The Language of Sand (18 page)

Halfway through the round, she became aware that the clutch of women in the corner was keeping tabs on her. One gestured right at her. Janine Wertz was among them, sullenly smoking a cigarette.

“Oh, brother.”

“What is it?” Ruth asked.

“Those ‘hens’ you told me about—they aren’t too pleased that I’m here.”

“Why? What are they doing?”

“They’re ogling and pointing. I don’t understand. I didn’t do anything.”

“Well, they’re probably ogling and pointing because I told them your husband dumped you and ran off with his secretary.”

“What? That’s not—”

“True? Didn’t think so. I took the liberty of concocting that little yarn to stop them from running you off the island. Now they can pity you instead of hating you.”

If they knew what really happened
, Abigail thought,
they
would
pity me
.

“Take it as a compliment. If you were as ugly as an ox’s ass, none of ’em would give a care.”

“That’s a creative interpretation.”

“I try.”

A girl in braids on the other side of the room called out, “Bingo!” and Ruth cursed, crumpling her cards.

“That brat. I was one N-31 away.”

“We could mug her for her winnings. She’s small. I bet you could take her.”

“Don’t think I hadn’t thought of that.”

Round after round came and went as Abigail allowed herself to get absorbed in the game. Every time someone would shout “Bingo,” Ruth would carp about the loss, then slide a new set of cards to her. When each game ended, people would decamp to the bar at the rear of the hall, where the food was served and a handful of men were stationed on stools.

“Our next round will be an X formation,” the bingo caller announced, swirling the ball cage. He was about to pull the opening number when Hank Scokes, the man Abigail had met at the Kozy Kettle, staggered in the main door, knocking over a sheaf of folding chairs. The clatter echoed and heads turned.

Hank was swaying, visibly drunk. He was wearing the same clothes Abigail had seen him in the day before. “Sorry,” he yelled in
a mock whisper, before slipping on the chairs and falling to the floor.

Sheriff Larner leapt from his seat, prepared to drag Hank from the fire hall, but one of the guys from the bar came rushing to his aid. He was younger, the brim of his cap covering most of his face. He hauled Hank to his feet and was guiding him to the exit when Hank’s eyes locked on Abigail.

“Hey. I know you,” he said, as if she was a long-lost friend.

Now heads were turning toward her.

Then his tone changed on a dime. “Whaddaya think you’re looking at,” he sneered. The guy at his side squinted at Abigail, as though she was the one insulting Hank.

If Abigail could have willed herself to dematerialize, she would have.

“Nat, get him out of here,” Larner ordered.

The caller spun the ball cage again and tried to get everyone’s attention refocused on the game. “Check your cards, folks. Like I said, this game will be an X formation.”

Abigail was shaking, she was so humiliated. “That was…” she began, but didn’t finish because she couldn’t decide whether
degrading
or
demeaning
was the optimal adjective.

Ruth chose for her. “Sucky. That was sucky.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Heart trouble,” Ruth replied.

“Don’t you mean liver trouble? He was plastered.”

“Hank’s wife passed away about six months ago. That’s his heart trouble.”

“Oh” was all Abigail could say. She experienced an abstract sympathy for the man, unwilling to associate herself with him or acknowledge that she had anything in common with a nasty drunk who made a scene. “Was that his son with him?”

Ruth scoffed. “Lord, no. That’s Nat Rhone. He works on Hank’s fishing rig. Bounced from boat to boat because nobody wanted to take him on full-time.”

“Why?”

“He has a helluva temper.”

“So why did Hank hire him?”

“There aren’t many people as ornery as Hank Scokes. Nat makes him seem like a pussycat.”

“Is Nat an islander, a native?”

“Nope. Came here about four years ago. Nobody knows where he’s from. Way I heard, last person who asked wound up with stitches.”

“Friendly guy.”

“Somewhere, sometime, somebody did Nat wrong. He’s never forgotten it.”

“Maybe his husband divorced him and ran off with his secretary.”

“Touché,” Ruth retorted. “The real bummer is, Nat Rhone’s the only decent-looking man on this island. Only it’d take a U-Haul truck to carry his emotional baggage.”

“Is that your clinical diagnosis?” Abigail teased.

“Mind those cards, missy.”

The men from the bar were collecting the fallen chairs and making a racket the bingo caller had to shout over.

“What are those guys doing at a bingo game if they’re not playing?”

“Most are members of the volunteer fire crew. They volunteer because they get to drink here for half price two nights a week.”

“How altruistic.”

One of the men, the tallest of the bunch, was offering to lend a hand clearing the chairs. The others waved him off. He was almost as drunk as Hank, teetering on his heels.

“Uh-oh. We might have an instant replay.”

“That’s Clint Wertz. You be careful around him,” Ruth warned.

“Any particular reason?”

“He’s got what a lady might call a ‘wandering eye’ and what I’d call a real lack of zipper control. Gives Janine good reason to be as surly as she is.”

“That’s Janine’s husband?”

“See why she wasn’t real sweet with you? To her, you’re bait.”

Clint Wertz wove toward the bar and ordered another round. Abigail caught Janine watching him with a wistful gaze, equal measures anger and remorse. Her expression reminded Abigail that missing what was still yours could be as painful as missing what was lost.

“Tonight’s final game will be a jackpot round,” the caller announced into the microphone. “The cash prize is worth three hundred dollars.”

