Show Me a Sign Page 2

  Finally, they discover the well. The scientist falls to the ground to drink from it before he even collects a sample. But the girl is unsure if she should drink it. Would she want to outlive all her loved ones?

  My story trails off as I near my destination. I am conscious of a person who lurks in my shadow, just out of view.

  Ezra Brewer lives at the top of the beach. His one-story, pine frame house has a big brick chimney and scattered lobster traps lying about. He doesn’t cultivate a garden, or own animals, aside from a one-eyed black cat named Smithy.

  Even at his advanced age, Ezra Brewer is a seaman, with a stiffness in his joints and the breath of sea air in his lungs. He has a storied history of navigating his old cutter, the SS Black Dog, to Boston and beyond. He has sailed in nor’easters and never lost a man. And he can still cast a single fishing line and get the best catch of the day.

  He sees me coming and waves his hand over his head. As usual, he is sitting on an old wicker chair on the porch.

  For all the years I’ve known him, I have rarely been invited inside his home. Mama says he doesn’t clean his house or person, and “cleanliness is next to godliness.” I say it is just that Ezra Brewer has never taken a wife to fix up a proper home for him.

  In the wake of my brother’s death, his rather uncivilized way of living doesn’t seem so unpleasant. It might be easier to be a hermit who lives on the beach than to endure the quiet sorrow in our home.

  As I approach, I see he is wearing the same clothes he always wears no matter the season, a worn linen shirt, a blue wool waistcoat, broadcloth trousers, red wool socks, a knit Monmouth cap, and an old sealskin coat. His eyes are the darkest blue I’ve ever seen. His long gray hair hangs over his earlobes, which are pierced, though I never see him wear earrings.

  I make a sour face when I see the bottle of rum he cradles in his lap. Mama is an abstainer. She does not allow alcohol in our house for pleasure drinking. We use it only for cooking and for medicine during times of illness. I recently learned from Miss Hammond that many find it healthier to drink ale than water. Do I dare to challenge Mama?

  “Don’t be judging me, missy,” Ezra Brewer scolds. “Ye have not walked in my shoes.”

  I know he is right. Reverend Lee always teaches us to sympathize rather than to judge our neighbors. I hand Ezra Brewer the muffins, smile, and hold up my fingers to sign. “I’m sympathizing.”

  He throws back his head, and the power of his laughter shakes us both. Then he gulps down the muffins, looking satisfied. He hands me the cloth and lets Smithy lick his fingers.

  To change the subject, I sign, “Mr. Butler says a young scientist is coming to Chilmark. A guest of Reverend Lee’s. I wonder what research he plans to do in our town.”

  “I’ll abide research,” he signs. “So long as he doesn’t try to take advantage of townsfolk.”

  “Why would he do that?” I ask.

  “Outsiders,” he signs. “Never give them credence at first. Only welcome them after they’ve proved themselves trustworthy.”

  “That’s not very friendly,” I sign.

  “Never said I was,” he signs.

  I shake my head and sign, “Tell me the story of where our people come from.”

  “I’ve only told you two dozen times before,” he signs. He puts the cork back in the bottle and sets it down beside his chair. Smithy takes her place in his lap.

  “The story …,” he muses.

  “Tell me why some of us are deaf and others are hearing,” I prompt him.

  “You know the answer to that, girlie,” he signs. “Nobody knows.”

  “But why not? There have been deaf people, like you and me and Papa, since we came to the island.”

  “Aye, Mary, that’s a fact,” he signs.

  Ezra Brewer says “aye” by jerking his head forward and wiggling the fingers on his left hand. Even though his hands are old and gnarled, he signs with great skill.

  He works his jaw. He has a habit of moving his mouth for a bit before he signs a story. I think this comes from watching hearing people speak. I sometimes do it too.

  Ezra Brewer begins, “There is a region in Kent, England, where many people are born deaf. It is called the Weald.”

  I interrupt. “That’s a funny name.”

  Ezra Brewer gives me a look that could sink me to the bottom of the ocean. I think he is going to scold me, but he opens and closes his hands like he’s gathering words out of the air.

