by John Casey
Charlie said, “Ma, maybe you and Miss Perry ought to move back a couple of rows.”
May thought there was no end to Elsie Buttrick.
The people in the row behind them made room. May and Elsie stood Miss Perry up, turned her around, and guided her up to the next level.
When Dick got home Charlie would tell him about the ball game, would tell him Elsie Buttrick had saved Miss Perry from being landed on by the catcher. May didn’t want to be there to see Dick’s careful face.
May was pleased when Miss Perry said, “Really, Elsie. All this fuss?”
Miss Perry thought the game had gone on quite long enough. She thought Charlie himself looked as if pitching was becoming tiresome. He took several deep breaths and threw the ball. There was a sound as sharp as when the catcher caught the ball in front of her, but more resonant. “Blow, bugle, blow—set the wild echoes flying.” Tennyson? She looked up and saw the ball suspended against the blue sky. She said “Ah!” as it began to move. She was surprised that she could see it so clearly, that she felt so light and connected to that single speck, as though she herself were flying.
She was startled to find that she was standing, Elsie’s arm around her waist. She lost sight of the ball against a cloud, then saw it fall out of the cloud. A faraway player leaned against a fence and watched the ball land. Two little boys beyond the fence began to run toward it. The first time it landed it skipped quite high, as though it might fly again. Then it bounced gently. Miss Perry was glad to see this—one of the boys caught it and the two of them ran off with it.
She sat down again with Elsie’s help. It had been as thrilling as when she’d surprised a stag in her garden and he’d bolted with a snort that froze her in place. Then he leapt over the high stone wall, as if lifted by a wave. How much invisible energy there was in this world—how amazing to feel it press through her still.
She applauded. Elsie touched her arm and asked her if she would like a glass of lemonade. She said, “Not now, Elsie.”
May said, “Poor Charlie,” and Miss Perry knew—had only temporarily not known—that this splendid moment was unfortunate for Charlie. In fact, after he watched two of the opposing players trot around the bases, there was a gathering around him and a new pitcher replaced him. There was a smattering of applause as he left the field.
May was upset for Charlie but pleased to see him shyly tip his hat to the bleachers of Matunuck fans who cheered him. It was a compensation, May thought—Dick had left a wake of wariness and bad feelings, but now that Charlie got out and around, people warmed to him. Of course, people were nice to her, but that was because she paid her bills now. They were a respectable family. Here she was with Miss Perry, her two sons on the ball team, all in the extra time and space that came of rising just one step in the world.
The midday breeze came up, swirling the dust on the base paths, cooling the crowd’s necks and cheeks. On the other side of Miss Perry, Elsie Buttrick sat up and fanned her knees with the hem of her white dress. May couldn’t think where to put her. Miss Perry loved her; she loved Miss Perry. She’d been a little heroine. May had managed to put her in a corner of her mind, almost had her sealed up as Dick’s last bad craziness. Let her tend to her baby in her house next to Miss Perry’s; let her go to the store for food in her Volvo station wagon. Let her know how small she should keep herself, not fanning her knees at Charlie’s ball game.
May wondered if she herself could become bigger. What if her mind could hold a larger map so that she saw all the houses and boats and people at a distance? Then she could see Elsie Buttrick’s little apologetic wave, her shielding Miss Perry with her body, as acts not poisoned by what she’d done with Dick. There would be a space that was far from the center of May’s mind in which Elsie could raise her daughter—May would see the daughter and think of enough different things in the clutter of those lives, different things that would cover the old nakedness.
How did someone get a bigger mind? That sort of a bigger mind? Right now, May’s narrow comfort was that Elsie had grown fat.
The game was over. May went to find Charlie and Tom. She saw another mother hug her son, and May was encouraged to put her hand on Charlie’s shoulder. She did the same for Tom, who needed some sympathy because he hadn’t played.
Tom said, “You know, it wasn’t that bad of a pitch. The guy got lucky.”
Charlie said, “No. He had it timed. He really clocked it. I’ve never seen such a long ball. I mean, not in person.”
Miss Perry arrived. She said, “I’m glad to hear you say that, Charlie. I confess I was thrilled. I’m afraid I applauded for the wrong team.”
“That’s okay,” Charlie said. “I mean, you don’t see that every day.”
“Well, it was all perfectly splendid,” Miss Perry said. “And you’re all coming for lunch, are you not? And your birthday cake.”
