Show Me a Sign Page 7

  Sally waves while she walks toward the barn. I wave too and head for home.

  The kitchen is warm and bright from a blazing fire. Papa is relaxing by the hearth with his pipe, reading the Farmer’s Almanac. I am startled to see Andrew Noble sitting at the table, talking rapidly at Mama. Why has he returned?

  Mama looks up when she sees me. Her eyes shine bright. She looks different. More hopeful, perhaps?

  “You’re home sooner than I thought,” Mama signs and speaks at the same time. She is speaking for Andrew’s benefit. This makes her signs more like spoken English and less like our special language.

  Before I can respond, Mama turns to Andrew and speaks without signing. I groan inwardly. What is she saying?

  After I hang up my cloak, I go over to Papa. I sit on the arm of his chair and lean on him. I read the Almanac over his shoulder. We are silent together.

  Mama and Andrew go into George’s bedroom. He comes out, arms filled with books.

  “Those belong to my brother,” I sign.

  Mama doesn’t interpret for Andrew.

  She signs, “To aid him in his research. He will return them.”

  I look to Papa, who frowns but does nothing. I am fuming inside. Why is Mama helping Andrew? Why is she giving this stranger a piece of George? As Andrew departs, it occurs to me that he probably took the local geography book with the map of memories inside it.

  If so, I will have to retrieve it.

  The temperature is dropping. Winter is approaching. In a week, it will be the last month of this painful year.

  Andrew brought Mama an amber-tinted piece of sea glass to thank her for the books. She added it to her collection on the kitchen windowsill. He explained that it can take from seven to ten years of wave tumbling to make it. She was impressed. I told her this when I learned it from Miss Hammond. Does Mama not remember? Why is he trying so hard to endear himself to her?

  After the monotony of sweeping, Mama asks me to polish the pewter. This is usually only done on special occasions. My plan to retrieve the map makes me too nervous to inquire. Mama is spirited as she does her chores. In the short time since Andrew’s arrival, I see a change in her.

  Around noon, I am released from my chores. Though no one is there to see me, I tiptoe along the road and keep close to the bushes, occasionally ducking into their scratchy branches. I am being extra cautious without Nancy to guide me.

  The parsonage is one of the oldest buildings on the island. Its gray clapboard has been whitewashed and built upon over the years. It sits about halfway between our farm and the Meeting House on a parcel of land that borders the Lees’ modest family farm. I have been here before. Mama used to take tea with Reverend Lee and sometimes brought me along.

  Reverend Lee must be out visiting because his trap is not here. I see Andrew walking down-island with purposeful strides. I try to merge with the side of the parsonage and discreetly look out.

  Carrie’s grandmother, the Widow Tilton, helps Reverend Lee keep house. I try to quiet my breathing and hope my stomach doesn’t growl because she is hearing. Deaf people can easily make sounds without ever realizing it. George sometimes made teasing remarks about it.

  Cautiously, I peek through the kitchen window. Mrs. Tilton is stoking the fire.

  I’m certain Nancy would tell me to climb through the window. Instead, I head to the front door at the other end of the house. My heart quickens and my hands sweat as I slowly open it a crack and peek in. Seeing no one, I slip through, carefully latching the door behind me. I stretch my legs from rug to rug as I move down the hall, avoiding footfalls on the wooden floor.

  I thought I would remember where things are, but my panic is disorienting me. I clasp my hands to keep them still and look toward the kitchen for Widow Tilton.

  She is now in the yard fetching water. At the back of the house, a door to the right of the kitchen is ajar. Maybe it’s the guest room? I rush toward it and sneak inside before gently closing the door. I rest against it, my chest rising and falling as I try to still my frantic breathing. Spying is much more taxing than I realized.

  The light from the window is thin and gray as it filters through the glass. Freshly cleaned socks hang from the sill. They have been darned many times, and there is the faint smell of old wool in the air. A pair of simple britches is folded over the back of a chair at the desk, and I feel scandalous even looking at them.