At that, the noise level in the hall dropped to a hush. Ruth rolled up her sleeves, as though priming herself for hand-to-hand combat. “This is the biggie, hon, and it’s got my name on it. Granted, I say that every week. This time I mean it.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“You watch them cards like a hawk.”

Abigail gave Ruth a salute and did as she was told.

With each number called, the tension in the fire hall mounted. Even the men by the bar grew quiet. Abigail had two cards to tend. Neither showed much potential. Ruth could have handily played them herself, but she was acting like she needed a partner, a gesture Abigail greatly appreciated. For a change, she was useful. She hadn’t felt useful in what seemed an eternity.

“Bingo!” a bald man in a sweater vest yelled.

“Aw, damn.” Ruth mashed her cards into a heap.

“The guy’s about seventy,” Abigail said out of the corner of her mouth. “You could pick his pocket and he might not notice.”

“That senile Elton Curgess would enjoy it if I went rummaging around in his pockets. Let’s get out of here before I strangle the old fart.”

Together, Abigail and Ruth fell into line with the crowd as everyone filed from the fire station to their cars. Sheriff Larner caught up to them outside.

“Nice to see you made it,” he said to Abigail.

“Yeah, it was fun. I haven’t played in ages.”

“No? Well, you’ve got an expert teacher in Ruth. Best of the best. If there’s anyone here who could show you the ropes, it’s her.” Larner was laying the “down home” kindness on thick.

Ruth donned a fake grin. “That’s me. The bingo master.”

“You girls drive safe,” he told them as he strolled off.

“Is he always…?”

“In your business and actin’ like he ain’t? Yup. But he’s all the law we have on the island—him and his deputy, Ted Ornsey. Thing about Caleb Larner is, he doesn’t miss a trick. Makes him a damn good sheriff. Also makes him a pain in the rear.”

That confirmed Abigail’s earlier suspicion. The sheriff wasn’t merely being hospitable. He was feeling her out.

“Caleb’s had more right to be a pain lately,” Ruth continued. “He has a daughter in Raleigh. She’s twenty-six. Got pancreatic cancer and not much medical coverage, so the bills keep mounting. His wife’s been staying with her for months. Caleb helps how he can. Works overtime but can’t get to the mainland to visit her much. Scary, her being young as she is.”

Abigail barely knew Sheriff Larner, yet her heart went out to him. There was no perfect way to say it, no phrase that wasn’t flimsy or clichéd. “That’s sad,” she said.

“It certainly is.”

“Do you want me to walk you to your car, Ruth? I hear there’s a criminal element marauding around the island.”

“Those robberies. Talk of the town. Everybody’s blabbing and nobody has a clue. Would be handy if somebody blabbed about who’s actually doing it.” She shook her head. “Thanks for offering to be my bodyguard, but I’m parked right here.”

Ruth had scored a space directly in front of the fire station.

“Lucky you. I parked so far from here I should have left my car at home.”

“It’s not luck if you come an hour early.”

“Whoa, you’re dedicated.”

“I believe you mean
deranged
.”

“They’re not technically synonyms, but sometimes they’re the same.”

Ruth settled into a vintage sky blue sedan bearing an
Impeach Nixon
bumper sticker. There was a slot for an eight-track cassette on the dash, and the powder blue leather seats were in mint condition. The car looked as if it rarely left the garage.

“This is some ride. Drive it much?”

“Hon, I live on an island. Ain’t too many places to go.”

“I’m beginning to realize that.”

Ruth started her car. “Nice to see you out and mingling, Abby.”

Abigail hadn’t told Ruth her name. Though she wasn’t surprised she knew it.

“Don’t worry. Merle gave me the scoop on you. And I promise your coffee won’t be so hot next time.”

Watching Ruth drive away, Abigail wondered whether Merle had been gossiping about her or if he was trying to protect her again. Abigail hadn’t come to Chapel Isle to make friends, but between Janine, the John Deere twins, Hank Scokes, and his pal Nat Rhone, she seemed to be making enemies. She hoped Merle didn’t have it in for her too.

“I’m back,” Abigail announced, hesitantly sticking her head in the front door of the caretaker’s cottage. It was a relief not to come home to complete darkness, as she had the previous evening. Then she realized that she hadn’t left the lights on intentionally. In her haste, she’d forgotten to shut them off.

With the windows closed, the acrid odor of paint and cleaning products had congealed into an overpowering stench. Nonetheless, Abigail could still smell last night’s fire. It was a scent she couldn’t forget, even when it wasn’t there.

“Listen, I’ve had a pretty rough day and I’d appreciate it if there weren’t any more noises tonight. Please,” she added, righting the overturned radio as she climbed the stairs.

She changed into two layers of pajamas, removed her contacts at a record clip, and hightailed it out of the bathroom, making sure the switch was off. Twice. Abigail glanced back to check before shutting her bedroom door. The light was out.

“Now if only it would stay that way.”

 
kith
(kith),
n.
1.
acquaintances, friends, neighbors, or the like; persons living in the same general locality and forming a more or less cohesive group.
2.
kindred.
3.
a group of people living in the same area and forming a culture with a common language, customs, economy, etc., usually endogamous. [bef. 900; ME; OE
, earlier
kinship, knowledge, equiv. to
cūth
COUTH
²
+ –
thu
–
TH
¹
; akin to Goth
kunthi
, G
Kunde
knowledge]