Show Me a Sign Read online

  I wake up feeling jittery.

  There is a cold nip in the air even inside. I dress in my green wool gown and black stockings. I wrap my shawl tight around my shoulders and pull my mobcap over my ears.

  I have lost my confidence about following through with Nancy’s plan. If Mama found out, she could no more forgive me for the haunting than for luring George into the road. And what would Reverend Lee make of my blasphemy?

  While I long for a chance to see George one last time and ask forgiveness, what if he is angry with me? What if his spirit makes demands on me, like Nancy’s grandmother Edith did of her?

  I go downstairs, yawning like a lion. Mama is gathering ingredients to bake bread. It’s one household chore I do well. She hands me an apron to pin to the front of my gown, and we begin mixing the water, yeast, and salt. I am glad for the distraction. And I am grateful that Mama buys our wheat flour from a miller in Tisbury so we don’t have to grind it ourselves.

  With our bare hands, we knead the dough, over and again, over and again. We put the kneaded dough in a bowl and cover it with a wet cloth. In an hour’s time, it will rise.

  Mama settles in Grandma Harmony’s rocking chair by the fire and takes up a pair of Papa’s trousers to mend. As I trace the grain on the kitchen table with my index finger, I try spinning a tale, but my mind is too occupied to create. I busy myself with sweeping instead. And the thought comes to me: George would want me to try to commune with him. If some part of him remains, he might be lost and afraid.

  When at last the final proving of the bread is done, we shape it into loaves and place them in cast-iron pans on the hearth.

  After a few minutes, I check them. Mama taught me what her mother taught her. “Let it rise until it cracks open.” They are not yet done.

  I jump when Mama taps me on the shoulder.

  “Go,” she signs, sensing my impatience. “Remind Nancy to come for supper tonight. Her mother will be visiting a sick cousin. She’s to spend the night with us.”

  “Thank you, Mama,” I sign.

  My heart races as I pull on my coat and hat and walk the high road toward the turn for Littlewoods Lane. Wind with a drizzle of rain whips my bare face. My nose starts to run. Soon I am wet up to my calves. It’s cold as a witch’s breath. I wiggle my fingers and toes to keep feeling in them. Cattails scratch at my stockings. Fish and salamanders skirt by me, making me gasp. I jump over a small channel.

  When Nancy sees me coming, she waves. I hurry down to meet her.

  “Phew,” Nancy signs, wiping her brow. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

  “I am ready,” I tell her even as I feel waves of nausea and trepidation.

  “Here, sheets,” she signs, holding them up.

  I wonder where Nancy got them, but I don’t ask. They are worn and a bit dirty, but they are not in terrible condition. Mama would see nothing wrong with the state of these sheets. She always says, “Waste not, and ye will want not.” I don’t envy Helen, who does the Skiffes’ laundry. Very few things seem to please Mrs. Skiffe. She must have discarded these.

  Nancy hangs her cloak and hat on a tree clear of the dark, sinking marsh.

  I begin to wrap her like a corpse, but she keeps signing, “I am a soldier who died in the War for Independence. I’ve come back to avenge my British killers and claim this land as mine once again!”

  I knew Nancy would concoct a scheme. Whenever George followed us on our walks, he was amused by her inventions.

  “Stay still,” I sign.

  I put the sheet around her face and drape it over her shoulders. I wind the rest around her limbs. In profile, with her face obscured and one cloaked arm raised, she looks ghastly.

  When I am done, Nancy continues to weave her story. She is signing boisterously, “I am not easy in my grave. No one remembers to mourn me.” I am close enough to feel her howls.

  Nancy stops her story to wrap me. She is less careful than when I wrapped her.

  I suddenly feel like I can’t breathe.

  “Wait!” I sign frantically.

  “What?” she asks.

  Images of George’s last ride to the cemetery flash in my mind. I open my hands, searching for words, but simply curl my fingers closed again.

  “Are you okay?” Nancy signs.

  I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and nod as I will the images to recede.

