Show Me a Sign Page 9

  He gives me a hard look and points, ordering me on deck. After the darkness of my journey, I must squint into the morning sun. The freezing wind combs my still-tangled hair. My knees knock, and I long for the clean, warm blanket that Mama made me. At least the sea air smells better than my pigsty below.

  I recognize Boston Harbor from plates in George’s books. I have always dreamt of coming to see the place where the Revolution began but never like this.

  The Inner Harbor is much bigger and busier than Edgartown Harbor. There are wharfs spread out on every side. I see a forest of ships’ masts, like bare trees.

  Side to side, we are surrounded by huge trading ships. I observe men loading heavy pallets with barrels and sacks, straining to lift them with ropes and pulleys onto the dock. Miss Hammond told us that sailors travel all the way from China to sell their goods.

  I see a small monkey climbing the ropes on one ship. It has a chain on its leg. Andrew tethered me to the schooner with a rope around my right ankle as soon as he dropped anchor.

  The sailors disembarking tall ships don’t look like Ezra Brewer. They are young and thick with muscle, wearing neckerchiefs and striped shirts. They make fast business taking the sails down and unloading their various goods before they disappear in raucous groups into the city.

  Could I escape Andrew and get lost among the sailors? But what would I do from there?

  It is such a strange sight to see everyone around me flapping their lips but never raising their hands to communicate with signs.

  There is so much to look at that the details overwhelm me and make my head hurt.

  After Andrew finishes securing the schooner, he unties my ankle. In a masquerade of chivalry, he takes my hand and helps me onto the dock.

  Bostonians are bustling to and fro. Men rush around in breeches, tricorne hats, and shoes with brass buckles. Some even wear wigs.

  Mama would look plain among the Boston ladies.

  I admire their fine coats. Unlike our clothes, they are not all made from wool, cotton, and animal skins. I see many silk coats and even silk shoes, decorative hats with lots of lace and ribbons and plumes. I never could have imagined such finery.

  I see a few freedmen, but I do not see any men I recognize as Wampanoag. They may be both, like Thomas. Ezra Brewer said slave catchers are plentiful in the city, and even free blacks are kidnapped and sold. The thought sickens me.

  I am expected to carry Andrew’s carpetbag. He holds tight to his black satchel with one hand. His other hand firmly grasps my upper arm as we weave through the crowd. My eyes water, but I won’t cry out.

  Flat brick buildings line the street, tall and close together. They wear no gabled roofs or other accents; their faces are flat with many windows like glaring eyes. The cobblestones beneath my feet are worn smooth, though I still stumble in this unfamiliar place.

  We pass North Church. I recognize it from the tall white steeple, a needle that almost pierces the sky. I imagine Paul Revere telling his conspirators to hang lanterns in the steeple to warn patriots about the movement of the British Army. Miss Hammond enacted his speech: “I alarmed almost every house, until I got to Lexington.”

  The streets grow narrower, dirtier. Beggars crouch in corners under worn blankets. I think of what Andrew said about deaf people begging for alms in the street. Are some of the people I see now deaf? If they are, would they understand my signs? Maybe the deaf of the city have no language.

  Andrew seems to find them repugnant. Ezra Brewer told me that after the War for Independence, veterans who had lost limbs or were disfigured were treated as heroes. But I see no evidence that those with physical differences are respected.

  As we turn a corner, a group of sailors burst from a tavern. One of them, burly with a bald head, tosses coin money in the air and catches it. The others laugh and nod.

  Along another street, women stand in doorways. They are not elegant, like the ladies we passed at the wharf. They are dressed garishly, with too much face paint. They look at us and laugh.

  Do they think I’m Andrew Noble’s young bride? I want to call to them for help. I raise my hands to sign but quickly put them down before Andrew sees.

  We stop in front of a dingy redbrick building on a narrow backstreet. I inhale foul odors. Are chamber pots dumped in the streets? I try not to retch.