  “Aye,” he signs, “Weald means ‘woodlands.’ It is a harsh place to live with its thick forest and tall cliffs made from limestone, so people decided to take a voyage and make new lives in the colonies. The deafness came with them.”

  “But why did it come with them?” I ask.

  “I told you,” he signs. “Nobody knows for sure. But if you ask me, our deafness must be caused by something in the blood.”

  “How can that be?” I ask. “Mama is hearing, George was hearing, and Papa and I are deaf. We have the same blood.” Bloodlines are important to English settlers on the island. They tell us who we are and where we came from.

  Ezra Brewer folds his arms across his chest, sniffs the air, and refuses to look at me. I’ve interrupted his storytelling too many times.

  I untie my hat and dangle a ribbon in front of Smithy, who bats at it.

  This must make Ezra Brewer feel charitable because he starts signing again. I try my best to keep quiet.

  Even though my parents know our early history, they are reluctant to talk about it. “A bird flies forward,” Mama always says. Past, present, and future all seem mixed together in Ezra Brewer’s mind.

  He looks at me and makes words with his fingers as quickly as I can read them.

  “Your great-great-grandfather Jonathan Lambert,” he signs, “was the first recorded deaf person to settle on the island. He arrived in 1692, using sign language from England.”

  I smile. “But the sign language has changed since those days,” I add, interrupting once again.

  Ezra Brewer signs, “The language people speak on the island is not the King’s English anymore. You are right. We have our own rules, signs for most words, and we can finger-spell the alphabet with both hands. Facial expressions and body language are as important as making the correct hand signs, while kinship makes it possible to understand each other with one or two signs or a look.” He gives me a sidelong glance, which I know means I best stop interrupting.

  He continues signing. “Jonathan Lambert was a good carpenter and farmer. In 1694, he bought a piece of land from Sachem Josias Wompatuck for seven pounds. I suspect ol’ Jonathan got the better end of that deal. Today the place is still called Lambert’s Cove. It’s over by Christiantown. You’ve been there.”

  I nod my head and right fist simultaneously. Someone else is watching Ezra Brewer recount our history. I catch a glimpse of the shadow peeking around his house.

  “He married a hearing woman. They had seven children, including your great-grandfather Edward. Each married into families who came to the island from the Weald too and gave birth to deaf and hearing children. Your ancestors. Jonathan Lambert died at eighty years old, leaving a large estate and a good reputation.”

  I smile. I like to hear that story.

  “Aye,” Ezra Brewer signs, reading my face. “You should be proud to be his kin.”

  “You never tell me about your kin,” I sign.

  A strange look passes over Ezra Brewer’s face. He picks up the bottle and removes the cork. He has said all he is going to say for now. I have suspected for some time that he keeps a secret. I’ve asked Papa, but he won’t tell me. I think it has something to do with Ezra Brewer’s activities during the War for Independence.

  I stand up, bring the open palm of my right hand down from my chin, and sign, “Thank you.”

  Ezra Brewer winks and takes a swig from his bottle.

  I start to follow the high road back home.

  The shadow also returns. I am not afraid. I kno
w just who my tracker is.

  While I’m walking back along the high road, I think about what it must have been like when my great-great-grandfather Jonathan Lambert first came to the island. How did he communicate with other English settlers and the Wampanoag? What would it be like if the world were suddenly turned around, and everyone spoke but didn’t sign?

  The shadow grows closer. Because I don’t hear, I rely heavily on my sight. Small details rarely escape my view. When I look back, Nancy ducks behind a tree, her arms held stiffly at her sides.

  She is also eleven years, a thickset girl, with black curls pulled straight, lively brown eyes, and a sharp, boisterous nature. She lives off the high road too, a long walk uphill from our house. A walk so familiar to me I could take it in the dark. We have been best friends for as long as I can remember.

  I see her crouch by a stone wall. I stop to remove a pebble from my shoe.

  “Boo!” Nancy signs, opening her clasped hands in my face, as she jumps from a hedgerow right into my path.

  When I don’t scream or start, Nancy frowns and hits me playfully with a weed she pulls from the ground.