  Nancy finishes wrapping me. Once we are both concealed, we glide, arms extended. Initially, our footfalls are awkward. What clumsy spirits we are! Then we throw up our hands, skipping and twirling until we reach the outskirts of Littlewoods, where thickets of small trees border the marsh.

  There are many ghost stories on the island, most about the war or the sea, and some about little lights in the marsh at night. Ezra Brewer called them will-o’-the-wisps, mischievous spirits who try to lead travelers astray. I am trying to lead a spirit home.

  “For George,” I remind Nancy as I dance. It comforts me to imagine him near again, if just for a little while.

  Once, George told me that he had seen a ghostly figure in the yard. As I peered out the window, he exited the kitchen door and circled around the house. With a lantern lighting his face from below, he popped up in the window, looking like a proper specter. I jumped like a spooked cat, and he laughed so hard tears formed in his eyes. I was cross with him and called him a mule. But after a moment, I laughed as well. I wonder if George is laughing at me now.

  I watch Nancy prance about as the sun starts to go down behind the trees. It gets dark so early nowadays. We must make quite a spectacle in the dimming light.

  I see Nancy’s mouth move. I don’t know how loudly she moans. I open my mouth and let out a howl too. I am usually embarrassed to make vocal sounds because I cannot hear myself, and I know from seeing people’s reactions that I don’t sound pleasant. But no one knows it is me beneath my shroud.

  I am a spirit. I am a will-o’-the-wisp. I am calling George! I pray for a sign from him.

  I wail. My limbs writhe.

  Nancy suddenly grabs my arm and pulls the sheet off my head.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “A trap passed down the lane,” she signs. “I heard the horse whinny and saw the driver come to a halt before riding on. They must have seen us and heard our wild howling.”

  “Oh no!” I sign. “Did you see who it was?”

  Nancy nods. “Reverend Lee!”

  “Tell me it wasn’t him,” I implore.

  “I recognized the trap and horse,” Nancy signs.

  We are mortified. Frantically, we remove our shrouds.

  “What do we do with these now?” I ask.

  “Bury them in the marsh,” she signs.

  Since George did not make his spirit visible, this feels like a chance to lay him to rest.

  I nod.

  We fold the sheets and carry them as close as we dare to the marsh.

  Nancy pushes her sheet down in the mud with a long stick. She signs, “Here lies General John Wright, finally laid to rest.”

  “Amen,” I sign, playing along. It helps ease my burden to imagine this is all just a game.

  Now it’s time for my sheet.

  I take the stick and try to push it down. It’s harder than it looked watching Nancy. The sheet forms a bubble of swampy water and won’t easily sink. I keep pushing and poking it, but it gets caught in the reeds.

  Nancy comes to my aid. She drags the sheet back to the main water hole without getting caught in thick mud.

  “Why won’t he go down easily?” I ask. “Is he that perturbed? Does he hate me? I am sorry, my brother, for my sin. I didn’t mean to lure you into the high road. Why did you push me out of the way? It should have been me …”

  Nancy’s face whitens, as if she’s looking at a specter. I quickly turn around to see if George is behind me. The air is empty. That’s when I realize she didn’t know. Even though I once accidentally mentioned his expression before he died, Nancy never could have imagined I was resp
onsible for my brother’s death.

  I can almost see her mind working. Is she putting the pieces together? She composes herself, like a true best friend.

  “Mary,” she signs. “It wasn’t your fault. Besides, George would have chosen saving you over himself.”

  I push myself up on the long stick to force the winding shroud under the water for good. “Here lies …,” I begin, but cannot finish.

  We both bow our heads in a moment of silence.

  “Amen,” Nancy signs, as if I had completed my thought.

  I close my eyes and a few tears stick in my eyelashes. I wipe my hands together to clean off the dirt, then make the sign for “finish.” “It’s late. We should be getting back.”

  Nancy nods and takes my hand. We walk in silence, my mind full.

  To my surprise, I notice that I do feel a little lighter, as if something has been lifted from me.

  Is my brother at rest? Or have I finally unburdened myself of my darkest secret by sharing it with Nancy?

  As we approach my house, we see Reverend Lee’s cart. We look at each other, horrified.

