Show Me a Sign Read online

  “Now the Black Death is a whole other matter. I have heard of men rendered deaf, dumb, blind, and without taste or smell. They went stark raving mad.” Ezra Brewer acts out the effects of the plague like he is a play actor.

  “Yes,” Andrew says. His red slash of a mouth looks like he has been sucking lemons too. “That is old news. I am here to discover the cause of your deafness.”

  “Aye, well, there is another theory,” Ezra Brewer signs, jerking his head and wiggling his left fingers. “I’d better tell him the story about Widow Merrill.” He is addressing me and Reverend Lee.

  Reverend Lee begins to ask what story, but I nod my head and sign, “Yes, tell him the story.”

  I don’t know what Ezra Brewer will sign next, but I can’t wait to see!

  Ezra Brewer works his jaw and leans forward, so the fire gives his grizzled face a glow.

  “It was the old Widow Merrill who related the terrible story. While she was pregnant with her second child, she went to the funeral of a neighbor. At the grave, a strange-looking young lady caught her attention. She looked otherworldly, especially her eerie gray eyes.

  “Someone told Widow Merrill that the young lady was deaf. Widow Merrill had never met anybody with this ‘infirmity’ before. She was from Boston, not our island.

  “Widow Merrill watched the young lady closely. When the coffin was lowered, she threw up her hands, raised her eyes, and uttered such a cry that turned Widow Merrill bone white.”

  Ezra Brewer clasps his hands, and I feel him shriek at the top of his lungs. Reverend Lee and Andrew Noble almost fall off their chairs.

  Ezra Brewer signs, “The image of the young lady and the sound of the cry were never far from Widow Merrill after that day. In due time, her second child was born. As she feared, the boy was deaf as a stone. And when he was surprised or scared, he’d give an unnatural cry!”

  I brace myself in case Ezra Brewer shrieks again, but he does not.

  Ezra Brewer leans back so his face is obscured in the growing darkness and rests his hands in his lap. I imagine he is smiling, pleased with himself.

  Andrew Noble seems spooked but angry too.

  “I am a man of science, not small-town superstitions,” he tells Reverend Lee, who is still interpreting his speech. Andrew is no longer looking at me or Ezra Brewer.

  Andrew says, “I’m sure there is a much more reasonable explanation for the infirmity in your town, and I intend to discover it.”

  “Others have tried before you,” Ezra Brewer signs, with a wink and a nod at Reverend Lee. “Pride cometh before a fall.”

  “I am wasting my time with this nonsense,” Andrew replies.

  Andrew’s manner unsettles me. I see him lean forward in his chair with his fists clenched so tightly in his lap that I’m certain his fingernails must be leaving marks in the soft part of his palm. Although Reverend Lee is always sympathetic, I can tell he’s embarrassed when Andrew storms back to the trap, without thanking Ezra Brewer.

  The ride home is uncomfortable. Andrew carries on to Reverend Lee while I sit silent. I don’t know if his arm waving or cross-armed sulking is more petulant. I have seen colicky infants who are less irritable. Even though I was raised on a farm, I was taught to admire and respect learned people. I admit I am having trouble with this one.

  The next day, after breakfast, Mama informs me that she and I are taking a walk to the Meeting House. I wash and dress slowly as a snail, as I fear what Mama’s stiff manner might mean. Is my reckoning nigh for haunting in the woods? But why the Meeting House?

  By the time we arrive, I am frozen to the bone and filled with dread. The feeling increases when we enter the Meeting House and I see Nancy. Our broken friendship saddens me. She showed compassion when I shared my darkest secret. Why couldn’t she have told the truth about the sheets?

  To make matters worse, Nancy appears to have lost none of her spite. Her eyes narrow on me, even as she politely greets Mama. She and Mrs. Skiffe are already seated with Reverend Lee.

  He announces, “I’d like to speak to the girls alone.”

  Our mothers go to the antechamber. I don’t see what Mrs. Skiffe signs to Nancy, but I imagine it’s similar to Mama’s signed instructions to “behave honorably” and “straighten your bonnet.”

  Reverend Lee gestures for us to sit in front of him. He opens the Bible to a page he’s marked with a worn ribbon. Then he closes it and rests it on his robed knee. He removes his spectacles and searches our waiting faces.

