Papa won’t meet my eyes. Mama makes a pot of tea. Reverend Lee leaves to fetch Mrs. Skiffe at her cousin’s house. Mama talks to Andrew. He takes her hand. Does she interpret my confession for him? What must he think?
Nancy sneaks out of the kitchen. I follow her, glad to be away from Mr. Skiffe. She heads to the front of the house and climbs the stairs.
In my room, we strip down to our shifts and mobcaps. Sitting on my bed, I cover myself with the patchwork bedcovers that Mama made for me. Nancy takes up my shawl and paces back and forth.
I sign, “Why didn’t you tell me you stole the sheets? Did you intend for Helen to take the blame?”
“I borrowed the sheets,” she signs. “I didn’t think Mother would notice they were missing.”
“You won’t be honest with me, even now?” I sign.
“I did it for you!” she signs.
I am taken aback. I put my hands up to sign, but no words come.
“Your parents believe in moral correction,” she signs. “My parents believe in caning!”
I shudder.
It is true. My parents’ anger and disappointment can scald, but they spare the rod. I have seen ugly bruises on my friend in the past. Mama shares my concern but says she cannot interfere with another family’s child rearing.
“I wish I could prevent that,” I sign.
“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.”
“Then I’d be lying. And what about Hel—”
Nancy interrupts me again, “Then tell me why I shouldn’t tell what you’ve been hiding from your grieving parents?”
The image of my parents, especially Mama, finding out I was responsible for George’s death grips me in a vise. “That would be cruel.”
With that, the rage seems to go out of her. She climbs under the patchwork covers and turns her back to me. We used to sleep side by side, holding hands.
As I lay staring at the ceiling, I wonder what’s going on downstairs and if the Richards family is safe in the barn and if Nancy will betray my secret.
When I awake, there is an emptiness in the featherbed next to me. Nancy is gone. It is Sunday, and I quickly dress for church and go downstairs. Mama is alone, busying herself in the kitchen. She doesn’t kiss my cheek or forehead.
What if Nancy told my parents about me and George? What do I say? When Mama turns to me, she signs formally, “Eat now. Your father wants to speak with you.”
I wait for her to say more, but Mama sits in Grandmother Harmony’s rocking chair and takes up a piece of embroidery. I can hardly swallow my porridge. Will Papa be angry? Will I be punished?
“Church, go you?” I sign, changing the subject.
Mama shakes her head, puts down her embroidery, and signs, “There is too much to be done here.”
There are no pressing chores to be done on the Sabbath. Mama has not gone to the Meeting House since George died. Will she visit George’s grave? Walking out of the kitchen, my feet feel heavy.
I put on my warmest hat. The brewing storm reflects my raging heart. I stand in a spot of warm sunshine at the edge of our farm and wait for Papa to pick me up in his oxcart.
Hesitantly, I climb up beside him. He pats my knee but gazes forward. We are often comfortable being quiet together. But I can feel that he is not at peace either.
“Papa?” I ask, touching his arm.
He turns to me.
“I’m worried Nancy’s father will cane her for stealing the sheets,” I sign. “And Thomas will be punished for scuffling with Mr. Skiffe.”
“Honestly, Mary,” he signs, “I don’t know what you think. It’s dangerous to go near the marsh. And pretend to be a specter? I don’t understand.”
I cannot explain without confessing my guilt, so I don’t try.
I look down.
He lifts my chin.
“To answer your question,” he continues, “John Skiffe is still convinced Helen took the sheets. I’ll defend Thomas at council next week and explain it was self-defense. I will make sure he’ll only receive a small fine for fighting with John. He will stay on at the farm. There will be gossip.”
I must look hopeless. Papa winks and signs, “There will always be gossip.” Then he adds, “We will discuss your punishment tomorrow. Today is the Sabbath. Repent.”
The Methodist Episcopal Church does not yet have its own building, so we meet at the white clapboard Meeting House, just a half mile from our farm. The two entrances are framed by pilasters. Reverend Lee stands between them, greeting parishioners.
I sneak past him as I enter. What must he think of me after my confession?
I also avoid Andrew, who, to my relief, does not notice me.
We are all seated in rows on wooden benches. We are all Americans of English origin, not Wampanoag or Irish. They have separate houses of worship.
Every week, before Reverend Lee leads the Sabbath service, we hold our town meeting. It is conducted in sign language and spoken English. Children are not permitted to speak, which feels unfair. But at least everyone is invited to town meetings—to air all matters—unlike town council, which rules on specific matters that involve penalties and fees such as the theft of the Skiffes’ sheets. The council never holds its meetings on the Sabbath.
Mr. Pye, today’s mediator, bangs a gavel on the lectern, then calls on Mr. Skiffe.
Mr. Skiffe stands to sign. “Everyone here knows I had claim on that acreage, as my father did before me,” he signs. “The Church deemed it so. Why should it be given to the Wampanoag now?”
Mr. Skiffe has sobered up, though it looks as if
