Mrs. Muffins throws feed to the hens in the yard. I notice she left her ledger unattended on the table. While she has her back turned, I hastily cover it with a basket of dirty laundry. If I could tear out a page without being noticed, I could write a note to Mr. Squints! I need to find a quill.
Before I can scheme, I am pulled roughly toward the hearth and handed a bucket. Mrs. Muffins points at the kettle. She wants me to fetch water from the pump in the yard to stretch the oyster soup for another meal.
The laundry basket is still covering the ledger. But for how long? Mrs. Muffins will want to list our purchases.
In the yard, the hens crowd me. I’ll bet she is stingy in feeding them too. Does she ever clean up their droppings? I’m surprised she hasn’t had me do it. Their feet and now mine are covered in waste. There is a high fence, which the fowl and I would find challenging to escape.
Reentering the kitchen with a heavy bucket of water, I see the laundry basket is still on the table, but Mrs. Muffins is nowhere in sight. I am certain she’s gone searching for her ledger. I must make haste.
I carefully rip a page from the back of her ledger. I discover that her true name is Martha Cummings. Seeing no quills, I take a splinter of charred wood from the kitchen fire and steady my shaking hand as I begin to write. It is messy, and the words smudge badly. I am too occupied to notice vibrations, and my heart leaps out of my chest when Mrs. Muffins is suddenly behind me. She tries to snatch the paper from me. The note is not finished, but hopefully Mr. Squints will understand my plea:
I don’t know where I find the strength, but I jab her stomach sharply with my elbow. And I’m off! I make it out of the kitchen and to the stair landing before she is upon me. I open my mouth to howl, but hard as I try, I can only huff.
Mrs. Muffins grabs the note and leaves me lying on the landing.
I scramble down the stairs, hoping to wrest the note from her hands and finish my task. I enter the kitchen too late. With a crooked smile, she crumples the note and throws it into the fire.
She is talking, clapping, and signaling for me to make haste and get supper ready, but all I can do is watch that piece of paper curl and burn in the flames.
Andrew must have come in because she rushes toward the parlor, gesturing vividly. I follow her, throwing up my hands, begging her to stop. She ignores me.
In the parlor, Andrew is frozen as he listens, his eyes narrowing on me.
When Mrs. Muffins leaves, he grabs my arm and shakes me. His teeth are clenched as he talks. Spittle lands on my cheek, and I wipe it away. He throws me down on the rug. I am too frightened to move.
I gather enough courage to raise my eyes and see him furiously scribbling on a piece of paper. He flings it in my face and waits with a tapping foot for me to retrieve it.
He has written:
He drags me down to the servants’ quarters. I fear he and Mrs. Muffins will never let me out of the cramped room again. I pound the bed with my fists.
That night, I lie awake and cry cold tears. Mr. Squints must be curious why I don’t serve at supper. I wonder what story they make up, and if he believes it.
I pray, “Dear Lord, why have You brought me to this place? No matter how much I suffer and how my faith is tested, I will never stop trying to get back to my family and friends. I have learned too much too fast about how the world treats anyone who is different. I have to learn their rules, if I am going to beat them.”
If Nancy were with me, would her outlook change? Would she be bolder with her father and less prejudiced toward freedmen and the Wampanoag? The world is bigger than we ever imagined.
I spend the next morning pacing back and forth on the tiny rug. My mind is frantic, like a rat in a trap. How will I ever get home?
In the afternoon, Mrs. Muffins unlocks the door. She drags me up to the kitchen and gestures for me to take tea to Andrew in the parlor. What is going on?
As I approach with the tray, I see another man standing in the entryway.
Mrs. Muffins comes in and reaches out her hand, which the stranger takes. She pours them each a cup of tea and offers them popovers.
The man has broad shoulders and long legs. He wears a suit rather than a coat and breeches, and his graying, dark hair is smartly slicked back. He walks around me, obviously disgusted by my feral state. I’m surprised he doesn’t hold his nose. But he doesn’t dismiss me outright.
His hawklike eyes, brown with gold flecks, are fixated on me with great curiosity. Could this be the man who wrote the letter to Andrew?
