John Casey: Compass Rose

It took Mary a moment to let go of the rhythm of their back-and-forth — and, deeper than that, her worry that everyone else was bobbing up and down … They could wait this once while she sat still for this breath of pleasure.

All by herself in her house, Elsie argued with Dick. She let Dick argue back. When she said, “Maybe Rose is more like Tom. Tom’s happy to live and let live,” she imagined Dick’s saying, “Yup. Tom’s a happy-go-lucky guy. Nothing against Tom, but just as well he makes his living on land, don’t need to be so strict. Rose is Charlie’s sister, too.”

Elsie argued that she knew Dick in a way that no one else did, that she needed him as much as anyone, that she only wanted a part of him, that she was part of his life, that they were bound together in their own way … And Dick said, “I won’t argue about that. It’s just that arguing doesn’t get as deep as how I ought to get along with Rose.”

“We’ll see,” she said out loud. The sound of her voice startled her, then made her laugh at herself, then made her worry that she was getting too crazy.

She needed to get outside. Not through the woods to May’s field. Down to the salt marsh? No — someplace she hadn’t been with Dick.

She went for a slow jog on the beach, swerving away from the spill of waves, swooping back onto the hard, wet sand as they slid away. Just enough of a dumb game to keep her half alert, half lulled, her eyes half closed against the westering sun. Sandpipers skittered away from the reach of a wave, skittered back to peck at sand-flea holes. Gulls lofted themselves, hovering until she jogged by. Familiar rhythms, familiar colors, even the inch of shadow cast by half a quahog shell and then another and another. Everything was as repetitive as the stir of small waves breaking, the hiss of their receding. She saw a small boat coming toward her alongshore, sixty yards or so out. It was dark against the glare off the water. Someone was rowing. As it came closer to being abreast of her she saw it was two people rowing, the oars in the air together, dipping together. She stopped, raised a hand to shield her eyes. Looked like they knew what they were doing. When the boat was straight out from her she saw that it was white. She watched the port-side oars swing toward the bow, pull harder toward the stern. As the boat moved past her the sun lit up the colors of the rowers’ shirts and then their faces. Dick and Rose.

When they got farther away the sunlight struck the water behind the boat and she lost their faces in the brightness that trailed them. And then all she could make out clearly was the blinking of light on the narrow transom as it rose and settled in the easy swell.

A wave she didn’t hear foamed over her running shoes. Her feet sank into the sand. She stood so still that sandpipers ran close by her.

She didn’t understand her astonishment. It was like and not like seeing the indigo bunting, drab in the shade, electric blue as it flew into the light. It was like and not like the time she watched Dick weave the strands of a cable splice, his blunt fingers intricate in a way she didn’t know. Like and not like Rose making her entrance onstage, the laughter from the audience alarming until it was clear that Rose knew what she was doing.

The litany of what she’d seen and what she made of it blurred. Good. Let Dick and Rose alone. She knew, without argument, that she wouldn’t mention seeing them to either of them. She knew in spite of what she’d wished for, what she would not stop wishing for, that she could also wish not to cast a shadow on her daughter, on her daughter’s awkward father, on that graceful man.

Elsie had misgivings. What good could come of all those people crammed into one room?

Rose was full of beans. Her show was over; it was as good as being let out of school.

There would be people Elsie didn’t want to see. There would be people Elsie wanted to see but not with each other.

“I hope we get to dance,” Rose said. “I want to see Uncle Jack shake that thing.” She laughed and looked at Elsie, then rolled her eyes and sighed. She said, “Maybe you’ll think the hat’s funny.” She put on a tiny white yachting cap with a plastic anchor on the front. “Come on, Mom. It’s a goof.”

When they got to Sawtooth, Rose tugged Elsie along to the kitchen. Mary Scanlon looked up and said, “Dear God — it can’t be time already.” She set a timer and handed it to one of her staff. “That’s for the roast vegetables.” She set another timer. “And that’s for the pig.” Rose peered through the glass door of the oven. “Roast suckling pig,” Mary said. “Thank God there’s a bit of a breeze or it’d be too hot for a heavy meal.” She turned to a waitress. “Before you bring it in, there’s a holly wreath goes on the head.”

Rose said, “Or you could put my hat on it. It’d look like Uncle Jack.”

May came in with a basket of tomatoes. She said to Mary, “Last ones out of my old garden.” She set it down and hugged Rose.

Mary caught the eye of another of her staff. “These’ll go right into the salad. They’re grand, May. Don’t think of them as the last — we’ll put them down as the first in your new account.”

“No,” May said. “They’re not that much, but they’re what I’m bringing to the meal. So we’re not just eating crumbs from the rich man’s table.’

Elsie thought, Trust May to cast a pall. But there were Mary and Rose laughing, and May turning to Rose with a smile. Rose said, “And Mary and I are singing for our supper.”

There was Rose standing in the middle of the women who’d raised her. When Rose flew away, what then?

May said, “Come say hello to your father. He’s out there on the side porch with your uncle Jack.”

Mary laughed. “I can hear the silence all the way in here.”

May and Rose left. Elsie watched Mary whirl around the kitchen, a peek at the ovens, a word in everyone’s ear. Mary came back to Elsie and said, “I’ve just got time to change. His nibs gave me a key card to the spa. Good for one day.” She laughed. “If it hasn’t expired by midnight, I’ll treat myself to a whirlpool bath.” She took Elsie’s hands. “You’re not still mad, are you? You seem …”

“No.” Elsie sighed. “I don’t know. I’m not in the mood for a party. Not this party.”

“Ah, well. Think of it as our party more than Jack’s.” And Mary was gone.

There’d been a time when she could tell Mary everything.

The sunlight was slanting into the screened porch. As Elsie walked in she narrowed her eyes against the glint from the forks and knives, the light refracted through the wineglasses. In the bright haze the people were faceless shadows.

On a sideboard there was a row of framed photographs. Rose said, “Oh no. I hate that one. I look like someone just—”

“Grabbed your ass,” Tom said, and laughed.

“That’s enough of that,” May said. She turned to Rose. “I think you look pretty. And look at how the ribbons are flying out.”

“Well at least I’m not the only one on display,” Rose said. “There’s one of that statue of Phoebe.”

Mr. Salviatti cleared his throat. “I hope you won’t find fault with that one. My cousin made it.”

“It’s a wonder,” May said. “And you’re generous to give it to the town.”

“What I’m wondering,” Tom said, “is how all that wind got there. Your cousin set up a big fan or something? Get that robe all blown up against her … I mean, it looks great, no two ways about that. I was just wondering.”

“There is the model, and there is also the imagination of the artist. La sua fantasia. ”