Compass Rose

by John Casey

  Phoebe blinked and her eyes teared up some. Phoebe’s bit of weepiness was probably nothing more than crying at the movies. May didn’t doubt she did a good deal of that. Let her take it whatever way suited her. May was breathing easier. She’d wrestled with forgiving Dick until she didn’t know what it meant. And there was no talking to Dick—he was walking on eggshells. She sometimes liked him that way; other times it made her feel the two of them were drifting around inside a gray day that wouldn’t turn into anything but kept her on edge waiting for something.

  Phoebe started picking tomatoes. She made slow work of it—each time she stooped she smoothed her skirt over her rear end and held it against the backs of her knees. Then she twisted the tomatoes so delicately that even some of the ripe ones didn’t fall. When she did pick one she laid it in the basket as if she was making a flower arrangement. Then stood up, moved the basket, stooped, smoothed her skirt.

  May said, “You don’t need to be so dainty. Here.” May knelt beside her and picked three in short order.

  “I’m sure it’s going to be all right,” Phoebe said. “I mean, here you are with everything he could want. You’re so good and beautiful in a real way.” She held her hands out wide. “I mean, it’s as if all this is a part of you.”

  May felt the side of her mouth twitch down.

  Phoebe said, “I know, I know. I should just think those things.”

  May picked two tomatoes and another two. She said, “That’s more than enough. You’d better take some home with you.”

  “I’m going back to the office,” Phoebe said. “I’m probably late; I am late. They’ll be all right in the car?”

  Phoebe left in a flurry, shuffling to the back door with a pair of tomatoes in each hand, shaking off Tom’s boots, trotting out the front door in her high heels, waving out the car window.

  May stood on the porch, a little let down. At first she thought it was because she’d been talking too much. Then she thought, what if Dick was to find out? No, that made her cross, not sad. Dick was out to sea, where he didn’t answer to anybody but himself. No reason why she shouldn’t do what she pleased in her own place. Then she had a suspicion that Phoebe had got round her, had got the better of her. No to that, too. Phoebe was clever enough behind all that giddiness, but she didn’t think Phoebe meant her any harm. Phoebe was lonely, was aching to find a friend.

  So what did it mean that Phoebe picked her?

  chapter twelve

  Elsie reread the instructions for hooking up the answering machine, one of the many small items on her list. In fact, they were all small, Lilliputians wrapping their tiny ropes around her just when she wished to do something big. She’d imagined that Miss Perry—Miss Perry’s situation—would require largeness of spirit, a beaming of will and encouragement. Instead she felt like an IBM typewriter ball tapping out one minuscule letter after another. The day nurse had immediately taken command of Miss Perry’s bedroom. On this first day she’d popped out four times to suggest things Elsie could do. All perfectly sensible. All elaborations of doctor’s orders. An electric heater, at least until Elsie got the plumber to bleed the radiators. A hot-water bottle. A tray with legs for meals in bed. As soon as Elsie arrived with one thing the woman would meet her in the front hall wanting another. And now this answering machine with instructions that seemed to be translated from Japanese.

  The day nurse came down the stairs and said, “Lydia’s asking for you. Don’t stay long. Oh, we need baby aspirin. And I couldn’t find coffee. There’s tea, but I prefer coffee.”

  “Baby aspirin?”

  “Yes. Adult-strength would irritate her stomach, but we need a small dose as an anticlotting agent.”

  “Okay. Baby aspirin. While I’m out, why don’t you see what you can do with this answering machine … It’d be a big help. I’ll put coffee on my list. Oh, by the way, it’s Miss Perry. We all say Miss Perry. Only Captain Teixeira … but he’s her oldest friend.” The nurse lifted a hand. Elsie said, “I’ll bring my coffeemaker, and we’ll have a chance to chat about everything tomorrow. Oh. We’re having meals brought over from Sawtooth Point, whatever’s the special. Once the answering machine is hooked up, just turn the ringer off and it won’t bother you anymore. And let me know if there’s anything you can’t eat. You’re okay with seafood? No problems with clams, lobster, squid?”

  “I haven’t ever had squid.”

  “Okay. No squid. After I see Miss Perry, I’ve got to run, but I’ll be back to meet the night nurse. Do you know her?”

