Compass Rose

by John Casey

  “You’re working for Johnny Bienvenue?”

  “Right again,” Patty said. “I keep forgetting what a tiny state this is. Oops—I’ve got to watch that. I was actually born here—my father was stationed at Quonset—but I’ve got to stop saying ‘tiny state.’ ”

  Elsie heard herself say, “Don’t worry, we know it’s small,” even as she felt the details gathering into a wave. She looked at Patty’s left hand. “So you’re engaged.”

  “Yes. After what I’ve seen in Washington, I swore I’d never be a political wife, but here I am—working just as hard and not even on the payroll anymore. After you finish me off I’ve got a meeting with a Mr. Salviatti. We’re going to Westerly to talk with some Italian stoneworkers. When my father was stationed in Naples, I learned some Italian. I suppose you know Mr. Salviatti, too.”

  “Yes.” Elsie was dizzy with being taken by surprise, dizzy at having foreseen—how long ago?—the perfect wife for Johnny.

  Patty got up. She was as tall as Mary. She said, “You know, I wasn’t paying all that much attention, they just told me ‘Go to court number two.’ ” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Patty Scanlon.”

  “Elsie Buttrick.”

  Elsie felt Patty’s hand. Not a quiver. She watched Patty’s eyes. Not a flicker. Could it be he hadn’t told her?

  “Oh my God, you’re Aunt Mary’s housemate! She’s absolutely crazy about your daughter; her old Christmas letters were all about Rose. Rose this, Rose that. Rose, Rose, Rose. And, of course, Johnny was crazy about you.”

  So that was it—a little pat on the head.

  Patty said, “Wait—I’m just getting my bearings here. Sally Aldrich is your sister. That means your brother-in-law’s the rock-ribbed Republican going against the grain to back Johnny. Sometime I’d love to hear you explain him. But look—we’d better start playing again if I’m going to get to Mr. Salviatti. Any last-minute notes on him? Johnny just said, ‘Speak some Italian, get the names of all those cousins of his in Westerly.’ Is he short? I could wear flats.”

  “Not too short. Old, but he likes pretty women. Traditional Catholic—he sent his daughter to Catholic school, Monsignor Prout. Rich, but he was snubbed by a lot of the old Yankees. He likes that Jack took him on as a partner in all this”—Elsie pointed at the Wedding Cake—“but he rolls his eyes when Jack’s being an asshole. Oh—you could admire the road to Westerly. His company re-paved it.”

  Patty tipped her head a notch at the end of each sentence, clicking it into the file. Elsie wondered at herself—here she was being a good little helper, showing off that she, too, could have been the good political wife.

  And then she was rolled by the bigger wave tumbling through the water. She’d mocked Johnny when he showed up on the Pro-Jo’s list of Rhode Island’s eligible bachelors—ex–altar boy in search of a wife—mocked him, thinking she didn’t care. And then she’d erupted. At herself for being impossible? At him? Whatever Elsie had wanted and not wanted, however on-again/off-again she and Johnny had been, whatever muddle of mockery and fury she’d felt, she’d perfectly conjured this vote-getting, child-bearing, Italian-speaking, red-haired Irish-American beauty. And there was Patty Scanlon walking to her side of the court, scooping up a ball with her racket and giving it a bounce, carelessly floating into Rhode Island, not knowing her fortune had been told in the Providence Journal Sunday supplement.

  It was true for a moment, and then not true. Elsie could no more reduce Patty’s life than Patty could reduce hers by saying, “And, of course, Johnny was crazy about you.”

  Patty said, “I forget—did you serve last?”

  “Yes.” Elsie reached over the net and flicked a ball toward Patty. Elsie felt the first breath of the noon sea breeze. Johnny had been an awkward tennis player but a graceful skater, speeding around thick-frozen Hothouse Pond, somehow making his solid body fluid. She could let that go. Another thought came to her with a slower, deeper breath than physical yearning. She thought, He was the nicest man I ever slept with.

  Elsie won. She played well, but the more decisive factor may have been that Patty wanted to be on time for Mr. Salviatti.

  chapter sixty-two

  Tom brought Mr. Aldrich to the house. Mr. Aldrich asked about their putting up one of the Sawtooth performers. Dick said, “That’s up to May.”

  May couldn’t fault him but wished he’d just said no. She said, “I’m afraid things are just too unsettled, Mr. Aldrich.”

  “Jack, please. I understand completely. Don’t give it another thought. What I’m really here for is something a bit different.” He turned to Dick. “I’m trying to give that son of mine a sense of what Sawtooth really is. My thought is that it shouldn’t just go to him on a platter. I’m more old-fashioned than that. I’m going to have Jack Junior spend a week in the kitchen with Mary Scanlon. He’s already spent more than a week with Tom here, getting the waterfront in shape. I have to say Tom’s got just the right touch—knows when to kid with the boy, knows when to get tough. But what I was wondering is if you’ve got a spare berth on board Spartina. Just for one trip. Because when you come right down to it, the sea is what’s giving us all a living. I don’t know if you’ve read Captains Courageous by Rudyard Kipling, but the lesson that boy learned on that fishing vessel is just what I have in mind.”