Tom said, “We’d better clean up some.”
Miss Perry blinked behind her thick glasses. “It’s a shame your father’s at sea, but we’ll be a jolly little party. Elsie, dear, you’ll stay, won’t you?”
Elsie said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry—I’ve got to meet my sister.”
“I thought she went sailing with Jack. Never mind. It’s kind of you to drive me. Now, don’t dillydally, boys.”
May watched them make their way toward Elsie’s car, Miss Perry on Elsie’s arm.
“Miss Perry’s getting old,” Tom said. “And Elsie’s kind of plumped up.”
May said, “You boys shouldn’t say things about—”
Charlie said, “You shouldn’t say ‘you boys’ when it’s just Tom. I was going to say Elsie looked pretty good getting up for that foul ball—taking a fall like she did.”
“Well, I guess someone’s stuck on Elsie,” Tom said. “Bet you wish it was you got tangled up with her.”
May didn’t hear what Charlie said back. She felt another rasp across the same place—no end to Elsie Buttrick. But whether because she’d had an hour or two to grow numb or whether she was grateful for Elsie’s lie about having to meet her sister or whether Tom’s taunt set her to thinking how relentlessly stupid men were going to be about Elsie Buttrick, May found herself sharing some small part of her distress with Elsie Buttrick. There wasn’t anyone May could tell this to.
chapter three
Elsie felt squeezed shut inside. As if her nerves were the roots of a tree that was dug up and put in a small bucket, white roots sprouting wildly but curling back on themselves when they hit the steel sides.
She managed to help Miss Perry across the field. She held the passenger door open while Miss Perry clung to the base of the open window to lower herself onto the seat.
When they got to Miss Perry’s house, Elsie felt obliged to help her set out the cucumber sandwiches and a pitcher of lemonade. She got the birthday cake out of the refrigerator and put it on the kitchen counter. Her fingers felt peeled to the quick handling the plates, the tray, the pitcher, the platter that May would be holding in a few minutes.
“Candles,” Miss Perry said. “Birthday candles. And the little rosettes to hold them. I put them somewhere. Blue for Charlie and red for Tom. Could you look in the drawer? The one by the sink. I am sorry to be such a … It was very hot in the sun.”
When she heard Miss Perry’s unfinished sentence, Elsie grew alarmed. She got Miss Perry to sit down at the kitchen table and brought her a glass of water. Elsie wrapped some ice cubes in a dish towel. Miss Perry said, “Don’t be silly, Elsie,” but allowed her to put it on her neck. Miss Perry said, “My father used to soak his pocket handkerchief in witch hazel to cool himself.”
Elsie was reassured by this complete Miss-Perry sentence. She found the candles and holders and stuck them in the cake. She considered leaving, decided she shouldn’t. She had to push through some shyness to put her hand on Miss Perry’s forehead. Miss Perry’s brow was warm but not too hot. And not cold and clammy. Elsie put the ice pack on again.
Miss Perry closed he
r eyes and said, “It was hot in the sun.” She opened her eyes and said, “I feel much better.” Elsie obediently took her hand away and wondered if she could steady herself with small goodnesses.
She heard May and the boys at the front door. Elsie went to open it. She kept her eyes on her hand on the doorknob and said, “I’m just leaving. Miss Perry was a little bit undone by the heat.”
May said, “You boys wait here. I’ll go see to her.”
“I think she’s fine,” Elsie said. “But maybe you could call—or Charlie or Tom could call when you leave. I’ll be at home.”
Charlie said, “Sylvia Teixeira usually comes over with supper. I could stay till she gets here.”
Elsie heard the note in Charlie’s voice, looked up to see May look hard at Charlie. Elsie left. She wanted a closed door between her and May’s thinking of yet another female coming near. If she were May she would peck all calling birds to death.
Elsie got home in plenty of time for Mary Scanlon to get to work. Elsie said, “I won’t stick you with a Saturday morning again. Did I leave enough milk?”
“Oh, Rose and I were fine. I think my giving her a bottle’s making my tits bigger. And how’s Miss Perry?”
