Finally, they discover the well. The scientist falls to the ground to drink from it before he even collects a sample. But the girl is unsure if she should drink it. Would she want to outlive all her loved ones?
My story trails off as I near my destination. I am conscious of a person who lurks in my shadow, just out of view.
Ezra Brewer lives at the top of the beach. His one-story, pine frame house has a big brick chimney and scattered lobster traps lying about. He doesn’t cultivate a garden, or own animals, aside from a one-eyed black cat named Smithy.
Even at his advanced age, Ezra Brewer is a seaman, with a stiffness in his joints and the breath of sea air in his lungs. He has a storied history of navigating his old cutter, the SS Black Dog, to Boston and beyond. He has sailed in nor’easters and never lost a man. And he can still cast a single fishing line and get the best catch of the day.
He sees me coming and waves his hand over his head. As usual, he is sitting on an old wicker chair on the porch.
For all the years I’ve known him, I have rarely been invited inside his home. Mama says he doesn’t clean his house or person, and “cleanliness is next to godliness.” I say it is just that Ezra Brewer has never taken a wife to fix up a proper home for him.
In the wake of my brother’s death, his rather uncivilized way of living doesn’t seem so unpleasant. It might be easier to be a hermit who lives on the beach than to endure the quiet sorrow in our home.
As I approach, I see he is wearing the same clothes he always wears no matter the season, a worn linen shirt, a blue wool waistcoat, broadcloth trousers, red wool socks, a knit Monmouth cap, and an old sealskin coat. His eyes are the darkest blue I’ve ever seen. His long gray hair hangs over his earlobes, which are pierced, though I never see him wear earrings.
I make a sour face when I see the bottle of rum he cradles in his lap. Mama is an abstainer. She does not allow alcohol in our house for pleasure drinking. We use it only for cooking and for medicine during times of illness. I recently learned from Miss Hammond that many find it healthier to drink ale than water. Do I dare to challenge Mama?
“Don’t be judging me, missy,” Ezra Brewer scolds. “Ye have not walked in my shoes.”
I know he is right. Reverend Lee always teaches us to sympathize rather than to judge our neighbors. I hand Ezra Brewer the muffins, smile, and hold up my fingers to sign. “I’m sympathizing.”
He throws back his head, and the power of his laughter shakes us both. Then he gulps down the muffins, looking satisfied. He hands me the cloth and lets Smithy lick his fingers.
To change the subject, I sign, “Mr. Butler says a young scientist is coming to Chilmark. A guest of Reverend Lee’s. I wonder what research he plans to do in our town.”
“I’ll abide research,” he signs. “So long as he doesn’t try to take advantage of townsfolk.”
“Why would he do that?” I ask.
“Outsiders,” he signs. “Never give them credence at first. Only welcome them after they’ve proved themselves trustworthy.”
“That’s not very friendly,” I sign.
“Never said I was,” he signs.
I shake my head and sign, “Tell me the story of where our people come from.”
“I’ve only told you two dozen times before,” he signs. He puts the cork back in the bottle and sets it down beside his chair. Smithy takes her place in his lap.
“The story …,” he muses.
“Tell me why some of us are deaf and others are hearing,” I prompt him.
“You know the answer to that, girlie,” he signs. “Nobody knows.”
“But why not? There have been deaf people, like you and me and Papa, since we came to the island.”
“Aye, Mary, that’s a fact,” he signs.
Ezra Brewer says “aye” by jerking his head forward and wiggling the fingers on his left hand. Even though his hands are old and gnarled, he signs with great skill.
He works his jaw. He has a habit of moving his mouth for a bit before he signs a story. I think this comes from watching hearing people speak. I sometimes do it too.
Ezra Brewer begins, “There is a region in Kent, England, where many people are born deaf. It is called the Weald.”
I interrupt. “That’s a funny name.”
Ezra Brewer gives me a look that could sink me to the bottom of the ocean. I think he is going to scold me, but he opens and closes his hands like he’s gathering words out of the air.
“Aye,” he signs, “Weald means ‘woodlands.’ It is a harsh place to live with its thick forest and tall cliffs made from limestone, so people decided to take a voyage and make new lives in the colonies. The deafness came with them.”
“But why did it come with them?” I ask.
“I told you,” he signs. “Nobody knows for sure. But if you ask me, our deafness must be caused by something in the blood.”
“How can that be?” I ask. “Mama is hearing, George was hearing, and Papa and I are deaf. We have the same blood.” Bloodlines are important to English settlers on the island. They tell us who we are and where we came from.
Ezra Brewer folds his arms across his chest, sniffs the air, and refuses to look at me. I’ve interrupted his storytelling too many times.
I untie my
