The Language of Sand (17 page)

She wiped the sand from her hands and returned to her car.

 
jer
e
mi
ad
(jer′ə mi′əd, –ad)
n.
a prolonged lamentation or mournful complaint. [1770–80;
JEREM
(
AH
) + –
AD
, in reference to Jeremiah’s
Lamentations
]

In the absence of streetlights or porch lamps or the glow from a
neighbor’s window, the night was overwhelmingly dark. So was the caretaker’s house. Abigail had forgotten to leave any lights on. She fumbled for the front door. Inside, she groped at the switch. The living room looked better than she remembered, and the smell of paint had faded.

“That’s because you left the windows open, genius,” she scolded. “Didn’t Sheriff Larner tell you to be ‘cautious’?”

The thought of criminals prowling the island for empty houses to plunder was unsettling. Apart from Abigail’s presence and her car in the drive, the caretaker’s cottage could definitely be mistaken for vacant. It was an easy mark.

“On the bright side, the paint does look excellent. You, on the other hand, must look atrocious. You smell atrocious too.”

Abigail hadn’t bathed since she arrived. She’d been putting off cleaning the bathroom and had run out of excuses. Stepping over the radio on the staircase, a bucket of cleansers in hand, she said, “If
you
want to get clean,
it’s
got to get clean.”

A single swipe with a paper towel revealed that the bathtub was covered in a patina of dust. Though the tub could be wiped with minimal effort, the rust on the sink was less cooperative. The toilet put up a fight too, but the floor was the most intractable. Deeply ingrained, the dirt refused to be roused from between the tiles, until Abigail assailed it with a caustic soup of products that made her eyes water. Only then did the grime finally relent.

The mirror was last to be cleaned, and Abigail’s reflection made her gasp.

Drops of white paint—some crusted with sand—dotted her face, and her hair was matted with sweat and flecked with yellow. Her clothes were splattered from shoulder to shoe. She hardly recognized her own visage. Abigail ran the bathwater, letting the tub fill almost to the top.

“Too bad you don’t have any bubbles. Or steel wool. Because that’s what it’s going to take to get this stuff off you.”

An image of Justin in the bathtub, clapping bubbles between his hands, floated into her mind, unbidden. Abigail closed her eyes, shutting the emotional door as a barrage of memories rattled the hinges.

Nolo, nolle, non vis, non vult.

Celo, celare, celari, cela.

Steam rose from the hot water waiting in the tub. She hadn’t taken a bath in years. Showering was faster, simpler. Before, she didn’t have time for a bath. Now Abigail had no choice in the matter and more time than she knew what to do with. If the claw-foot tub had been in better shape, it would have been quite grand. In its current state, the tub was ready for the salvage yard. Abigail felt the same way.

As she lowered herself into the bath, the water went spilling over the sides onto the floor. Out of practice, she had filled the tub too high.

“It appears you’ll have to clean the floor
again
.”

Despite a bumpy start, the steaming water soothed her aching
muscles. A pass with a soapy washcloth had her feeling clean and, at least, somewhat human.

“This whole bath concept is actually really pleasant.”

Her words bounced between the bathroom tiles, interposed by a staccato thump. Abigail sat up, covering herself with her arms. After seconds of silence, she made an announcement.

“If that was…somebody, I’m in the bathtub. I’m kind of naked. Could we do this whole banging and bumping act later?”

The house was still. Was that her answer? If not, Abigail didn’t plan to wait around for another reply.

Scrambling from the tub, she grabbed a towel, scurried into the bedroom, and slammed the door. Wet, shivering, she addressed the ceiling: “I’m, um, going to leave for a while. Give you a little private time. You can have the place to yourself.”

She threw on clean clothes and tore down the stairs, then stumbled over the radio. Abigail sailed through the air, missing the last three steps and landing on her hands and knees. Her palms stung from the impact. Her legs were wobbly.

“Ouch,” she groaned, more in shock than in pain.

Abigail hobbled out the front door to her Volvo and sat there deliberating what to do. Her hair was dripping, soaking her shirt. She had nowhere to go.

“There’s bingo,” she sighed. “Why not? This night couldn’t get much worse.”

To find the local fire station, all Abigail had to do was follow the line of parked cars that trailed from the center of town along a side street. She tied her wet hair into a bun and tucked in her shirt as an effort to appear more presentable. Having left in such a hurry, she’d forgotten to put on socks, and her shoes squished when she walked.

“Some first impression you’ll make. You have your own sound effects.”

The fire station was an unembellished cinder-block building, two stories tall. A sandwich board propping open the station’s main door read:
Bingo Thursday Nights.
Abigail smoothed a wet tendril of hair behind her ear and marshaled her strength.

“Here goes nothing.”

A large meeting hall spanned the entire second floor of the fire station. It was packed with rows of folding tables and chairs. Nearly every seat was full. The smell of popcorn and roasting hot dogs seemed to warm the air. Adults and children alike were flocked at the tables, gabbing. Abigail overheard people talking about the burglaries. They were the hot topic at each table, everyone speculating about who the culprits could be. Some thought it was a bunch of teenagers. Others believed it was lowlifes boating over from the mainland at night. The only one not discussing the robberies was a barrel-chested man in suspenders standing at the front of the room. He was too busy announcing numbers into a microphone as he plucked plastic bingo balls from a spinning cage. The plywood bingo board behind him lit up whenever he called a new number.

Abigail was standing by the door, feeling self-conscious and contemplating heading home, until she heard a familiar voice shouting her name.

“Hey, Abby! It’s me, Denny Meloch. From the ferry. ’Member?”

He was pushing through the crowd toward her, a hot dog in one hand, a cup of beer in the other.

“Oh, hi. Of course I remember you.”

Denny’s eyes brightened. “Really? How ya liking it here so far?”

“It’s been…colorful.”

People were giving her passing glances. She was a stranger and she stood out. The women at the table in the far corner were doing more than looking, though. They were staring bullets and whispering.

“Why do I get the feeling I just walked into Salem with a pointy hat and a broomstick?”

Denny’s face was blank, the reference lost on him. “Wanna sit
down?” he asked, chewing his hot dog. “I can get you some cards, teach you how to play.”

“Um…”

“There you are, hon. I saved you a seat.” Ruth Kepshaw was motioning to her from a nearby table, supplying Abigail with a welcome excuse.

“Thanks, Denny, but Ruth already…Uh, you don’t mind, do you?”

“No, that’s cool. That’s cool.”

“I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Sure. Later. Awesome.” He gave her the thumbs-up. Uncertain how to respond, Abigail gave him the thumbs-up, too, then snaked through the crowd to Ruth’s table.

“Thanks for—”

“Rescuing you from Denny? Don’t mention it.”

Ruth had a dozen bingo cards spread before her, which she was skimming and daubing with an ink marker with the smooth speed of a seasoned pro. She gave four of her cards to Abigail, along with an orange dauber.

“Take some of these, will ya? I got a hot one I have to keep my eye on.”

“I haven’t played since I was about eight.”

“It’s not chess. It’s bingo. Now, mind those cards.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Between numbers, Abigail scanned the hall. There were so many people, so many unfamiliar faces. She spotted Sheriff Larner three tables to her right. He saw her too and gave a nod.