Show Me a Sign Page 5

  Bedsheets?

  I look to Nancy. She is pale and drawn, backing away and shrinking into the shadows.

  Did Nancy steal our haunting sheets? Did we steal them?

  As Eamon leads Thomas toward the farm, I see the barn door is open, a lantern lit inside. Helen’s willowy figure is standing in the light. She steps forward, wrapped in a raccoon fur robe, her hair loose. Is Sally with her? What must they be thinking?

  I tug on Papa’s sleeve and sign frantically, “It’s not true! It’s not true! Mrs. Skiffe discarded the sheets! We used them to create winding shrouds for the spirits in the Littlewoods! Oh, Papa, stop him!”

  Papa gives me a surprised stare. Mr. Skiffe doesn’t see my confession, but I believe that Nancy, Reverend Lee, and Mama do.

  Papa struggles to restrain Mr. Skiffe and hauls him toward the house. Mr. Skiffe’s boot heels drag in the mud and his arms are pinned, so he can no longer sign his nasty accusations. Reverend Lee follows, imploring him as gently as he can to be quieted and be at peace. From the look on Mr. Skiffe’s face, I think he will be no such thing.

  Mama and Andrew retreat to the house as well. Waves of nausea pass over me and my hands tremble. The rain is coming down in slick sheets now. Everyone has gone in except for me and Nancy, who is shaking.

  I gesture for her to follow me into the house.

  “You told them!” she signs at me angrily.

  “Had no choice,” I sign.

  “Had no choice?” She emphasizes each word as she signs. “How about keeping silent to protect me?”

  “Would you have an innocent woman take the blame?” I ask.

  “She is just an Indian,” Nancy signs. “What do you think will happen to me when Mother finds out I took the sheets without permission and committed blasphemy in the woods?”

  I think about Nancy’s words “just an Indian.” “I don’t know,” my hands stammer. I am soaked to the skin and without words. What have I done?

  I walk to the front door and look back at my friend with her angry, clenched fists. Nancy hesitates, but she comes and slips in behind me before I close the door. In the kitchen, Mr. Skiffe is raving with his hands. He is using ugly, ugly words for Thomas and his family, words that I do not want to know or see.

  Papa won’t meet my eyes. Mama makes a pot of tea. Reverend Lee leaves to fetch Mrs. Skiffe at her cousin’s house. Mama talks to Andrew. He takes her hand. Does she interpret my confession for him? What must he think?

  Nancy sneaks out of the kitchen. I follow her, glad to be away from Mr. Skiffe. She heads to the front of the house and climbs the stairs.

  In my room, we strip down to our shifts and mobcaps. Sitting on my bed, I cover myself with the patchwork bedcovers that Mama made for me. Nancy takes up my shawl and paces back and forth.

  I sign, “Why didn’t you tell me you stole the sheets? Did you intend for Helen to take the blame?”

  “I borrowed the sheets,” she signs. “I didn’t think Mother would notice they were missing.”

  “You won’t be honest with me, even now?” I sign.

  “I did it for you!” she signs.

  I am taken aback. I put my hands up to sign, but no words come.

  “Your parents believe in moral correction,” she signs. “My parents believe in caning!”

  I shudder.

  It is true. My parents’ anger and disappointment can scald, but they spare the rod. I have seen ugly bruises on my friend in the past. Mama shares my concern but says she cannot interfere with another family’s child rearing.

  “I wish I could prevent that,” I sign.

  “Now it appears my father made a false accusation, in front of your father and Reverend Lee. He hates to be wrong. He hates Indians. If you do not recant your confession, he will blame me.”

  “Then I’d be lying. And what about Hel—”

  Nancy interrupts me again, “Then tell me why I shouldn’t tell what you’ve been hiding from your grieving parents?”

  The image of my parents, especially Mama, finding out I was responsible for George’s death grips me in a vise. “That would be cruel.”

  With that, the rage seems to go out of her. She climbs under the patchwork covers and turns her back to me. We used to sleep side by side, holding hands.

  As I lay staring at the ceiling, I wonder what’s going on downstairs and if the Richards family is safe in the barn and if Nancy will betray my secret.

