The Language of Sand (20 page)

“Hey, Pop, this is that lady we brought over from the mainland the other day. Her name’s Abby.”

Denny’s father grunted his greeting and fiddled with his coffee cup. He appeared as painfully aware of the attention as Abigail was.

“You been painting?” Denny inquired.

“Yes, and I made quite a mess of myself,” she admitted self-effacingly.

“No harm done,” he said. It was the truest thing Abigail had heard in a while. “You hungry? I can grab you a menu.”

“No, no, I can—”

Denny was already on his feet. “I got it.”

“Hey, Denny. Is that your girlfriend?” Nat Rhone asked from the opposite side of the aisle.

“Uh, no,” Denny said, flustered. “I was—”

“Ain’t much of a first date, taking her out to eat with your dad.”

The other men at the table snickered. Denny’s father sipped his coffee without a word.

“If you need any lessons on how to treat a lady, I can give you some pointers. Free of charge.”

“Hey, Casanova,” Abigail snapped. “My guess is you couldn’t get a date with a woman unless she was drunk, stupid, or paid for, so why don’t you mind your own business.”

The quote from Dr. Walter’s show rolled off Abigail’s tongue effortlessly, and the insult hung in the air like the smell of a firecracker that had gone off. Everyone had heard her. The sting of her remark reddened Nat’s face.

Denny clapped. “Ooh-wee, she told you.”

Nat sprang from his seat. In an instant, he had Denny by the throat with one hand and was pummeling him in the stomach with the other. Both men’s caps went flying from their heads. Denny was squirming and no one intervened, including his father. Abigail jumped to her feet but could only stand outside the fray, shouting at the men to stop while others egged them on. Then Merle Braithwaite walked into the café. In two strides he was between Nat and Denny. He put a massive hand on Nat’s shoulder and yanked them apart, but Nat broke free from his grasp to get in his last punch. Denny scrambled backward to avoid the blow. Lunging for Nat, Merle twisted awkwardly and went careening to the ground, overturning chairs in his wake. The sound of Merle hitting the floor silenced the entire restaurant.

Ruth rushed from the kitchen to Merle’s side. “Everybody out. Café’s closed. And you,” she said to Nat Rhone. “Don’t come back.”

He snatched his fallen cap and strode away. His buddies followed, along with the rest of the patrons, some groaning as they left behind freshly poured cups of coffee with the money for their meals. Janine shot Abigail a nasty glance when she walked by. Others stared. In a single swoop, Abigail had started a fight and injured three men. She hurried to Merle.

“Are you okay?”

“If being on the floor is okay, then, yeah, I’m dandy.”

“Let me help you.”

“Not unless you’ve got a forklift in your pocketbook.”

“I’ve gotcha.” Bert Van Dorst, the man from the laundromat, was shuffling over from the counter. “Saw you fall, Merle. That hurt?”

“You could say so.”

“How’s your laundry?” he asked Abigail.

“Bert, maybe now’s not the time,” Merle advised.

“Just making conversation.”

Ruth shut the door to the café and locked it as the bell overhead ceased to ring. “Denny, you and your father get on one side of Merle. Bert, you get on the other.”

Together the three of them hoisted Merle into a chair. Abigail tried to make eye contact with Denny’s father. He refused to meet her gaze. Her first thought was that he was mad at her for sparking the fight. Then it dawned on her that he was embarrassed, by Denny and by the fact that he didn’t have his own son’s back.

“Let me get a look at that ankle, Merle.” He winced as Ruth removed his boot. “It’s swelling already. Think you can put weight on it?”

Merle set his foot on the floor, testing. “Not for long.”

“It’s not broken.”

“How do you know?” Denny was squatting to have a look for himself.

“Because if it was, he’d want to toss his cookies when he stood on it. In the early days, people’d strike a tuning fork to tell if a bone was broke. The vibration would make the bone shake. The toss-your-cookies test will have to do.”

“Got plenty of forks here. I can get you some.”

“No, hon,” Ruth told him, patting Denny’s shoulder. “I think it’s only a bad sprain.”

“Shouldn’t we get him to a doctor?” Abigail asked. “To be safe?”

Ruth shook her head. “I’m not going to trouble the gals at the UC.”