  A wooden sign swings over the doorway. It reads The High Tide Inn. Andrew lifts the heavy brass door knocker. A short, stocky woman opens the door, her face round with rheumy blue eyes and lemon-colored hair. She is not unpleasant-looking, just rough. She wipes her hands on her apron and embraces Andrew. He cringes at her touch, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

  They exchange words, with glances in my direction. I wonder in frustration what they are saying.

  I bend my knee and sign, “How do?”

  She looks me up and down and shakes her head, then leads us into the parlor and takes Andrew’s coat before she rushes off. The parlor is tidy, though the furniture is threadbare, and the curtains are sooty.

  Next to the parlor is a staircase. I wonder how many rooms are upstairs. I glimpse one young gentleman, slight of build with thin blond hair, who looks faintly respectable. He wears spectacles that slip down his nose, and his eyes narrow over the tops of the rims. I name him Mr. Squints. He almost bumps into me as he exits the parlor with a stack of books under his arm. I imagine he’s a student.

  The woman comes back carrying a tray with tea and meat stew, which she serves to Andrew. She signals me to the kitchen, and I follow.

  It is cramped and dirtier than Mama’s kitchen. The bricks are burnt black around the open hearth, and the room holds a heat that makes me sweat unpleasantly, even after the cold outside. There is no charm, not a piece of sea glass or a basket of dried flowers. Chairs are draped with laundry, and the table is piled with pots, pans, and assorted sundries. A rancid odor fills the room.

  The woman gives the stew a stir, then walks over to me. Looking me up and down, she pulls off my wool cloak and examines it. Then she takes my hands in hers and turns them over and over. She checks behind my ears and smells my person. I am rank from my travels.

  I feel invisible.

  I stare at the fire and only look up when I feel a strong vibration from the floor.

  She’s stomping her foot. She claps her hands in front of my face, then grabs my arm and leads me to the wash bin.

  “Mary need never have known that the deaf are treated as less than human on the mainland,” Papa had signed to Mama.

  Is this how the world is outside of Chilmark? Is that why he doesn’t like to travel off-island? Is it the reason Ezra Brewer mocks people and their morals? Have I been living on a cloud for eleven years? I look at the landlady as she talks at me. It’s like I’m gazing into a looking glass and believing that the reversed reflection is the truth. I don’t know what she wants.

  Slam! My neck suddenly twists, and my head swerves to the left.

  The landlady hit my right ear with the palm of her hand. I have heard of adults boxing children’s ears. It creates a painful sensation, maybe even a ringing in my head, which is the closest I’ve come to hearing.

  I put my hands on my knees and take deep breaths, then totter and stand up.

  Grandmother Harmony, who became hard of hearing in her dotage, was able to read words on people’s lips. When I was little, I tried it but found it impossible. I think I must attempt it again. If I can recognize even a handful of words, perhaps she will not be so rough with me.

  Finally, the landlady makes motions like she’s washing the dishes, points at me, and then to a stack of dishes. The way the scraps are stuck to them, I’d say they’ve been there for a few days. I wash them with a stained cloth in a bin of dingy, lukewarm water. When I finish drying them on a greasy apron, I am given a hard biscuit, which I sop in some of the lard left in the bottom of the kettle. I am not offered a seat, so I stand while I eat.

  When I am done eating, the landlady takes me by the arm and le
ads me down a spiral staircase and through a narrow hallway. She stops, gives me the candle she was carrying, and gestures for me to go into a small room with a bed, a washstand, and a worn rug of indiscernible color. It is not nearly as bad as the schooner cabin.

  I feel a quick bang. When I turn around, the landlady has vanished. I try the door, but she locked me in.

  As I undress for bed, I remember the gold coin that Mama sewed into the hem of my gown for good luck. It is gone. I shudder to think Andrew took it while I was unconscious. I feel its loss as a prick to my skin.

  My heart burns.

  I don’t have a story or a shanty in me tonight.

  I cannot bear to think how distraught Mama and Papa must be. I should never have confronted Andrew. Sometimes I feel I can do nothing right.

  I get down on my knees to pray. I remember a benediction from Reverend Lee.

  I sign, “Our Lord, there is nothing in this life that is a surprise to You. You see our daily struggles and give us strength to endure through the power of Your Spirit. Create in us clean hearts and help us to remember that our strength comes from You alone. Amen.”