  When I awake, there is an emptiness in the featherbed next to me. Nancy is gone. It is Sunday, and I quickly dress for church and go downstairs. Mama is alone, busying herself in the kitchen. She doesn’t kiss my cheek or forehead.

  What if Nancy told my parents about me and George? What do I say? When Mama turns to me, she signs formally, “Eat now. Your father wants to speak with you.”

  I wait for her to say more, but Mama sits in Grandmother Harmony’s rocking chair and takes up a piece of embroidery. I can hardly swallow my porridge. Will Papa be angry? Will I be punished?

  “Church, go you?” I sign, changing the subject.

  Mama shakes her head, puts down her embroidery, and signs, “There is too much to be done here.”

  There are no pressing chores to be done on the Sabbath. Mama has not gone to the Meeting House since George died. Will she visit George’s grave? Walking out of the kitchen, my feet feel heavy.

  I put on my warmest hat. The brewing storm reflects my raging heart. I stand in a spot of warm sunshine at the edge of our farm and wait for Papa to pick me up in his oxcart.

  Hesitantly, I climb up beside him. He pats my knee but gazes forward. We are often comfortable being quiet together. But I can feel that he is not at peace either.

  “Papa?” I ask, touching his arm.

  He turns to me.

  “I’m worried Nancy’s father will cane her for stealing the sheets,” I sign. “And Thomas will be punished for scuffling with Mr. Skiffe.”

  “Honestly, Mary,” he signs, “I don’t know what you think. It’s dangerous to go near the marsh. And pretend to be a specter? I don’t understand.”

  I cannot explain without confessing my guilt, so I don’t try.

  I look down.

  He lifts my chin.

  “To answer your question,” he continues, “John Skiffe is still convinced Helen took the sheets. I’ll defend Thomas at council next week and explain it was self-defense. I will make sure he’ll only receive a small fine for fighting with John. He will stay on at the farm. There will be gossip.”

  I must look hopeless. Papa winks and signs, “There will always be gossip.” Then he adds, “We will discuss your punishment tomorrow. Today is the Sabbath. Repent.”

  The Methodist Episcopal Church does not yet have its own building, so we meet at the white clapboard Meeting House, just a half mile from our farm. The two entrances are framed by pilasters. Reverend Lee stands between them, greeting parishioners.

  I sneak past him as I enter. What must he think of me after my confession?

  I also avoid Andrew, who, to my relief, does not notice me.

  We are all seated in rows on wooden benches. We are all Americans of English origin, not Wampanoag or Irish. They have separate houses of worship.

  Every week, before Reverend Lee leads the Sabbath service, we hold our town meeting. It is conducted in sign language and spoken English. Children are not permitted to speak, which feels unfair. But at least everyone is invited to town meetings—to air all matters—unlike town council, which rules on specific matters that involve penalties and fees such as the theft of the Skiffes’ sheets. The council never holds its meetings on the Sabbath.

  Mr. Pye, today’s mediator, bangs a gavel on the lectern, then calls on Mr. Skiffe.

  Mr. Skiffe stands to sign. “Everyone here knows I had claim on that acreage, as my father did before me,” he signs. “The Church deemed it so. Why should it be given to the Wampanoag now?”

  Mr. Skiffe has sobered up, though it looks as if his mood is still foul. Mrs
. Skiffe, who looks like a grown, dour version of her daughter, sits quietly watching her husband.

  My best friend is uncommonly still. I try to catch her eye, but her gaze is aimed at the floor. Not even her feet are swinging.

  “That’s not business for this meeting,” Mr. Pye signs and speaks. “The Supreme Court in Boston has made a decision.”

  “I am sympathetic to John’s predicament,” Mr. Butler signs. “Who knows what will be taken from us next. Our ancestors purchased the land. That is not in dispute.”

  It is uncommon for women to speak, but when Miss Hammond raises her hand, Mr. Pye cedes the floor to her.

  “Is it not?” Miss Hammond stands. “There is the question of whether or not those land dealings were fair, and if we took more from the Wampanoag than was offered.”

  “Ridiculous!” Mr. Skiffe sneers. “A woman would take a softer view of the matter. Haven’t we all worked hard and even fought to make this island community our own? I will not be responsible for the alleged sins of the fathers.”

