Show Me a Sign Page 8

  I look to Papa to add more reason to the discussion. He appears calm, but I sense his strength rising under the surface. Still, I know he will not contradict Mama in front of guests.

  Andrew says, “That is a problem, madam. The Commonwealth of Massachusetts has often acted as too permissive a father to his Wampanoag children. I hope they will make sure no group abuses their special privileges.”

  Mama offers second helpings, and we finish the meal in silence. When everyone is done eating, Mr. Pye and Miss Hammond stand up to leave, making excuses about having to check in on a sick relative.

  My dear schoolteacher gives me a hug and signs, “I pray for the well-being of your family.”

  Andrew also excuses himself. While putting on his coat, he thanks Mama for her hospitality, then kisses her hand and begins his walk back to the parsonage.

  For the first time, I wonder, Does being deaf determine my worth? Will deafness ever disappear from the world? Are there really perfect men?

  After I help clean up and say good night, I start to climb the stairs, then stop. I slowly creep back, trying to make my footfalls as quiet as possible. I can feel stomping. I know Mama and Papa are not happy with each other. They never wanted George or me to witness their conflicts. Are they angry with me since I’m the one who started it by prompting Andrew’s foul behavior at dinner?

  Mama and Papa face each other in the kitchen.

  I stand to one side of the doorway. Mama signs at him furiously.

  The kitchen is dark save for the fireplace and the candles left on the table from supper. Their signing hands cast long shadows on the wall. I catch parts of their conversation.

  “So embarrassed …,” Mama signs. “You don’t care how I feel.”

  “Listen …,” Papa signs, “Andrew Noble has insulted too many people, too many of our neighbors. And you calling innocent children ‘mongrels.’ What’s come over you? I will not welcome him into our home again. Mary need never have known that the deaf are treated as less than human on the mainland. I have been soft with you. Now I must be strong for our family.”

  “Our family? Our family! You want to talk about our family? You don’t understand …,” she signs. “Without George we have no family … I would have died for him …”

  I am frozen in my place.

  “Stop,” Papa signs, raising his palm.

  Mama signs, “I won’t stop … You didn’t love George as I did … You didn’t …”

  “Not true,” Papa signs. “I grieve differently from you.”

  “What do you know of grief?” Mama asks cruelly.

  Papa reaches for her, but she pulls away.

  “You are not alone,” Papa signs. “Be reasonable. You have me and Mary.”

  I hold my breath, terrified of what will come next.

  “Mary was jealous of her brother … of how much he meant to me.”

  “No.” Papa shakes his head.

  My heart is breaking.

  “Stop,” Papa tells her firmly. “Stop. This is not only your pain.”

  Mama collapses onto the floor.

  Silent.

  Sobbing.

  Papa bends down to hold her. She pushes him away. But he won’t leave her side. When at last she stops fighting him, he cradles her in his arms.

  I should go up to my room. But I can’t.

  I walk slowly toward Mama and Papa. I count ten steps, but it feels like a thousand.

  When Papa helps Mama off the ground and into a chair, they see me. Mama’s face is swollen from crying.

  “I know,” I sign, “I am not special like George … I know you loved him more … but I was never jealous … I was proud …” My words come out in stutters. “Memories … his death … I cannot escape … It was my fault he was in the road … Just a stupid game … I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry …”

  Mama looks at me like she’s seeing me for the first time in nine months. I cannot read the expression on her face. It seems a mixture of anger, confusion, and, I hope, love. I raise my hands to beg forgiveness, but I can’t make words. I wish she could feel my heart and see the pain inside me.

  Through my tears, I see Papa is looking at Mama. Still by her side. Waiting.

  “I need time to think” is all Mama signs.

  Papa touches Mama’s shoulder, then lifts me in his arms and carries me upstairs. He helps me off with my gown and shoes. He puts me on my bed and covers me with a blanket.

  “I knew, in my own way,” he signs. “I saw my two children run out of the barn together. You were punishing yourself enough. Accidents happen. We can’t always make sense of them.”

  I look downward. Papa takes my chin in his hand.

