Mama and Andrew go into George’s bedroom. He comes out, arms filled with books.
“Those belong to my brother,” I sign.
Mama doesn’t interpret for Andrew.
She signs, “To aid him in his research. He will return them.”
I look to Papa, who frowns but does nothing. I am fuming inside. Why is Mama helping Andrew? Why is she giving this stranger a piece of George? As Andrew departs, it occurs to me that he probably took the local geography book with the map of memories inside it.
If so, I will have to retrieve it.
The temperature is dropping. Winter is approaching. In a week, it will be the last month of this painful year.
Andrew brought Mama an amber-tinted piece of sea glass to thank her for the books. She added it to her collection on the kitchen windowsill. He explained that it can take from seven to ten years of wave tumbling to make it. She was impressed. I told her this when I learned it from Miss Hammond. Does Mama not remember? Why is he trying so hard to endear himself to her?
After the monotony of sweeping, Mama asks me to polish the pewter. This is usually only done on special occasions. My plan to retrieve the map makes me too nervous to inquire. Mama is spirited as she does her chores. In the short time since Andrew’s arrival, I see a change in her.
Around noon, I am released from my chores. Though no one is there to see me, I tiptoe along the road and keep close to the bushes, occasionally ducking into their scratchy branches. I am being extra cautious without Nancy to guide me.
The parsonage is one of the oldest buildings on the island. Its gray clapboard has been whitewashed and built upon over the years. It sits about halfway between our farm and the Meeting House on a parcel of land that borders the Lees’ modest family farm. I have been here before. Mama used to take tea with Reverend Lee and sometimes brought me along.
Reverend Lee must be out visiting because his trap is not here. I see Andrew walking down-island with purposeful strides. I try to merge with the side of the parsonage and discreetly look out.
Carrie’s grandmother, the Widow Tilton, helps Reverend Lee keep house. I try to quiet my breathing and hope my stomach doesn’t growl because she is hearing. Deaf people can easily make sounds without ever realizing it. George sometimes made teasing remarks about it.
Cautiously, I peek through the kitchen window. Mrs. Tilton is stoking the fire.
I’m certain Nancy would tell me to climb through the window. Instead, I head to the front door at the other end of the house. My heart quickens and my hands sweat as I slowly open it a crack and peek in. Seeing no one, I slip through, carefully latching the door behind me. I stretch my legs from rug to rug as I move down the hall, avoiding footfalls on the wooden floor.
I thought I would remember where things are, but my panic is disorienting me. I clasp my hands to keep them still and look toward the kitchen for Widow Tilton.
She is now in the yard fetching water. At the back of the house, a door to the right of the kitchen is ajar. Maybe it’s the guest room? I rush toward it and sneak inside before gently closing the door. I rest against it, my chest rising and falling as I try to still my frantic breathing. Spying is much more taxing than I realized.
The light from the window is thin and gray as it filters through the glass. Freshly cleaned socks hang from the sill. They have been darned many times, and there is the faint smell of old wool in the air. A pair of simple britches is folded over the back of a chair at the desk, and I feel scandalous even looking at them.
On the desk is a curious white object, stiff in stature, sitting in a ring. A clergy collar! I am mortified to realize that I am standing in Reverend Lee’s bedroom.
There are few other personal objects. The bed is too small for his long frame. No wonder he stoops. I will have to forget all this when I next see him standing at the pulpit.
I put my hands on the door to feel vibrations. Nothing but quiet. I exit and peek out a window. Widow Tilton is talking with Mrs. Lee.
Stealthily, I cross to a room on the other side of the house.
The bedstead is larger than Reverend Lee’s, with a golden cross nailed to the wall above the headboard. A simple washstand with a mirror sits in the corner. The scent from a fancy bottle of hair tonic tickles my nose.
I recognize some of George’s books on the floor by the side of the bed. The geography book with the map of memories tucked inside is not among them. But under the window is a desk crowded with more books, jars of samples, and assorted papers. I sift through the meticulous stacks.
I see Ezra Brewer’s genealogy, drawings, and columns of numbers that I cannot decipher, but no geography book. Does Andrew have it on his person? Did he discover my map? Why did Mama have to give him that book?
I almost rip off the bedsheets to look for it. Tears fill my eyes, and I breathe heavily. I pray for strength before I go on. Maybe the map is no longer in the book. I turn back to the stacks of papers to look for it and unearth an envelope with a return address in Boston. I slip a letter out of the envelope.
I feel vibrations through the wood floor. What will I say if I am suddenly caught? I
