Ellen Block: The Language of Sand

However, alarm began to set in as Abigail drew closer. The whitewash that looked crisp from afar was actually cracked and peeling. The outermost layer of paint hung on like a sheet of skin about to molt. Attached to the lighthouse was the caretaker’s cottage, which was even more dilapidated. The basic two-story brick box slouched up against the lighthouse, holding on for dear life. Its roof sagged and some of the shutters had come unhinged. None of it matched the photograph Lottie had faxed her. Abigail chewed her bottom lip, trying to tamp down her rising anger.

“Lottie will be able to explain this. She has to.”

The Suburban stopped at the front door to the caretaker’s house, then Lottie slid from the driver’s seat to the running board into the overgrown yard. The vehicle dwarfed her and the high grass cut her off at the knees. Abigail might have seen the humor if she wasn’t growing more furious by the second. She jumped out of her car, prepared to lay into Lottie for lying about the condition of the property. But Lottie got in the first word.

“I realize the place isn’t how I described it, dear.”

“No, not even remotely,” Abigail agreed, barely concealing her irritation.

“I swear it’s exactly what you’re looking for, though,” she trilled. “Quiet. Peaceful. You’ll have the world to yourself here.”

The sincerity in Lottie’s eyes made Abigail soften slightly. She wanted to believe her. She also wanted to believe that the long journey here wasn’t in vain and that this wasn’t an enormous mistake.

“Okay. Let’s go inside.”

Together, they mounted the drooping front steps. Lottie inserted a key into the door, though it refused to open, as if warding visitors away.

“It’ll work,” Lottie said, struggling. “Never fear.”

There was that word. Never. Annoyance bubbled in Abigail’s brain as she watched Lottie fight with the knob until the lock finally relented.

“Allow me to show you around,” Lottie panted.

As the door swung in, the stench hit Abigail like a slap. The house was permeated with the odor of rotting wood along with the musky scent of mildew.

“Lottie.”

“Bear with me, dear. We’ll open some windows and it’ll be right as rain.”

When she rolled up the shades, the waning sunlight illuminated a grim scene.

What had appealed to Abigail was that the caretaker’s house came furnished. Much to her dismay, the dcor left a lot to be desired. The front door opened into a main living and dining area. However, the terms living and dining could be only loosely applied. The couch was shabby and threadbare. The curtains were sallow with age. An assemblage of mismatched chairs, a pockmarked table, two moth-eaten rag rugs, and a soot-covered fireplace rounded out the room’s furnishings.

“Lottie,” Abigail repeated.

Pretending to be busy, the impish woman fussed with a window that wouldn’t budge. She gave up, saying, “Let’s take the tour, shall we?”

“Fine. Let’s do that.” Abigail was fuming.

Lottie motioned her over to the far side of the house and through a doorway. “Here we have a precious little kitchen.”

A stunted alcove passed for that by virtue of having a sink and some appliances. The massive stove and one-door refrigerator were relics. As the house settled, the cupboards had shifted away from one another, giving them the look of gapped teeth. Warped wainscoting covered the lower part of the walls, while outdated floral wallpaper in white and cornflower blue wilted from the top.

“Needs a woman’s touch to highlight the period details and—”

“Lottie.”

“Don’t worry, Abby. Everything works. The electricity is on. The phone’s connected. Water’s running. What more do you need?” She turned the faucet, and brown bilge splattered from the spigot before it ran clean.

Abigail glued her hands to her hips in a show of protest.

Lottie quickly skirted around her. “Let’s move on to the second floor.”

Trudging up the tight staircase behind Lottie, Abigail was eye to eye with her substantial rump. Each step squealed underfoot, and the handrail shuddered unsteadily. The staircase dead-ended onto a landing.

“To the left we have the master suite.”

She showed Abigail into an ample room painted a chalky, medicinal green. Raising the blinds exposed a lumpy bed with a frayed quilt, which was backed by a pine headboard. A brass lamp sat on a dusty nightstand beside a modest dresser. A rocking chair cowered in the corner. The bedroom was as spartan as a monk’s cell.

“I bet you could make this real cozy. Some throw pillows would do the trick.”

“I think it’s going to take more than throw pillows.”

“Have a gander at the other bedroom,” Lottie suggested, scooting away before Abigail could say more.

The next space wasn’t much larger than a walk-in closet, and because the ceiling was low due to the pitch of the roof, Abigail had to duck as she went through the door. A diminutive writing desk, a stumpy bookshelf, and a twin-sized cot on a metal frame were what passed for furnishings.

“This was the watch room, where the lighthouse keeper would sit lookout for ships during storms. It was always a stag light, but I put a bed in here so the house would sleep more people.”

“A stag light?”

“Means a lighthouse with no family living in it.”

Although Lottie could not have known, her comment made Abigail’s heart ache. The implication was wrenching.

“It’d make a perfect study for you, Abby. Or a guest room. You can count on having a million visitors soon as your family and friends hear you live in a lighthouse.”

“I doubt it,” Abigail said faintly. There would be no visitors, no need for a guest room.

“Then a study for sure. See, there’s a desk. Ready and waiting.”

The writing desk was elementary-school-sized. Abigail wasn’t convinced she could get her knees in it. “It’s sort of…small.”

“That’s because folks were much shorter in the olden days. We’re giants compared to past generations.”

It was an ironic comment, considering the size of the source. Abigail might have expressed as much if she wasn’t on the verge of strangling the petite woman before her.

“It’s true,” Lottie exclaimed. “I saw a story about it on the news. They predicted that at the current growth rate we’ll be gargantuan in fifty years. Tall as basketball players.” Lottie was wide-eyed in amazement, and again she had managed to divert Abigail’s ire.

“Last but not least, we can’t forget the pièce de résistance ,” Lottie said, her lolling drawl flattening the French. “Wait ’til you get a load of this.”

Displaying her best game show hostess wrist flick, Lottie presented the bathroom. By comparison, the study was spacious. The antiquated toilet was missing its lid, the fixtures on the porcelain basin were encased in rust, and paint was sloughing off the underbelly of the claw-foot tub in scabby sheets.

“Isn’t the bathtub marvelous? How’s this for authentic character?”

The only authentic aspect of the bathroom was that it was authentically awful. The mirror above the sink hung crookedly from a nail. The grout between the floor tiles was dark with dirt.

“The whole house really oozes charm, doesn’t it?”

Abigail tried the faucet. The pipes moaned, then more brown sludge dribbled from the spout.

“It oozes something, all right.”

Ignoring the remark, Lottie clapped her hands ceremoniously. “Now that you’ve had a gander at the place, let’s get to business.”

“Business?”

“The lighthouse, my dear. The lighthouse.”

conatus(kō nā´təs), n., pl.–tus.1.an effort or striving. 2.a force or tendency simulating a human effort. 3.(in the philosophy of Spinoza) the force in every animate creature toward the preservation of its existence. [1655–65; < L: exertion, equiv. to cōnā(rī) to attempt + – tus suffix of v. action]