  On the desk is a curious white object, stiff in stature, sitting in a ring. A clergy collar! I am mortified to realize that I am standing in Reverend Lee’s bedroom.

  There are few other personal objects. The bed is too small for his long frame. No wonder he stoops. I will have to forget all this when I next see him standing at the pulpit.

  I put my hands on the door to feel vibrations. Nothing but quiet. I exit and peek out a window. Widow Tilton is talking with Mrs. Lee.

  Stealthily, I cross to a room on the other side of the house.

  The bedstead is larger than Reverend Lee’s, with a golden cross nailed to the wall above the headboard. A simple washstand with a mirror sits in the corner. The scent from a fancy bottle of hair tonic tickles my nose.

  I recognize some of George’s books on the floor by the side of the bed. The geography book with the map of memories tucked inside is not among them. But under the window is a desk crowded with more books, jars of samples, and assorted papers. I sift through the meticulous stacks.

  I see Ezra Brewer’s genealogy, drawings, and columns of numbers that I cannot decipher, but no geography book. Does Andrew have it on his person? Did he discover my map? Why did Mama have to give him that book?

  I almost rip off the bedsheets to look for it. Tears fill my eyes, and I breathe heavily. I pray for strength before I go on. Maybe the map is no longer in the book. I turn back to the stacks of papers to look for it and unearth an envelope with a return address in Boston. I slip a letter out of the envelope.

  I feel vibrations through the wood floor. What will I say if I am suddenly caught? I have sinned too often lately to keep making up lies.

  I swing around. There is no one there.

  The vibrations must be my own heart beating in my chest.

  “Cowardly spy!” I sign to myself.

  Widow Tilton and Mrs. Lee will not stay out in the cold for long, so I must hurry.

  I take up the letter and read:

  Again I feel the floor vibrate. I peer out the door and see Widow Tilton’s shadow in the kitchen. She is at the basin washing dishes.

  I scold myself for not making a clear picture in my head before I moved things and do my best to replace everything where I found it. I slip out of the bedroom while the Widow Tilton’s back is to me.

  I hold my breath and press myself up against the wall. It confounds me that hearing people can detect the slightest sound. Widow Tilton turns and looks toward the door. Not seeing anything, she shakes her head and returns to her washing. I take my chance and dash out.

  I am careful not to slam the door behind me.

  Walking home, I think about the letter. Who wrote it? There are other ignorant people who think as Andrew does?

  Sarah Hillman runs out to greet me when I pass her house. Carrie Tilton trails behind her. It gives me a start seeing her after I have just evaded her grandmother.

  “You are so lucky to have that young man calling at your home,” Sarah signs. I detect a glimmer in her apple-green eyes.

  “Why do you say that?” I ask.

  “Don’t be a silly girl,” Sarah signs, acting older than her twelve years. “He’s very handsome, with those piercing blue eyes. He isn’t a simple island farmer or whaler. He’s from the city, and he attended Yale University, even if he didn’t finish his studies.”

  “I don’t see it like that,” I tell her.

  “Oh, you can’t fool me,” Sarah signs, resting her hand under her tilted chin.

  Carrie casts me a sympathetic glance.

  “Andrew is ten years older than I,” I sign.
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br />   Sarah gives me a knowing look, twisting her red curls around her fingers.

  “That won’t matter when you are eighteen and he is twenty-eight,” she signs. “And with your brother gone, your father needs a son to inherit his property. My mother says it’s obvious why your family had him over for dinner and has taken an interest in him.”

  “Not because of me!” I sign.

  “Don’t play coy with me, Mary Lambert,” she signs aggressively. “Everyone is talking about it.”

  “You stop gossiping about my family!” I sign.

  I walk away without a single courtesy. I don’t have time for such silliness.

  On my way home, I think more about the letter. What is a live specimen?

  Behind the barn, Thomas is sweeping out the sheep shelters and putting in fresh wheat straw. The flock can abide snow but need blocking from the winter winds.

  I am still brooding over the missing map and not ready to go inside. I walk over to him. “I saw Sally last week,” I tell him.

