I hope to leave him a note in his bedroom when I make his bed, but if he has paper and a pen, I do not find them, and I must finish my task quickly before Mrs. Muffins boxes my ears. They have become so sore, I sleep on my back.
When I go to tidy the parlor before bed, I see a Bible left open on the table. I pick it up and read Proverbs 31:8–9: “Open your mouth for the mute, for the rights of all who are destitute. Open your mouth, judge righteously, defend the rights of the poor and needy.”
Reverend Lee wouldn’t view all deaf people as destitute and presume to speak for us. He wouldn’t see muteness as the absence of oral speech but rather the condition of those who feel lost and unheard.
I wonder if this is a message from Mr. Squints! If he is interested in the rights of the poor and needy, maybe he will help me.
Today, when I finish sweeping and emptying the chamber pots, Mrs. Muffins gestures for me to take off my apron and put on my cloak and hat. We are leaving the inn? Andrew has gone out this morning, carrying his black satchel. He must not know because he would never approve.
What will he do if he finds out?
Mrs. Muffins doesn’t tie my hands. Instead she gives me a woven white oak basket to carry. She carries a larger one. I follow her through the narrow streets covered in slush. My feet are blocks of ice. I wonder if I could find my way back to the wharf. Could I explain my predicament in pantomime to one of the sailors or a lady or a gentleman?
I pause in front of a large brick building and catch sight of my reflection in a window. Is that really me? I look like a vulgar beggar. A deaf and dumb one at that. If I desperately grabbed someone’s coat sleeve, he’d surely hand me a ha’penny and shake me off.
The streets are crowded. The air is crisp. I can see my breath like smoke. Mrs. Muffins’s pace is brisk. I hurry to keep up.
The streets are littered with rotten food and feces, not just horse flops. I see a lone sparrow. How do birds find food and water in this brick landscape? And where do they build their nests?
Abruptly, Mrs. Muffins puts her arm across my chest as a horse and cart fly around a corner. The horse bells remind me that Christmas is nearly upon us. Mama always made the holiday special for George and me. I can almost smell the fragrant pine boughs George and Papa placed on the mantelpiece in our sitting room.
Mrs. Muffins shakes me out of my thoughts. She points at our destination, Faneuil Hall. I know it from pictures George showed me. It’s a long, two-story brick building with large windows facing north, south, east, and west. I look for the weather vane that Ezra Brewer once described to me, a golden grasshopper that sits on a large cupola. I see it!
Inside the hall are stands with men and women selling fish, meats, produce, and cloth. I watch them hawk their wares to passersby. I can feel the hum of the large crowd around me as I am pulled along. I watch person after person and try to make eye contact. Are they too busy to perceive my terrified state? I am desperate to see someone I know from home.
I wonder if Ezra Brewer knows any of the sailors. Very often the same sailors and traders go from the Vineyard to Boston and back again, over and over. Might they be keeping an eye out for a girl described like me? I try not to raise my hopes.
We stop at a fishmonger, and for a moment, I forget where I am. I turn to Mrs. Muffins and talk in signs. Her face reddens, and she quickly lowers my hands. The fishmonger looks at me like I’m half-witted. Am I? What if I can never again speak to someone in my own language?
I fear I might go mad.
We carry the heavy baskets back through the busy streets. I have the peculiar sensation that I am being followed. I slow my pace and glance behind me several times. I see a man turn his back to me. Farther along, the same man ducks into a doorway. I am so weary it may just be my imaginings.
Jeremiah Skiffe lives in Boston. Even though I am not sure I can ever forgive him, I would run to embrace him if we passed on the street. It’s odd how an antagonist back home could be a welcome friend elsewhere.
I assist Mrs. Muffins putting away the groceries in the butt’ry. Andrew isn’t in the parlor or the kitchen. Is he in his room? Is Mr. Squints in his?
Mrs. Muffins throws feed to the hens in the yard. I notice she left her ledger unattended on the table. While she has her back turned, I hastily cover it with a basket of dirty laundry. If I could tear out a page without being noticed, I could write a note to Mr. Squints! I need to find a quill.
Before I can scheme, I am pulled roughly toward the hearth and handed a bucket. Mrs. Muffins points at the kettle. She wants me to fetch water from the pump in the yard to stretch the oyster soup for another meal.
The laundry basket is still covering the ledger. But for how long? Mrs. Muffins will want to list our purchases.
In the yard, the hens crowd me. I’ll bet she is stingy in feeding them too. Does she ever clean up their droppings? I’m surprised she hasn’t had me do it. Their feet and now mine are covered in waste. There
