Show Me a Sign: Chapters 7–12

Vibrations through the floorboards shake me out of my reverie.

“He’s convinced that acres of land the Wampanoag were granted access to in perpetuity by the colonies are his forebear’s land, and he’s determined to get them back.”

“He’s convinced that acres of land the Wampanoag were granted access to in perpetuity by the colonies are his forebear’s land, and he’s determined to get them back.”

Mama’s interest is piqued.

“Edward,” Mama signs, “it’s improper to call a neighbor a squatter.”
I try not to giggle at Papa’s insolence toward Mr. Skiffe.

“I am ready,” I tell her even as I feel waves of nausea and trepidation.

In profile, with her face obscured and one cloaked arm raised, she looks ghastly.

“Tell me it wasn’t him,” I implore.

Is he that perturbed? Does he hate me?

Up close, he looks so startlingly like George that I wonder for a moment if we could have actually resurrected him! Is he a revenant?

When the lithe frame moves, the illusion is broken.

“Andrew's father, John, and I were at seminary together,” Reverend Lee signs and speaks.

“I am more interested in facts than a fetching view.”

After Reverend Lee’s benediction, Mama and I serve lobster, mussels, and corn.

I wonder if Andrew will like our island fare. Having missed afternoon tea, I am hungry.

“And most of them reside in asylums or beg for alms on the street. They are not capable of earning their keep.”

We prefer straightforwardness to dupery in Chilmark.

“We were passing the old marsh when I heard a loud moaning in the woods. At first, I thought it must be a poor bear or deer caught in a trap, but as I slowed my cart, I caught sight of two apparitions floating among the trees. They appeared as luminous specters.”

Perhaps it was swamp gas. It is said to cause such phenomena when an interaction with natural galvanic impulse—say, lightning—occurs.

Mama signs quickly to Papa, “Outside, sounds like skirmish.”

It is dark and raining, with bright, intermittent flashes of lightning.

I see Mr. Skiffe sign violently to Papa, “Your freedman is lying! That Indian wife of his stole bedsheets right from under our noses! She is a conniving, thieving woman, and her husband is no better! After all that we have done for her and her daughter too!”

Helen’s willowy figure is standing in the light.

“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.”

The two entrances are framed by pilasters.

Mrs. Skiffe, who looks like a grown, dour version of her daughter, sits quietly watching her husband.

Is she proud of her father’s bigoted notions?

“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.”

“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?”

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.”

“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.

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.”

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

I don’t know if his arm waving or cross-armed sulking is more petulant.

I have seen colicky infants who are less irritable.