I’m not a doctor either. Doesn’t stop people from asking my advice. If I’m asked, I give it.”

“Ruth, please,” Abigail implored.

“All right, but don’t tell nobody else. Bad enough I’m telling you. Hank stopped by my house one night not long after his wife passed. He hadn’t been drinking. He was stone sober. I sat with him on my porch and he told me he was thinking of, well, doing himself harm. He was saying he wanted to be in heaven with his wife. That he didn’t have the patience for waiting.”

“Do you believe he’d kill himself?”

“He begged me not to breathe a word. Said he was ashamed for even mentioning it. He didn’t want anybody else to know. I told him I’d thought about it too when Jerome died. That seemed to make him feel better.”

It would have been untrue if Abigail said suicide wasn’t a tempting option for her as well. At least the pain would end, she’d reasoned in those first dark days, and then she would be with her husband and son. Logic wouldn’t let her go through with it. Paul had wanted her to live. That was why he’d saved her.

“Ruth, you didn’t answer my question.”

“Because the answer doesn’t sit right with me.”

“If Hank did this to himself, Nat would try to protect his honor. He’d take the rap for it.”

“That’s what’s making me worry. Have to trust Caleb will see this for what it is.”

“He doesn’t and he won’t. And now he’s trying to pin the robberies on Nat as well.”

At that, Ruth’s resolve hardened. “I’ll go and see Caleb tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Ruth. Thank you.” Abigail meant it more than she could say.

The caller was announcing the next number. “B-9. The number is B-9.”

Ruth’s eyes fell to her cards and she froze.

“Bingo,” she whispered. Soon she was repeating it louder and louder, “Bingo. Bingo. Bingo.” She sprang from her chair, waving the paper card.

“We have a winner,” the caller hollered.

“What’d I win? What’d I win?” Ruth was hopping up and down like a kid.

“That game was worth fifty-eight dollars. You can collect it after the final round.”

Beaming, Ruth had to sit down and fan herself with her winning card. “I haven’t won in so long, I can’t tell you, Abby. I feel like I’m having a hot flash. Only way, way better.”

People came and patted Ruth on the shoulder. She basked in the attention, savoring the moment. Watching her, Abigail caught a glimpse of her future. Ruth had faced widowhood, yet she’d found something that she looked forward to and enjoyed. It wasn’t exactly happily ever after . The happily part might be plenty.

wel ter 1(wel′tər), v.i. 1.to roll, toss, or heave, as waves or the sea. 2.to roll, writhe, or tumble about; wallow, as animals (often fol. by about ): pigs weltering about happily in the mud. 3.to lie bathed in or or be drenched in something, esp. blood. 4.to become deeply or extensively involved, associated, entangled, etc.: to welter in setbacks, confusion, and despair. —n. 5.a confused mass; a jumble or muddle: a welter of anxious faces. 6.a state of commotion, turmoil, or upheaval: the welter that followed the surprise attack. 7.a rolling, tossing, or tumbling about, as or as if by the sea, waves, or wind: They found the shore through the mighty welter. [1250–1300; ME, freq. (see –ER 6) of welten to roll, OE weltan; c. MD welteren , LG weltern to roll]

Abigail awoke in her bed, uncertain if it was morning or night. The boards on the windows blocked the sunlight, transforming the bedroom into a cave. She pawed the nightstand for her glasses and watch, which sat atop the ledger. It was almost six. She wondered how early the ferry would start running.

“Maybe not this early.”

The floor was freezing. Abigail didn’t bother with socks. This was her last day in the caretaker’s cottage. She wanted to soak it all in, even if that meant cold feet.

She poured a glass of milk and sipped it sitting in the wingback chair. The absence of natural light gave the room the feel of a museum exhibit, a model recreated to show modern people how their forefathers lived. The house was like a time capsule. It had no heating or air-conditioning, no television or microwave, no washer or dryer. The modicum of current-day conveniences it did have, like the plumbing and the oven, functioned poorly. On top of that, everything creaked. And there might or might not be a ghost.