  “She said so,” he signs.

  “She told me a story,” I sign, “about a man who came to the island uninvited, conducted a survey, and took things that didn’t belong to him.”

  He stops working and focuses his attention on me.

  “Stories can be interpreted in many different ways,” he signs.

  “I have heard some arguments about land disputes,” I sign. “That our fathers took land that didn’t belong to us.”

  He stops and rubs his chin thoughtfully.

  “As far as I am concerned,” he tells me, “there have never been any real disputes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Missionaries and English settlers have made land claims up and down Noepe,” Thomas signs confidently. “It remains a Wampanoag island. In truth, no one can truly buy or sell this land. It belongs to a far greater Being.”

  “You mean your god, Moshup?” I ask.

  “I shouldn’t call him a god but rather our greatest ancestor,” Thomas signs. “He, not the Church or the Commonwealth, is the only one who gave us a deed to the island. He taught us to be partners with it in respectful stewardship.”

  “I follow Christian beliefs,” I tell him.

  “All beliefs are important to the believers,” he signs.

  “Do you think my family should leave?” I ask Thomas.

  “That will not happen,” he signs. “We are willing to share. But that doesn’t mean you can lay claim to land that was granted to us, or that an honest woman can be falsely accused.”

  “I told the truth about the sheets,” I sign. “I am truly sorry for the part I played in Helen’s persecution.”

  “It was good of you to speak the truth,” he tells me. “Just as it was honorable for your father to testify that when I scuffled with an Englishman, it was in self-defense.”

  “Why does it matter that we are English or Irish or Wampanoag?” I ask him. “We are all Americans now.”

  “I think you know it’s not as simple as that,” Thomas signs.

  Do I? It’s hard to reckon it out in my mind. Sam paws at my leg.

  Thomas points toward my house. Mr. Pye’s carriage is outside.

  I leave Thomas to his work. Sam follows me to the house. Before going inside, I command him to “sit” and give him a good scratch on the rump. His undercoat has grown for the winter, so he is big and bushy. I know he wants to sleep by the fire, but he must sleep in the barn to help keep predators at bay.

  When I enter the kitchen, I see that Andrew and Miss Hammond are here too. The hearth is not just well-cleaned and the table well-laid with silver, but festive red candles are aglow, and fresh pine boughs crackle in the fire. Mama instructs me to pour ale for Papa, Andrew, and Mr. Pye in pewter mugs from the cupboard. Will wonders never cease?

  There is much fussing over the beautiful preparations as we take our seats. Mama has a right to look proud.

  Although it is not my place to ask questions at supper with grown folks, I see this as my chance.

  “Mama,” I sign, “would you interpret for me? I have a question to ask Andrew.”

  She looks to Papa, who nods. Andrew is looking at us. No one is interpreting. Mama nods as well.

  “I’ve been watching you conduct your experiments,” I tell him.

  He guzzles his ale, then wryly replies, with a piercing look, “I have noticed.”

  Nancy and I were not quite as covert as we had hoped.

  “Do you think a local element is causing our deafness?” I ask him.

  Andrew looks surprised.

  Miss Hammond beams with delight. I am one of her best students. Though my talent lies more in words than scientific problems.

  “That is my theory,” he responds, looking mostly at Mama. He also glances at me with interest. This is the first time we are conversing, albeit with Mama’s help. “I think the well water may have a rare impurity that causes your infirmity.”

  I cannot tell if Andrew’s speech is cordial. Would Mama interpret insults the way Reverend Lee did? Perhaps Andrew is careful not to let her see that side of him.

  “We all drink the same water.” Mr. Pye signs as fluently as he speaks. He is echoing what I said to Nancy.

  “That is true,” Andrew says. “There may be an explanation for that.”

  “Have you seen any similar cases?” Mr. Pye asks.

  “My hypothesis,” Andrew says rather loftily, “is based on Cadwallader Colden’s work on the epidemic of yellow fever. In 1743, he published essays explaining how filthy living conditions were related to high incidence of the disease in New York City.”

