I notice that Reverend Lee carries a carpetbag and the young man a black satchel. Does he intend to stay on for a while?
When they pass near us, I am struck by the stranger’s resemblance to my brother. I must gasp, because Nancy places her hand over my mouth. I lick it to make her let go. She wipes it on her skirt.
I am uncomfortable squatting in the dirt. Once the men pass and have covered some ground, I stand up and dust off my clothes.
“One day,” Nancy signs, “you’ll see the use in my expert spying techniques.”
I kick a stone to her. She kicks it back as we move up the road. Nancy was born hearing, but her parents, John and Laura Skiffe, are deaf. I’ve noticed that Nancy signs more than she speaks.
“I wish Ezra Brewer told a ghost story today,” she signs. If there’s one thing Nancy likes better than spy stories, it is ghost stories. Sadly, her mother forbids her from going to Ezra Brewer’s. Like Mama, Mrs. Skiffe does not approve of him.
“That wicked old man with his bad luck cat,” Nancy signs, and skips in circles around me, making the sign for “haunt” in the air.
“Stop!” I sign. “Don’t be morbid. Remember George.” Because he died so suddenly, I worry that his spirit is not at rest.
We both lower our hands and stop signing for a moment.
“I never told you this,” she signs, “but the night Grandmother Edith died in her sleep, she appeared at the foot of my bed. She looked transparent as a veil. I wasn’t shocked when she told me she felt cold as the grave, but she was quite surprised to be dead, even though she had a long illness.”
I search Nancy for a twinkle in her eye, but she is not teasing me.
“Grandmother Edith was concerned about her teapot,” Nancy continues. “It is a silver heirloom and quite valuable. She didn’t want Mother to sell it. She told me I must find it under her bureau, polish it till I could see my reflection, and hide it in a safe place. She wanted me to use it when I marry and have my own home.”
“Did you do it?” I ask, a chill running up my spine.
“It was exactly where she said it would be. I did as she said, and her specter never interrupted my sleep again.”
“Where did you hide the teapot?” I ask.
“Oh,” Nancy signs, with a wicked grin, “I don’t think Grandmother Edith would like me telling you that.”
I am stunned.
“I have an idea,” Nancy signs. “But I am not sure you are going to like it.”
“What?” I weakly sign.
“Maybe,” she signs, “we can have a dance for the dead.”
“That’s blasphemy,” I sign.
“You sound like your mother,” Nancy signs, with a discernible frown. “No one would know. Since you did not attend George’s funeral, this could be our own last rites for him, to lay him to rest.”
A picture flashes through my mind: George wrapped in his death shroud. The day of his funeral, I had a high fever and was bedridden. I saw him only briefly from my upstairs window as Papa and Mama drove him in our cart to the churchyard.
Nancy signs, “We could wear winding shrouds and run through the woods near the old salt marsh.”
I like the notion of honoring George. Could I really lull his uneasy spirit to rest? Could I commune with him, one last time, as Nancy did with her grandmother? Could I apologize for luring him into the road and ask forgiveness?
Surely Mama would scold me harshly if she knew. But Nancy said that it will be only us. I look at my friend’s hopeful face. What would George do?
I am uncertain, but I sign, “Yes.”
“Truly?” Nancy asks excitedly. She rubs her hands together, and for a moment, I doubt my choice.
“Tomorrow afternoon,” I sign. If we wait too long, I might change my mind.
Nancy’s face lights up like a sprite. “Say you are coming to visit me but take a turn off the high road and follow Littlewoods Lane. I’ll meet you between the woods and the old marsh. I’ve trod the path more than once. You’ll have to chart a course to avoid danger.”
“How will I do that?” I sign.
“Find George’s map,” she signs.
We walk as far as Papa’s farm and step on the stone wall to reach the branches of a large apple tree. It isn’t easy to climb in a gown and stockings, but we manage to settle in the crook of a large branch.
Nancy reaches into her cloak pocket and pulls out her small wooden recorder. She begins to play, then stops. “My father tells me he finds it rude when I play in front of him and Mother. Do you ever mind that I play music in front of you, even though you can’t hear it?”
I shake my head.
Nancy’s father, John Skiffe, drinks heavily and is often ill-humored. It’s Nancy’s uncle Jeremiah who encourages her interest in music, but he hasn’t returned to the island since the accident.
Nancy closes her eyes while she places her fingers on the holes of the instrument and blows the air from her full cheeks. Reverend Lee says she can pick out any tune after she’s heard it played once.
Watching her play, I am experiencing the music in my own way. The way I imagine birdsong when I see birds soaring in the sky.
Just as with my storytelling, I think Nancy’s music making shows what she feels inside. Sarah Hillman and the other girls we know are only concerned with learning to run a household. They assist their mothers sewing clothes and rearing their younger siblings. They view us as childish and impractical. Even if they are right, we prefer our fancies.
Nancy opens her eyes and rests the recorder on her lap. Then she stares into the distance.
I follow her line of vision across Papa’s farm. Our sheep and Thomas Richards, one