“We got an urgent-care unit on the island,” Bert explained. “Two nurses and a doctor on call. People try not to bother ’em unless it’s an emergency.”

“Ruth’s right,” Merle said. “It’s a sprain, not a stroke, for Pete’s sake.”

Abigail was still processing the fact that there was virtually no medical care available on the island. “You’re saying there’s no hospital here and only one doctor on Chapel Isle?”

“During the off season, yeah,” Ruth informed her flatly.

“But we’ve got Ruth,” Denny chimed. “She’s practically a doctor herself.”

“Really?” Abigail said.

Bypassing the topic, Ruth instructed Denny and his father to take Merle home. “Bert, you go with them. They’ll need the extra set of hands. See that he gets into bed and puts an ice pack on that ankle. I’ll stop by in the morning to check on him.”

“Ruth, there’s no need to bother—”

“Don’t fuss at me, Merle Braithwaite, or that sprain will be the least of your injuries.”

He gave in, then the men steadied him on their shoulders, helping him limp out of the café. All Abigail could do was hold the door for them.

“I’m sorry, Merle.”

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, Abby.”

In actuality, she had a profusion of things to be sorry for, herself included. What Abigail wanted to hear was that Merle didn’t blame her. She blamed herself for too much already.

From the window of the café, she and Ruth watched as the men got Merle into his truck.

This is your fault
, Abigail thought.

“It’s not your fault,” Ruth told her.

“Gee, the voice in my head must be getting loud if other people can hear it.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. Money says Nat was pining for a fight before you shot him that zinger.”

“You heard that?”

“Did I!” Ruth nudged Abigail’s arm, congratulating her. “Dr. Walter couldn’t have said it better himself.”

“Do you think anybody else knew I was plagiarizing a radio personality?”

“Naw. They probably figure you’re a badass.”

“A badass? That might be a stretch.”

“Who’s to say? Boston’s a tough town.” Ruth had known Abigail was a widow instinctively but had likely heard she was from Boston through Lottie. News certainly did travel fast on the island.

“Not as tough as Chapel Isle.”

“You got that right, hon. Come on and fix these chairs with me, will ya? Give a tired broad a hand.”

Abigail cleared the mess from the fight while Ruth collected the leftover dishes. Though the café was closed, the smell of hot coffee and the warmth of people’s bodies lingered. Abigail had been rattling around the lighthouse on her own like a marble in a jar. She’d forgotten how it felt to be in a space that wasn’t always vacant. She gathered the plates Ruth couldn’t carry and trailed her into the kitchen.

“This here’s Zeke.”

Ruth introduced her to a sinewy man in an apron with an anchor tattooed on his forearm, the blue ink so dark it seemed like a bruise. He was vigorously scraping the grill with a metal spatula. A day’s worth of grease oozed from the burner, making Abigail glad she hadn’t had the chance to eat.

“We got the dishes for you,” Ruth told him, and he nodded.

“He cooks and does the dishes?”

“Says it clears his mind.”

“Clears the mind,” Zeke repeated, tapping his temple.

“If you ever want to clear your mind at my house, you’re welcome anytime.”

Zeke didn’t respond. Then the comment sunk in and he chuckled. “Funny,” he said.

“Yeah, this gal’s a riot. Lemme tell you,” Ruth said sarcastically. “Don’t get her riled or heads will roll. The Boston Bruiser, we’ll call ya.”

“Please don’t.”

“Bye, Bruiser,” Zeke said, as Ruth guided her out of the kitchen.

“Great. Another nickname.”

“I’ve got to cash out the till. You don’t have to stay,” Ruth said. “You’ve done enough.”

“No argument there. I don’t have much else to do, though.”

“Can you count change?”

While Ruth tallied the day’s take, Abigail sat at the counter sorting coins.

“I feel awful about Merle getting hurt.”

“Don’t. He would’ve tried to break up the fight even if you weren’t involved.”

“Me? Why would that matter?”

“He knows you’re alone here on the island. Plus, I told him you were a widow, so I think he was looking after you.”

“A widow? How did you—”

“Darlin’, it takes one to know one.”

“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?

 
lum
pen
(lum′ pən),
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
]