  By my rough estimation, it’s been at least three weeks since I was stolen from my rightful place in Chilmark, almost two weeks traveling and eight days of monotonous chores at the inn.

  I miss Mama’s cranberry muffins. The way she spoons the batter so that each muffin contains the same amount of fruit. I miss waking up and going to the kitchen in my mobcap and shawl to see what Mama’s baking. I close my eyes for a moment and imagine her looking up from kneading dough in the warm light of the hearth.

  If I ever complained about helping Mama with chores, strike me down.

  Most of the time, I am kept in the kitchen. The smells from boiled beef and cabbage permeate my clothing and hair. Living on an island and eating fresh shellfish and cod daily, I never knew why people complained of a fishy odor until I tasted one of the landlady’s fish pies. She keeps it sitting too long. The rolls she bakes daily mitigate the smell. I call her Mrs. Muffins. Despite the charming name, I cringe every time she raises her hand. I never know what will set her off. Does she imagine she can unblock my ears by boxing them?

  Ever since we arrived in Boston, I haven’t been able to make up a story. Dreams no longer bother my sleep. I am too exhausted from housework. I remember nothing in the morning. Is this how Helen and Sally feel working in homes like the Skiffes? How do they keep up good cheer?

  I haven’t washed my gown and shift since I arrived, and my stench offends even me. I am grateful my room does not contain a looking glass.

  When I’m not in the kitchen, I dust. Due to the open fires, dust is everywhere. I use a chamois cloth, and then shake it out. When the cloth is too dirty, I put it in the laundry bag. When we have a pile of dirty cloths and bedsheets, we wash them. The chores never end.

  Today when I finish dusting, Mrs. Muffins has me bring Andrew a mug of warm rum. As usual, he is in the parlor writing, a sealed jar of Chilmark water next to him on the table. He looks me up and down with cruel disgust.

  My fears that he would examine my person have not come to pass. Was I brought as a live specimen for his correspondent? Who is this person? When will he appear?

  When Andrew drops some of his papers and I stoop to pick them up, he kicks my backside. Bruises already bloom on my arms and ribs from the pinches and jabs he subjects me to whenever he moves past.

  In the kitchen, while we wash bedsheets, Mrs. Muffins hands me the bucket for more hot water. I watch her mouth to understand the words for “hot” and “water.” I can almost recognize them. Then she starts talking about something unrelated, and I’m lost again. She talks constantly.

  I remember seeing Ezra Brewer standing on top of a cliff on a windy day, signing with broad strokes to fishermen on the beach below. He asked them how many fish they’d caught. It is so easy to understand each other with signs.

  When Mrs. Muffins wants me out of the way—to go out on errands, or if I’ve accidentally burned a tray of rolls—she locks me in my room for hours.

  I had hoped Mama, Papa, and Ezra Brewer would have rescued me by this time.

  What if they never find me? If only I could steal rag paper, a quill pen, and ink from Andrew’s room, I could implore Mrs. Muffins for help. But I fear she is loyal to Andrew. I’ve noticed she keeps her ledger close by at all times, going over her accounts. Or else she locks it in a desk in the parlor. It would be near impossible to lay my hands on it. The boarder Mr. Squints may be my only hope.

  When I have a moment free from chores, I watch him around a corner. He catches my eye and nods in a friendly fashion. He seems curious. At first, Andrew doesn’t notice that Mr. Squints is genial toward me. I know that this will not last long. And Mrs. Muffins keeps me so busy with chores, I have nary a moment to myself to try to figure out how to communicate with him. If I seem distressed, will he try to help me? Or will he go to Andrew or Mrs. Muffins out of good but mistaken will?

  I must discover his intentions.

  Serving porridge and rolls with tea one morning, I linger in the dining room. The space is cramped, six chairs at a round table and a sideboard loaded with chipped dishes and cups. A grimy etching of the harbor hangs on the wall. I take my time finding a trivet to lay under the teapot.

  I feel a low din. When I look up, I see Andrew laughing. He has two tin plates in his hands. I guess he banged them together to mock my deafness.

