Normally, Mama doesn’t want him in the house. But she is not paying attention. She is staring longingly across the kitchen at George’s bedroom.
Papa and I see what she’s doing. He takes Mama’s hand and gently pecks her on the cheek, before washing and sitting down at the table.
I serve the chicken and vegetable soup and join Mama and Papa.
“Mr. Butler said a young scientist is visiting Chilmark, as Reverend Lee’s guest. I saw them walking up from the beach,” I sign.
“I have heard the same,” Papa signs. “Maybe we should invite him for supper.” He looks at Mama, who gives no response.
“John Skiffe is in a rage.” Papa tries a new subject. “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.”
If the Wampanoag believe land should be held collectively, they must not understand his claim.
“Over by the Butler farm?” Mama’s interest is piqued. “I thought he grazed his livestock there.”
“He did for a while,” Papa signs. “He squatted on the land rather than owning it.”
“Edward,” Mama signs, “it’s improper to call a neighbor a squatter.”
I try not to giggle at Papa’s insolence toward Mr. Skiffe.
“Clarissa, I don’t like to contradict you,” Papa signs sincerely, “but we all started as squatters on this island. In this dispute, the Supreme Court has come down in favor of the Wampanoag of Gay Head.”
“They often change their rulings,” Mama reminds him.
I look at Mama. Her eyes appear worried; blue sky with dark clouds.
“True,” Papa signs thoughtfully.
“Young Wampanoag men intimidate us!” Mama insists. “Knocking down fences the Church guardians build to unlawfully graze their livestock.”
“No Wampanoag have harmed us,” Papa signs calmly. “I would not let that happen.”
Is Mama scared of all Wampanoags? Is she scared of Thomas? Isn’t he our friend?
Mama nods at Papa and gives a weak smile.
When we finish eating, Mama and I clear the table, while Papa stokes the fire.
As I wash the dishes, I tell myself a story about a girl who lives alone in a castle on a distant star where everything glows. The only way that she can communicate with others is with a spyglass. She signs and then looks through the glass to watch for a reply. At night, when the sun is away, it is too dark to see the person on the other end of the spyglass. How can she help but feel all alone?
I wake up feeling jittery.
There is a cold nip in the air even inside. I dress in my green wool gown and black stockings. I wrap my shawl tight around my shoulders and pull my mobcap over my ears.
I have lost my confidence about following through with Nancy’s plan. If Mama found out, she could no more forgive me for the haunting than for luring George into the road. And what would Reverend Lee make of my blasphemy?
While I long for a chance to see George one last time and ask forgiveness, what if he is angry with me? What if his spirit makes demands on me, like Nancy’s grandmother Edith did of her?
I go downstairs, yawning like a lion. Mama is gathering ingredients to bake bread. It’s one household chore I do well. She hands me an apron to pin to the front of my gown, and we begin mixing the water, yeast, and salt. I am glad for the distraction. And I am grateful that Mama buys our wheat flour from a miller in Tisbury so we don’t have to grind it ourselves.
With our bare hands, we knead the dough, over and again, over and again. We put the kneaded dough in a bowl and cover it with a wet cloth. In an hour’s time, it will rise.
Mama settles in Grandma Harmony’s rocking chair by the fire and takes up a pair of Papa’s trousers to mend. As I trace the grain on the kitchen table with my index finger, I try spinning a tale, but my mind is too occupied to create. I busy myself with sweeping instead. And the thought comes to me: George would want me to try to commune with him. If some part of him remains, he might be lost and afraid.
When at last the final proving of the bread is done, we shape it into loaves and place them in cast-iron pans on the hearth.
After a few minutes, I check them. Mama taught me what her mother taught her. “Let it rise until it cracks open.” They are not yet done.
I jump when Mama taps me on the shoulder.
“Go,” she signs, sensing my impatience. “Remind Nancy to come for supper tonight. Her mother will be visiting a sick cousin. She’s to spend the night with us.”
“Thank you, Mama,” I sign.
My heart races as I pull on my coat and hat and walk the high road toward the turn for Littlewoods Lane. Wind with a drizzle of rain whips my bare face. My nose starts to run. Soon I am wet up to my calves. It’s cold as a witch’s breath. I wiggle my fingers and toes to keep feeling in them. Cattails scratch at my stockings. Fish and salamanders skirt by me, making me gasp. I jump over a small channel.
When Nancy sees me coming, she waves. I hurry down to meet her.
“Phew,” Nancy signs, wiping her brow. “I didn’t think you’d come.”
“I am ready,” I tell her even as I feel waves of nausea and trepidation.
“Here, sheets,” she signs, holding them up.
I wonder where Nancy got them, but I don’t ask. They are worn and a bit dirty, but they are not in terrible condition. Mama would see nothing wrong