  “Do you understand that blasphemy means not only speaking against Our Lord but also committing acts of impiety or godlessness?” he asks us.

  We both nod earnestly.

  “I believe you do. So I cannot reckon how you thought that mocking the dead in their winding shrouds would not put your souls in mortal peril. Can you tell me?”

  I look to Nancy. I truly don’t know what to say. I can’t tell the truth about George.

  Seeing that I am silent, Nancy’s brown eyes spark and focus.

  “How could we mock our poor, lost dead ones?” she signs. She looks directly into his kind blue eyes. “On the night my grandmother Edith died, I received a visitation at the foot of my bed. Her lustrous glow lit the room. Before passing on, she wanted to convey a message of love to me. I was moved that she thought of reassuring me before her soul ascended.”

  Reverend Lee is fascinated by the tale.

  She continues. “Mary has been deeply troubled by her only brother’s untimely death. We thought we might find some remnant of his spirit and commune with him for comfort and peace if we dressed as he last appeared in this world. We thought Our Lord would understand our true meaning as He sees into our hearts at all times.”

  Reverend Lee pauses for a moment. His brow is knitted as he opens and closes his Bible and rubs the ribbon.

  Finally, he signs, “Well, well. I can see you have thought a great deal about your sin. I am relieved to know that you realize God observes you and divines your true intentions at all times.” He is not a fool, but he may also remember childish games, and he knows the hardship my family has faced.

  “I believe you do fully comprehend your sins,” he signs. “If you agree never again to call to the dead on land the Church has not consecrated, we can let the matter rest.”

  We nod somberly and cross our hearts.

  As Reverend Lee traverses the room to talk with our mothers, I turn to Nancy so no one else sees my words. “You didn’t tell my secret.”

  “That would have been cruel,” she signs. “Though I don’t like you taking the Indians’ side against me.”

  I look at Nancy. She’s sullen but not bitter.

  “Are we still friends?” I ask.

  “I have no other choice,” she signs. “I certainly don’t want to fall in line behind Sarah Hillman the way Carrie does.” Do I detect a twinkle in her eye?

  “I need your help,” I tell her. “I want to know what Andrew Noble is up to.”

  Nancy nods and rubs her chin. “Spying?” she asks hopefully.

  I sign, “There may be no other way.”

  A few days later, Papa tells me that Andrew Noble has taken a census of the different towns on the island. After officially counting people on Martha’s Vineyard, Andrew has decided to focus on Chilmark. We have the highest number of deaf residents. I hadn’t noticed that before. He concluded that one in four residents of Chilmark is deaf compared with one in six thousand on the mainland. You might have knocked me down with a feather! Are we that far apart? There is only a small strip of Atlantic Ocean between us.

  Papa also told me that Andrew has been collecting soil from our land and water samples from our wells. What does he plan to do with his findings? What will happen to our island if he does find the source of our deafness? I imagine our shores overrun by observers, stomping through our farmlands and asking impertinent questions. Caravans of explorers will arrive to visit the land of the deaf! We have no leopard skins or ivory tusks. What trophies will they tak
e away with them?

  But isn’t that what the first white settlers did to the Wampanoag? Reverend Lee reminded us in a sermon that earliest contact resulted in Wampanoag men being captured and sold as slaves in Spain. I feel less impressed by our forefathers, even as I cherish our island.

  I meet Nancy on the high road near the parsonage at our agreed time. She looks at me and frowns, raising her eyebrows and snapping the fingers of both hands, the way a hearing person might cluck their tongue. “Your frock,” she signs.

  “What’s wrong with it?” I counter, smoothing my hands over my skirt.

  “It’s too bright,” she chastises. “Don’t you know anything about spying? You have to merge with the landscape.”

  I grab the edges of my cloak and pull them tightly around me. I have no choice but to wear all my winter garb on this frosty day. “I’ll just keep myself hidden,” I tell her. She looks unconvinced.

  On our hands and knees, we duck behind the stone wall and wait. Mama will sigh when she sees the dirt on my clothing. Though I’ve been this way all my life, she has never grown used to it.