  “No. I don’t know who—”

  “One of the Tran girls. She’s an angel. If you have any trouble with the answering machine, she’s very handy. They’re all very bright. The young ones all have perfect English.”

  As she went up the stairs Elsie thought she’d just done a Jack. Not the stony-faced wait-’em-out Jack but the nipping-at-your-heels border-collie Jack. Couldn’t be helped; the woman was driving her nuts.

  She trotted up quickly, a last little display of border collie. She slowed in the dark hallway. She’d never been in this part of the house. She stopped short in front of the half-open door. To go into Miss Perry’s bedroom seemed a terrible intimacy.

  She knocked. Miss Perry’s voice floated to her, a single unsteady note. She went in. The light from the windows silvered the large lenses of Miss Perry’s glasses. In her long white nightgown and bed jacket, she looked like a snowy owl.

  “Elsie.”

  The sound of her name went through her. It had the odd effect of erasing her. It was a relief. It brought her to Miss Perry as a very simple organism.

  “Elsie. Sit here.” Miss Perry moved her hand across the bed. Elsie sat. At this angle she could see Miss Perry’s eyes, one opened wider than the other. “I want to talk.” She waved her right hand back and forth without lifting it from the bedspread. She looked at her hand and said, “That means I’m laughing.” The right side of her mouth smiled.

  “Yes,” Elsie said. “What are you laughing at?”

  Miss Perry crooked her forefinger and slowly raised it. At last it reached the top of her head and tapped once. Then her hand seemed to dribble down back to the bed. She said, “Think.”

  “All right. I’m thinking. You said my name … You know Captain Teixeira?”

  Miss Perry shook her head. “Things.” She looked out the window.

  “Tree.”

  “Yes. Tree.”

  She waved her right hand. Not a laugh. “Things you know. I know. More words for trees.”

  “Oh. Ash. That tree is an ash.”

  “Yes. Ash. Say a tree I don’t see.”

  “Beech. The copper beech in front.” Miss Perry nodded. “All right. Sycamore. By my pond. It always looks like it’s peeling,” Miss Perry added. “And there’s the white oak beside it.” Miss Perry moved her hand, this time a laugh. Elsie said, “What’s funny?”

  “Quercus alba.” Miss Perry touched her head again and said, “Odd. I know Latin. I don’t know beside.”

  Elsie was afraid she was going to cry. She squinted and squeezed her nose as if stopping a sneeze. She said, “Beside.” She held out one hand, put the other out. “This hand is beside that hand.”

  “Odd,” Miss Perry said. She closed her eyes. She lay back and waved her hand at her hip.

  Elsie said, “Do you want to lie down?”

  “Yes.” Elsie reached under the covers to slide her down. As Elsie touched her, Miss Perry’s eyes opened. She said, “I remember. When it was odd, I called the telephone. I called you.”

  “Yes. Let me take your glasses off.”

  Miss Perry’s eyes were blurry for a moment, then grew distinct. “You came. I said … Did I say thank you?”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  “You talked. You said trees. The same trees.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I remember the men came. The … car. Not a car. What is it?”

  “Ambulance. We’ll talk tomorrow. You’ll remember
it all tomorrow.”

  “And the baby.”

  Elsie said, “Yes, that’s right,” as if Miss Perry were a child trying to put off bedtime by saying to the grown-up reaching for the light switch, “I remember …”—what she saw at the beach, what she ate that day that was good for her, the end of a fairy tale.

  chapter thirteen

  Elsie was to meet Mr. Bienvenue at Miss Perry’s house at eight in the evening. She sent the night nurse, Nancy Tran, to babysit Rose. Elsie set out the memoranda, appointment books, and letters on Miss Perry’s desk. She laid a fire in the fireplace. She was still in her uniform, thought of going back to change, thought Mr. Bienvenue might arrive. She decided to go up to tell Miss Perry what was going on; Miss Perry would wonder when she heard a man’s voice.

  Miss Perry was speaking more clearly now, and the doctor was pleased at how much she’d improved in a month. Miss Perry still had difficulty with prepositions. She had a theory that her grasp of prepositions would improve as she began to move around.

  Elsie said, “A lawyer’s coming over this evening.”

  “Is it Jack? I should very much like to see Jack.”

