John Casey: Compass Rose

She felt the comfort of that order, and even in her insulated state, she felt the righteousness of being one of those who knew that order. Dick did, too; this was the innermost justifying of her love. No one knew how mentally alike she and Dick were. Jack had barely kept himself from saying, “You went slumming and we’ll make the best of it.” Sally’s way of putting a bright face on Rose being her niece, her child’s cousin, was graver than any big-sister tut-tutting.

And what would Miss Perry think?

Until just now, Elsie had thought it comic that Miss Perry inspired awe. Twenty years ago Elsie had been her pet when Miss Perry taught Latin at the Perryville School. Elsie was aware of the way the other teachers deferred to Miss Perry, but learned only later that she was one of the founders of the school, that she was a venerable relic of the Hazards and Perrys, and that grown men and women still sought her favor as if they were living in a Henry James novel. Elsie had been no more aware than Miss Perry herself that Miss Perry’s aegis saved her from a number of punishments. Elsie had thought at first that Miss Perry had singled her out because Miss Perry felt sorry for the hoydenish little sister of the beautiful and virtuous Sally. Then Elsie got A’s in Latin and that seemed the reason that Miss Perry urged books on her and took her for long walks in the woods, botanizing and birding. And there’d been Miss Perry pointing to a foxhole and asking her to smell it. “You should know animals and plants by their odor as well as by sight. Do you smell it? My sense of smell is less keen than it used to be. I remember fox musk as somewhat stirring.” Elsie looked up. Miss Perry flicked her hand at the hole, urging Elsie to get on with it.

Now, dazed and stationary while nursing Rose, Elsie wondered if she would have loved Miss Perry if she hadn’t been Miss Perry’s pet, if they’d met when Elsie was older, if she might have thought Miss Perry affected rather than eccentric, patronizing rather than wholehearted in her friendship with Dick, snobbishly dismissive in her treatment of Eddie Wormsley. “What you do on public land, Mr. Wormsley, I cannot control. On my land I do not permit the sort of slaughter you seem to enjoy.”

Eddie remembered every word, reproduced Miss Perry’s rhythm and tone when he’d told Elsie. He wasn’t making fun of Miss Perry, he just couldn’t get her out of his head.

Rose sucked, burped, switched sides, sucked, burped, and dozed off. Was there a calming chemical brought on by nursing? After the first tingle of Rose’s mouth fastening on with surprising force — it felt like the old practical-joke joy buzzer — there was a deep satisfying tug inside her. Elsie was annoyed by how soft she’d become but was pleased by the flow of milk, at the unurgent pleasure. But, but, but. Maybe when she and Rose began to sleep through the night she’d get her brain back. These days she was lucky if she got three hours in a row. Then a little doze if Rose went right back to sleep. Then the long, bright wasted morning. The blessed relief of Mary Scanlon taking Rose. How could she have even thought a complaint about Mary’s singing?

But this time Rose slept for six hours. Suddenly it was dawn. Elsie got out of bed with a livelier body and clearer head. She nursed Rose. She thought Rose looked more alert, too, as if some additional brain cells hooked up in her sleep. Elsie put on shorts and a T-shirt. She said, “Come on, big girl,” and carried Rose outside. The Wedding Cake was gray and still. The grass and the loosened tennis nets were heavy with dew. The air was damp but mild. Elsie waded into Sawtooth Pond up to her waist. No wind, but the tide was coming in, ruffling the mouth of the inlet. The sun was just up but veiled in mist. It seemed as if the tide was carrying the gray light all the way from the farthest glimmer, releasing it on the surface of the pond. Her feet settled in the mud. She felt the tide pushing around her legs, Rose moving in her arms.

She said, “Can you see it, Rose? Can you feel all this?”

Dick and May and the boys were still staying at Eddie Wormsley’s ramshackle cabin while their house was being rebuilt. While Dick was on shore he put some time in helping Eddie and Eddie’s new crew. A few days after the ball game May came down to watch. She heard Eddie say, “We’re still bracing the studs; we need another half-dozen braces.” May was surprised to see he was talking to Dick. And more surprised to see Dick lay down what he was doing and head off to the miter box. Eddie had looked up to Dick since their school days, and Dick had always taken Eddie for granted. Part of it was that for years Eddie scraped by as a handyman for some of the summerhouses and a few of the big houses. Except for Miss Perry’s. Eddie had closed the summerhouses, drained the plumbing, fixed the screens, kept an eye on them. For the big houses, Eddie plowed the driveways when it snowed and kept their woodsheds stocked. Beside his cabin he had a shed for his tractor, truck, and snowplow, and an old Quonset hut for a workshop. It was after the hurricane that he’d begun to make some real money. He’d cut up trees that were blocking driveways, fixed damaged houses, cabins, sheds, and wharves. He’d hired a crew and soon enough had a tidy business. No more days off fishing or hunting. He’d even hired Phoebe Fitzgerald to keep his books and answer the phone.

So part of what had happened between Dick and Eddie was Eddie’s no longer being the local handyman. When Dick had been at his lowest point — his lowest point financially — he used to say to May, “At least I’m not fixing toilets for summer people.” She’d wished his pride wasn’t so hard.

Now Eddie was fixing — rebuilding was more like it — the house that Dick had built years before with Eddie’s help. Eddie was fitting it in as a favor, that was one thing. May didn’t know what the money arrangement was, but she was pretty sure that was a favor, too. But this time it wasn’t a couple of guys on their own — it was a construction site with a time to show up and a time to quit. May remembered when Dick and Eddie were building the house — they’d scratch their heads and then Dick would pick up a stick and draw in the dirt. They’d got a bunch of old window frames from the dump and had to jigger each one in. They all went up and down or in and out and were painted neatly, but the house had always looked cobbled together. Now Eddie had blueprints. Dick was helping out. But the bigger difference between then and now was that Dick was walking on eggshells. May let him back into bed, but he had enough sense to know that that wasn’t all there was to it.

May stood inside the house and watched Eddie and Dick and the crew flicker back and forth across the space between the studs. At least the back of the house was going to have matching windows.

Eddie’s CB crackled. He got into the cab of his truck to talk to Phoebe Fitzgerald. May called to Dick. She took him to their bedroom. She said, “Do you think we could fit a closet — right there where the cedar chest used to set?”

Dick ran his hand through his hair and looked out the window. May felt the bit of effort he made to look back at where she was pointing. He nodded and said, “I could ask Eddie. See what he says.”

May said, “A cedar closet. We can put the cedar chest in the boys’ room for their sweaters and things. But maybe a cedar closet would fit better in the mudroom.”

“We can’t change the size of the mudroom.”

May waited.

Dick said, “You work it out with Eddie. If he frames it in, I can finish it. Course, he’s got to get to his other jobs …”

“I’ve always wanted a cedar closet.”

“Okay. You and Eddie … I got to get back to work.”