  Tom said, “The way that boy ended up on that schooner is that he fell off a yacht and the fishermen pulled him out of the drink. I hope you’re not planning to make Jack Junior do it the hard way.”

  Mr. Aldrich said, “Well, that’s sort of amusing, Tom.”

  May closed her eyes. Tom didn’t try again.

  “Jack Junior has sailing experience. He can steer a compass course,” Mr. Aldrich said. “I’m not saying he could replace one of your regular hands, but as an extra hand, someone to take the wheel now and then. Just the odd moment. And, of course, he wouldn’t get a share.”

  Dick didn’t say anything.

  Mr. Aldrich sat comfortably in the silence, staring straight ahead, as if he was thinking it over himself. After a while he said, “There’s another thing. Tom asked me about it and I gave him the best answer I could, but he—you and he—should ask an experienced banker. This is a valuable property. I know you know the assessed value, but the appraised value might surprise you. I know you had some trouble getting a bank loan years ago when you were building Spartina. I think you’d find things are a lot different now. You could mortgage this property, have enough to take care of problems, get ahead of the game. I’d be glad to take you in to meet the manager of the bank. Very sound man.” Mr. Aldrich tilted his head toward Tom. “I should add, I wouldn’t have thought of this on my own. Tom and I have had some talks. He’s got a good business mind.”

  “See, Ma. I can be all business when it’s time for business.”

  May said, “What about your job with Eddie?”

  “There’s plenty of guys who can bang nails. I’ve learned a thing or two, but the future there belongs to either Phoebe or Walt.”

  Mr. Aldrich said, “Sawtooth Enterprises has more room for growth.” He got up. “Well, I’ve got to get back to my desk. Perhaps in a few days we can have another chat. Entirely up to you. At your convenience. Tom knows how to reach me on my private line.”

  May was relieved to see Dick get up and shake hands, even if he hadn’t said more than four words. After Mr. Aldrich left, Tom looked at Dick. Dick said, “If you stay to supper, we can talk. I’ve got a couple of things to do at the boatyard. Bang a few nails.”

  “Is that a joke, Dad?”

  “Whole damn thing might be a joke.”

  “Nothing funny about making some money.”

  “While I’m at the yard, you might take a look at the books. Charlie’s been telling me some things about the projected red-crab population. If I have to retrofit for another fishery, I might need that bank. Captain Teixeira’s already converting one of his boats; he gave me a copy of the work order. It’s in the file.” But Dick didn’t set
right off, stood with his hand on the doorknob. He said, “God, that man tires me out.”

  “He’s being nice to Rose these days,” May said. “Putting on her play and all.” Tom laughed for no reason May could fathom. May said, “Even seems to see something in you.”

  But after Dick left and Tom went to Dick’s worktable, May thought she’d better call Elsie again. Not just yet, maybe next time Mr. Aldrich showed up. She’d said he was being nice, and she hadn’t said it just to contradict Dick. Mr. Aldrich appeared to be asking a favor and offering favors in return—nothing mysterious about that, as far as it went. What was mysterious to her was what it must feel like to be him—going up and down in South County, taking it all in, thinking about what he might get up to with whatever struck his fancy. The only power to choose she had was whether to make a fuss or let things be. May wondered if she could just let everything be. Let Deirdre settle down with Charlie. Let Dick get into debt so he could keep going out to sea. And when he came back with a bag of clothes soaked in salt and old bait, let him take them up to Elsie’s washing machine. Would letting things go their own way make her easier, or would things pile up so high she couldn’t bear it?

  In the next room Tom groaned and said out loud, “Oh boy. Oh boy, oh boy.”

  She said, “What is it?”

  “Nothing much. Nothing that Dad’s marrying a rich widow wouldn’t fix.”

  “Well, don’t go making jokes like that when your father gets back.”

  “Don’t worry, Ma.” Tom stuck his head round the edge of the door. “Dad’s got a great sense of humor.”

  Now that made her laugh.

  chapter sixty-three

  Elsie was restless. When she got back to her house she tried to settle down to read. No use. She went for a bike ride, all the way to URI and back the long way around the Great Swamp. Faster than she and Deirdre had done it, fast enough so Deirdre would have been breathing hard. When she got off her bike at the end of the paved part of the driveway her legs were trembling. But she didn’t want to go sit in her house. She got the key to Miss Perry’s front door from under the rock where she’d left it. She locked the door behind her, wanting to seal herself inside the dark house. She trailed through the library, fingering the books. The smell was all that appealed to her. On the mantelpiece she found the card that Everett Hazard had sent Miss Perry. He’d drawn an Egyptian hieroglyph. Under it was his handwritten translation: “Paradise is a man’s own good nature.” Not today. That sort of thought was like pot—cheered you up only if you were in a good mood …

  Elsie had framed it, meant to give it to Tory Hazard after Miss Perry’s funeral but had decided to wait. Tory had stopped Captain Teixeira from reminiscing about her father. Now Elsie felt less patient with her, Miss Perry’s proto-pet, the nicer one. Captain Teixeira probably thought Tory was more like Miss Perry. Johnny should have married her for her good nature and her old Rhode Island name, get out the old-Yankee vote. Too bad, Tory—he picked the red-haired Irish navy brat. Who was off singing “O Sole Mio” to Mr. Salviatti, not wearing high heels because she was so tall. Let her be tall. When she chased a tennis ball, she ran like a giraffe.