  “Which spy are you today?” I sign.

  “Miss Jenny,” she spells with her fingers. “Do you know who she is?”

  I make the letter O with both my hands to indicate I have no idea.

  Nancy signs, “She was a British loyalist. She didn’t want our country to be free from England, so she spied on the French troops who fought on our side and reported their activities to the British headquarters in New York City.”

  Nancy stops walking.

  “Uncle Jeremiah says Miss Jenny was barely a mature woman, but she was very daring. When she was brought before General Washington for questioning, they cut off her hair …” Nancy flings off her hat and mobcap and pretends to cut her hair with imaginary scissors.

  It’s hard for me not to think of the accident when Nancy mentions her uncle. Of course, it’s not Nancy’s fault that Jeremiah Skiffe killed George. We should not have been playing in the high road.

  To make it worse, Nancy’s father would not let the town council or Reverend Lee speak to Jeremiah before he fled the island to his estate near Boston. I wish they had both treated Papa and Mama more respectfully.

  Their behavior reminds me of my own sins and that I too am keeping the whole truth about George from Mama and Papa.

  “It was a sign of public shame,” Nancy continues. “Hard as they tried to persuade her, Miss Jenny wouldn’t confess.”

  Nancy raises the palm of her hand in front of her mouth and shakes her head defiantly to demonstrate Miss Jenny’s refusal.

  I remind her, “Miss Jenny was a traitor.”

  Nancy shrugs and repeatedly places the palm of one hand over the other. It’s sign language for “nevertheless.”

  Suddenly, Nancy pulls me down behind the stone wall. She beckons for me to peek over the other side without being seen.

  Reverend Lee is walking up from the beach with a young man. It must be the scientist! I try to explain this to Nancy, but she hushes my hands.

  I notice that Reverend Lee carries a carpetbag and the young man a black satchel. Does he intend to stay on for a while?

  When they pass near us, I am struck by the stranger’s resemblance to my brother. I must gasp, because Nancy places her hand over my mouth. I lick it to make her let go. She wipes it on her skirt.

  I am uncomfortable squatting in the dirt. Once the men pass and have covered some ground, I stand up and dust off my clothes.

  “One day,” Nancy signs, “you’ll see the use in my expert spying techniques.”

  I kick a stone to her. She kicks it back as we move up the road. Nancy was born hearing, but her parents, John and Laura Skiffe, are deaf. I’ve noticed that Nancy signs more than she speaks.

  “I wish Ezra Brewer told a ghost story today,” she signs. If there’s one thing Nancy likes better than spy stories, it is ghost stories. Sadly, her mother forbids her from going to Ezra Brewer’s. Like Mama, Mrs. Skiffe does not approve of him.

  “That wicked old man with his bad luck cat,” Nancy signs, and skips in circles around me, making the sign for “haunt” in the air.

  “Stop!” I sign. “Don’t be morbid. Remember George.” Because he died so suddenly, I worry that his spirit is not at rest.

  We both lower our hands and stop signing for a moment.

  “I never told you this,” she signs, “but the night Grandmother Edith died in her sleep, she appeared at the foot of my bed. She looked transparent as a veil. I wasn’t shocked when she told me she felt cold as the grave, but she was quite surprised to be dead, even though she had a long illness.”

  I search Nancy for a twinkle in her eye, but she is not teasing me.

  “Grandmother Edith was concerned about her teapot,” Nancy continues. “It is a silver heirloom and quite valuable. She didn’t want Mother to sell it. She told me I must find it under her bureau, polish it till I could see my reflection, and hide it in a safe place. She wanted me to use it when I marry and have my own home.”

  “Did you do it?” I ask, a chill running up my spine.

  “It was exactly where she said it would be. I did as she said, and her specter never interrupted my sleep again.”

  “Where did you hide the teapot?” I ask.

  “Oh,” Nancy signs, with a wicked grin, “I don’t think Grandmother Edith would like me telling you that.”

  I am stunned.

  “I have an idea,” Nancy signs. “But I am not sure you are going to like it.”

  “What?” I weakly sign.

  “Maybe,” she signs, “we can have a dance for the dead.”