  Mr. Pye says, “I don’t see how that’s relevant to deafness in Chilmark. It’s not a disease, like yellow fever.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” Andrew says.

  Miss Hammond signs and speaks, “Honestly, in all my years I have not heard of any person in this town suffering and dying from the inability to hear.”

  “I agree,” Mr. Pye quickly adds. “In some ways, I have always considered my deaf neighbors luckier for the less than melodious sounds they escape. Roosters, screaming infants, and the like.”

  Papa laughs broadly. I stifle a giggle. It is common deaf humor on the island to name all the ways that the hearing are disadvantaged.

  “Very amusing, sir,” Andrew says, ignoring Papa and me, “but wouldn’t it be better if these people didn’t have to live their lives in a reduced state?”

  Papa, Mr. Pye, Miss Hammond, and I stare at Andrew. Mama seems embarrassed to have interpreted it for us but says nothing.

  I look at Papa. He is watching intently. Why does he keep quiet? Are his thoughts not appropriate for a polite supper?

  I have wondered if Papa feels powerless having his wife speak for him on important matters. There is usually a lovely balance between them. George and I could never turn them against each other in our disputes. But this intruder has tipped the scale in a way I would have never imagined.

  I sometimes feel in chats with hearing peers that it can be difficult to put in my own thoughts. They interpret whenever possible, but when they converse in a group, they look and talk only to one another. It is not mean-spirited but careless. They forget to slow down and include me. Is this what Papa is feeling?

  “Young man, I am aghast that you would make such an insulting remark under our hosts’ roof,” Mr. Pye signs and speaks.

  I want to stand up and applaud.

  “I meant no offense,” Andrew says, Mama still signing for him. “We are in the Enlightenment. The purpose of science is not only to better understand the world around us but also to improve the lot of the suffering.”

  Ever a peacemaker, Papa raises his mug in a toast: “Health good long.” Everyone follows his example, but the gathering feels strained.

  “What is the desired outcome of your experiments?” Mr. Pye asks sharply.

  “Pardon me, sir,” Andrew replies, “but I don’t understand the question.”

  Mr. P
ye signs and speaks, “If we clean our water supply and other foul living conditions, assuming there are any in Chilmark, do you mean for the deaf to disappear? Is it your opinion that deafness is a scourge to eliminate, like yellow fever?”

  “I think the healthier and more whole we are, the better,” Andrew says. “We must strive for perfection, not just in nature but among men. Anything less is a poor substitute.”

  Mama hesitates while interpreting Andrew’s last remark. “Please eat,” she replies as she quickly changes from interpreter to hostess and takes up her fork to eat after smiling at her guests.

  There is a long silence. Mama looks to Papa.

  He signs, “My wife prepared a delicious repast. My daughter is impressionable. I don’t care for these discussions at my family’s table. I don’t know what will come of your study of our island, but the Lamberts will no longer take part in it.”

  Mr. Pye and Miss Hammond are beaming. I can’t read Mama’s expression.

  “At least you all live like Christians,” Andrew says, trying to ingratiate himself again.

  “Why wouldn’t we?” Miss Hammond signs and speaks.

  “Why, madam, because you are surrounded by the savage races,” Andrew responds.

  “They are mostly Christianized,” Mr. Pye tells him.

  “Yes,” Andrew acknowledges, “the Church has done what it can.”

  “I think the Church has done quite enough,” Miss Hammond signs and speaks.

  “What I’d like to know,” Mama signs and speaks, “is what is to be done with the children of Wampanoag women and freedmen. The Wampanoag complain that we stole their land, even though we paid them for it honestly. Now that the women are giving birth to mongrels, will they still lay claim to Wampanoag land? I don’t see how they can.”

  How can Mama be so cruel? “Mongrel” is a good way to describe pups, not children. Sally is a girl just like me. Is it Andrew who brings out the worst in Mama?

  I think about what Thomas explained to me, that the Wampanoag do not place the same importance on bloodlines as we do, and that the land belongs to Moshup, who shares it with his people.