John Casey: Compass Rose

“There’s some truth in that,” May said, “but it doesn’t mean they’re thinking about you one way or the other.” Phoebe let out a breath and slumped a little. May felt as if she held a fluttering bird in her hands. This pretty woman with business sense, with big-city sense, with all kinds of sense, wanted a breath of comfort, a little puff of air to fluff up her feathers. Phoebe was stuck on herself, but at least she was nervous about it. And — what May had held off on account of her own nervousness — Phoebe was trying to make friends with her. Why on earth would someone like Phoebe want that? And yet now that Phoebe wasn’t trying to pry out things about Eddie, May didn’t mind Phoebe’s treating her as an authority on South County. She saw how she could get to like Phoebe’s coming toward her so eagerly. Now that Dick and the boys were going their own ways, and her family wasn’t scraping by and she wasn’t so busy making ends meet, she wouldn’t mind getting out more. She would have had a good time at the boys’ ball game except that Elsie Buttrick showed up. For a while she’d let herself get penned up in her own house for fear of seeing Elsie Buttrick. Now she was angry at herself for shrinking away.

Today was an accident; she’d let herself get towed along. Not even Phoebe’s first choice, but here she was. Not even sure she liked it here, but pleased to take a look at all this.

She said to Phoebe, “If you’d like, next week we can have lunch at my house. I can’t tell you much about what’s going on around here lately, but I know how things used to be.”

“Oh, that would be lovely, that would be absolutely lovely.”

May thought it didn’t take much for Phoebe to brighten up.

After Phoebe dropped her off, May stood still in the middle of the kitchen. She thought she might as well put on some long gloves and pull out the poison ivy from around the raspberry bushes. The boys both got poison ivy worse than most. Come to think of it, next week she and Phoebe could pick raspberries. She could show Phoebe a thing or two about the salt marsh, too, show her the bit of salt crystal that the spartina pushed out, how it could live in salt water that would kill any other plant. If it was a low tide, she and Phoebe would get into the creek down near the mouth, find a few quahogs. It’d be pleasant enough to have someone along for company, someone who didn’t know these things.

But there it was again — Phoebe was more likely to want to know other things. That easy way she’d talked about Eddie being in love with her, about her divorce and her bad daughter — she’d be one to want to trade girlish secrets. May didn’t have girlish secrets. She didn’t have but one secret. It wasn’t her own, but it kept her locked up. Alone in her kitchen she said out loud, “Damn him.” It floated softly in the air. She said it louder so it echoed.

She changed into her gardening clothes, put on her elbow-high dish-washing gloves, and went to tear out the poison ivy.

Elsie and Mary were working things out pretty well. On work days Elsie got up early, nursed Rose, made her own breakfast, and then opened the door to the stairs to Mary’s new bedroom so that Mary could hear Rose. Mary usually didn’t have to get up till nine or so. Mary took Rose with her when she drove to Sawtooth Point. She picked up one of the sous chefs or a waitress, and all three of them went to do the shopping, Mary cradling Rose with one arm, pointing, poking, or feeling with her free hand. Rose spent most of the day in a corner of the big kitchen, either in the car seat or in the portable crib. At four or so, Elsie picked Rose up. Sometimes she nursed her in the kitchen, happy to watch Mary and the two sous chefs chopping, stirring, peeking in the ovens. Elsie was a little sad to leave this heat and bustle. When she got home she turned on all the lights, a new bad habit for which she reproached and then forgave herself. It wasn’t until after Rose went to sleep that she felt trapped. She dealt with this feeling (sometimes just restlessness, once in a while bleakness) by buying an Exercycle and pedaling hard for forty minutes, hoping for some endorphins to kick in. Another remedy came to her one evening when she remembered Jack saying to a table full of guests that the birth of a child was a five-year jail sentence. Sally had winced and then laughed at him. “I seem to remember you slipping away every morning without a lot of sirens going off.”

Laughing at Jack made her feel better. Bigger and better. She put on her gym suit and started pedaling.

She was just beginning to sweat when the phone rang. She got to it on the third ring, said hello while listening to hear if Rose was waking up. She couldn’t hear a voice on the line, said hello again. And again, with an edge in case it was a crank call. Only a breath, but now she knew who it was, had feared this sound and put it out of her mind. At last a word. “Elsie?”

“Yes, it’s Elsie. Are you all right?”

A silence. “Elsie. I can’t …” Silence again.

“Miss Perry? You’re at home, right?”

“Yes. It’s odd. I’m sorry.”

“I’m coming. Did you fall down? Where are you?”

“Elsie. It’s very odd.”

“I’m coming.”

Elsie thought of calling Sally. Jack. Mary. Dick. Captain Teixeira. Nine-one-one.

Miss Perry had called her. She scooped up Rose, put her in the car seat. Down the hill, up to the door. Locked. The key was in the fake rock. She’d told Miss Perry that any robber … Never mind, there it was.

Miss Perry was sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, leaning against the newel post. She was still holding the phone. Elsie hung it up. Miss Perry was breathing weakly. Elsie felt her pulse at her throat. It seemed fast but strong. Her face looked pale. It didn’t look as if she’d fallen — just slumped against the post. What else? What else? Elsie saw the yellow highlighting she’d used in her EMT textbook but nothing else. No, nine-one-one. They’d put her through. She should know the pulse — she touched the side of Miss Perry’s throat again. Twenty, twenty-one. In ten seconds. Times six. Rose began to cry in her car seat. Miss Perry opened her eyes, one of them wider than the other. Elsie said, “It’s Elsie. It’s all right. I’m just going to call …”

A woman’s voice answered the phone. Elsie said, “We need an ambulance. We’re just down the road from South County Hospital.” She gave more directions. A man’s voice came on and asked all over again. He said, “Okay, the driveway with the stone columns.”

Elsie said, “Right. My car’s out front. I’ll turn the blinker on.”

Rose was crying louder. Elsie went out, pushed the turn signal down, and went back in carrying Rose. She held Rose in one arm and sat down beside Miss Perry. She put an arm behind Miss Perry’s neck and cradled her head with her hand. Rose stopped crying but was still fussing. Miss Perry said, “ Non sum qualis …” For an instant Elsie thought she had to either translate or identify. Horace or Virgil? She realized that her mind was gnawing at either/or — either a heart attack or a stroke. Pallor, rapid pulse, breathing — could be either. She looked at Miss Perry’s eyes. The left eye was only half open. She leaned forward to look closely at Miss Perry’s eyes. Rose fussed louder. Miss Perry said, “What?”

Elsie said, “It’s just the baby.” Miss Perry rolled her head. Elsie said, “We should stay still.”

Miss Perry said, “What baby?”

Elsie said, “It’s all right. I’ll take care of the baby.” But every time Rose made a noise, Miss Perry either rolled her head or raised her right hand. Elsie turned Miss Perry so that Miss Perry lay along the wide bottom step, the back of her head on Elsie’s thigh. Elsie pulled up her sweatshirt, opened her nursing bra, and lifted Rose to her nipple. She said, “It’s all right. It’s going to be quiet now. A doctor’s coming.”