Show Me a Sign

with the state of these sheets. She always says, “Waste not, and ye will want not.” I don’t envy Helen, who does the Skiffes’ laundry. Very few things seem to please Mrs. Skiffe. She must have discarded these.
Nancy hangs her cloak and hat on a tree clear of the dark, sinking marsh.
I begin to wrap her like a corpse, but she keeps signing, “I am a soldier who died in the War for Independence. I’ve come back to avenge my British killers and claim this land as mine once again!”
I knew Nancy would concoct a scheme. Whenever George followed us on our walks, he was amused by her inventions.
“Stay still,” I sign.
I put the sheet around her face and drape it over her shoulders. I wind the rest around her limbs. In profile, with her face obscured and one cloaked arm raised, she looks ghastly.
When I am done, Nancy continues to weave her story. She is signing boisterously, “I am not easy in my grave. No one remembers to mourn me.” I am close enough to feel her howls.
Nancy stops her story to wrap me. She is less careful than when I wrapped her.
I suddenly feel like I can’t breathe.
“Wait!” I sign frantically.
“What?” she asks.
Images of George’s last ride to the cemetery flash in my mind. I open my hands, searching for words, but simply curl my fingers closed again.
“Are you okay?” Nancy signs.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and nod as I will the images to recede.
Nancy finishes wrapping me. Once we are both concealed, we glide, arms extended. Initially, our footfalls are awkward. What clumsy spirits we are! Then we throw up our hands, skipping and twirling until we reach the outskirts of Littlewoods, where thickets of small trees border the marsh.
There are many ghost stories on the island, most about the war or the sea, and some about little lights in the marsh at night. Ezra Brewer called them will-o’-the-wisps, mischievous spirits who try to lead travelers astray. I am trying to lead a spirit home.
“For George,” I remind Nancy as I dance. It comforts me to imagine him near again, if just for a little while.
Once, George told me that he had seen a ghostly figure in the yard. As I peered out the window, he exited the kitchen door and circled around the house. With a lantern lighting his face from below, he popped up in the window, looking like a proper specter. I jumped like a spooked cat, and he laughed so hard tears formed in his eyes. I was cross with him and called him a mule. But after a moment, I laughed as well. I wonder if George is laughing at me now.
I watch Nancy prance about as the sun starts to go down behind the trees. It gets dark so early nowadays. We must make quite a spectacle in the dimming light.
I see Nancy’s mouth move. I don’t know how loudly she moans. I open my mouth and let out a howl too. I am usually embarrassed to make vocal sounds because I cannot hear myself, and I know from seeing people’s reactions that I don’t sound pleasant. But no one knows it is me beneath my shroud.
I am a spirit. I am a will-o’-the-wisp. I am calling George! I pray for a sign from him.
I wail. My limbs writhe.
Nancy suddenly grabs my arm and pulls the sheet off my head.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“A trap passed down the lane,” she signs. “I heard the horse whinny and saw the driver come to a halt before riding on. They must have seen us and heard our wild howling.”
“Oh no!” I sign. “Did you see who it was?”
Nancy nods. “Reverend Lee!”
“Tell me it wasn’t him,” I implore.
“I recognized the trap and horse,” Nancy signs.
We are mortified. Frantically, we remove our shrouds.
“What do we do with these now?” I ask.
“Bury them in the marsh,” she signs.
Since George did not make his spirit visible, this feels like a chance to lay him to rest.
I nod.
We fold the sheets and carry them as close as we dare to the marsh.
Nancy pushes her sheet down in the mud with a long stick. She signs, “Here lies General John Wright, finally laid to rest.”
“Amen,” I sign, playing along. It helps ease my burden to imagine this is all just a game.
Now it’s time for my sheet.
I take the stick and try to push it down. It’s harder than it looked watching Nancy. The sheet forms a bubble of swampy water and won’t easily sink. I keep pushing and poking it, but it gets caught in the reeds.
Nancy comes to my aid. She drags the sheet back to the main water hole without getting caught in thick mud.
“Why won’t he go down easily?” I ask. “Is he that perturbed? Does he hate me? I am sorry, my brother, for my sin. I didn’t mean to lure you into the high road. Why did you push me out of the way? It should have been me …”
Nancy’s face whitens, as if she’s looking at a specter. I quickly turn around to see if George is behind me. The air is empty. That’s when I realize she didn’t know. Even though I once accidentally mentioned his expression before he died, Nancy never could have imagined I was responsible for my brother’s death.
I can almost see her mind working. Is she putting the pieces together? She composes herself, like a true best friend.
“Mary,” she signs. “It wasn’t your fault. Besides, George would have chosen saving you over himself.”
I push myself up on the long stick to force the winding shroud under the water for good. “Here lies …,” I begin, but cannot finish.
We both bow our heads in a moment of silence.
“Amen,” Nancy signs, as if I had completed my thought.
I close my eyes and a few tears stick in my eyelashes. I wipe my hands together to clean off the dirt, then make the sign for “finish.” “It’s late.