  When we enter the house, I grab Nancy’s hand. The reverend and the young scientist are talking with Mama and Papa. I catch my breath. Up close, he looks so startlingly like George that I wonder for a moment if we could have actually resurrected him! Is he a revenant?

  When the lithe frame moves, the illusion is broken.

  I notice six chairs at the table. We haven’t had dinner guests since George died.

  I take off my cloak, hat, and shoes. Nancy does the same. Our clothes and hair are untidy, but no one seems to notice. Mama and Papa must be preoccupied with our guests because they don’t ask where we’ve been or why we’re so late getting back.

  Reverend Lee interprets for the young stranger.

  “Salutations,” he says, extending his hand to Papa, “I am Andrew Noble.”

  Papa introduces me and Nancy. The newcomer gives us a cordial bow.

  “Andrew’s father, John, and I were at seminary together,” Reverend Lee signs and speaks. Reverend Lee is a kindly man, so tall and thin, he seems to sway in a strong breeze like the branches of a beetlebung tree. Like the tree, the top of his head is rounded, and he stoops a bit.

  “John left Andover to return to his home in Greenwich, Connecticut. And, well, here I am.”

  “Are you going on to study the clay cliffs in Gay Head?” Papa asks Andrew, with Reverend Lee interpreting. “Others have come from the mainland to behold their majesty.”

  “No,” Andrew says, laughing. He turns away from Papa and directs his response toward Mama and Reverend Lee.

  That is considered rude in our society. I’ll excuse him because he is unaware of our customs. There must be fewer deaf people where he comes from.

  “I am more interested in facts than a fetching view.” Andrew Noble sits upright with his head tilted backward, giving off an air of self-importance. If Ezra Brewer were here, he would roll his eyes.

  Mama leads the group back toward the kitchen.

  I see Papa pick marsh grasses out of Nancy’s hair. He stares at it and then at Nancy. She blushes and stammers with her hands. Papa looks at her for a moment before turning to the others. I feel my face flush. Does he suspect us?

  The kitchen looks livelier than it has in months, with polished silver candlesticks and laundered napkins. As I am helping Mama lay out the dishes, she eyes me and then the table.

  I look down, feeling guilty that she had to prepare the meal and polish the silver without my help. When I look up again to make eye contact with her, she already has her head bowed in prayer.

  After Reverend Lee’s benediction, Mama and I serve lobster, mussels, and corn. I wonder if Andrew will like our island fare. Having missed afternoon tea, I am hungry.

  As I eat, I examine Andrew. He is older and spindlier than George. His waist is probably smaller than Mama’s. He has blue eyes; not quite as light as Mama’s and George’s, nor as dark as Ezra Brewer’s. I like his hair. It’s dark with waves swept back from his smooth forehead. His hands, with long fingers, show no signs of hard labor.

  “What brings you to the Vineyard, then?” Papa asks Andrew.

  Mama pushes her chair back from the table so she can interpret spoken words for me and Papa, and sign language for Andrew. Nancy and Reverend Lee listen and watch.

  Reverend Lee shifts in his chair and wrings his hands. Why is he anxious? Does he know what Nancy and I have done? Will he tell our parents?

  “As it happens,” Andrew Noble says, “I met a man who visited your island and had quite a story to tell. I wanted to see for myself, so my father wrote a letter of introduction to his school friend Reverend Lee, and I traveled here by schooner.”

  Andrew is answering Papa’s question but again speaking directly to Mama. Why won’t he address Papa?

  “There are many stories from the island,” Mama signs and speaks. “You shouldn’t believe all of them.”

  Papa, Nancy, and I turn toward Andrew with curiosity.

  Andrew continues, “The sailor in the New Haven tavern explained to me that there are a large number of deaf and dumb in your town. I can see for myself that is true.”

  “It has always been that way,” Nancy blurts out, expressing what I’m thinking. “At least, since Mary’s great-great-grandfather Jonathan Lambert arrived on the island.”

  Andrew glances at Nancy in a way that makes me realize he is the kind of person who thinks children should be seen rather than heard. Mama has commented on Nancy’s poor manners in the past, but now looks at her more sympathetically.