When Mrs. Muffins brings my coat and hat, I cling to her. Does this man intend to take me away? As Eamon has said, “Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.” I moan as Andrew pulls me away from her.
Before I can resist, the older gentleman sweeps me out the door and into a stately carriage.
Though the carriage is majestic, with velvet interior and cushions, I fear the livery driver is taking us to some dark and foreboding place. Even with the beaver fur I’ve been given to wrap around me, I shiver. The curtains are drawn, so I can’t see where we’re going.
Andrew and the gentleman talk in what looks like a polite manner. There isn’t an easy intimacy between them, but they are cordial. The older man’s eyes are penetrating; I name him Professor Hawk. Andrew eagerly opens his black satchel to show him his writings. Professor Hawk raises his hand to indicate patience and then pats Andrew on the shoulder.
Am I not a person, like them? Does Professor Hawk not observe my dilapidated condition, my terror?
Twenty minutes must pass before the carriage slows down and comes to a halt.
The driver holds open the door. I see a metal sign that reads Beacon Hill. Oil lamps light the streets. In Chilmark, the high road is pitch-black at night, unless there is a rider with a lantern.
The building before me is four stories in height, with pilasters rising from the top of the first-story porch to the roof. It is so large it cannot possibly be someone’s home. Is this an asylum?
I am led through the elegant foyer into a front room with a cold slab of a table and sharp instruments. When I turn back, I see the latch rattle. They’ve locked the door. Why must they always cage me like an animal?
My breath comes quicker as I examine the instruments. They resemble the tools hanging in our barn, only smaller, more refined, of smoother, polished metal.
My heart pounds.
The desk is loaded with papers. There is no attempt to conceal them. I spot quill pens and an inkwell. Do I risk defying Andrew so soon after my last transgression?
A framed document has the name Dr. Henry Minot. He must be the gentleman who brought me here. I wasn’t far off calling him a professor. I wonder about his surname. Pronunciations of English words vex me. George sometimes made futile attempts to explain them to me.
I have never been examined by a formal doctor. Mama uses home remedies when we are sick. Teas and poultices made from hazelnut and sassafras bark. We are not the only settlers who use Wampanoag cures.
I see the handle of the door rattle. A thin girl wearing a white-and-gray gown enters the room. She looks to be about Andrew’s age with a sharp face and shrewd eyes under a twist of fiery hair. She must be the doctor’s housekeeper.
She has an open, curious look about her. She reminds me of Miss Hammond. I decide that her name is Miss Top because she seems to bob a half-curtsy every five steps and, when she turns, she turns almost fully as if she is spinning around. She never stops moving.
Rolling her hands from her knees up over her head, she pantomimes for me to undress. I know for certain that Mama wouldn’t approve. I take off my cloak, hat, shoes, and stockings, and cross my arms. I refuse to go any further.
Miss Top shakes her head. Her lips are moving. She takes hold of my gown, loosening the ties on the bodice and then yanking down the skirt. At the inn, I was overworked and underfed. My muscles are strong, but I am too exhausted to resist. She instructs me to sit on the cold table. I shiver in only my
undergarments.
Andrew and Dr. Minot enter the room. The doctor motions for Miss Top to light a fire in the woodstove. She does as asked and leaves me alone with them. Blood pounds in my head.
Dr. Minot looks at my ears. He looks in my mouth and feels the cords on my throat and the natural bumps on my head under my thick hair. He talks to Andrew, who takes a metal band like a crown and puts it round my head. He adjusts it with tiny screws. I jerk as if someone slapped me. I can feel a trickle of blood down my right temple. I raise my hand to wipe away the blood, but Andrew lowers it.
I feel like a bare tree in the wind, but I won’t let myself cry.
Andrew removes the metal band. He measures its diameter and notes it in a book on the desk. I have the urge to spit in his face. What does the size of my head have to do with anything except fitting a new bonnet?
Miss Top returns while Andrew and Dr. Minot wash their hands in the fresh water she pours into a basin. They talk, turned away from me.
Before I know what’s happening, Miss Top takes me by the wrist and pulls me up carpeted stairs and into a room with a tub larger than any I’ve seen. When she gestures toward the high water, I know she’s asking me to climb in.
