John Casey - Compass Rose

She caught sight of a small boat coming through the breachway into Sawtooth Pond. At first she mistook it for a slab of ice, but then she made it out. Somebody rowing. It was the skiff Dick gave to Rose. Rose? What on earth was she up to, coming from the open sea? Water cold enough to kill you in twenty minutes. Even in the pond you could hit a chunk of ice and flip over.

May ran along the edge of the creek all the way to the mouth. The edge of the pond curved back away, so she stopped, raised her arms. She didn’t yell; she was afraid she’d startle Rose, make her turn suddenly, maybe catch a crab.

It wasn’t Rose. May recognized Deirdre O’Malley’s green wool watch cap. She felt a rush of blood to her face.

Deirdre turned to check her course into the creek. She tilted her head when she saw May, kept rowing until she came up to her. She rested on her oars and glided by. She said, “That was just great!” May didn’t say anything. Deirdre said, “This is a nifty little boat, scoots right along. Of course, I got the last of the tide going out and now it’s coming in. You want a lift back to the house?”

A small plate of ice hit the bow, spun away. May said, “I suppose you know a thing or two about boats.”

“Oh, yeah. Canoes, kayaks, skiffs. All kinds of boats.”

“One time one of those fellows who keeps his yacht over in Point Judith — he took a wooden skiff out. Had an outboard. There was some ice, just a bit of a film. He went up and down the pond, cutting through the ice and slush. Wore a hole at the waterline.”

Deirdre laughed, held the oar handles in one hand, and waved the other at the pond. “Hardly any ice.”

“Course, it was his skiff. So it didn’t matter to anybody but him.”

“Oh.” Deirdre took a stroke to keep from drifting downstream. “I thought this was, you know, a family boat.”

“That’s right.” May let that sit for a moment. “It is.” Another pause. “Dick made her especially for Rose.” She turned and started back to the house. She got to the dock just before Deirdre. She said, “I’ll give you a hand lifting her. No sense in dragging her across the dock.”

They put the skiff on the slings. May readjusted them, wiped off some silt, and lashed the tarp over her. They walked back to the house without a word. Deirdre got as far as the kitchen when May said, “You might take your boots off.”

Deirdre took them off and put them outside the front door. She went upstairs. When she came down she was carrying her duffel bag and her backpack. After she loaded her jeep, she poked her head back in to say, “Tell Charlie I’ll call.”

May felt nothing but dark pleasure until she began to get supper ready. Then she thought about just exactly what she was going to say to Charlie. One thing she’d do was set a place for Deirdre as if it wasn’t much of anything, just Deirdre O’Malley getting her Irish up.

And then she thought again. Getting her Irish up? She’d surprised herself with how angry she’d been. Cold angry, nothing Irish about it. Angry because Deirdre had made her afraid Rose was out in the skiff. And angry at Deirdre for paddling around at night. Angry at women. Angry at men and women. Sick and tired of them.

Rose phoned Elsie to say she was staying late at school to rehearse and would spend the night in a dorm room. Elsie said, “Okay. I only made a pot of soup for supper. It’ll keep.” Rose said, “Okay, bye”—breezily enough to annoy Elsie. The thought that Rose saved her good manners for May’s house annoyed her more, and it annoyed her even more that she was having this thought.

The sound of a car, didn’t matter whose, was a relief. She opened the door. She’d seen the jeep in Dick’s driveway — the woman getting out must be the one staying there.

The woman stuck out her hand. “I’m Deirdre O’Malley. We don’t know each other, but I’m pretty sure you can tell me what I need to know. You’re in charge of Miss Perry’s estate, and I was wondering if I could pitch a tent out by Child Crying Pond.”

“I don’t see why not. But there’s no road into it, not even a trail.”

“I looked at the topo map. It’s not far.”

“But there’s still a lot of snow, and it’s wet. It’d be a slog. Why don’t you come in?”

Elsie made tea. She said, “So you’re the one who pulled Charlie out of the water. My daughter, Rose, told me.”

“Right. I met Rose. I’ve been staying at the Pierces’. I guess we already know a lot about each other.” Elsie must have shown that she thought this was abrupt. Deirdre said, “You were the one who went to Miss Perry’s rescue. So we’re both good scouts. And we both have jobs in the woods. I used to run an outdoor survival program.”

Elsie said, “So you want to pitch a tent for the fun of it?”

“Okay. I had a little run-in with May, and I thought I’d better camp out for a bit. Do you know when the town library opens? I’ve got some writing to do.”

“Not till one, I’m afraid. Look — if you want to reconsider sleeping in the snow, I’ve got a spare room these days. And I’ve just made supper. Rose is staying over at the school, so there’s plenty. Not very elaborate, but …”

“That’d be great.”

Elsie took Deirdre up to Mary’s old room, noticed that Deirdre’s clothes were wet, and asked if she’d like a hot bath. It didn’t take long for Deirdre to settle in. One trip to the car for her duffel bag and knapsack, another for an old and bulky word processor. She was in and out of the bath, up to Mary’s room wrapped in a towel, and back down for supper in a sweatshirt and shorts. She went out to get another log for the woodstove in her bare feet. Elsie thought Deirdre was overdoing the ready-to-rough-it message. It turned out there was more. Deirdre said, “I hear you got shot by some guy while you were out patrolling on your cross-country skis. I’m into cross-country skiing, too. That and white-water canoeing.” She pulled up one leg of her shorts to show a scar on her outer thigh. “I ran into a pine that was stuck in a chute and flipped. This stub of a branch went way into my leg. So I guess we both get purple hearts.”

Elsie said, “So what were you doing on the Trident? Are you an oceanographer, too?”

“No. I’m writing an article. I do stuff and then I write it up. Have an adventure, write something to make enough money to get up to something else.”

“What if nothing adventurous happens?”

“There’s usually a story. If I don’t have one of my own, I can almost always find someone who’s got one. I like the one about you catching Eddie when he shot a swan with his crossbow.”

“You’ve certainly picked up the local news pretty quick.”

“I heard some before. I knew Eddie’s son back in Maine. And of course now I’m with Charlie.”

Elsie was of two minds. She suspected that Deirdre had come down in her cutoffs on purpose, that there was, in general, a good deal of purpose. But she also thought there was some innocent part to this flurry of friendliness. And she was pleased to be treated as the senior resident of the territory, to receive ritual gestures of deference, and to give food and shelter as hospitably as a bedouin sheik.

Deirdre tucked her legs up under her on the sofa and sipped her chamomile tea. Elsie sat back in her chair. She could see why Charlie was attracted to Deirdre. She was something like Sylvia Teixeira, short-waisted, compact, and giving off a whir of ready energy. Elsie tried to think of someone else Charlie had been attracted to. Herself. Ages ago, before Rose was born. No — he’d had a faithful little crush even when she was plump and nursing Rose. Though he’d been quick enough to take up with Sylvia Teixeira when she sashayed up to him.