The Language of Sand

mundify (mun?d? fi?), v.t., –fied, –fying. 1. to cleanse; deterge: to mundify a wound. 2. to purge or purify: to mundify a person of past sins. [1375–1425; late ME < LL mundificare, equiv. to L mundi–, s. of mund(us) clean + –ficare –FY]

October was half over, though the leaves had yet to fall or hint at changing color. The island refused to conform to the season, stubbornly clinging to the departed summer. Mornings were cool, but with every hour that passed, the sun beat away the chill. Abigail hadn’t used the fireplace in days. Not that she minded.

She hauled her last can of paint into the bathroom, more of the same buttery shade that was in the kitchen, living room, and study. The minuscule space would be a snap to paint. Or so she believed.

From the middle of the wall up, rolling on the cool blue paint was easy. From there down, it was a total inconvenience. Abigail had to lie on the floor and contort herself to reach around the toilet, then squirm into a corner to get at the walls behind the tub. Eroded enamel flaked off the underbelly of the bathtub as she painted.

“What this needs is some sealer to stop the corrosion. The floor could stand to be regrouted too. A medicine cabinet wouldn’t hurt either.”

Over the symphony coming from the CD player, Abigail heard a muffled bump, timed as a reply to her comment.

“Seriously? This mirror’s nothing special, and the grout is, to be blunt, gross. Anyway, I don’t have anyplace to put my toothpaste.”

Logic began to nag at her.

Who are you talking to? This is preposterous. These are random noises, not communications from the beyond.

A worrisome notion slipped into Abigail’s brain like a note being slid through a mail slot. What if she truly was going crazy?

“People who are going crazy don’t have the presence to ask themselves if they’re going crazy.”

Or do they?

Abigail put her paintbrush aside. “That’s enough of that. I’m going to town.”

The parking place she’d come to think of as hers was ready and waiting. Abigail headed over to the hardware store and went around to the rear, as had become her custom. When she reached the door, she had a flush of misgiving. She wouldn’t normally walk into a store and leave with merchandise she hadn’t paid for.

“Merle did tell you to take whatever you wanted. He gave you permission,” Abigail said, talking herself into opening the back door.

Inside, the shades were drawn, the rooms dark. She patted the kitchen walls for a light switch but couldn’t find it. While plodding blindly into the main part of the store, she bumped into the counter, which guided her to the shelves where she’d seen containers of grout the day she came for the paint.

“Hello, Abby.”

Startled, she bounded backward, knocking into a display of wrench sets.

“Who’s there?” It was a phrase Abigail had been saying more often than she cared to admit.

Bertram Van Dorst peeked around the aisle. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I heard you at the back door and I called to you. Thought ya heard me.”

“Why are you in here with the lights off, Bert?”

“Don’t need ’em. I memorized what’s on every shelf. Why waste the electricity?”

“Okay. Can I ask what you’re doing here?”

“Washer number seven’s been acting touchy. Rotator belt’s about to go. I came to see what Merle might have to fix it so I wouldn’t have to order a new part.”

“Bert, are you the manager of the laundromat?”

“Me? No.”

“And you said you weren’t the owner. Then…?” Abigail couldn’t think of a courteous way to ask him why he spent so much time there.

“Must seem kind of strange.”

“No, no, it’s—”

“I like it there. It’s quiet. No distractions. I can keep an eye on the place for Lottie, make sure the machines are running right.”

“Lottie owns the laundromat too?”

“Well, her and her husband. They own most of Chapel Isle, really. Since his accident, Franklin hasn’t been able to do much with the businesses, which is why Lottie runs them.”

“Accident?”