I see him shake his head and then suck his teeth. He tells me to wait and goes belowdecks to retrieve a salve for my wounds and scraps of cloth for bandages. My palms look as if they have been burned in the shape of the rope; my knuckles are crooked knots. He massages my hands gently, bringing feeling back into them.
As he works, he nods to a tune inside his own head. A shanty no doubt.
“Your hands are rougher than they were before,” he observes.
I nod. I must look sad because he chucks a finger under my chin. “Maybe now you’ll learn those knots, eh? So’s next time you’re in a storm, you’ll just tie off a rope instead of holding on to it through the whole blasted thing!” he teases, and it makes me smile.
We sit together and share mugs of grog as rays of thin sunshine begin to peek between the clouds. Ezra Brewer looks whipped by a thousand storms.
“No wreckage of the SS Defiance,” I observe. My signing is a little awkward on account of my sore hands and bandages.
“Nay,” he signs, “too much time has passed, and the waves have carried us too far. Try not to think on it. The good reverend will get word back to his family in Connecticut. You and your own have borne enough.”
Somehow Ezra Brewer’s words help me see that when Mama, Papa, and I were left to cope with George’s loss, we pulled apart instead of coming together. I won’t let that happen again.
The seas are calm for now. My mind is clearer than it has been in a long time, maybe ever. I point to the stairs, signaling Ezra Brewer to go rest. He nods and smiles before making his way belowdecks to check for damage. And then to his bunk, for a well-deserved nap.
Is this truly the end of my ordeal?
I stand close to the rail and survey the ocean around me. There isn’t another boat in sight. The waves have calmed to ripples, and there is something so hopeful about full sails. But my sorrow needs a release. I sit sobbing, without wiping my face, until all my tears have been shed. I’m glad Ezra Brewer doesn’t see me.
As soon as Ezra Brewer has taken his rest, we are on our way again. I am increasingly anxious about returning home.
“Why did you assist Andrew with the genealogy?” I ask.
“You mean those scribbles I wrote down about the Lamberts and Skiffes?” he signs.
“You mean you lied?” I ask
“Of course not, I am a man of my word,” he signs, pretending to be annoyed by my accusation.
“But …,” I sign, encouraging him to tell me the whole truth.
Ezra Brewer scratches his chin, and the corners of his mouth form a puckish smile.
“It is true,” he signs, “that your father’s second cousin was deaf as a post. But it is not as well-known that her nickname was Pattycake, if it even was.”
I erupt with laughter. “Pattycake? Pattycake Lambert? That’s what you wrote?”
“I did indeed,” he signs. “And that Yalie, with his clever ways, couldn’t tell when he was being fooled.”
“He wasn’t clever,” I sign soberly.
“I know it,” he signs. “Honestly, Mary, if I had known what that man had in mind to do to you, I would have chased him back to his schooner the day he arrived.”
There’s something I have to get off my chest before we arrive home.
“It is different in Boston,” I tell Ezra Brewer. “They don’t sign. They look down on us, like we’re animals.”
“I’ve been there,” he signs. “Watched all their lips flapping, and I don’t believe they are a wick smarter than Vineyard folk. Take you. I’ve been watching you for all your years. You’ve got something in you, girlie.”
“Some people don’t think that’s good,” I sign.
“Pay them no mind,” he signs. “I never do.”
Since I have never taken a faraway trip off-island, I have never approached my home as an outsider from this distance. It looks small.
As we come near the shore, I stand on the bow of the Black Dog, peering through the spyglass. Matthew Pye is gazing back. Standing on a hill, he signs “welcome” by bringing his arms down from above his head to the middle of his chest. I am warmed by the gesture.
Then I see him jump on his horse and ride off. He must be spreading the news of our return.
Will Mama and Papa be on the beach when we dock? I hope Nancy comes too.
The hills and the beach look the same. A familiar collection of boats is scattered on the shore, with men I’ve known all my life hauling nets out of the sea. I can even see the bottom of our sheep farm. The sheep are like squiggles of paint on a winter landscape. Snow covers some of the ground. There are patches of brown turf and thickets of bare oak and fruit trees. The pitch pines have not dropped all their needles.
Ezra Brewer slowly steers us toward the beach. He marches the bow till the water is knee-deep. Then he turns it seaward and tosses the anchor. Fishermen walk through the icy water in their winter gear to pull the cutter safely onto the sandbar.
I stand still, cold and bruised, my hair wildly blowing like a mermaid’s and my cheeks sunburned. I face the shore, wearing Ezra Brewer’s sealskin coat with the map of memories tucked safely inside a pocket. I hold on to Smithy until she struggles and leaps to shore.
Before Ezra Brewer and the men unload his gear, Papa comes for me.
“Mary,” he signs, brushing his hand tenderly across his cheek. “Thank the Lord you are home!”
He is better than Ezra Brewer at concealing his shock at my poor condition. He breaks into a smile, swiping the back of one