  Nancy nods. Is she proud of her father’s bigoted notions?

  “We could begin negotiations with the Wampanoag of Gay Head,” Miss Hammond suggests.

  “Preposterous,” Mr. Butler declares. “We don’t recognize them as a sovereign nation. You would have us open the door to compromise? That’s the way to lose everything we’ve gained.”

  “I do believe in compromise,” Miss Hammond replies.

  Mr. Skiffe and Mr. Butler make dismissive gestures toward her, but I find her ideas more sensible than theirs.

  “Just a moment,” Mr. Pye intercedes. “It is our custom for all recognized persons to be heard. Are there any further grievances that can be resolved at this meeting?”

  No one stands or raises a hand.

  Mr. Pye signs and speaks, “Neighbors we are and shall remain. In times like these, it is best not to bear resentments, but rather to work together through the challenges our community faces.” He bangs the gavel to close the meeting.

  It’s obvious from the foot stomping and sour faces that some people’s feelings are still raw, and they are unhappy with the lack of resolution about the land disputes.

  I glance back. Andrew Noble is sitting ramrod with his legs crossed. He looks amused by the proceedings. Is he silently mocking us?

  Reverend Lee rises and folks begin to quiet down again.

  Ezra Brewer stands beside him. He doesn’t consider himself churchgoing folk, but he likes to interpret Reverend Lee’s spoken sermons into sign language in front of the congregation.

  Reverend Lee recites, “You are to bring into the ark two of all living creatures, male and female, to keep them alive with you. Two of every kind of bird, of every kind of animal …”

  Today, it is the story of Noah and the Flood.

  Ezra Brewer is having good sport imitating the wind and sea that rocked Noah’s Ark, just as a storm batters the windows and shakes the rafters of the Meeting House now. He is very lively in his interpretation of the birds and beasts.

  I look around me. Other parishioners are not as appreciative of his creative performance. Andrew looks like he swallowed a bad oyster. Why should Ezra Brewer’s sign telling sicken him?

  When Ezra Brewer stomps his feet like an elephant some of my hearing neighbors wince. He swings both arms like a trunk and raises them high. He must trumpet loudly because people cover their ears.

  I smile when I remember the time Miss Hammond let us put our hands on her throat while she imitated an elephant’s cry.

  I look to see if Nancy is smiling too, but she only stares ahead soberly.

  Then come the frogs, wolves, whales, and crows. Ezra Brewer is quite partial to crows. Reverend Lee pauses until he is finished with his animal signs and calls. He seems unbothered by Ezra Brewer’s interpretation. And while half the congregation looks prim and unamused, the other half, including me, seems to find the sermon, in all its parts, quite enjoyable.

  Reverend Lee continues, “It was man’s inability to repent that brought on the Flood and God’s wrath. He saw mankind’s greed and discord. This is not just a story of old. It echoes the inability to sympathize with one another that we see around us today. Even the best person can be tempted into bad deeds. Remember that. I say to thee, amen.”

  Was I tempted into a bad deed? I feel ashamed.

  I look to Nancy again, but her parents whisk her away, which is fine because I have no idea what I would say to her.

  In her absence, I am trapped by Sarah Hillman and Carrie Tilton. We have not seen each other much since school finished at the end of the summer. I believe Carrie also longs for better education for girls. She is the best mathematics student in our class. With the right training, she could rival the boys at Edgartown Academy.

  “I am learning candle making with my dear mother,” Sarah signs and speaks. “Have you made candles?”

  I shake my head.

  “I have,” Carrie signs. “We use the tallow from our sheep. Once it is heated, we pour it into molds.”

  “I have seen Mama do that,” I tell Carrie.

  “Maybe she will show you,” Carrie suggests.

  I think that would be tedious for me and Mama, but I don’t say so.

  “We don’t use tallow anymore,” Sarah says, with an air of superiority. “We use oil from sperm whales now. It produces the best candles.”

  That is the newest way to make candles. But not everyone has sperm oil in their house or whalers in their family. Manners prevent me from saying what I think about her sperm oil candles.

  “Oh,” Carrie signs, looking embarrassed. “I didn’t know.”

