Andrew seems to find them repugnant. Ezra Brewer told me that after the War for Independence, veterans who had lost limbs or were disfigured were treated as heroes. But I see no evidence that those with physical differences are respected.
As we turn a corner, a group of sailors burst from a tavern. One of them, burly with a bald head, tosses coin money in the air and catches it. The others laugh and nod.
Along another street, women stand in doorways. They are not elegant, like the ladies we passed at the wharf. They are dressed garishly, with too much face paint. They look at us and laugh.
Do they think I’m Andrew Noble’s young bride? I want to call to them for help. I raise my hands to sign but quickly put them down before Andrew sees.
We stop in front of a dingy redbrick building on a narrow backstreet. I inhale foul odors. Are chamber pots dumped in the streets? I try not to retch.
A wooden sign swings over the doorway. It reads The High Tide Inn. Andrew lifts the heavy brass door knocker. A short, stocky woman opens the door, her face round with rheumy blue eyes and lemon-colored hair. She is not unpleasant-looking, just rough. She wipes her hands on her apron and embraces Andrew. He cringes at her touch, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
They exchange words, with glances in my direction. I wonder in frustration what they are saying.
I bend my knee and sign, “How do?”
She looks me up and down and shakes her head, then leads us into the parlor and takes Andrew’s coat before she rushes off. The parlor is tidy, though the furniture is threadbare, and the curtains are sooty.
Next to the parlor is a staircase. I wonder how many rooms are upstairs. I glimpse one young gentleman, slight of build with thin blond hair, who looks faintly respectable. He wears spectacles that slip down his nose, and his eyes narrow over the tops of the rims. I name him Mr. Squints. He almost bumps into me as he exits the parlor with a stack of books under his arm. I imagine he’s a student.
The woman comes back carrying a tray with tea and meat stew, which she serves to Andrew. She signals me to the kitchen, and I follow.
It is cramped and dirtier than Mama’s kitchen. The bricks are burnt black around the open hearth, and the room holds a heat that makes me sweat unpleasantly, even after the cold outside. There is no charm, not a piece of sea glass or a basket of dried flowers. Chairs are draped with laundry, and the table is piled with pots, pans, and assorted sundries. A rancid odor fills the room.
The woman gives the stew a stir, then walks over to me. Looking me up and down, she pulls off my wool cloak and examines it. Then she takes my hands in hers and turns them over and over. She checks behind my ears and smells my person. I am rank from my travels.
I feel invisible.
I stare at the fire and only look up when I feel a strong vibration from the floor.
She’s stomping her foot. She claps her hands in front of my face, then grabs my arm and leads me to the wash bin.
“Mary need never have known that the deaf are treated as less than human on the mainland,” Papa had signed to Mama.
Is this how the world is outside of Chilmark? Is that why he doesn’t like to travel off-island? Is it the reason Ezra Brewer mocks people and their morals? Have I been living on a cloud for eleven years? I look at the landlady as she talks at me. It’s like I’m gazing into a looking glass and believing that the reversed reflection is the truth. I don’t know what she wants.
Slam! My neck suddenly twists, and my head swerves to the left.
The landlady hit my right ear with the palm of her hand. I have heard of adults boxing children’s ears. It creates a painful sensation, maybe even a ringing in my head, which is the closest I’ve come to hearing.
I put my hands on my knees and take deep breaths, then totter and stand up.
Grandmother Harmony, who became hard of hearing in her dotage, was able to read words on people’s lips. When I was little, I tried it but found it impossible. I think I must attempt it again. If I can recognize even a handful of words, perhaps she will not be so rough with me.
Finally, the landlady makes motions like she’s washing the dishes, points at me, and then to a stack of dishes. The way the scraps are stuck to them, I’d say they’ve been there for a few days. I wash them with a stained cloth in a bin of dingy, lukewarm water. When I finish drying them on a greasy apron, I am given a hard biscuit, which I sop in some of the lard left in the bottom of the kettle. I am not offered a seat, so I stand while I eat.
When I am done eating, the landlady takes me by the arm and leads me down a spiral staircase and through a narrow hallway. She stops, gives me the candle she was carrying, and gestures for me to go into a small room with a bed, a washstand, and a worn rug of indiscernible color. It is not nearly as bad as the schooner cabin.
I feel a quick bang. When I turn around, the landlady has vanished. I try the door, but she locked me in.
As I undress for bed, I remember the gold coin that Mama sewed into the hem of my gown for good luck. It is gone. I shudder to
