The Language of Sand

They met at the front of the house, each toting their respective ladders, briefly making eye contact before getting to work. This time it wasn’t a race between them as much as a race to finish.

Later, Nat put on the final stroke of paint, saying, “I’ll clean the brushes at home. You can load your gear in the truck and we can go.”

“I can clean them.”

“I said I’d take care of it.”

“You’re the boss.”

Duncan came outside as Nat was capping the last can. “Is this a present for me?” He motioned wit the toe of his boot to the apple Abigail had left on the steps. Beside it was her half-eaten sandwich, lying on the paper bag. She scrambled to clean the mess.

“No worries. You can leave me food anytime,” he proclaimed, patting his belly.

“Excellent job,” Duncan said, walking from end to end of the house. “Only now the missus will be on me to straighten up the yard. Say, you guys make a good team. Maybe you should go into business together.”

Abigail and Nat exchanged glances. He pulled his hat lower on his head, hiding under it instead of answering.

“I’ve really got to be getting back to the lighthouse.”

“’Course. Glad to have met you, Abby.” Duncan offered his hand. She shook it, though her fingers burned from gripping a paintbrush for hours on end.

“This squares you with me,” he told Nat. “You and Hank, that is.”

Nat thanked him and got into the truck. Abigail did the same, then they drove across the island as they had come, not speaking. He pulled up to the lighthouse and Abigail hurried out.

“What about the furniture?” Nat asked.

“Forget about it.”

“What? No. I’m not welching on my end of the deal.”

“Whatever. I’m too tired to do it today.”

“Okay, I’ll come tomorrow. Hank’s been under the weather. Doesn’t want to take the rig out. I can be here in the morning.”

“Like I said, whatever.”

Abigail went inside and slammed the door harder than she had intended, making it shiver on the hinges. Then she slid down to the floor and cried, also harder than she had intended.

 

  quotha (kwo?th?), interj. Archaic. indeed! (used ironically or contemptuously in quoting another.) [1510–20; from quoth a quoth he]

The house was quiet. The solid stillness was so dense that it filled the living room and pressed against Abigail as she sat on the floor with her back against the door. When she lifted herself to her feet, her knees cracked. The pain in her arms was intense enough to make her ears ring. She was too tired to sleep, too hungry to eat. On reflex, she drove to Merle’s house and sat outside in the station wagon, baffled as to what had brought her there.

“You’re here. Might as well go in.”

Abigail headed around to the deck, where she could see in through the sliding glass door. The lights were on. She could hear a football game being broadcast. She tapped on the slider and heard Merle ambling toward the door. He noticed she had been crying. Abigail made no effort to conceal it.

“Something wrong?”

“No.”

“Something break?”

“No.”

“Did the lighthouse collapse?”

“No.”

“You want to come in?”

“Please.”

“You eaten?”

“Not much.”

“Got some leftover tuna casserole.”

“Sounds delicious.”

While he reheated the food in the microwave, Abigail took a seat. The kitchen table was covered in hooks and thread for fashioning lures. A miniature plastic beetle was affixed to a stand.

“Used to buy my lures,” Merle said, “but I thought I could make ’em more lifelike myself.”