The Language of Sand

were actually a different color without the film of dirt darkening them.

“From mahogany to honey maple. Somewhat appalling. Yet somewhat impressive.”

The water in the bucket rapidly went from clear to murky. She had to dump the waste down the tub’s drain again and again before she could proclaim the floor clean. Neither the nightstand nor the dresser changed hue as did the floor, but each had new luster due to soap and a rag. Once she’d dusted the insides of the dresser drawers, Abigail unpacked.

The closet was minuscule by modern standards. The refrigerator downstairs was roomier. Five wooden hangers hung from an unfinished dowel acting as the closet rod.

“This Mr. Jasper must not have been into fashion.”

None of Abigail’s clothes had survived the fire, so her mother ordered her a new wardrobe in bulk through catalogs while Abigail recovered in the hospital. A kind gesture, her mother’s intention was to be helpful, to give Abigail one less thing to worry about. However, as Abigail hung the tops in the closet and folded the jeans and khakis into the drawers, she had the distinct sense she’d picked the wrong suitcase off the luggage carousel at the airport and wound up with a stranger’s clothes. The necklines on the tops were too high and the sleeves were too long and the pants had too many pleats. Even someone as close as her mother didn’t know exactly what Abigail would want. Sometimes Abigail didn’t either.

Standing in front of the closet, she felt a pang of longing. She missed her old clothes. The silk blouses and designer wool slacks she’d amassed over the years were hardly haute couture; however, they meant a great deal to her. Whether she was going to a consulting job or lexicography conference, tweed skirts and tailored shirts were her customary garb. On her salary, high-quality versions of such items were difficult to come by, so Abigail religiously combed the discount racks. Her persistence sometimes paid off, as it did when she came across a pure cashmere sweater on sale for forty dollars. It was a luxuriously soft turtleneck in a shade of burgundy that always garnered her compliments. Abigail envisioned the sweater hanging in her former closet, alight with flames and falling to pieces from the hanger. With a sigh, she ran her fingers across the collection of cotton knits and oxfords, resigning herself to the new Abby.

She opened the windows to air out the bedroom, which was somehow brighter despite the bilious green shade of paint and the jaundiced polyester drapes.

“It’s a start,” Abigail said to herself as she went to empty the last bucket of dirty water, having totally forgotten about the newspaper article on the bedside table.

The sun was sinking, the temperature was falling, and the violin quartet was playing its umpteenth round of the same concerto. Abigail shut off the CD player. The music evaporated instantly, as though sapping the warmth from the room. If she didn’t want to freeze, she would have to make a fire.

Abigail didn’t need any more firewood. The log rack was already full. But going to the shed to get more delayed the process she was dreading. As she tromped through the tall grass, Abigail mulled over what Merle Braithwaite had told her.

“Why didn’t you mow the lawn if you’re so concerned about keeping Mr. What’s-His-Name happy, huh? How about that?”

She opted not to dwell on what Merle had said that morning. Diverting herself with housework had been an intentional measure. What she couldn’t distract herself from was the threat of spending another night in the bitter cold. Abigail unlocked the shed and the hinges sobbed.

“Take a number. You’re not the only squeaky thing around here.”

The firewood had been quartered, making one edge especially sharp. Her forearms took a beating as she bunched the logs.

“There has got to be an easier, less injurious way to do this.”

While searching for a container to carry the wood in, Abigail spied a flashlight behind a phalanx of kerosene lanterns. Seeing how unreliable the house’s wiring was, a flashlight could come in handy. She reached for it, inadvertently disturbing the delicate balance of firewood, and the logs proceeded to tumble to her feet.

“This is going swimmingly.”

Hands now free, Abigail switched on the flashlight. Nothing. She gave it a shake.

“I guess I should put batteries on the shopping list along with primer, rollers, sandpaper…”

She hunted through the shed for painting supplies. The brushes she found were rock hard, bristles petrified with paint. Another visit to Merle’s store was in order.

“Won’t that be a treat?”

Flashlight and logs gathered in her arms, Abigail kicked the shed door shut, leaving it unlocked.

“Time to start a fire.”

With the wood set on the log rack, the match ready and waiting, Abigail remembered she still had no kindling. Lottie’s brochure was buried somewhere in the mess, and she had no pad or paper except for the register in her checkbook and her checks. There was the newspaper article from under the mattress. Except Abigail didn’t feel right about burning it. The article had survived too many years to meet such a fate. Paper bags, which she had in abundance, were the best bet.

Fighting her trepidation, she struck the match. Abigail tried to stare down the flame but lost her nerve. She lobbed the matchstick into the fireplace, the flame caught on the bags, and the wood took.

“The first time is always the hardest,” she told herself.

Abigail was well aware, though, that any time she had to start a fire it would be hard on her. She shuddered at the cold as well as the thought that she might have to do this every day from here on in.

Since the fireplace had no screen, she stayed close, holding vigil at the hearth and contemplating the fact that the word fire was almost as ancient as what it signified. Its ancestry spanned the millennia. The Greeks baptized it pyr. In Old English, it was labeled