  As we hoped, Andrew Noble exits the parsonage and, paying us no mind, strides confidently down the high road, carrying his black satchel. Nancy raises her eyebrows at me again and signs, “Bag?”

  “His equipment,” I reply. I am sad for a moment, thinking of George; he collected things in his pockets and brought them home to examine on the kitchen table. In Andrew Noble, I see what he could have been: professional, scientific. But never as ill-mannered.

  “He is interested in facts!” Nancy exclaims, and we both snicker.

  We crawl along for a little way, Nancy peeking her curly head up over the wall every now and again to track him. I tell myself I will not make light of Nancy’s spying efforts in the future.

  Andrew Noble stops on the other side of the road, placing his satchel on the stone wall. He takes out a small shovel and a phial. He digs up dirt and puts it into a glass jar.

  We watch him do this at different locations, each time placing the glass jar in his bag. But when he uses a paring knife to take a sample of the bark of an apple tree, Nancy is so indignant at the defilement, I have to grab her and hold her back.

  In the distance, I see Andrew’s schooner against the bright autumn sky and gray sea. Has he really been in Chilmark less than a week?

  Nancy stops suddenly and points. Ezra Brewer is standing in the road smoking his pipe. Nancy turns to me. “Perfect,” she signs. “Let’s go stand with Ezra Brewer. Sometimes the best spying can be done right in plain sight. Keep your eyes open.”

  Ezra Brewer is watching with open curiosity as Andrew takes samples of the sand and soil. He removes his pipe, shakes his head, and puffs out his lips, like a horse snorting.

  When we join him, I rub my fingers together, making our sign for “dirt.” “Do we eat it?” I ask Nancy. “You walk on it the same as me and Papa and Ezra Brewer, and yet you hear.”

  Ezra Brewer rolls his eyes. “That man might as well investigate whether the Archangel Gabriel blows a deafening trumpet into the ears of selected infants on the Vineyard.”

  I giggle. Ezra Brewer blows an imaginary trumpet into the air, and Nancy jumps, scowling slightly. She is frightened of him, whether she would admit it or not. I fear Andrew heard the discordant sound. Hopefully, he’ll think we are playing a game, rather than watching him.

  As the three of us continue to follow him, we sometimes mimic his movements. He stoops to dig clay out of the ground and put it in a bucket. The ground is still wet from Sunday’s rain and makes his breeches muddy.

  His strides are long. When he slows, we talk together, pretending he is not our main concern. I think Ezra Brewer enjoys the game. I fear that Andrew will turn around and confront us. How could I explain, without seeming like a fool? I’m sure he’d tell Mama I was acting rude and childish.

  Rounding a bend, there are a handful of people who make us less conspicuous.

  Andrew approaches the reverend’s sister-in-law, Mrs. Lee, who is signing in the road with Mrs. Butler. Mrs. Lee seems to recognize him a moment too late to escape. She tries to avoid him, but he is already saying something to her, removing his hat in greeting.

  Mrs. Lee is hearing. I am inclined to believe that at that moment she wished she wasn’t. Mrs. Butler has turned away with a sour look on her face.

  Nancy edges forward and molds herself to a tree so she can interpret for us. Ezra Brewer and I pretend to sign a conversation while eyeing Nancy’s interpretation.

  Mrs. Lee’s youngest son, Ben, is stomping in a puddle.

  Nancy signs, “He is asking her if the child is hearing …”

  Suddenly, Mrs. Lee looks as if she might smack Andrew Noble! What has he said? I look to Nancy, whose cheeks are coloring deeply. “He asked her if her stays were of a severe tightness while she was with child,” Nancy explains, and Ezra Brewer howls with laughter till he chokes on the smoke from his pipe.

  When Mrs. Lee and Andrew Noble turn to look at Ezra Brewer, Nancy signals me to run with her behind a bush.

  “Why are we hiding?” I sign. “He already saw us.”

  “Exactly. He won’t expect us to follow him. It’s the perfect cover. This way we can see what he does next. He probably thinks we just went on our way,” she replies.

  We peek out from behind the bush. She’s right. Andrew is continuing up the high road. What is he up to now?