  “She will see reason. Each of us has been blaming ourselves. I know you won’t understand that now.”

  I manage to shake my head.

  “Sleep,” he signs, putting his hands under his head like a pillow.

  He feels the question inside of me.

  “Take care Mama,” he signs. “Talk to Reverend Lee about Andrew Noble. Don’t worry. It will be fine.”

  I can’t imagine my family will ever be fine, but I want to believe Papa.

  I fear the night, with its shadows and dreams.

  I fear the morning, facing Mama in the light.

  I pace back and forth in my bedroom. I feel the cold floorboards under the soles of my feet and stop to stare into the looking glass Grandmother Lila gave me. My hair is no longer the color of sunlight, and my hazel eyes look gray. Everything has dimmed.

  I try to speak. My mouth twists up into a grimace, and my tongue flaps. It hurts my jaw to try to say words correctly. I squeeze hot tears out of my eyes. In the dream world, I have forgotten sign language. I can’t scream, and I can’t signal for help.

  I awake suddenly, lying on my back. I pull my hands out from under my bedcovers. I wipe tears from my eyes and cheeks on a corner of the blanket. I lift my hands in the air, to make sure I have regained my ability to sign.

  I sign my name, and a few words, like “house,” “eat,” “cat,” and “wind.”

  My bedroom is near dark. From the color of the light, I guess the dawn will not come for another half an hour. I am not ready to encounter Mama. Will she yell at me with words I cannot understand? Will she turn her back and refuse to read my signs?

  I quickly splash yesterday’s water on my face, fasten stays over my shift, and dress in my gown, stockings, and shoes. I go downstairs as quietly as I can. I look to the back of the house. The light from the kitchen hearth has the dimness of night upon it. No one has gotten up to feed the fire.

  As soon as I enter the yard, I see bright flashes from the Gay Head Light to the west. I picture the keeper igniting the spider lamp inside the tower’s lighting room. I imagine him and me as lonely twins.

  The barn doors aren’t open. No sheep huddle by the stone wall. Though I catch sight of Bayard, running through the yard. How did he get loose? Why is he running in circles? Will Thomas or Eamon come tend to him? I know I can’t contain him, so I continue my walk up the high road. I try to put last night out of my mind by creating a new story.

  A fairy lived in a garden. She was so small she slept in a rose and collected its dew to drink. One day, a fly came to her rose and wanted to live in the crimson flower with her. She was not a selfish fairy, so she agreed to share the rose with the fly.

  Soon the petals of the rose began to fall off. The fly didn’t mind. He darted in and out of the rose with other flies. But the fairy became sick. She had to find another place to live. It was nearly winter, and the other flowers were freezing and dying on the vine. What could the fairy do?

  I am startled out of my reverie when I see Andrew walking ahead of me, black satchel and carpet bag in hand. He is walking with a steady stride. His shoulders are bunched up. What reason does he have to be outside at this early hour?

  Is he leaving? Good riddance!

  As I watch him fade ahead, I remember George’s book with my map of memo
ries inside of it! Has Andrew absconded with it?

  He turns off the high road. He must be heading for his schooner. I quicken my pace to catch up to him.

  I trip over some rocks in the lane. Andrew turns around. He shouts at me and waves me away.

  I walk closer to him. I start to sign, asking him about the book. I make the sign for “book,” again and again. I put my hands together and repeatedly open and close them, hoping to get through to him.

  It is an obvious sign; anyone who cares would guess its meaning. He puts down his bags and flaps his hands to mock my language.

  “Never come back!” I sign to him. “Everything that comes from you is ugly.” Even without knowing the words, it’s obvious I’m not signing a friendly farewell.

  Andrew speaks to me rapidly. His face in a cold rage, he laughs a mirthless laugh. Is he making fun of the fact that I can’t understand his harsh speech?

  The dawn is coming. I must return home before Mama and Papa find me missing. But not without my map.

  I head toward the black satchel on the ground. I work the latch to open it. I quickly take out the samples in phials and notes on top. Some of them blow away. Furiously, Andrew chases the papers as I dig deeper for the book.

