John Casey - Compass Rose

“Why did you decide to give him your survival suit?”

Dick tilted his head back against the pillow. “I didn’t decide.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just did it.”

“You didn’t think about, I don’t know, your family? And Rose?”

“No.”

“ ‘No’? Just ‘no’?”

“You mean right then and there? Spartina going down, the dory on the wrong side, making sure Tony and Tran come up from below, wondering how far away Bom Sonho is. Not exactly a moment for wistfulness.”

She’d pushed and he’d pushed back, not angry, just hard and neat. She knew him, oh, God, she knew him — she’d kept on knowing him, she knew him when she watched him splicing a cable by the dock, weaving the wires and pulling them taut. She’d seen him; he hadn’t seen her. He had no idea.

He was talking again. She heard him say, “… zipped him up and got him the hell out of the way.”

She rocked forward. She hugged herself, her fingers digging into her arms. She said, “You dumb bastard, you almost killed yourself. You’re the love of my life, and you damn near died.”

When Mary came in with a basket of food slung on one arm, Dick said, “You look like Little Red Riding Hood on her way to her grandmother’s house.”

“There’s a codfish cake that’s still warm and a beer that’s still cold, so no more wisecracks.”

She’d started to unwrap the tinfoil when she heard Jack’s voice winding down the hall from the nurses’ station. It was Jack’s hearty tone. “Quite right. I’m not on the list, but I am on the board. Would you be good enough to call the administrator’s office? I’m Jack Aldrich. No need for him to come up. I’ll see him on my way out.”

A minute later Jack swung into view. “So there you are, Captain Pierce. Glad to see you safe and sound. Awfully sorry about your boat.” He turned to Mary. “Glad to see you’re cheering our patient up with a bit of Sawtooth cooking.” Mary opened her mouth, but Jack sailed on. “Just stopped by to make sure we’re taking good care of you.”

“No complaints.”

“Glad to hear it. I won’t stay a minute, just to mention that if you have any trouble with the insurance company, let me know. The director’s a Sawtooth member. Cut through any red tape.” Jack patted his suit coat pockets. “Good. Oh. There is one other small thing. That deckhand of yours, the one who’s related to Captain Teixeira. Word got back to me that he’s telling an unpleasant story about Jack Junior. At the moment Jack Junior’s in Boston with his mother, so I haven’t heard his account, but in a situation like this the less said the better. I wonder if you — as his captain — could tell him to pipe down. He’s not doing anybody any good.”

“Not much I can do,” Dick said. “Right now I’m not captain of anything. What Tony does is his concern.”

“Let me suggest that it may be your concern. One thing I gathered is that the life raft was broken and that there weren’t enough life jackets to go around.”

“Survival suits.”

“Yes. Life jackets, survival suits, that sort of thing.”

“There’s a difference.”

“I’m sure there is—”

“A survival suit is personal gear. Tony and Tran bring their own, same as they bring boots and foul-weather gear.”

“I see. Your regular crew. You may be beyond reproach as regards your regular crew members, but it could well be that the owner’s duty is more onerous as regards an invitee.”

“Jack Junior came on board to work. I wasn’t running a cruise ship.”

“Not a cruise ship, of course, not a cruise ship. I was making a finer distinction.” Jack held his hands up. “But forgive me. This isn’t the time for … that sort of thing. Occupational hazard of mine. A subspecialty of mine used to be admiralty law. Much better to keep this a matter of fellow feeling. I put myself in your shoes, and I imagine the shock. Is this really happening? Is she really sinking?” Jack looked down and wagged his head. Mary almost laughed. Jack lifted his head and said, “A trying moment for a young man who’s suddenly caught in a maelstrom of people rushing to take measures, some of which were to ensure their own safety. Perhaps it’s the first time the boy has ever heard the words ‘survival suit.’ I’m asking you to imagine how he felt at that moment.”

“No need to imagine,” Dick said. “He felt underdressed for the occasion.”

Mary laughed, bit her lip to keep from laughing again. Jack glared at her. He said to Dick, “I didn’t know you could be so amusing.” He smoothed his suit coat and said, “I wish you a speedy recovery.” He left.

Mary said, “I shouldn’t have laughed. I’m afraid that pissed him off even more. Maybe he’ll get over it when he finds out. But why didn’t you tell him?”

“Not my place to. And this way he’ll run into his own hot air. His kid screwed up, but I feel a little sorry for the kid. I might even ask Tony to lay off. But I don’t mind that I pissed off Jack Aldrich. He set my teeth on edge from the beginning — the way he talked to the nurse out there.”

“There’s that,” Mary said. “And all the while he was talking you to death he gave no thought that your beer’s getting warm and your codfish cake cold.”

When May got home from grocery shopping there was a minivan in the driveway and two men in her backyard. They were measuring the distance from the septic tank to the well. Then they measured from the septic tank to the creek. She said hello and asked them what they were doing. One of them started to answer, but the other stepped in and said, “You’d be better off asking over at the township office. I wouldn’t want to misspeak.”

May put the groceries away, came back outside. The man who didn’t want to misspeak said, “That’s a big garden. You use manure? Cow? Sheep? Pig? Chicken? Anything like that?”

She pointed to her compost pile. “It’s vegetables and leaves,” she said. “I don’t use anything else.” If he didn’t want to misspeak, he shouldn’t go trying to blame something on her garden. She said, “I’m May Pierce. I’m married to Dick Pierce. And that there”—she pointed—“is Pierce Creek. I take quahogs out downstream. Flounder, too. If you’re looking to find some runoff, you’re looking in the wrong place.” She took a breath. “You going to inspect those Sawtooth Point cottages? Those yachts moored in Sawtooth Pond? You think they all pump their waste at the boatyard the way they’re supposed to?”

The man tilted his head, not a yes or a no. As he left he said, “Sorry for any inconvenience,” but that didn’t mean anything, either.

She went flat. Then she was embarrassed at how she’d bristled and got on her high horse. But what were they after? She called Phoebe.

Phoebe was reassuring. “When we repaired your house — that was, what, fifteen years ago? — we got a building permit and a new certificate of occupancy. But I’m going to the township office anyway; I have to get some permits. I’ll chat somebody up about your place.”

Phoebe called back after lunch. “It’s just Jack. Apparently he wanted to make sure he could say to prospective buyers how clean the water is. And he owns Mary Scanlon’s old restaurant, and that’s up that other creek that comes into Sawtooth Pond, so he came in and waved his hand over the map in a vague way that included you. They pretty much snap to when Jack wants something. So that’s what that was all about.”

May went back out to the garden. Dick hadn’t said when he’d be back, just that he was looking around for another boat here and there, maybe Wickford, maybe as far as New Bedford. May pulled weeds and buried them in the compost pile. The wind had backed to the southeast, likely to blow in a fog, good for the garden. It also carried the usually unheard sounds from Sawtooth — a blurred voice — someone shouting at the tennis court? The distinct sound of a car door, the whine of an outboard motor. All those people who could go anywhere. Jack, who could wave his hand across a map.