  I smile at her before I excuse myself to look for Papa.

  I watch Reverend Lee introduce Andrew to Miss Hammond and Mr. Pye. He interprets for Andrew and tells them of his intention to discover the cause of the deafness on our island. I notice Papa is watching him too.

  What exactly does he mean, he will find the source of our deafness?

  Mr. Pye, who is hearing, signs and speaks to Andrew. “We all use the signs. I can’t always remember who is deaf and who isn’t. What difference does it make?”

  “You are being courteous,” Andrew says. “Scientific inquiry requires exact data.”

  Mr. Pye and Miss Hammond nod and politely excuse themselves.

  When Andrew meets Mr. Butler, Reverend Lee continues to interpret, “Andrew wants to arrange interviews with the island’s residents. Might you be willing?”

  Before he can reply, Ezra Brewer steps right up and signs, “Aye, I’ll talk to ye and set the story straight.”

  Andrew Noble seems pleased. Reverend Lee smiles weakly, and Papa winks at me. It is agreed that Reverend Lee will drive Andrew to Ezra Brewer’s house and act as their interpreter. I ask Papa if we can go too.

  Papa says I may go along if I am under Reverend Lee’s care. He must return home to Mama. I know he worries about her.

  I aim to see if Andrew talks more about asylums and witness how Ezra Brewer handles him.

  Ezra Brewer warms up an old pot of tea and offers each of us a cup. If it wasn’t filled with sugar to cover the bitter taste, I would spit out my first sip. Reverend Lee and Andrew Noble hold their cups without drinking, and then set them down next to their chairs.

  Ezra Brewer and I position ourselves so we can see Reverend Lee’s interpretation.

  “My good sir,” Andrew says to Ezra Brewer, “I am studying the source of the widespread deafness in your town. As you probably know, any good scientist begins by creating a genealogy of the people he is studying. I hope you can help me with this.”

  Ezra Brewer nods and launches into a recitation of the Lambert family tree, starting with the arrival of Jonathan Lambert in 1692. He also talks about the Skiffe family, who has more deaf descendants than we do.

  I can see that Ezra Brewer is trying not to sign too quickly and to keep his sentences closer to English so Reverend Lee will not struggle to speak his words to Andrew. Even so, it se
ems hard for Reverend Lee to keep up with Ezra Brewer’s quick spelling on his fingertips.

  Eventually, Andrew hands Ezra Brewer a piece of rag paper from his pocket. When he does so, a couple of letters fall to the floor. I am envious of all that paper. If it were mine, I could write down my stories.

  Ezra Brewer takes an ink-dipped quill pen and draws a line across the page. Then he draws points along the line and writes down names. He underlines the ancestors he knows for sure were deaf.

  He stops to sign, “Not sure some dates.”

  Reverend Lee interprets, and Andrew assures him it is fine. He is happy to have his help.

  I am deeply disappointed that there is no trickery in Ezra Brewer today. He is simply helping Andrew with his research.

  After filling a few pages, Ezra Brewer hands back the papers.

  “My dear sir,” Andrew says, “do you have a notion as to how your infirmity came to be so widespread in these parts?”

  Do I see Ezra Brewer wince at the use of the sign for “infirmity”? We use a similar sign for “sickness” and “disease.” Deafness is not an affliction. The only thing it stops me from doing is hearing.

  Ezra Brewer rubs his hands together to warm them up. A sure sign he is getting ready to tell a colorful story. My heart lifts.

  “Let me think when it all began,” he signs, with Reverend Lee interpreting.

  “Yes, I think it started in England, where the deaf settlers came from. Although there is some talk that they caught the ‘infirmity’ coming across on the great voyage.”

  I have never heard that theory. Reverend Lee looks surprised as well, but he is too polite to interrupt Ezra Brewer.

  Andrew asks Ezra Brewer, “Did they seem to have the effects of scurvy or other known illnesses?”

  Ezra Brewer signs, “I’ve suffered from scurvy myself. Had to suck on lemons for weeks, I did. Nasty business.” He pulls down his lower lip to show us his gums.

  Andrew looks impatient.

  Ezra Brewer starts signing again, with a twinkle in his eye.