“No, no, no, no, no,” I sign.
I will not be stripped bare by strangers. How am I to know that this girl won’t attempt to drown me, like an unwanted litter of kittens?
The shift Mama sewed is not easily torn off. I cross my arms over my chest and will not cooperate. The girl persists in her duty. I pinch. I push. I kick. But again, she overpowers me and forces me into the water. I slip under and come up coughing. When she scrubs my hair and body, I wail and must sound like a banshee or an Irish spirit.
Miss Top’s mouth pinches into a thin line as she runs her fingers over my bruises. Papa allows his flock of sheep more privacy than I am being granted.
I am so filthy the water darkens quickly. Miss Top drains and refills the tub. By that time, I breathe easier. I even hold my breath and go underwater entirely. For a moment, I can pretend I am bathing in the fresh spring at home.
Miss Top sits on the floor, flushed and panting. She wipes the hair back from her forehead. Our struggle seems to have subdued her. For the moment, she is less efficient and more forgiving. She gives me a clean shift, a mobcap, and a shawl.
Miss Top leads me to a large room with a canopied four-poster bed. It is beautiful, like something out of my stories. The polished wood floor is covered with rugs fancier than our braided ones at home. Pretty combs, soft brushes, and a wreath of pine and berries sit on top of the bureau. I am not yet ready to glance at my reflection in the floor-length mirror.
Miss Top carries the green gown Mama made me with her arm outstretched. I start to protest. She seems to understand my attachment to it, no matter its wretched state. She lets me hold it to my clean cheek for a moment before she throws it in the fireplace. I grab the fire poker and try to retrieve it, but Miss Top snatches the poker and uses it to prod the gown and ensure it burns quickly. I drop to my knees.
Miss Top leaves. I rush to the door behind her. I can see her wiggle the latch to make sure it is secure. I noticed she keeps a ring of keys in her apron. Are there other prisoners here?
I pace the floor, still avoiding my reflection in the mirror. Behind the flowery drapes are two floor-to-ceiling windows. They are covered by iron bars. Why should there be bars on the third floor? Who else has been held here, and for how long? Where are they now?
I try in vain to shake the bars. My hands can barely reach the panes. I cannot smash them in the hope of escape.
I sit with my legs tucked under me on the duvet and brush out my hair. I wish Mama were here to gently work out the knots. I yelp as I snag them.
I should sleep peacefully in such a bed. But it is too large and empty. I curl into a ball. I have the quivers, so I pray where I am instead of getting down on my knees.
“Lord Almighty, I’ve always believed You listened to me and kept me safe. Please send someone to rescue me before they do me further harm. I will never again tell lies.”
No one comes.
When Miss Top shakes me awake in the morning, I startle. I wonder if it is different for hearing people, who must come awake slowly to the sounds of morning. She smiles and nods. I wait for her to box my ears or drag me down to a waiting pile of unwashed dishes. So I am surprised when she pours fresh water into my basin, and more so when I am given a plate with oysters and hare. I eat quickly.
After stoking the fire and drawing the heavy drapes, Miss Top exits, and I get out of bed.
I feel no vibrations through these thick walls, nor through the floors with their heavy rugs. Occasionally, I sense a small shudder as a door is closed forcefully. Are others held here against their will? Are the cries of the insane all around me? I shiver and wrap my shawl tighter.
Miss Top enters again and, before I can peek into the hall, quickly closes and locks the door behind her. She lays new clothes on the bed. She looks at me boldly and holds up the petticoat. I decide not to struggle and allow myself to be outfitted in the red gown, complete with stays, matching shoes with paper inserts, and an elegant felt hat.
Why all this finery? It feels like a costume. From Andrew’s written rules on the Defiance, I assume I will be poked and prodded by more cold hands, and who knows what else.
Miss Top looks behind her and quickly rushes out. She must have heard a sound beckoning her. She exits through a small gap between the door and doorframe. I see the handle rattle, to ensure it’s locked.