  “No. It’s someone Jack recommended. We’re just going to go over some papers.”

  Miss Perry said, “I see,” but after a moment she said, “What does ‘over’ mean?”

  “Oh. Sorry. Go over, look over. Over is like on. You remember on.”

  “ ‘Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.’ But you said, ‘Over.’ ‘A lawyer is coming over.’”

  “I should have just said a lawyer is coming.”

  “Very well. A lawyer is coming. Am I to meet with him?”

  “No. He and I are just going to put a few things in order. I thought I’d tell you so you won’t worry when the doorbell rings.”

  “All this fuss.” Miss Perry suddenly glared at Elsie. “It is tiresome. Now please go change your clothes. What will he think when you open the door? He’ll think you’re the cleaning woman. Your clothes are covered with something, I don’t know what.”

  “It’s just bark. I brought wood in for the fire.”

  “The fire is not … You look slubben … slubbenly.” Miss Perry closed her eyes and clenched her fist. She beat her forearm on her hip, not hard but over and over. She stopped and opened her eyes. “Slovenly.”

  It was the feebleness that evaporated Elsie’s spurt of anger. She said, “All right. I’ll take care of everything.”

  Elsie got to the bottom of the stairs and sat down. She felt dumb. What did she know that could change anything? How had she ever thought she knew what was going on? How had she imagined that anyone could do anything but mumble a few words about what little they knew? Jack’s lawyer’s words, the doctor’s what-we-know-about-the-brain words, her own wonders-of-nature chirps. They all might as well be Miss Perry exhaling stale poems and Latin prepositions and then a burst of bad temper. Every living thing had a few bubbles of one kind or another going in and out one kind of hole or another. When the in and out was over, it was back to matter. She saw it—particulate matter fluttering down through darker and darker water toward the seabed. A stupor spread through her, weighing down her arms, her chest, her head. She reached across her chest and put her fingers in the grooves of the newel post. They fit smoothly. She rested her cheek on the back of her hand, smelled her skin. She ran her fingertips up and down the grooves until another thought came to her. Not cheerier but on a smaller scale. Dick had told her she was spoiled, called her house “the toybox”—of course, that had been part of his pleasure as well as his irritation. He should see her now. He should get down on his damn knees and think of her taking care of his baby, taking care of his friend and protector Miss Perry …

  The truth was … The truth was she’d be doing everything she was doing anyway. She’d wanted a baby. She’d loved Miss Perry since her first Latin class. She wasn’t bossed into this by Dick. She wasn’t bossed into this by Jack. Maybe this paperwork she was about to do with some bozo protégé of Jack’s—that was something Jack owed her for.

  When she opened the door to Johnny Bienvenue she didn’t get a good look at him. He was wearing an overcoat and scarf, and a hat with a brim. He pulled off his glove to shake hands, then turned toward the coatrack. She started off toward the library before he was through hanging up his things, and she was lighting the fire when he followed her in. She said, “I hope you don’t mind the uniform. I haven’t had a minute to change since I got off.”

  “You’re a Natural Resources officer, right? Jack calls you the warden of the Great Swamp, but that’s not the official …” He stopped, probably because she was staring at him so intently. The Queens River. He was the man who’d caught the trout, made the fire, and drunk the wine—the man she didn’t arrest. She tucked her hair back and blushed. And then, thinking that she’d thought of him from time to time, when she pedaled her Exercycle or when she fit back into her uniform, she blushed again. “Yes. I mean, no. Warden of the Great Swamp is what the guys at work say. Kind of a joke.” And then more coolly—after all, she’d seen him, he hadn’t seen her—“But I get around other places. The salt marshes. The Queens River.”

  But he’d put on reading glasses and started to look over the papers on the desk. He said, “Jack says Miss Perry is recovering. Do you think she’ll be able to manage her affairs on her own?” When Elsie didn’t answer right away, he looked up. He said, “I know. It’s hard to say. Does she strike you as knowing what’s going on?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does she understand numbers?”

  “I don’t know. We talk, but numbers haven’t come up.”

  “On this list of books here—gifts to Charles and Thomas Pierce—where do these figures come from?”

  “I found the receipts. The first figure is what Miss Perry paid for each book. I called a rare-book dealer and he gave me a rough idea of what they’re worth now—that’s the second figure. The dates I got from her appointment books—Charlie and Tom’s birthdays.”

