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Ellen Block: The Language of Sand

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Ellen Block The Language of Sand

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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.”

 

Фото  coФотоnaФотоtus (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]

Фото

Abigail had assumed the door next to the staircase was a closet. It wasn’t.

“This is the entry into the lighthouse,” Lottie explained. She opened the door, letting the last rays of afternoon sunlight pour into the living room from above. “Neat, huh?”

“Neat, indeed.”

Abigail’s batting average on assumptions was low and getting lower. In general, she tried to steer clear of them, as well as similar nouns. Presumptions, conjecture, speculations—they were sophisticated terms tantamount to guessing. To hypothesize had a scholarly air, to postulate, a scientific slant. They all meant the same. The subtleties of connotation were what differentiated them. Guessing sounded broad, risky, unreliable. Even an educated guess could be a shot in the dark. Abigail preferred to deduce or infer. Neither of which she’d been doing with any skill of late. So far she’d made scores of suppositions about the island and the lighthouse, most of which were wrong.

“I’d take you up,” Lottie said, “but this darn sciatica won’t let me.” She rubbed her leg for effect.

Curious, Abigail poked her head through the doorway. A wrought-iron spiral staircase wound around the interior of the lighthouse tower, making for a dizzying view from the bottom, to say nothing of what the view must be from the top. The whitewashed walls were checkered in a dazzling pattern of shadows cast by the stairs, creating a black-and-white kaleidoscope. Abigail was spellbound. While the rest of the house was an incontestable dump, the lighthouse was extraordinary.

“I can go later,” she said casually. Still irked at Lottie for lying about the state of the property, she didn’t want to let her renewed enthusiasm slip. Abigail had negotiated a discount on the rental rate after Lottie informed her there would be maintenance duties accompanying occupancy of the caretaker’s cottage. Even with the reduction, Abigail thought Lottie should be paying her to live here.

“As I mentioned when we first spoke on the phone, the lighthouse is no longer operational,” Lottie began. “Nonetheless, that doesn’t diminish its beauty or significance.” This was a pat introduction to the rehearsed speech that followed.

“The Chapel Isle Lighthouse was built in 1893. It took more than nineteen months to complete. Our magnificent spiral staircase has one hundred and two steps to the turret. We’ve got original Fresnel glass. Top of the line. Made specifically for lighthouses to ensure they’d have the clearest, longest beams. We’re the twenty-third-oldest standing lighthouse in the country, and the number of vessels guided in safely while the beacon was in service is estimated in the thousands. The Chapel Isle Lighthouse is a bona fide piece of Americana.”

Lottie folded her arms to signal she was finished with her spiel. Whether she was impressed with the lighthouse’s history or with herself for remembering it was difficult to discern.

“Since you’ll be acting as caretaker, you’re going to be responsible for the working features of the lighthouse.”

“A moment ago you said there were no working features.”

“There aren’t, exactly. But we have to keep up appearances, don’t we?”

Abigail threw a glance at the living room’s battered furniture.

Some appearances. This lighthouse is a source of pride for locals; therefore, it’s important to continue the traditions.”

Lottie had her there. Abigail certainly didn’t want to offend anybody. “What sorts of traditions?”

“I’m happy you asked.” She unlocked a second door, which was situated under the staircase, but didn’t open it. “You’ll have to keep your eye on the water heater. It can be a touch finicky. ’Specially come winter.”

If the water heater was a principal part of these alleged traditions, Abigail couldn’t fathom what the others might be.

“What about the furnace?”

“What furnace?”

“There’s no furnace? How do you heat the house?”

“The old-fashioned way.” Lottie nodded at the fireplace, with its smoke-stained surround. Ash was heaped under the log rack.

The possibility that fire might be her sole means of heat hadn’t occurred to Abigail when she agreed to rent the cottage. Fear began to roil beneath her ribs.

“I should also mention there’s an old cistern in the basement built for underground water storage, what with the flooding we get. Oh, and you’ll have to remember to check the generator, make sure it’s running right. If the power goes out on the island, yours will be first to get cut.”

Lottie prattled on about odds and ends related to the light house and cottage, everything from how to open the chimney flue to how to prevent the pipes from freezing. The measures were as woeful as the events they intended to preclude. As the catalog of responsibilities mounted, Abigail was convoluting the do’s with the don’t’s.

“Let me stop you, Lottie. Can we start with the basics? For example, where’s the breaker box?”

“In the basement, dear.”

“Then we should probably have a look around. Finish the tour.”

“I…I…I can’t go down there.” Lottie was unconsciously backing away from the basement door. “I mean, my sciatica, it won’t let me.”

“I’ll go. Just tell me where to find the breaker box.”

“Now?”

“Why not?”

“Because we have other things to do. Tons of things. Tons. We have to go see the…the…” She scrabbled for an answer. “The shed.”

“The shed?”

“Garden hoses. Rakes. Pruning shears. These are pertinent details.”

Whatever had come over Lottie caused her face to turn crimson red. Abigail was willing to follow her anywhere if it would calm her. She gestured for Lottie to lead on, saying, “Let’s see this shed.”

“Excellent. This way, please.” Lottie patted her heart, feigning she was fixing her pendant. Abigail noticed because it was similar to what she herself had done when Denny accidentally frightened her on the ferry.

“Are you all right, Lottie? You seem spooked.”

“I’m fine, dear,” she insisted, rushing for the door. “Really, I’m fine.”

Фото

Outside, birds heralded the setting sun while the crickets broadcast the temperature, quieting as the air cooled. Though Chapel Isle was on the same seaboard as Boston, the same continent, the same hemisphere, what made the island feel a world apart was the weather or, more specifically, Abigail’s awareness of it. The wind currents were evident in how the seagulls wheeled in the sky and in the changing tides of the high grass she and Lottie were slogging through as they wended around the lighthouse.

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