John Casey: Compass Rose

“That’s okay,” Charlie said. “I mean, you don’t see that every day.”

“Well, it was all perfectly splendid,” Miss Perry said. “And you’re all coming for lunch, are you not? And your birthday cake.”

Tom said, “We’d better clean up some.”

Miss Perry blinked behind her thick glasses. “It’s a shame your father’s at sea, but we’ll be a jolly little party. Elsie, dear, you’ll stay, won’t you?”

Elsie said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry — I’ve got to meet my sister.”

“I thought she went sailing with Jack. Never mind. It’s kind of you to drive me. Now, don’t dillydally, boys.”

May watched them make their way toward Elsie’s car, Miss Perry on Elsie’s arm.

“Miss Perry’s getting old,” Tom said. “And Elsie’s kind of plumped up.”

May said, “You boys shouldn’t say things about—”

Charlie said, “You shouldn’t say ‘you boys’ when it’s just Tom. I was going to say Elsie looked pretty good getting up for that foul ball — taking a fall like she did.”

“Well, I guess someone’s stuck on Elsie,” Tom said. “Bet you wish it was you got tangled up with her.”

May didn’t hear what Charlie said back. She felt another rasp across the same place — no end to Elsie Buttrick. But whether because she’d had an hour or two to grow numb or whether she was grateful for Elsie’s lie about having to meet her sister or whether Tom’s taunt set her to thinking how relentlessly stupid men were going to be about Elsie Buttrick, May found herself sharing some small part of her distress with Elsie Buttrick. There wasn’t anyone May could tell this to.

Elsie felt squeezed shut inside. As if her nerves were the roots of a tree that was dug up and put in a small bucket, white roots sprouting wildly but curling back on themselves when they hit the steel sides.

She managed to help Miss Perry across the field. She held the passenger door open while Miss Perry clung to the base of the open window to lower herself onto the seat.

When they got to Miss Perry’s house, Elsie felt obliged to help her set out the cucumber sandwiches and a pitcher of lemonade. She got the birthday cake out of the refrigerator and put it on the kitchen counter. Her fingers felt peeled to the quick handling the plates, the tray, the pitcher, the platter that May would be holding in a few minutes.

“Candles,” Miss Perry said. “Birthday candles. And the little rosettes to hold them. I put them somewhere. Blue for Charlie and red for Tom. Could you look in the drawer? The one by the sink. I am sorry to be such a … It was very hot in the sun.”

When she heard Miss Perry’s unfinished sentence, Elsie grew alarmed. She got Miss Perry to sit down at the kitchen table and brought her a glass of water. Elsie wrapped some ice cubes in a dish towel. Miss Perry said, “Don’t be silly, Elsie,” but allowed her to put it on her neck. Miss Perry said, “My father used to soak his pocket handkerchief in witch hazel to cool himself.”

Elsie was reassured by this complete Miss-Perry sentence. She found the candles and holders and stuck them in the cake. She considered leaving, decided she shouldn’t. She had to push through some shyness to put her hand on Miss Perry’s forehead. Miss Perry’s brow was warm but not too hot. And not cold and clammy. Elsie put the ice pack on again.

Miss Perry closed her eyes and said, “It was hot in the sun.” She opened her eyes and said, “I feel much better.” Elsie obediently took her hand away and wondered if she could steady herself with small goodnesses.

She heard May and the boys at the front door. Elsie went to open it. She kept her eyes on her hand on the doorknob and said, “I’m just leaving. Miss Perry was a little bit undone by the heat.”

May said, “You boys wait here. I’ll go see to her.”

“I think she’s fine,” Elsie said. “But maybe you could call — or Charlie or Tom could call when you leave. I’ll be at home.”

Charlie said, “Sylvia Teixeira usually comes over with supper. I could stay till she gets here.”

Elsie heard the note in Charlie’s voice, looked up to see May look hard at Charlie. Elsie left. She wanted a closed door between her and May’s thinking of yet another female coming near. If she were May she would peck all calling birds to death.

Elsie got home in plenty of time for Mary Scanlon to get to work. Elsie said, “I won’t stick you with a Saturday morning again. Did I leave enough milk?”

“Oh, Rose and I were fine. I think my giving her a bottle’s making my tits bigger. And how’s Miss Perry?”

“Oh, God. I’ll tell you everything in a minute.” Mary’s breezy talk about her tits jangled, but when she sat down, she felt the comfort of being able to say to Mary, “I’ll tell you everything.”

For all her talk about letting Rose cry, Mary Scanlon was an indulger. While Mary’s room was being built, Elsie went to stay at Jack and Sally’s cottage on Sawtooth Point. Mary began her job at the Wedding Cake only a hundred yards away. Before she started cooking, Mary spent an hour carrying Rose up and down the point while Elsie took a nap. Elsie would wake up to the sound of Mary’s crooning as the pair of them came in the door. Mary had a store of old songs she’d inherited from her father. She also had a taste for the Lucky Strike Hit Parade from her earliest childhood. She apparently remembered everything she’d ever heard. Elsie had only the vaguest memory of anything before rock, but then she had more of an ear for a heavy beat than for a tune.

At six or so Mary sent one of the waitresses over with a tray of food and a bottle of dark beer, which Mary said was good for nursing mothers.

At ten Mary would show up again for a few minutes before going back to check the cleanup. She usually brought another dessert for Elsie. Elsie felt like a queen ant, pale, inert, and swollen.

The low point was at eleven. Mary was gone. Rose was sleeping. Elsie couldn’t concentrate enough to read. It was too late to exercise. She wasn’t as physically tired as Sally said she’d be, but her brain was dull. She could barely remember herself outdoors, moving through the woods and marshes.

Years before when she’d been having supper with Jack and Sally, Jack had asked one of his massive questions: What’s the best thing in your life? It was the sort of thing Jack liked to bring up, though not for extended discussion. He preferred quick answers, which he took in with a grunt of approval or disapproval. Jack himself said, “Providing,” and grunted with approval. Elsie said, “Adventure. Love and adventure.” Jack tipped his head, meaning that was no more than what he expected. Sally said, “Grace.” Jack lifted his eyebrows and said, “Yes.” Sally beamed. Sally went on to say, “Moments of grace … I was listening to Jack Junior—” Jack lifted his hand and said, “Grace was just right. Let’s not adorn it.” Elsie had actually heard the word pompous inside her head. It had swelled from ear to ear, and for an instant she’d been afraid she was going deaf.

Now she heard her own voice saying “Adventure. Love and adventure.” What glib twitter.

At the first sound from Rose, Elsie felt her mind blur. Just as well, it wasn’t a necessary part of nursing Rose.

Outside, it was high summer. She knew the blackberries were ripe, the spartina tall and thick across the marshes, blue crabs swimming up the salt creeks. By noon the inland air would be hot enough to rise, drawing in a sea breeze. At night the salt ponds flickered with the phosphorescent wakes of fish, the sky with the Perseids. All that was the sort of thing she’d stored up when she was an adolescent tomboy, calming herself by observing the decent progressions of nature. Since then twenty seasons of marsh grasses had grown, withered, and decomposed; twenty years of crab carapaces were now mineral matter in the black mud feeding the field of green.