I cross the room and look out the barred windows. Beacon Hill lives up to its name, as it is a hilly place, with stretches of land and trees. A fresh snow spreads out like a white blanket brushed to a fine nap. It must have been pasture land in the past. It resembles Chilmark more than anything I’ve seen in the city.
In the distance, I glimpse a massive structure made of brick with a huge golden dome. Not as picturesque as Faneuil Hall but equally impressive. I wonder if it is a grander version of our Meeting House.
Unlike Mrs. Muffins’s, with its comings and goings at all hours, Dr. Minot’s street is distant and silent. I don’t see many residents bustling to and fro. I have never experienced such physical isolation. Quiet within, quiet without.
I press my face between the bars imagining the details I cannot see. Are there trails of deer and other animal footprints?
It suddenly occurs to me that all I survey was once Indian land. Miss Hammond taught us the Massachusett Nation had many sachemships before the white settlers arrived. Outbreaks of small pox devastated their numbers. Does that mean this peaceful winter landscape also serves as a graveyard? Where are the survivors?
I turn back to the room and explore the bureau drawers. Inside are linens that would make Mrs. Skiffe burn with envy, so fine and smooth to the touch, impeccably ironed and folded. In the bottom drawer, carefully tucked under a sheet, I find a set of carved wooden toys. With delicate hands, I pick up Noah’s Ark and think of Reverend Lee’s sermon.
I run my hand along the bright yellow paint on a duck with wheels and its cord for pulling. Such fine wooden toys, made with great craftsmanship, are not meant to be hidden away in a drawer. I turn the duck over in my hands, and something falls into my lap. It is wrapped in a dainty handkerchief with the initials “A.M.” sewn into it. Inside, I feel a flat oval the size of an egg. I unwrap it.
A cameo! I’ve rarely seen anything so elegant in my life. One side is ivory, painted with the cherubic likeness of a girl only a little younger than I am. She has rosy cheeks and a cloud of dark hair surrounding her face. I replace the cameo in the drawer. Did my clothes belong to this girl? Is the room hers too?
I think of how Mama keeps George’s room as he left it. She would never let another soul occupy it.
Just then, the door flies open. Andrew seizes me by the arm and leads me toward the door. I lag behind but don’t resist. The first two doors we pass are open. One of them is the water closet where I
bathed. Another is a bedroom smaller than mine. It’s bright and tidy. The rest of the third floor appears unoccupied. Perhaps this is not an asylum, after all.
If it is a personal residence, it is larger than the largest home on the island. Dr. Minot must be a very prestigious man. But if this is his home, where is his family?
We descend the curved staircase. When I realize I am being taken to the room with the cold table and the instruments, I dig in my heels. Andrew pulls me roughly by my elbow and shoves me ahead of him.
When we enter the front room, Dr. Minot seems taken aback. His sharp gaze softens, and I watch as he clasps his hands and wrings them. Is it the clothes?
He gestures for me to sit on the table. My legs swing nervously. Andrew stands to one side, his gaze warning me not to embarrass him.
Dr. Minot pushes against the roof of my mouth with his index and middle finger. It makes me gag, but I decide it would be unproductive to bite him. He follows my vocal cords down to my breast. I blush and look away. He moves two fingers back and forth in front of my eyes to see if I follow them. Then he moves my lips open and closed, open and closed, like a doll, and traces my jawline.
Miss Top busies herself with the woodstove but also watches us.
Dr. Minot bends down to look into my eyes. I try to make my gaze as intelligent as possible. I search his face. After a few moments of mutual staring, he looks away.
He signals for me to stand and twirls two fingers on his right hand for me to turn around. He feels my back from my neck to my rear. What notions they have about our deafness! I face him and point to my ears to indicate that is my one peculiarity.
That makes him stroke his chin, and he seems to chuckle.
Andrew steps closer and talks rapidly. I imagine he is pompously interjecting his observations. Dr. Minot gestures and leads Andrew away.
Standing at the windows with his arms crossed, he calmly listens to Andrew, who in comparison appears like a rabid dog frothing at the mouth. The doctor lays his hand on Andrew’s shoulder to steady him and speaks to him directly. I wish I knew what they were saying.
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