John Casey - Compass Rose

One Sunday before Johnny showed up for a picnic, she saw in the style section of the Providence Journal that he was one of Rhode Island’s ten most eligible bachelors. She felt a succession of pangs — what? How dare they? He should be ashamed. She read it to be sure her name wasn’t there. When he showed up she said, “Seen the paper yet?”

“No.”

A bright Sunday morning, Mary doing brunch at Sawtooth, Rose helping May in her garden. She drove them to near where she’d seen him catch the trout. She walked in toward the stream. When he saw where she was taking him, he laughed. She set the picnic basket down and spread a blanket. She took out the Sunday ProJo and began to read it, lying on her stomach.

She said, “Slow news day,” and offered him the first section.

He said, “It’s our day off.” He sat down beside her. “I’m going to be away for a while; I have to go to a conference. Do you happen to know if New Orleans is on the other side of the Mississippi? I’ve never been across the Mississippi. In fact, I’ve never—”

She rattled the paper and said, “You’re on the same page as a basketball player and a TV weatherman. And someone designing a yacht for the America’s Cup. Did you go to church today? It says you went to Our Lady of Mercy in Woonsocket, where you were an altar boy. I didn’t know you were an altar boy.”

After he read the piece, he said, “Oh, shit.” After a moment he said, “Maybe it’ll die down while I’m away.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “Ex — hockey player, ex — altar boy at Our Lady of Mercy. Cute picture. When you start looking for the perfect wife this’ll be a big help. You probably shouldn’t marry a French-Canadian, you’ve got that covered, but there’s Italian and Irish and Portuguese. Maybe not Portuguese, I can’t think of any Portuguese political families. Of course, Captain Teixeira does have a lot of very pretty nieces and grand-nieces. But he’s not political. Italian or Irish makes more sense. Mr. Salviatti has two daughters; one of them’s attractive. Rhode Island has had some very patrician Wasp senators — Pell and Chafee — but then you’d lose the Catholic vote. Unless you could get a beautiful Wasp to convert. Now, that would be a feather in your cap.”

“You about through? You’re not that funny.”

“I’m not being funny. This is serious. And why was I thinking inside the box? Rhode Island is pretty closed in, but a nice Kennedy cousin from Massachusetts …” Elsie felt herself slipping from teasing into a more reckless urge. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to provoke. Perhaps that he’d say he thought of her but that she was impossible — unwed mother, non-Catholic, and likely to say anything that came into her head.

She said, “I may have spoiled you. You may have developed a taste for bad girls. Suppose you end up with a politically alert Sunday-school teacher who’s willing to be your broodmare but honest to God thinks sex is just for procreation. Never crossed her mind to undo your belt with her teeth. Of course, speaking of Kennedys, you might have an arrangement on the side. But these days they end up blabbing. Used to be a mistress kept her lip buttoned. So here’s what we hope for … political family, Italian soccer mom, you have three kids, she stands by your side the whole campaign, gives great talks to women’s groups, Red Cross volunteers. But she has a secret dark side, an inner bad girl. That only you know. That only you know how to set off. Like if she hides in the bushes and watches you catch a trout.” Elsie’s mouth opened with surprise at what she’d just said. And just as unexpectedly as she’d said “catch a trout” she said, “You fuckhead eligible bachelor!” She tore the page in half. Her mouth opened again. “You fucking altar-boy attorney general! Go make some baby altar boys with your dumb altar-girl wife.” She got up and walked into the stream. She sat down. The current piled up on her back as if she were a rock. It spilled over her shoulders.

He waded out to her, stood her up, and walked her back to dry ground. As she was wringing out her clothes she felt how neutral her nakedness was. Good old naked Elsie. She went about the business of spreading her clothes on branches.

He said, “I could build a fire.”

“No. We’d have to arrest each other.”

He laughed. She wrapped herself in the blanket. He said, “You don’t really want me, not for a life.” She didn’t say anything. “And you’re right. You’re a wonderful woman, but most of my life would bore you or make you angry.” He picked her pants off the branch and wrung them out more thoroughly. Then her shirt. He sat down by the picnic basket. He lit his pipe. He took off his shoes and socks, wrung out the socks. He squeezed some water out of the cuffs of his pants, then rolled them up to his knees.

She said, “They won’t dry like that.”

“I am not seeking the remedy of dryness. I am merely reducing the sensation of wetness.”

She liked his making fun of his lawyerishness. She’d telephoned him at his office one afternoon, heard rustling and crackling. “What’re you doing?”

“I am eating steamed shrimp seriatim.”

She’d been charmed then. Now she dried her hair with a corner of the blanket and wondered if she was going to fuck him for one puff of charm.

Or because her own tantrum had stirred her up.

Or because it had been two — no, three — weeks.

Or because she was Nellie Melba.

Her nakedness was of more interest to both of them now that she was wrapped in the blanket.

One day Elsie was cutting Miss Perry’s toenails. Miss Perry began to cry. Elsie had never seen Miss Perry cry. Elsie felt the hunch of Miss Perry’s shoulder as the motion ran down her body and made her foot jump. Elsie looked up and saw Miss Perry’s face squeeze tight. Then Miss Perry held still and a tear came out from under one lens of her eyeglasses.

Elsie didn’t know what to do. She lowered her eyes. She dropped the clippers and held Miss Perry’s bare foot in both hands. She laid her forehead on the top of Miss Perry’s foot.

Miss Perry cleared her throat and said, “What on earth are you doing? I am not an Oriental potentate.” Elsie picked up the clippers and finished cutting the last two toenails. She gathered up the clippings and put Miss Perry’s slipper back on.

Later in the day Miss Perry said, “I have known two or three men who became more courteous, even sweet, after they had their strokes. While I admired their transformations, at the same time I had the unkind thought that they had a lifetime of bad temper for which to atone.”

Elsie was setting the table for supper. She laid a fork down and straightened it with her fingertips. She said, “Are you saying that you, conversely, have a lifetime of sweetness that you intend to make up for?”

Miss Perry laughed. She stopped when her rib hurt. “Elsie, dear, I was making my way toward an apology, but you have trumped me.”

May’s life was immeasurably richer once she became one of the three crucial women in Rose’s life. May couldn’t bring herself to have another conversation with Elsie, but she’d always liked Mary Scanlon. She felt grateful for the part Mary had played in handling Dick — bullying him with hugs that were part strong-arm tactic, part bosomy squeezes. That first time Mary had done it, Dick had given in to a combination of Mary’s physical strength and her flood of argument. True, she’d added some hugs and kisses then, and May had counted them small payment for having baby Rose in her own kitchen.

As Rose grew to middling size, she would run from Mary’s pickup into May’s arms. If Dick was at home, Mary hugged Dick and jollied Rose along. “And here’s your father, Rose, home from the sea.” If Rose needed more jollying, Mary would add, “Not every girl has a handsome sailor for her da,” and hug him. “He’s a bit shy now, Rose, but he’s dying to see you.”