  “That’s blasphemy,” I sign.

  “You sound like your mother,” Nancy signs, with a discernible frown. “No one would know. Since you did not attend George’s funeral, this could be our own last rites for him, to lay him to rest.”

  A picture flashes through my mind: George wrapped in his death shroud. The day of his funeral, I had a high fever and was bedridden. I saw him only briefly from my upstairs window as Papa and Mama drove him in our cart to the churchyard.

  Nancy signs, “We could wear winding shrouds and run through the woods near the old salt marsh.”

  I like the notion of honoring George. Could I really lull his uneasy spirit to rest? Could I commune with him, one last time, as Nancy did with her grandmother? Could I apologize for luring him into the road and ask forgiveness?

  Surely Mama would scold me harshly if she knew. But Nancy said that it will be only us. I look at my friend’s hopeful face. What would George do?

  I am uncertain, but I sign, “Yes.”

  “Truly?” Nancy asks excitedly. She rubs her hands together, and for a moment, I doubt my choice.

  “Tomorrow afternoon,” I sign. If we wait too long, I might change my mind.

  Nancy’s face lights up like a sprite. “Say you are coming to visit me but take a turn off the high road and follow Littlewoods Lane. I’ll meet you between the woods and the old marsh. I’ve trod the path more than once. You’ll have to chart a course to avoid danger.”

  “How will I do that?” I sign.

  “Find George’s map,” she signs.

  We walk as far as Papa’s farm and step on the stone wall to reach the branches of a large apple tree. It isn’t easy to climb in a gown and stockings, but we manage to settle in the crook of a large branch.

  Nancy reaches into her cloak pocket and pulls out her small wooden recorder. She begins to play, then stops. “My father tells me he finds it rude when I play in front of him and Mother. Do you ever mind that I play music in front of you, even though you can’t hear it?”

  I shake my head.

  Nancy’s father, John Skiffe, drinks heavily and is often ill-humored. It’s Nancy’s uncle Jeremiah who encourages her interest in music, but he hasn’t returned to the island since the accident.

  Nancy closes her eyes while she places her fingers on the hol
es of the instrument and blows the air from her full cheeks. Reverend Lee says she can pick out any tune after she’s heard it played once.

  Watching her play, I am experiencing the music in my own way. The way I imagine birdsong when I see birds soaring in the sky.

  Just as with my storytelling, I think Nancy’s music making shows what she feels inside. Sarah Hillman and the other girls we know are only concerned with learning to run a household. They assist their mothers sewing clothes and rearing their younger siblings. They view us as childish and impractical. Even if they are right, we prefer our fancies.

  Nancy opens her eyes and rests the recorder on her lap. Then she stares into the distance.

  I follow her line of vision across Papa’s farm. Our sheep and Thomas Richards, one of Papa’s two farm laborers, are walking slowly toward us. Thomas is a former slave with broad shoulders and a long stride. He is dressed in worn workman’s clothes.

  Nancy starts to climb quickly down the tree. I follow her. She would hate to be compared to her fussy, pious mother, but I have seen Mrs. Skiffe shrink back from freedmen as Nancy does now.

  When she reaches the ground and smooths her gown, she can barely get out the signs for “remember tomorrow” before she starts back up the high road to her house.

  Thomas approaches the stone wall. Some sheep have strayed from the flock, so he herds them by bumping their rears with his knees. They are an unruly bunch. I climb over the wall and try to help steer them with my birch stick.

  “Hello,” I sign. He nods amiably in response. “How is Helen?” I ask after his wife. She works as a housemaid at Nancy’s house. “I have not seen her lately at the Skiffes’.”

  “Her mother has been ill, Mary,” he tells me, “and she has been walking back and forth from home to be with her.” Helen is Wampanoag from Gay Head.

  “Is Sally with her?” I ask.

  Sally is their ten-year-old daughter who sometimes works with her mama or spends time with her papa at our farm. She is a lively girl, full of sweetness and laughter. I envy her deerskins and moccasins with fine beadwork, which look more comfortable than my stays and gowns. But Mama forbids me from wearing such clothing.