Papa also told me that Andrew has been collecting soil from our land and water samples from our wells. What does he plan to do with his findings? What will happen to our island if he does find the source of our deafness? I imagine our shores overrun by observers, stomping through our farmlands and asking impertinent questions. Caravans of explorers will arrive to visit the land of the deaf! We have no leopard skins or ivory tusks. What trophies will they take away with them?
But isn’t that what the first white settlers did to the Wampanoag? Reverend Lee reminded us in a sermon that earliest contact resulted in Wampanoag men being captured and sold as slaves in Spain. I feel less impressed by our forefathers, even as I cherish our island.
I meet Nancy on the high road near the parsonage at our agreed time. She looks at me and frowns, raising her eyebrows and snapping the fingers of both hands, the way a hearing person might cluck their tongue. “Your frock,” she signs.
“What’s wrong with it?” I counter, smoothing my hands over my skirt.
“It’s too bright,” she chastises. “Don’t you know anything about spying? You have to merge with the landscape.”
I grab the edges of my cloak and pull them tightly around me. I have no choice but to wear all my winter garb on this frosty day. “I’ll just keep myself hidden,” I tell her. She looks unconvinced.
On our hands and knees, we duck behind the stone wall and wait. Mama will sigh when she sees the dirt on my clothing. Though I’ve been this way all my life, she has never grown used to it.
As we hoped, Andrew Noble exits the parsonage and, paying us no mind, strides confidently down the high road, carrying his black satchel. Nancy raises her eyebrows at me again and signs, “Bag?”
“His equipment,” I reply. I am sad for a moment, thinking of George; he collected things in his pockets and brought them home to examine on the kitchen table. In Andrew Noble, I see what he could have been: professional, scientific. But never as ill-mannered.
“He is interested in facts!” Nancy exclaims, and we both snicker.
We crawl along for a little way, Nancy peeking her curly head up over the wall every now and again to track him. I tell myself I will not make light of Nancy’s spying efforts in the future.
Andrew Noble stops on the other side of the road, placing his satchel on the stone wall. He takes out a small shovel and a phial. He digs up dirt and puts it into a glass jar.
We watch him do this at different locations, each time placing the glass jar in his bag. But when he uses a paring knife to take a sample of the bark of an apple tree, Nancy is so indignant at the defilement, I have to grab her and hold her back.
In the distance, I see Andrew’s schooner against the bright autumn sky and gray sea. Has he really been in Chilmark less than a week?
Nancy stops suddenly and points. Ezra Brewer is standing in the road smoking his pipe. Nancy turns to me. “Perfect,” she signs. “Let’s go stand with Ezra Brewer. Sometimes the best spying can be done right in plain sight. Keep your eyes open.”
Ezra Brewer is watching with open curiosity as Andrew takes samples of the sand and soil. He removes his pipe, shakes his head, and puffs out his lips, like a horse snorting.
When we join him, I rub my fingers together, making our sign for “dirt.” “Do we eat it?” I ask Nancy. “You walk on it the same as me and Papa and Ezra Brewer, and yet you hear.”
Ezra Brewer rolls his eyes. “That man might as well investigate whether the Archangel Gabriel blows a deafening trumpet into the ears of selected infants on the Vineyard.”
I giggle. Ezra Brewer blows an imaginary trumpet into the air, and Nancy jumps, scowling slightly. She is frightened of him, whether she would admit it or not. I fear Andrew heard the discordant sound. Hopefully, he’ll think we are playing a game, rather than watching him.
As the three of us continue to follow him, we sometimes mimic his movements. He stoops to dig clay out of the ground and put it in a bucket. The ground is still wet from Sunday’s rain and makes his breeches muddy.
His strides are long. When he slows, we talk together, pretending he is not our main concern. I think Ezra Brewer enjoys the game. I fear that Andrew will turn around and confront us. How could I explain, without seeming like a fool? I’m sure he’d tell Mama I was acting rude and childish.
Rounding a bend, there are a handful of people who make us less conspicuous.
Andrew approaches the reverend’s sister-in-law, Mrs. Lee, who is signing in the road with Mrs. Butler. Mrs. Lee seems to recognize him a moment too late to escape. She tries to avoid him, but he is already saying something to her, removing his hat in greeting.
Mrs. Lee is hearing. I am inclined to believe that at that moment she wished she wasn’t. Mrs. Butler has turned away with a sour look on her face.
Nancy edges forward and molds herself to a tree so she can interpret for us. Ezra Brewer and I pretend to sign a conversation while eyeing Nancy’s interpretation.
Mrs. Lee’s youngest son, Ben, is stomping in a puddle.
Nancy signs, “He is asking her if the child is hearing …”
Suddenly, Mrs. Lee looks as if she might smack Andrew Noble! What has he said? I look to Nancy, whose cheeks are coloring deeply. “He asked her if her stays were of a severe