“Oh, God. I’ll tell you everything in a minute.” Mary’s breezy talk about her tits jangled, but when she sat down, she felt the comfort of being able to say to Mary, “I’ll tell you everything.”
chapter four
For all her talk about letting Rose cry, Mary Scanlon was an indulger. While Mary’s room was being built, Elsie went to stay at Jack and Sally’s cottage on Sawtooth Point. Mary began her job at the Wedding Cake only a hundred yards away. Before she started cooking, Mary spent an hour carrying Rose up and down the point while Elsie took a nap. Elsie would wake up to the sound of Mary’s crooning as the pair of them came in the door. Mary had a store of old songs she’d inherited from her father. She also had a taste for the Lucky Strike Hit Parade from her earliest childhood. She apparently remembered everything she’d ever heard. Elsie had only the vaguest memory of anything before rock, but then she had more of an ear for a heavy beat than for a tune.
At six or so Mary sent one of the waitresses over with a tray of food and a bottle of dark beer, which Mary said was good for nursing mothers.
At ten Mary would show up again for a few minutes before going back to check the cleanup. She usually brought another dessert for Elsie. Elsie felt like a queen ant, pale, inert, and swollen.
The low point was at eleven. Mary was gone. Rose was sleeping. Elsie couldn’t concentrate enough to read. It was too late to exercise. She wasn’t as physically tired as Sally said she’d be, but her brain was dull. She could barely remember herself outdoors, moving through the woods and marshes.
Years before when she’d been having supper with Jack and Sally, Jack had asked one of his massive questions: What’s the best thing in your life? It was the sort of thing Jack liked to bring up, though not for extended discussion. He preferred quick answers, which he took in with a grunt of approval or disapproval. Jack himself said, “Providing,” and grunted with approval. Elsie said, “Adventure. Love and adventure.” Jack tipped his head, meaning that was no more than what he expected. Sally said, “Grace.” Jack lifted his eyebrows and said, “Yes.” Sally beamed. Sally went on to say, “Moments of grace … I was listening to Jack Junior—” Jack lifted his hand and said, “Grace was just right. Let’s not adorn it.” Elsie had actually heard the word pompous inside her head. It had swelled from ear to ear, and for an instant she’d been afraid she was going deaf.
Now she heard her own voice saying “Adventure. Love and adventure.” What glib twitter.
At the first sound from Rose, Elsie felt her mind blur. Just as well, it wasn’t a necessary part of nursing Rose.
Outside, it was high summer. She knew the blackberries were ripe, the spartina tall and thick across the marshes, blue crabs swimming up the salt creeks. By noon the inland air would be hot enough to rise, drawing in a sea breeze. At night the salt ponds flickered with the phosphorescent wakes of fish, the sky with the Perseids. All that was the sort of thing she’d stored up when she was an adolescent tomboy, calming herself by observing the decent progressions of nature. Since then twenty seasons of marsh grasses had grown, withered, and decomposed; twenty years of crab carapaces were now mineral matter in the black mud feeding the field of green.
She felt the comfort of that order, and even in her insulated state, she felt the righteousness of being one of those who knew that order. Dick did, too; this was the innermost justifying of her love. No one knew how mentally alike she and Dick were. Jack had barely kept himself from saying, “You went slumming and we’ll make the best of it.” Sally’s way of putting a bright face on Rose being her niece, her child’s cousin, was graver than any big-sister tut-tutting.
And what would Miss Perry think?
Until just now, Elsie had thought it comic that Miss Perry inspired awe. Twenty years ago Elsie had been her pet when Miss Perry taught Latin at the Perryville School. Elsie was aware of the way the other teachers deferred to Miss Perry, but learned only later that she was one of the founders of the school, that she was a venerable relic of the Hazards and Perrys, and that grown men and women still sought her favor as if they were living in a Henry James novel. Elsie had been no more aware than Miss Perry herself that Miss Perry’s aegis saved her from a number of punishments. Elsie had thought at first that Miss Perry had singled her out because Miss Perry felt sorry for the hoydenish little sister of the beautiful and virtuous Sally. Then Elsie got A’s in Latin and that seemed the reason that Miss Perry urged books on her and took her for long walks in the woods, botanizing and birding. And there’d been Miss Perry pointing to a foxhole and asking her to smell it. “You should know animals and plants by their odor as well as by sight. Do you smell it? My sense of smell is less keen than it used to be. I remember fox musk as somewhat stirring.” Elsie looked up. Miss Perry flicked her hand at the hole, urging Elsie to get on with it.
