When I returned, he filled the bowl and put in one owl pellet. The water quickly turned brown. I leaned in closely. Mama stopped what she was doing to come and see what we were up to.
George loosened the pellet gently, then laid a cloth on the table. He placed small white objects that emerged from the pellet on the cloth. They were thin and curved like small teeth. He set down more and arranged them. I couldn’t figure out what he was doing, until he unearthed a very small skull. I watched with fascination as he assembled a mouse’s skeleton! Mama clasped her hands together with delight, and George looked proud. Nature is infinitely mysterious. I wanted to understand how owls knew to create the pellets. I looked in George’s schoolbooks for more details, but I could find none.
George’s books! Could he have tucked the map inside for safekeeping?
On a small shelf beside his bed are books that were never returned to Parson Thaxton. It is not like Mama to keep someone else’s property. Perhaps she couldn’t bear to part with anything left in George’s room and Papa paid to replace them.
I pick up a book of legends and flip through the pages. Nothing. Then a book of Latin grammar. Still nothing. When I open a book about local geography, the map falls out.
I unfold it and touch the lines. Lines that George drew. My mind conjures up his warmth and light. I try to hold on to the moment, but it fades.
Nancy and I had wanted a map of Chilmark. Not the kind cartographers make, but a map with all the places that are important to us. George counted drawing among his many talents, so he made it for us. He even included figures of me and Nancy walking on the high road and Smithy down by the Atlantic Ocean.
I touch the homes of families and friends we frequently visit, Ezra Brewer’s house, the Allen farm, select apple trees, Mr. Pye’s shop bellowing smoke, and the field where Mr. Butler’s oxen wandered when he left his gate open one night.
It is a map of memories.
George was always adding new touches. The most recent was Sarah Hillman running from the schoolyard to the fresh spring with angry hornets chasing her. George was working on Thomas carrying a bale of hay when the accident happened.
A salty tear drops onto the map and stains the ocean.
I look closely at the path Nancy instructed me to follow tomorrow. It’s somewhere I rarely venture. Littlewoods Lane can be treacherous. The tall marsh grass hides small sinkholes. George marked them with skulls and crossbones.
These details were not dramatic touches. We have great respect for the power of the old marsh, and its stories of animals and birds caught, unable to free themselves, until they sink and die.
When we were younger, a group of us went down to the marsh together. Billy Hillman, Sarah’s cousin, believed it was a lake and decided to wade in. He quickly became stuck in the deep, thick mud.
“Don’t move! Don’t try to free yourself!” George called out and signed.
But Billy struggled and sank deeper.
At George’s command, we formed a human chain. George was closest to Billy, and he held his hand while we all pulled so we wouldn’t lose Billy and George. Billy lost only one shoe to the grimy pit.
The shoe is a landmark on George’s map of memories.
We never told our parents that we had tested death and won.
I trace my route for tomorrow. I will keep to the right side of the lane and approach the marsh to the north of Mr. Pye’s shop.
Vibrations through the floorboards shake me out of my reverie. I quickly put everything back where I found it and step into the kitchen.
Mama is standing by the table.
“Heard sounds,” she signs, looking stricken.
“Sorry,” I sign.
Mama returns to folding linens, and I have no choice but to finish my chores before supper.
I wipe the ornate cupboard that has been passed down in our family. I put the dishes and cups I washed on its shelves. I look at Mama with a smile, hoping she’ll praise my delicate work, but she remains absorbed.
When I return to my dusting, my rag brushes a hanging teacup. It teeters on its hook, slips, and falls, shattering on the wooden floor. It must have made a loud, sharp sound because Mama spins around. I quickly assure her that I will clean up the broken pieces.
I watch her mouth move, her brow pulled down in a scowl. She is yelling at me, without signing, as she collects the pieces of the cup in her apron. I can see her lips flying as she stomps over to the basin and dumps the shards inside.
I want to put my hands over my ears to remind her that I cannot hear her scolding. But tears are stinging the backs of my eyes, threatening to spill over. I wipe my wrist against the corner of one irritably.
I am grateful when Papa comes in, breaking the tension by stomping his heavy boots. He warms his hands by the hearth and pours a cup of tea.
“Mary,” he signs, brushing his right hand gently across his cheek. He has used that sign for me since I was born and he first stroked my face. Then he pats me on the top of the head, like I am still his little girl.
In a way, I am. There has always been an easy intimacy between us. I do not believe it is because I was born deaf, like him, but rather because we are similar in spirit. Also, I think it endears me to him that I take after his mother, Lila Lambert, in physical appearance. Like her, I am slender with sunlight-colored hair and hazel eyes.
Sam is in the kitchen too, warming by the fire. He is white with
