John Casey - Compass Rose

By the time Elsie got inside, Deirdre had poured herself cranberry juice and recited her litany of carbohydrates, glycogen, electrolytes, even though they’d cut the ride short when it began to rain. Deirdre drank and then lay down on the floor to stretch. She said, “It could be that Tom told Charlie some stuff Tom heard from Walt.”

“I thought Charlie knew about you and Walt.”

“I was off and on with Walt, so there was stuff in between. Walt didn’t mind hearing about it. In fact, it turned him on. A lot of guys are that way. With Charlie I’ve got to be careful. What is it with Charlie? He probably gets it from May — her way of seeing everything in black-and-white.”

Elsie sighed. Lying on her back, Deirdre pulled her legs over her face. She kept on talking. Elsie caught muffled bits and pieces, enough to recognize that this was another litany, this time of Deirdre’s sexual adventures, some of which Elsie had heard but not in a single recitation. Something about being jounced in the bed of a pickup. How Deirdre had come on a couple skinny-dipping in a stream and waded in — first time she let a girl kiss her, first time she gave a guy a blow job underwater. How Deirdre had been on a canoe trip — a bunch of guys, two women. She’d borrowed the other woman’s blue wet suit, hung it to dry on the guy-rope of her pup tent. After dark one of the men crawled into her tent.

Deirdre sat up, raised one knee, and twisted herself around it. “He wasn’t, like, her boyfriend, just a thing he thought of. He whispered, ‘Linda. Okay?’ I went, ‘Uh-huh.’ Weird rush.”

Elsie said, “I can imagine your telling these things to a guy in a bar. I can’t imagine telling them to someone you want to like you.”

Deirdre twisted herself around her other knee. “I don’t really go to bars. I’m more an outdoor person.” It took Deirdre a few seconds to frown. She said, “Hey. It’s just us here. When did you get to be all judgmental?”

“I’m not judging what you get up to. It’s just the way you’re—”

“What? Adventurous?”

“Endlessly fascinated with your adventures.”

“It’s not like you haven’t done stuff.”

“It’s just not something I go on about.”

“I don’t mean recently. When I said you and I are alike, I didn’t mean now you’re older. But then, maybe I am more adventurous.”

“ ‘Adventurous’ is one way of putting it.”

Deirdre stood up. She said, “Where do you get off with that tone? Like you get to look down on what I’ve done and judge.”

“I’m not judging what you’ve done. You said ‘tone.’ Okay. Tone. Your tone.”

“Well, screw you. I’m going.”

“It’s raining. I’ll give you a ride.”

“Don’t bother.” Deirdre put her bicycle helmet on. With her hand on the door she said, “You are on May’s side. Everything black-and-white.”

“May is more complicated than that.”

“I guess screwing her husband makes you an expert? Screwing her husband makes you part of the family.”

Elsie said, “It’s going to rain harder.” She pointed out the window. “The wind’s picking up.” Deirdre went out the door.

Elsie sat by the window and watched the rain dot the pond. She’d let Deirdre think they were friends. Better not to lead her on. She’d been harsh. It was about time. There was a lull. She thought, Deirdre’s not good enough for our Charlie.

Mary took JB to see her old restaurant. They ate breakfast on the terrace overlooking the salt marsh. The breakfast wasn’t as good as the ones she used to make here, but the view was better than she remembered, a maze of hummocks and creeks all the way to the back of the dunes. The sun was still low, the light soft as it came through the trees on the higher ground between Sawtooth Creek and Pierce Creek. At the time — fifteen, sixteen years ago — she’d been relieved to sell to Jack. Now she wondered.

She was just as glad JB was leaving her to her own thoughts, shielding his eyes with one hand as he peered this way and that. When he said, “Ah!” it was so loud and sudden it made her jump. He pointed.

“Yes,” she said. “A heron. There’s a lot more birds over here than at Sawtooth Point. All those boats and people.”

He said, “Above the salt creek’s gloss of light—” so conversationally that she almost said something back. He went on—

“ The great blue heron’s pillowed flight

Belies his eager appetite .

Alighting on the bank he cocks

His head. With freeze-frame steps he stalks

The unsuspecting mummichogs. ”

She laughed. “Do you know what a mummichog is?”

“Yes. A little fish. One of those Indian names Rhode Island keeps in use. Like ‘tautog’ for blackfish, ‘squeteague’ for sea trout. In Massachusetts, except for the name itself, we papered over the Indian names with British ones. Gloucester, Worcester. Here you’ve got Quonochontaug, Watchaug, Usquepaug.”

“Did you look up that little ditty because I told you we were going to look at a salt marsh?”

“I didn’t look it up. I wrote it. This morning, before you got up.”

Mary had laughed at herself in the past for wishing for poetry from a lover. Now here it was and she was wishing he’d go back to being quiet. What was wrong with her? They’d made love Friday night and Saturday afternoon, and then on Sunday night when she was all done in from work they’d fallen asleep curled up like kittens in a box. And here he still was on Monday. As her father used to say, “What do you want? Egg in your beer?”

She said, “Well, it’s not every visitor from Boston has such enthusiasm for Rhode Island names. And not many could dash off a rhyme with mummichog.”

“I was working on a poem about you—”

“I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.” Dear God, where did that twitter come from?

“But I thought I’d warm up with something lighter.”

A different part of her brain fizzed, and she said, “There was an old maid from Nantucket … No end of rhymes there.”

His white eyebrows gave two wing beats. Puzzled, hurt. She looked away, then looked at him again, at his new expression of amiable concern. If she didn’t get off by herself, she was going to bite his head off.

Elsie didn’t quite get the name of her opponent in the Sawtooth tennis tournament. Patty something. They were both a little late. She hadn’t seen the woman before, but then she’d been playing either at night with the assistant pro on the indoor court or with the Perryville girls up at the school. She’d signed up for the tournament because Jack had told Sally not to. “Wouldn’t look good if the owner’s family did well.”

The warm-up took Elsie by surprise. Patty had a heavy topspin forehand that kept Elsie deep behind the baseline. It wasn’t until well into the first set that Elsie got the rhythm. Patty liked banging the ball, moved Elsie from side to side but without trying for the very edges of the corners. It was the great big bounce that made Elsie take the ball so high her shoulder was up to her ear.

Patty covered her own baseline with a couple of long-legged straddle steps as she took her looping backswing. Patty was enjoying herself, Elsie thought, not just because she was winning but because she was in love with her strokes. When Elsie started chipping back short balls, Patty stopped having fun. Her knees seemed to get in her way as she galloped forward. If she got her racket on the ball, all she could do was scoop it up, usually high enough for Elsie to have time to come to net and put it away. Elsie took pleasure in making this pretty player turn awkward, sometimes punching the ball at Patty’s feet, once in a while floating a lob over her before she got her balance.