  I quickly glance at Mr. Squints. He looks at Andrew with visible disgust. When he meets my eyes, his face reddens.

  He knows I am deaf, and he is upset to see me disgraced. Thank you, Lord Almighty!

  I hope to leave him a note in his bedroom when I make his bed, but if he has paper and a pen, I do not find them, and I must finish my task quickly before Mrs. Muffins boxes my ears. They have become so sore, I sleep on my back.

  When I go to tidy the parlor before bed, I see a Bible left open on the table. I pick it up and read Proverbs 31:8–9: “Open your mouth for the mute, for the rights of all who are destitute. Open your mouth, judge righteously, defend the rights of the poor and needy.”

  Reverend Lee wouldn’t view all deaf people as destitute and presume to speak for us. He wouldn’t see muteness as the absence of oral speech but rather the condition of those who feel lost and unheard.

  I wonder if this is a message from Mr. Squints! If he is interested in the rights of the poor and needy, maybe he will help me.

  Today, when I finish sweeping and emptying the chamber pots, Mrs. Muffins gestures for me to take off my apron and put on my cloak and hat. We are leaving the inn? Andrew has gone out this morning, carrying his black satchel. He must not know because he would never approve.

  What will he do if he finds out?

  Mrs. Muffins doesn’t tie my hands. Instead she gives me a woven white oak basket to carry. She carries a larger one. I follow her through the narrow streets covered in slush. My feet are blocks of ice. I wonder if I could find my way back to the wharf. Could I explain my predicament in pantomime to one of the sailors or a lady or a gentleman?

  I pause in front of a large brick building and catch sight of my reflection in a window. Is that really me? I look like a vulgar beggar. A deaf and dumb one at that. If I desperately grabbed someone’s coat sleeve, he’d surely hand me a ha’penny and shake me off.

  The streets are crowded. The air is crisp. I can see my breath like smoke. Mrs. Muffins’s pace is brisk. I hurry to keep up.

  The streets are littered with rotten food and feces, not just horse flops. I see a lone sparrow. How do birds find food and water in this brick landscape? And where do they build their nests?

  Abruptly, Mrs. Muffins puts her arm across my chest as a horse and cart fly around a corner. The horse bells remind me that Christmas is nearly upon us. Mama always made the holiday special for George and me. I can almost smell the fragrant pine boughs George and Papa placed on the mantelpiece in our sitting room.

  Mrs. Muffin
s shakes me out of my thoughts. She points at our destination, Faneuil Hall. I know it from pictures George showed me. It’s a long, two-story brick building with large windows facing north, south, east, and west. I look for the weather vane that Ezra Brewer once described to me, a golden grasshopper that sits on a large cupola. I see it!

  Inside the hall are stands with men and women selling fish, meats, produce, and cloth. I watch them hawk their wares to passersby. I can feel the hum of the large crowd around me as I am pulled along. I watch person after person and try to make eye contact. Are they too busy to perceive my terrified state? I am desperate to see someone I know from home.

  I wonder if Ezra Brewer knows any of the sailors. Very often the same sailors and traders go from the Vineyard to Boston and back again, over and over. Might they be keeping an eye out for a girl described like me? I try not to raise my hopes.

  We stop at a fishmonger, and for a moment, I forget where I am. I turn to Mrs. Muffins and talk in signs. Her face reddens, and she quickly lowers my hands. The fishmonger looks at me like I’m half-witted. Am I? What if I can never again speak to someone in my own language?

  I fear I might go mad.

  We carry the heavy baskets back through the busy streets. I have the peculiar sensation that I am being followed. I slow my pace and glance behind me several times. I see a man turn his back to me. Farther along, the same man ducks into a doorway. I am so weary it may just be my imaginings.

  Jeremiah Skiffe lives in Boston. Even though I am not sure I can ever forgive him, I would run to embrace him if we passed on the street. It’s odd how an antagonist back home could be a welcome friend elsewhere.

  I assist Mrs. Muffins putting away the groceries in the butt’ry. Andrew isn’t in the parlor or the kitchen. Is he in his room? Is Mr. Squints in his?