  Before I find it, he strikes my hand and snatches the bag. He is still talking at me.

  I pick up my pace on the lane to the high road, but I can feel Andrew follow me. What is he doing?

  I look back. He stops when I stop. When I walk faster, so does he. Is he aiming to frighten me, or does he mean me harm?

  Fortunately, Ezra Brewer’s house is nearby. I’ll climb through the window. I’ll rouse him if he’s not already awake. He has a musket and a Flintlock gun. He will not hesitate to offer me protection.

  I break into a run. Andrew surprises me by giving chase.

  Wet sand slows my pace. My shoes stick, the ground sucking at them. I feel as if I am trying to run through water.

  I can see Ezra Brewer’s house in the distance, smoke coming from the chimney. He is awake! Is he in his wicker chair? I raise my arms, waving wildly, hoping against hope that he spies me. My heart is pounding in my throat.

  Andrew’s long legs carry him quickly.

  The sun is rising. It distracts me for a moment. I trip and fall on my stomach. I bite my lip as my chin hits the ground, bloodying my mouth and rattling my whole head.

  I scrabble in the sand, trying to push myself up. It sticks in my fingernails and slips under my feet as I try to get my legs under me once more.

  Andrew is upon me. He grabs my hair and drags me backward across the sand toward his boat. My head feels like it’s on fire. I struggle and kick, making it as difficult as possible for him to keep hold of me.

  He is puffing hard. When he pauses to catch his breath, I reach up and scratch his hands with my sandy fingernails. He lets go of my hair, though some of it remains tangled in his fingers, and spits words from his lips.

  I get up and find one last burst of energy in my legs. I run. I am close enough that I can see the lobster traps stacked ramshackle beside Ezra Brewer’s shack and smell the wood smoke from his stove. I am nearly there when Andrew jumps on my back and takes me down with a thump. I scream. He puts his hand over my mouth. I try to bite him, but he avoids my teeth. I kick him as hard as my aching legs can manage, but it’s no use.

  He drags me to my feet with a grip so tight, I cannot extract myself. He pulls and pulls. I feel like he will tear me apart. I whip back and forth, trying to break free.

  When we reach his bags, he stops. I am in too much pain to continue to fight.

  With one hand, he removes the handkerchief from his breast pocket and a bottle from his satchel. He frees the cork with his teeth, soaking the handkerchief with its contents. He places it over my nose and mouth. What is it? I hold my breath for as long as I can. I do not want to breathe in whatever unction it is. But I am winded from the chase and need air.

  I see gulls whirling above me. I see faded colors. I see foggy shapes. I feel like I am soaked to the skin from a rainstorm. I feel too heavy to resist anymore.

  I awake with my feet and hands tied together. The world around me slowly comes into focus. I see sails. Andrew Noble is standing over me. He looks calm as he navigates his schooner.

  I have been tossed among the ship’s tackle on deck. I gasp for breath and try to sit up.

  I have never felt so helpless. I cannot even ask a question. He took my voice when he tied my hands.

  I am freezing cold, my face chapped by the wind and sea spray. My mouth is as dry as an old rag. I open it and make a loud grunt and a whining noise. I sometimes do that if I am feeling ill in my bed so Mama will come up to check on me. Andrew Noble ignores me.

  I grunt more and point with my chin to a jug by his feet. He lets go of the Defiance’s wheel, opens the jug, and holds it to my lips. He talks at me with a sour face, then quickly snatches away the jug.

  He drags me across the deck, splintering an exposed foot, and shoves me down below to a small cabin, which is nearly bare. There he unties me and locks the door. I shake the latch vigorously, but it won’t open.

  I pound on the door, again and again, until my knuckles are bloody. I lay my head against it, breathing heavily. I try to whine, pushing air out of my mouth. I can’t do it. I try again, holding my fingers to my vocal cords to see if I can muster a sound loud enough to call for his attention. I work it up from my stomach into my chest into my mouth till it’s an animal cry.

  Andrew quickly opens the door. Upon seeing that I am in the state he left me, he sneers. He is carrying a bucket of water. I make the sign for “paper” and “writing.” He tilts his head back in scorn and pours half the bucket on the floor. He laughs when I fall down to reach for it as it spills away.

