The Language of Sand

“Was it because I’m not wearing a wedding ring?”

“Pssh. Nope.” Ruth set a stack of cash on the counter. “Put it like this. You can tell I’m from North Carolina by how I talk. I can tell you lost your husband by what you don’t say.”

Abigail had no idea she could be giving herself away when she wasn’t even speaking.

“I met my husband, Jerome, on the mainland, but he was born on Chapel Isle,” Ruth told her. “Army’d put him through medical school after the Korean War, and he wanted to give back to his hometown. For years he was the only permanent doctor on the island. We’d get phone calls in the middle of the night. Sore throats, broken wrists, toddlers with earaches, women going into labor.” Ruth marveled at what she’d endured. “I’d go with him. Got my honorary medical degree along the way.”

Abigail now understood what Denny had been talking about earlier.

“So you’re not a native?”

“Been here long enough that I kinda am.”

“You must love it here if you’ve stayed.”

“Didn’t at first, believe you me. When the ferry would break down in the winters, we’d wonder if the market was going to have food. Had to ration what milk and eggs you had. With our three kids to take care of, that was no joyride. There was only one proper plumber on the island for half a decade, so if your toilet broke, you got real close with nature. Can’t say they were all bad times. But they weren’t all rosy. Island’s like a resort compared to how it was. Take a gander,” she said, pointing at the outmoded coffeemaker and wear-beaten furnishings. “That’s saying something. My grandkids, they visit from Florida and think it’s old-fashioned here. I tell ’em, ‘This isn’t old- fashioned. This is new-fashioned.’ I may not have loved Chapel Isle in the beginning. Thing was, I loved Jerome. He’s been gone eleven years. Not a day goes by that—well, you understand.”

Ruth closed the register, shutting the drawer hard enough to make the metal clang.

“Is it that obvious?” Abigail asked. “About me being…”

“I doubt anybody is wise to it ’cept me. And Merle,” Ruth added apologetically.

Abigail had become part of an unspoken league, one nobody wanted to join, because there was no resigning. She’d already met Chapel Isle’s charter members, Ruth and Hank. She was the newest inductee.

“So how’s it going at the lighthouse?”

“It’s fine. Everything’s fine.” Abigail could tell Ruth was trying to see if she’d heard about the ghost.

“Uh-huh,” she answered, unconvinced. “Remember, if you need anything, Merle can swing over—”

“I doubt Merle will be ‘swinging’ anywhere for a while. I’ll be okay.”

“I know you will, hon. I know you will.” Ruth meant it in every possible way.

“Can I go with you to see him tomorrow?”

“’Course you can. Meet me at his house at eight-thirty.” She jotted Merle’s address on her order pad. “Morning rush’ll be done. Should be quiet enough for me to sneak away.”

“Remind me again: When exactly is this morning rush?”

“About five a.m. The men have to be on the water by five-thirty.”

“What a hard life.” The hours, the conditions, the labor—Abigail thought it had to be a demanding way to earn a wage.

“Maybe,” Ruth said. “But what I’ve learned living on this island is that life is only as hard as you make it.”

Abigail had chosen to pick up and move to Chapel Isle, chosen to leave her family and friends behind, and chosen to live at the lighthouse alone. Was she making her life harder than it had to be?

 

  lumpen (lum? p?n), adj. 1. of or pertaining to disfranchised and uprooted individuals or groups, esp. those who have lost status: the lumpen bourgeoise. —n. 2. a lumpen individual or group. [1945–50; extracted LUMPENPROLETARIAT]

The early-morning air was brisk. Standing outside Merle’s house waiting for Ruth, Abigail wished she’d worn a sweater. She felt so terrible about what had happened at the Kozy Kettle that she was impatient to make amends.

Merle lived on the north end of the island. His property sloped into the bay. A lone motorboat was tethered to his private dock. Floral drapes hung in the windows of his gray-shingled cottage, and there were tulips embossed on the welcome mat, roses stenciled on the mailbox, and a plastic daisy wreath gracing the entry.

“Flowers would have been thoughtful,” Abigail told herself as she paced the sidewalk, feeling guilty for arriving empty-handed. “If Merle’s front door is any indication, he does seem to like them.”

As she was eyeing the neighbor’s bed of marigolds, contemplating stealing some to improvise a bouquet, Ruth arrived.

“Why didn’t you head in, hon?”

“Merle wasn’t expecting me, and I wasn’t sure if he was, well, miffed about yesterday.”

“When Merle Braithwaite is miffed, trust me, you’ll know.”