Show Me a Sign

hat and dangle a ribbon in front of Smithy, who bats at it.
This must make Ezra Brewer feel charitable because he starts signing again. I try my best to keep quiet.
Even though my parents know our early history, they are reluctant to talk about it. “A bird flies forward,” Mama always says. Past, present, and future all seem mixed together in Ezra Brewer’s mind.
He looks at me and makes words with his fingers as quickly as I can read them.
“Your great-great-grandfather Jonathan Lambert,” he signs, “was the first recorded deaf person to settle on the island. He arrived in 1692, using sign language from England.”
I smile. “But the sign language has changed since those days,” I add, interrupting once again.
Ezra Brewer signs, “The language people speak on the island is not the King’s English anymore. You are right. We have our own rules, signs for most words, and we can finger-spell the alphabet with both hands. Facial expressions and body language are as important as making the correct hand signs, while kinship makes it possible to understand each other with one or two signs or a look.” He gives me a sidelong glance, which I know means I best stop interrupting.
He continues signing. “Jonathan Lambert was a good carpenter and farmer. In 1694, he bought a piece of land from Sachem Josias Wompatuck for seven pounds. I suspect ol’ Jonathan got the better end of that deal. Today the place is still called Lambert’s Cove. It’s over by Christiantown. You’ve been there.”
I nod my head and right fist simultaneously. Someone else is watching Ezra Brewer recount our history. I catch a glimpse of the shadow peeking around his house.
“He married a hearing woman. They had seven children, including your great-grandfather Edward. Each married into families who came to the island from the Weald too and gave birth to deaf and hearing children. Your ancestors. Jonathan Lambert died at eighty years old, leaving a large estate and a good reputation.”
I smile. I like to hear that story.
“Aye,” Ezra Brewer signs, reading my face. “You should be proud to be his kin.”
“You never tell me about your kin,” I sign.
A strange look passes over Ezra Brewer’s face. He picks up the bottle and removes the cork. He has said all he is going to say for now. I have suspected for some time that he keeps a secret. I’ve asked Papa, but he won’t tell me. I think it has something to do with Ezra Brewer’s activities during the War for Independence.
I stand up, bring the open palm of my right hand down from my chin, and sign, “Thank you.”
Ezra Brewer winks and takes a swig from his bottle.
I start to follow the high road back home.
The shadow also returns. I am not afraid. I know just who my tracker is.

While I’m walking back along the high road, I think about what it must have been like when my great-great-grandfather Jonathan Lambert first came to the island. How did he communicate with other English settlers and the Wampanoag? What would it be like if the world were suddenly turned around, and everyone spoke but didn’t sign?
The shadow grows closer. Because I don’t hear, I rely heavily on my sight. Small details rarely escape my view. When I look back, Nancy ducks behind a tree, her arms held stiffly at her sides.
She is also eleven years, a thickset girl, with black curls pulled straight, lively brown eyes, and a sharp, boisterous nature. She lives off the high road too, a long walk uphill from our house. A walk so familiar to me I could take it in the dark. We have been best friends for as long as I can remember.
I see her crouch by a stone wall. I stop to remove a pebble from my shoe.
“Boo!” Nancy signs, opening her clasped hands in my face, as she jumps from a hedgerow right into my path.
When I don’t scream or start, Nancy frowns and hits me playfully with a weed she pulls from the ground.
“Which spy are you today?” I sign.
“Miss Jenny,” she spells with her fingers. “Do you know who she is?”
I make the letter O with both my hands to indicate I have no idea.
Nancy signs, “She was a British loyalist. She didn’t want our country to be free from England, so she spied on the French troops who fought on our side and reported their activities to the British headquarters in New York City.”
Nancy stops walking.
“Uncle Jeremiah says Miss Jenny was barely a mature woman, but she was very daring. When she was brought before General Washington for questioning, they cut off her hair …” Nancy flings off her hat and mobcap and pretends to cut her hair with imaginary scissors.
It’s hard for me not to think of the accident when Nancy mentions her uncle. Of course, it’s not Nancy’s fault that Jeremiah Skiffe killed George. We should not have been playing in the high road.
To make it worse, Nancy’s father would not let the town council or Reverend Lee speak to Jeremiah before he fled the island to his estate near Boston. I wish they had both treated Papa and Mama more respectfully.
Their behavior reminds me of my own sins and that I too am keeping the whole truth about George from Mama and Papa.
“It was a sign of public shame,” Nancy continues. “Hard as they tried to persuade her, Miss Jenny wouldn’t confess.”
Nancy raises the palm of her hand in front of her mouth and shakes her head defiantly to demonstrate Miss Jenny’s refusal.
I remind her, “Miss Jenny was a traitor.”
Nancy shrugs and repeatedly places the palm of one hand over the other. It’s sign language for “nevertheless.”
Suddenly, Nancy pulls me down behind the stone wall. She beckons for me to peek over the other side without being seen.
Reverend Lee is walking up from the beach with a young man. It must be the scientist! I try to explain this