  “It is true,” Mama signs. “It is nothing unusual.”

  “Perhaps not for you,” Andrew says, “but I have never seen the likes of it. I intend to discover the cause of the deafness on your island.”

  A good interpreter does not censor for his audience and lets them draw their own conclusions. But I wonder if Mama feels awkward interpreting Andrew’s speech.

  “Surely, the deaf exist elsewhere,” Reverend Lee signs. He quotes Romans, “O the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable are his judgments, and his ways past finding out!”

  “They don’t exist in great number elsewhere,” Andrew perseveres. “And most of them reside in asylums or beg for alms on the street. They are not capable of earning their keep.”

  Now I think Andrew Noble is the one telling stories.

  Why should the deaf be different anywhere else? Why shouldn’t they be seamen like Ezra Brewer or run sheep farms like Papa and Mr. Skiffe?

  When Eliza Smith’s widowed father kept climbing on his barn roof, believing he could soar like a hawk, he was sent to an asylum in Boston. But what does that have to do with the deaf?

  I glance at Papa. He does not seem as shocked and confused as I am. He doesn’t even seem surprised by our visitor’s wild ideas. There is a stillness in him. When I catch his eye, he reaches out and pats my hand.

  No one replies. Andrew glances around the table. His nervous smile shows he knows he has made a misstep.

  “I meant no offense to you and your family, madam. I am grateful for your hospitality,” he says, looking at Mama, and then at Reverend Lee. “You make me feel at home after my long, weary travels. Your fine, simple cooking reminds me of my own dear mother’s.”

  Mama seems to soften at his words. “Thank you,” she replies. Is it Andrew’s resemblance to George that enchants her? I find Andrew’s notions of the mainland compared with our island rather grand. We prefer straightforwardness to dupery in Chilmark. Has Mama forgotten this?

  Andrew Noble continues. “It is a marvel that you can keep up cheer and live such a civilized life away from the lively activity of Boston.”

  “My goodness, did Andrew and I catch a fright driving here!” Reverend Lee says, changing the subject. “We were passing the old marsh when I heard a loud moaning in the woods. At first, I thought it must be a poor bear or deer caught in a trap, but as
I slowed my cart, I caught sight of two apparitions floating among the trees. They appeared as luminous specters.”

  I am frozen in my seat. I dare not look at Nancy for fear one of us will show a sign of our guilt.

  Mama glances at Andrew Noble. “Did you see it too?” she asks.

  “I am interested in facts,” he repeats. “But there was certainly something there. Perhaps it was swamp gas. It is said to cause such phenomena when an interaction with natural galvanic impulse—say, lightning—occurs. I can assure you, it is of a very earthly origin.”

  I quietly exhale.

  I turn to sign only to Nancy, but suddenly, Andrew and Reverend Lee jump up from the table. The dishes rattle and water splashes from my mug.

  Mama signs quickly to Papa, “Outside, sounds like skirmish.”

  Papa runs with Reverend Lee to the front door, the rest of us following.

  It is dark and raining, with bright, intermittent flashes of lightning. From the doorway, I can make out two men struggling between our house and the farm. Nancy grabs me from behind and points at a cart and horse standing in the rain. They belong to her father.

  Reverend Lee runs toward the men. Is he shouting? No one is interpreting for him. Papa is running too. I glance at Mama, who is holding her arms tightly around her body. She tries to pull me inside, but I run after Papa. Nancy follows. I look behind me and see Andrew standing with Mama in the doorway.

  Papa seizes Mr. Skiffe under his arms and tries to hold him still. He was tussling with Thomas. They are both mud-splattered. Eamon tries to wrestle Thomas back to the farm, while Papa drags Mr. Skiffe to our house.

  Mr. Skiffe knocks his head backward and hits Papa in the face. Abruptly Papa lets go. Reverend Lee goes to his side.

  I see Mr. Skiffe sign violently to Papa, “Your freedman is lying! That Indian wife of his stole bedsheets right from under our noses! She is a conniving, thieving woman, and her husband is no better! After all that we have done for her and her daughter too!”