  I rinse the blood from my hands and my lip where it is swollen from our fight on the beach. I rub my wrists where they were tied. My hands, once filled with stories and conversation, are swollen and wordless.

  I sit and close my eyes, trying to imagine myself anywhere but in Andrew’s hold. I picture the stone wall along the high road in Chilmark, a familiar, solid path I know well. It helps to slow my tremors.

  What are Andrew’s intentions?

  It would have been easy to kill me on the beach. He could have slipped me under the waves while I was unconscious. Why didn’t he?

  Then I remember some of the letter I read when I sneaked into the parsonage.

  Bring back samples and acquire a live specimen.

  I take mental stock of the items Andrew took from the Vineyard. There are several wax-sealed jars of well water, samples of Chilmark soil, clay, bark, and dung in bottles and phials. Does he have the genealogy Ezra Brewer wrote for him or the interviews with willing residents? And he took me. I am the live specimen!

  My mind races with frightful ideas and questions.

  Is he taking me to an asylum? What will they do to me? Will Andrew experiment on me?

  Will I ever see my island again?

  I remove my cloak and lay it over the stains on the hammock. Lying on it, I sob. My body spasms, and I dry heave.

  I cast my mind back to my last night at home. I imagine Mama and Papa consoling each other before falling asleep in each other’s arms. I see them climbing the stairs to my bedroom when I didn’t come down for breakfast. When they found my bedroom empty, did they search the barn and outbuildings? Did they run through the pasture? Did they hitch the cart and ride to Ezra Brewer’s and the Skiffe house? Did they notice Andrew’s schooner gone from the beach?

  How will they ever find me?

  Other thoughts creep in. I remember Mama’s expression when I confessed my part in George’s death. Does she forgive me now, or is she glad I’m gone? Papa knew. He’d guessed. Why didn’t he talk to me and relieve my burden?

  I cannot get away from my thoughts.

  I try to focus on the moon glow that filters through the portal. It gives no warmth. A sea shanty Ezra Brewer taught me comes to mind. I
slowly sign what I remember, feeling coming back into my hands.

  Oh, have you heard the news, me Johnny?

  One more day

  We’re homeward bound tomorrow

  One more day

  Only one more day, me Johnny

  One more day …

  How many days and nights will go on like this? Will I ever again be homeward bound?

  By my count, ten days pass. I mark each day with a corn kernel from a sack of meal, with weevils, that I found in the corner.

  Andrew shares his porridge. I try to sleep, often clutching my stomach. I cannot be sure if I have sea sickness or food poisoning. I feel I have lost weight. I empty my chamber pot out the portal, but sometimes the wind blows it back in. The room reeks like an unkempt stable. I struggle to keep my wits, let alone retain the bearing of a young lady.

  Andrew brings me cold seawater to wash with, separate from the murky jug of drinking water. It stings against my cuts and bruises. What hurts worse is that he doesn’t see me as someone created in the Almighty’s image. I am a specimen, not a person. He never took an interest in island sign language, just our “infirmity.” He could write to me, break my solitude with conversation, but he won’t lower himself.

  To comfort myself, I try to make up a new story about a girl walking in a thick fog, looking for her lost dog. She calls to him with a long whistle, but he is wounded and barking. How will she ever find him?

  I am too sad to finish.

  Please Lord, never let me forget Reverend Lee’s sympathy and the admiration that Miss Hammond showed me.

  On the eleventh day, Andrew unlocks my door. Scowling, he passes me a handwritten note in neat script.

  I look up at Andrew and shake my head. With his jaw set firmly, he points a long index finger at the letter. He wants me to continue reading.

  My heart sinks. I nod to show Andrew I agree to his terms. But behind my back, I cross my fingers.

  He hands me a jug of clean water and indicates that I should wash my face and hands. I must clean off the dried blood, but I can hardly bear to pour water over my bluish skin. Andrew stands and waits. I dust off my cloak, untangle my hair with my fingers as best I can, and straighten my hat.