John Casey - Compass Rose

May held on to the phone with both hands. She said, “Did you ask …?” and then started over. “Did they say he—”

Dick said, “He’s not going to die.”

He said this fiercely, and May felt all of Dick at once, his years of doing things pressing through him. No use. No use for her. She set him aside and hoped her own hope for Charlie.

She said, “I don’t expect you’ll be back for Miss Perry’s funeral. I’d better call Elsie and let her know.” And then in the same tone, as if it was another practical detail, she said, “You should have taken me with you. Call when they know something more. I’ll be awake.”

She hung up the phone. She felt so dragged down she didn’t hear what Phoebe was saying to her. Phoebe took her hand to get her attention. Phoebe said, “May, listen. I’ll drive you.” May stared at her, trying to attach her to what was going on. Then, as if to prove she was the real Phoebe, Phoebe said, “I have an old beau who’s a doctor at Mass General. He’s been there for ages, so if we need any help …” May nodded. Phoebe said, “I’ll just call Eddie while you change.” May was ready to be bustled along but was puzzled. She stood still. Phoebe said, “Oh, you know — something cheerful for Charlie but serious for the doctors. I know — that dress you wear when we go to Sawtooth for lunch.”

Never mind if she’s putting a ribbon on it, she’s taking me to Boston.

Tom called Elsie early in the morning to say Dick and Charlie couldn’t be pallbearers. “Charlie’s in the hospital. Mom’s sorry she didn’t call last night, but she was—”

“What is it?” Elsie said. “Is he going to be all right?”

“They seem to think so. He’s got a hematoma, which is a clot, and it’s in his head, but it’s small, and the neurologist says she thinks it’ll just go away, so they’re not going to start cutting. I was set to go there, but Mom says to go to the funeral first, so I guess she’s not so worried as she was. Anyways, that’s where Charlie and Dad are.”

“Where? At South County?”

“No. Boston. Mass General. The Trident’s been down east. Charlie fell off a cliff trying to help some damn bird-watcher. So that’s where Charlie and Dad are, but I’ll be on hand for you. Have you thought of asking Eddie? Eddie and Walt both, you want strong backs. Hold on — I just remembered about Miss Perry and Eddie—”

“Don’t worry, I’ll think of someone.”

“You want me to tell Rose about Charlie? No, I’d better wait till after the funeral in case she’s nervous about her singing. Say, have you ever wondered where she got that voice? Dad can’t carry a tune in a bucket. And Rose tells me you’re not much of a songbird.”

“Have you ever wondered where you got your talking so much? Not from your Mom and Dad.”

Tom laughed. “Okay, you got me. But I got to say one more thing. One time Dad said to Charlie and me that we wouldn’t have turned out so good if it wasn’t for Miss Perry. And there’s you and Miss Perry. I’m thinking about you and her. You’re both good people around here.”

She said, “Thank you, Tom.”

She called Johnny Bienvenue and asked him to be a pallbearer. She decided she’d be the sixth pallbearer. If people thought that was funny, to hell with them.

What she hadn’t counted on was that she’d be undone, so undone she was afraid that she’d be too weak.

Jack had wanted to give a eulogy. She’d said that Miss Perry didn’t need one. He could be the second lay reader, after Tory Hazard. It was Tory Hazard’s reading that undid Elsie. Tory didn’t break down, but she was on the verge. It wasn’t only that — Elsie had a spell of dizziness that made her grab the edge of the pew. It was a vertigo of time rather than space. Tory Hazard had been Miss Perry’s pet before Elsie; she brought old time and new time into one perspective, a perspective that was both long and horribly foreshortened. Elsie looked at Tory’s fingers curled around the sides of the lectern, felt her own fingers straining to hold herself in place. Elsie knew Tory only by name and an old story or two. Tory was now much older than in her story, her thin, pretty face beginning to loosen. But it wasn’t Tory’s name or story or face — it was her hands on the lectern, more immediately intelligible to Elsie than the words of the reading, that reminded Elsie of Miss Perry’s dream in which death was the loss of grammar, the last sinew of her consciousness that had held her back from nothingness.

Tory finished reading. There was a rustling — people shifting in their pews, picking up their programs, breathing, clearing their throats — a stir of wind across dry reeds.

It was Jack who brought Elsie back to the world with his handsome gray suit and black armband. Elsie considered that armband an affectation — too European, too mourning-chic. Jack adjusted his reading glasses and scanned the congregation over the rims. What? Was he checking the guest list? The seating arrangements? After a prickle of resentment, which, she had to admit, steadied her, she gave way by degrees. Jack read very well; the cadences of the King James Bible were right up his alley. “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.” His voice, which could be annoyingly enveloping at close range, carried easily, was suited to this dignified, well-decorated church. She thought he might have gone too far when, at the end of his reading, he stared heavenward. What was this? Was he lifting his eyes unto the hills? It turned out he was cuing Mary and Rose in the choir loft.

Elsie could hear that they were in time, an octave apart but perfectly linked, and she could understand the words. “Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi …” At first it was just Rose and Mary, then the choir, then Rose and Mary lifting above the choir. When they finished, Sally, seated on her right, breathed into her ear, “Oh my God, I had no idea. I mean, that was as good as a record.” Elsie touched her hand and pointed her chin at the minister, who was starting again. When he turned, stood at one end of the casket, and looked at Elsie, she hesitated. He held out his hand. Jack and Captain Teixeira stood. Captain Teixeira took charge, nodding to Tom and Mr. Tran. Johnny Bienvenue was standing in front of her, taking her hand. She didn’t get up. She was sure something was wrong. For a second she was afraid she was wearing her red dress. She looked at Johnny’s hand, saw his navy blue sleeve, her hand, her navy blue sleeve.

Captain Teixeira arranged the six of them sensibly — Tom and Jack at the front end, Elsie and Johnny at the back end, and Mr. Tran and himself in the middle. Tom and Johnny, the two strongest, were at opposite corners. At Captain Teixeira’s nod they picked up the casket. It weighed more than she’d expected, but the effort concentrated her attention. She saw nothing but Captain Teixeira’s broad back, felt nothing but the weight. A burn flared in her arm and shoulder, and then fixed itself a notch below pain after she moved closer and put more of her back into it. The weight wasn’t Miss Perry, it was a mass of oak and bronze that had less to do with Miss Perry than did Captain Teixeira’s back. He was very old, but his back and shoulders filled the black broadcloth of his suit coat, and Elsie felt less scattered as she fitted her steps to his.

After they slid the casket into the hearse, Elsie floated toward him as if she were a ghost floating through a wall. She pressed against his back, and when he turned she clung to him. He put his arms around her and held her until she was still. He said, “Lydia.” It took her a second to recognize Miss Perry’s name. She’d seen it on envelopes, on documents, on the stern of Captain Teixeira’s second boat, the Lydia P . “Lydia loved you so much, you did so much, you are as good as the best daughter.” His voice croaked in her ear, rattling into her brain, for the moment blessedly empty of any modest denial or polite answer or, for that matter, any sense that anyone was watching.