  We squat behind an oxcart until it turns down a lane. We walk quietly and keep a safe distance. When Andrew stops and turns around, we jump on the stone wall and climb the nearest apple tree. It has dropped its leaves, but the branches are thick and tall. Hopefully, we are merging, like good spies.

  I go first and startle when I spot someone sitting on a branch above me. It is Sally Richards!

  Her hair is tucked under a mobcap. She wears a brown patterned dress that is too large for her. I recognize it as one of Nancy’s old ones. Mrs. Skiffe will only have a Wampanoag girl working under her roof if she looks like a proper English girl.

  For a moment, I panic. If Sally is neglecting her duties at the Skiffe household, Nancy will become belligerent. Nancy is now by my side, and she sees Sally. When their eyes meet, they seem neither friends nor enemies.

  On the high road, Andrew turns around and comes toward us, stopping under a nearby tree.

  We all remain still.

  If he looks up, we have been stealthy for naught.

  Nancy faces Sally and puts her finger on her lips. Sally nods.

  “I’ve been watching the two of you,” Sally signs.

  “We’ve been following him,” I admit.

  Nancy scowls at my disclosure.

  “Why?” Sally asks.

  “I distrust him,” I sign, opening my fist like I am throwing a stone.

  Sally nods and signs, “A person comes, rowing a mishoon or canoe, uninvited. He scouts the land and takes things that don’t belong to him.”

  “Meaning what?” Nancy signs, with a twisted look on her face. I suppose she feels her father is being attacked for his claim on Wampanoag land.

  Sally points at Andrew. Nancy huffs.

  I’m glad I am sitting in the middle. To ease tension, I sign, “What is he doing?”

  We can see only the top of Andrew’s head. He seems to be taking another sample from the ground.

  “Dung beetles?” Sally guesses.

  “Or dung,” Nancy signs. It is a sign not used in polite conversation.

  The three of us struggle not to burst out laughing.

  Just when we cannot hold our breath a moment longer, Andrew picks up his satchel and walks back up the high road with a steady stride.

  We climb down. Nancy is still sulky.

  “I must return home,” she announces.

  “Me too,” I sign. “Thanks for your help. I’ll keep you apprised of further developments.”

  She softens a bit and walks up the high road.

  “Are you going to see your pa
pa at our farm?” I ask Sally.

  She nods. I suggest we walk together. Sally hesitates, then agrees.

  Even a year ago, I would not be seen walking with her. But if Papa doesn’t treat Thomas differently from other men, why should I treat Sally differently from other girls?

  I ask her, “What were you doing up in the tree?”

  “I need a private place sometimes,” she explains.

  I take up a birch stick as we walk. After we pass the Hillman house, I stoop to look at a fallen bird’s nest, turning it over with the stick. There are still bits of shell in the dried twigs from when the nestlings hatched. They have probably already flown away for the winter.

  Sally crouches to see what I’m seeing. “Spotted sandpiper.” She identifies the species by finger-spelling. She also pays careful attention to small, discarded things. That makes her a different kind of companion than Nancy.

  Mr. Butler is standing on the stone wall with his spyglass as we pass. He doesn’t address me, and I ignore his disapproving glare. I hope Sally doesn’t see it.

  “Have you entered Bayard’s paddock again?” I ask her.

  “I have,” she signs, smiling. “And he took the new salt lick I gave him.”

  “But aren’t you afraid of him?” I sign.

  We stop to watch a black-crowned heron swoop down to snatch a herring from an icy brook.

  “No,” Sally signs hesitantly. “He’s a good horse. He’s just wounded. He’s lost his young master.”

  “George,” I sign, and lower my hands.

  “I have a plan to put Bayard at ease again,” Sally signs. “I’m trying to talk Papa into bringing two horses from Aquinnah. We will run Bayard between the good horses until he learns from them.”

  “Oh, I’d like to see that!” I tell her.

  “Maybe one day,” she signs dreamily.

  When we approach the pastures, I wave to the sheep. They reciprocate by chewing their wheat straw and staring blankly at me. I spell “baa” on my fingers. Sally smiles at my jest.

  A shyness comes over us. I am embarrassed that I cannot invite Sally to tea with me and Mama. Will there ever be a time when we can be true friends?