Now, dazed and stationary while nursing Rose, Elsie wondered if she would have loved Miss Perry if she hadn’t been Miss Perry’s pet, if they’d met when Elsie was older, if she might have thought Miss Perry affected rather than eccentric, patronizing rather than wholehearted in her friendship with Dick, snobbishly dismissive in her treatment of Eddie Wormsley. “What you do on public land, Mr. Wormsley, I cannot control. On my land I do not permit the sort of slaughter you seem to enjoy.”
Eddie remembered every word, reproduced Miss Perry’s rhythm and tone when he’d told Elsie. He wasn’t making fun of Miss Perry, he just couldn’t get her out of his head.
Rose sucked, burped, switched sides, sucked, burped, and dozed off. Was there a calming chemical brought on by nursing? After the first tingle of Rose’s mouth fastening on with surprising force—it felt like the old practical-joke joy buzzer—there was a deep satisfying tug inside her. Elsie was annoyed by how soft she’d become but was pleased by the flow of milk, at the unurgent pleasure. But, but, but. Maybe when she and Rose began to sleep through the night she’d get her brain back. These days she was lucky if she got three hours in a row. Then a little doze if Rose went right back to sleep. Then the long, bright wasted morning. The blessed relief of Mary Scanlon taking Rose. How could she have even thought a complaint about Mary’s singing?
But this time Rose slept for six hours. Suddenly it was dawn. Elsie got out of bed with a livelier body and clearer head. She nursed Rose. She thought Rose looked more alert, too, as if some additional brain cells hooked up in her sleep. Elsie put on shorts and a T-shirt. She said, “Come on, big girl,” and carried Rose outside. The Wedding Cake was gray and still. The grass and the loosened tennis nets were heavy with dew. The air was damp but mild. Elsie waded into Sawtooth Pond up to her waist. No wind, but the tide was coming in, ruffling the mouth of the inlet. The sun was just up but veiled in mist. It seemed as if the tide was carrying the gray light all the way from the farthest glimmer, rel
easing it on the surface of the pond. Her feet settled in the mud. She felt the tide pushing around her legs, Rose moving in her arms.
She said, “Can you see it, Rose? Can you feel all this?”
chapter five
Dick and May and the boys were still staying at Eddie Wormsley’s ramshackle cabin while their house was being rebuilt. While Dick was on shore he put some time in helping Eddie and Eddie’s new crew. A few days after the ball game May came down to watch. She heard Eddie say, “We’re still bracing the studs; we need another half-dozen braces.” May was surprised to see he was talking to Dick. And more surprised to see Dick lay down what he was doing and head off to the miter box. Eddie had looked up to Dick since their school days, and Dick had always taken Eddie for granted. Part of it was that for years Eddie scraped by as a handyman for some of the summerhouses and a few of the big houses. Except for Miss Perry’s. Eddie had closed the summerhouses, drained the plumbing, fixed the screens, kept an eye on them. For the big houses, Eddie plowed the driveways when it snowed and kept their woodsheds stocked. Beside his cabin he had a shed for his tractor, truck, and snowplow, and an old Quonset hut for a workshop. It was after the hurricane that he’d begun to make some real money. He’d cut up trees that were blocking driveways, fixed damaged houses, cabins, sheds, and wharves. He’d hired a crew and soon enough had a tidy business. No more days off fishing or hunting. He’d even hired Phoebe Fitzgerald to keep his books and answer the phone.
So part of what had happened between Dick and Eddie was Eddie’s no longer being the local handyman. When Dick had been at his lowest point—his lowest point financially—he used to say to May, “At least I’m not fixing toilets for summer people.” She’d wished his pride wasn’t so hard.
Now Eddie was fixing—rebuilding was more like it—the house that Dick had built years before with Eddie’s help. Eddie was fitting it in as a favor, that was one thing. May didn’t know what the money arrangement was, but she was pretty sure that was a favor, too. But this time it wasn’t a couple of guys on their own—it was a construction site with a time to show up and a time to quit. May remembered when Dick and Eddie were building the house—they’d scratch their heads and then Dick would pick up a stick and draw in the dirt. They’d got a bunch of old window frames from the dump and had to jigger each one in. They all went up and down or in and out and were painted neatly, but the house had always looked cobbled together. Now Eddie had blueprints. Dick was helping out. But the bigger difference between then and now was that Dick was walking on eggshells. May let him back into bed, but he had enough sense to know that that wasn’t all there was to it.