  “But I understand these books are still here.”

  “Yes.” Elsie pointed to the glass-paned bookcase. “She gave them reader’s copies. She always said the same thing—it was sort of a joke after a while. ‘If you don’t scribble in this book or tear the paper I’ll give you a new one when you’re grown up.’ What’s in the bookcase are first editions of the same books. Some of them are worth two or three thousand. But Jack told me there’s no problem if the gifts are under ten thousand in any one year.”

  “That’s right. But the donor—Miss Perry—said, ‘If you don’t scribble in them.’ An outright gift has to be unconditional. This wouldn’t be a problem if the total was under ten thousand. But each boy’s collection is worth …” He scribbled on a notepad. “Roughly twenty-five thousand.”

  “It was a joke! Maybe when she started saying it, when Charlie was six or seven, maybe she meant it then. I was there for their birthday—not this year but before—and Miss Perry laughed and the boys laughed. The reason she was giving books this way was that if she’d said to the boys’ father that she was going to pay for them to go to college, he’d have said no. He’s very …” Elsie saw them, saw the day, Miss Perry catching a flounder, reciting a bit of Beatrix Potter. Dick and the boys, not May, May was fixing the cake, Miss Perry and Dick and the boys in the skiff. The late-afternoon light on the water, the summer-green spartina. A year later, the boys’ next birthday, they were at Charlie’s baseball game, Miss Perry innocently attentive, May rigid with pain.

  Elsie sat down, closed her eyes. She saw May. She saw May looking at her. She felt May. She felt a space in herself fill up with cold astonishment. And then a sense of desolation—as if she were May looking at her house after the hurricane, the broken corner posts, the roof sagging, the wall gaping open, the things inside strange, hers but not hers.

  “Are you okay?”

  Elsie said, “Just a minute.”

  “We can do this another time.”

&n
bsp; “No. Let’s go on.”

  Elsie looked at one of Miss Perry’s appointment books, found the dates of Charlie’s and Tom’s birthday party. “There. Look at that one. ‘Gave Charlie Pierce Sailing Alone Around the World by Joshua Slocum. First edition, mint. Gave Tom Pierce Two Years Before the Mast by Richard Henry Dana. First edition, good condition.’ ”

  Then she started crying. It was a sudden burst, her body bent forward, her face jerking in her hands, the appointment book at her feet.

  When she half recovered and was wiping her cheeks with her fingertips, she heard herself say, “I’ve never cried. I mean, I’ve never cried in uniform.” That was a bit of babble that normally would have made her laugh. At least she stopped crying. She said, “Oh, God. You must think I’m …”

  “No, no. I can guess it’s been …” He bent down to pick up the appointment book from the floor. His hair was cut short or the half-curls would have been ringlets. He pulled a small packet of Kleenex from his briefcase. He puzzled over how to open the cellophane. He had thick fingers, a heavy, broad face. A general width—when he finally broke the wrapping and pinched out an edge of Kleenex, she felt as if she was being tended to by a bear.

  He said, “I guess you’ve felt a lot of strain. Jack said you’re like a daughter to Miss Perry. So look. I can take the appointment books and the Everett Hazard folder, xerox them. We don’t have to wrap everything up right now.”

  Elsie didn’t want him to go. She wanted him to sit by the fire and pay attention to her. She said, “Let me just look in upstairs. You’re going … where? Woonsocket? And that reminds me. Phoebe Fitzgerald wants to talk to you.”

  “Oh, yeah. The tenant.”

  “I could make you a cup of coffee. For your drive. You can smoke your pipe if you’d like.” He looked surprised but said, “I’m only going to Providence. But sure. A cup of coffee’d be nice. Black.”

  When she came back he was looking at the books in the boys’ bookcases. She put his coffee on the table between the two armchairs facing the fireplace. She sat down in one of them, tucking her legs under her, a kittenish pose she hadn’t struck for a long time. He sat in the other armchair, planted his feet. “So tell me something about Miss Perry,” he said. “But first tell me how you know I smoke a pipe. Some sort of Sherlock Holmes thing? Or was it something Jack told you? Probably not Jack. He doesn’t notice details. At least not about men.”