John Casey - Compass Rose

Jack showed up once, but it didn’t spoil her day. He came down from the third floor and said to Eddie that he didn’t see why it was necessary to put a dormer window in the attic room that was being made into a single. Why not put in a skylight and save some time and money?

“You could bring that up with Elsie.” Eddie tipped his head toward her. “All I know is the boss lady’s on budget.”

“Fire code,” Elsie said. “All the upper rooms have to have a working window and some kind of ladder.”

“We got hold of some chain-link ladders,” Walt said. “They fold up in a wooden box, makes a nice window seat. Bolt the top rung to a floor joist through the bottom.”

“So,” Elsie said, “we don’t even reach the aesthetic.”

“Good,” Jack said. “Sensible.”

Walt said, “Otherwise we’d have to put up a big, ugly fire escape.”

“I think he’s got it,” Elsie said.

“You’re doing good work, Eddie,” Jack said. “As always.”

Phoebe also showed up once. Eddie beamed. Walt scowled. Elsie took Walt by the elbow and led him into the garden. She said, “I know. But take a deep breath and—”

“Yes ma’am, boss lady.”

“You can drop the ‘boss lady.’ It wasn’t all that funny the first time.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That, too.” Elsie looked back through the door to make sure Phoebe wasn’t coming out. “Just let her float in and float out. Come on. The three of us are doing fine, so don’t piss your father off.”

Walt sighed and sat down on a stone bench. Even sitting down he was almost as tall as Elsie. She said, “Does she always set you off like this? I mean, it’s been years.”

“No. Just sometimes. It’s when she gets this extra-high note in her twitter. People think I’m worried about money. I don’t give a shit about the money. I wouldn’t mind if she married him. I’d like her better if she married him. It’s her having everything just how she wants it and giving off her twitters like she’s all wide-eyed and helpless. Hell, I don’t know. Sometimes I feel sorry for her. When I said she has everything how she wants it, that’s not right. She has Dad all lined up, she’s making plenty of money, but she wants to be a duchess of South County. Like your sister, like Miss Perry. Ain’t going to happen. Phoebe can play tennis at Sawtooth, she can get on committees to save the bay, she can do needlepoint for the Episcopal church. But she’s stuck with Dad. She can’t let him go ’cause he’s the bread and butter, but then she can’t let go hoping she’ll get asked to the ball. Can’t be much fun.”

Elsie didn’t say anything. Walt looked at his hand and ran his thumb over the calluses. She wondered if it was up to her to end the session, but Walt got up and said, “What do you think? Should we get the ivy off the wall? There’s a couple of places it’s pulling stones loose.”

“Yeah. I’ll put it on my list. You ready to go back in?”

“Yeah. You got me thinking, and that always slows me down.”

Elsie laughed, then wasn’t sure he’d made a joke. He didn’t appear to mind. He said, “When Deirdre was staying with you, did you get to read any of that science fiction she’s writing?” Elsie shook her head. “Maybe Phoebe’s like a slave of the glass city.”

Before Elsie could ask anything, she saw Eddie and Phoebe in the window of the kitchen door. Eddie held the door open and Phoebe stepped out, saying, “So there you two are! I won’t stay a minute, I just had to check with Eddie — nothing to do with this, this is all gorgeous — though, of course, that’s for you to say, Elsie. More to the point, I just saw your brother-in-law, I was taking a peek at the new dock Tom’s putting in — Jack’s completely happy about that — I mean, he tried to be grumpy, but that’s just Jack. More to the point is that he’s thinking of backing another production of Rose’s operetta. For when the summer people show up at Sawtooth. Keep Rose but otherwise a professional cast. It’s part of his plan to give Sawtooth a cultural dimension. I think it’s a splendid idea, and I told him I’d help him any way I can.”

Walt tried to catch Elsie’s eye, but she wasn’t amused by Phoebe; she was feeling the weight of another Jack incursion. She was already worried about Rose being spoiled by starring in her little play at school. She’d had in mind that Rose get a summer job — pick crabmeat at the processing plant, bag groceries, bus tables. Get her hands dirty. Let her see what her mother’s life had been for twenty years. And what was Jack thinking, anyway? Throwing a barely sixteen-year-old girl in with a troupe of actors …

Elsie sat down on the stone bench. It wasn’t Jack. She could take Jack on any day of the week. It was the thought of herself at fifteen and sixteen — not so much what she’d got up to but how desperately sure she’d been that everyone was wrong about everything — that made her dizzily uncertain about taking on Rose. Rose was like her, Rose wasn’t like her; she knew Rose, she didn’t know Rose; Rose was a little girl, Rose was as fully armed as a grown-up; Rose was part of her, Rose was already out the door.

Elsie turned down offers to drive her to the school auditorium for the opening. Sally and Jack, Mary Scanlon. Walt Wormsley offered her a ride on his motorcycle. She walked, taking a slight detour through Miss Perry’s walled garden. The daffodils were over, but the peonies were in full bloom. She hoped that the sight of these extravagant flowers swooning on their absurdly long stems would put her in the mood for a play. She didn’t like plays, especially plays with music. She’d read the original She Stoops to Conquer without cracking a smile. Mary Scanlon had told her there was a knack to reading a play and that Elsie didn’t have it. But then Mary told her that the playwright was Irish, so she discounted Mary’s enthusiasm. Mary said, “But don’t worry, it’ll come to life when you see it. And Rose’ll be fine — she’s putting her sassiness to good use for once.”

“You’ve heard her?”

“She’s come over to Sawtooth once or twice.”

Of course she had.

Elsie got a smudge of rust on her hand tugging at the back gate. The gate popped open and hit her hip. She went back into the garden and kicked the head off a peony.

The auditorium was packed. Mary Scanlon waved to her and pointed to the seat she’d saved. Elsie saw Dick and May and Tom. A few rows back, Charlie and Deidre O’Malley. Eddie and Phoebe and Walt. All of them in their Sunday best, some of them doubtless a bit uncomfortable to be packed into a room with at least one other person who’d caused them pain or shame.

The house lights dimmed. Mary said, “You cut it pretty fine. Never mind, here you are.”

The overture began. There was something like old-fashioned jazz, then something like a Charleston. Elsie couldn’t see the musicians, but she thought she heard a banjo. Then there was a slower part with just a piano and either a clarinet or a soprano saxophone — Elsie couldn’t tell them apart. Rose had played a recording of Sidney Bechet’s “Shine” over and over until Elsie said, “Turn that damn clarinet off!” Rose had corrected her. Later Rose had asked her how she’d ever managed to learn birdcalls with her tin ear.

Elsie told herself she would have one more grumpy thought and then she’d be a good sport.

The curtain went up on a bright room with white wicker furniture. A genuinely middle-aged man with a full head of white hair — a faculty member? — and a girl made up to be his middle-aged wife were quarreling. It was nothing like what Elsie had read. No “prithee,” “fie,” or “I protest, sir.” All right — it was 1923, not 1773.