  She opened her fist to look at the key—a large, old-fashioned key with a trefoil handle, the sort of key she’d seen in a painting hanging from the belt of the châtelaine. Châtelaine, my ass—she was the housekeeper. She should be wearing Rose’s maid’s uniform—that cap with the long ribbons.

  She trotted up the stairs all the way to the tower room, hoping one more puff of exercise would make her mindless.

  In the old days it had been a maid’s room, some poor waif from County Clare saying her beads in her neck-to-ankle nightgown. Or was she waiting for the young chauffeur to sneak up the stairs? Soon it would be a Perryville girl sleeping here, one of the good students—this was a prize room, the window high enough to look out to sea through the top of the copper beech after the leaves fell. Now it was shaded except for one ray that flickered through an upper corner of the window, dotting the floor beside the armoire, just missing the mirror set in its door. Eddie and Walt had moved it all the way up from the basement after Elsie pointed out there was no closet. Lots of manly grunting, Walt on the heavy bottom end, dripping sweat from his forehead onto his face reflected in the mirror. Eddie four steps up, navigating the turns. Elsie trailing behind, keeping her mouth shut even when they just missed gouging the wall, but on the last narrow flight of stairs, apologizing—“Jeez, guys, I didn’t think it’d be this hard.”

  When they’d finally set it down in the middle of the room they both started laughing. Eddie stopped and said, “I don’t suppose we could’ve used a block and tackle and brought her through the window.”

  Even Elsie had seen it was a preposterous idea but so Eddie-like that she’d started laughing, too.

  And there it stood now, looking as if it had always been there, unmarked by the effort, not even a streak on the mirror, since Walt had wiped it with the hem of his T-shirt, a surprising delicacy after all the heave-ho.

  Elsie began to feel better, as if reliving the men’s heavy lifting was the exercise that she’d needed. She unfolded the doubled-up bare mattress on the cot and stretched out. The women she’d been snarling at were dwindling, as remote as the waif from County Clare, as the grade-grubbing prize girl, and soon they were no more than dust motes passing through the bar of light.

  She woke up. The sunbeam had moved just enough to be bouncing off the mirror, dit-dit-dah-dit. But the blinking seemed to be making a puttering noise. She rubbed her eyes. It was a motorcycle idling. She got up, combed her hair with her fingers, and looked at herself in the mirror. She raised the window. Walt waved and yelled, “I figured it was you.” He killed the engine and said, “I saw you riding your bike. Thought you were Deirdre. Lucky it’s you. I can’t find the key. I left some beer and lunch meat in the fridge. I thought the lunch meat might go bad.”

  “I’ve got the key. Shall I toss it down?”

  “No, don’t do that. It’ll get lost in the ivy or you’ll ding my bike.”

  “Okay, I’ll come down.”

  “Or you could let down your hair.”

  She was at a loss for an instant. She knelt on the window seat and raised the screen, as if the screen made it harder to hear. “What?”

  “Let down your hair. Like in that fairy tale.”

  It wasn’t that she hadn’t heard him. “Yes,” she said. “Rapunzel.” She leaned out and lifted one of her short curls with her fingertips. “I think you’ve got the wrong girl.” He went back to his motorcycle. She called out, “For all you know I might be the wicked witch.” He didn’t say anything—had she been too obviously fishing for a compliment? He hung his helmet on the handlebar. All right, he was going to stay around.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “You could open up that window seat, and we could test that escape ladder.”

  “You want me to climb down?”

  “Or I could climb up.”

  She opened the lid of the window seat. She began to lower the chain-link ladder over the stone sill, letting the links slide through her hands. When it was halfway down she grabbed a rung and held it. She felt the ladder sway. She let the rung slide from her palm to her fingertips, then let it fall. She stepped back and watched. The chains grew taut as they took Walt’s full weight. As he climbed, the top links scratched the stone sill, scribbling white marks, lines and arcs of a hieroglyph easy enough to decipher.

  chapter sixty-four

  Mary missed JB terribly as soon as he went back to Boston. She regretted whatever bad moods she’d let him see. She feared he’d come to his senses as soon as he got to the big city. He said he’d be back as soon as he could. God knows she’d heard that before, though not lately. A part of her was loopy as a teenager, but another part administered a slow drip of wryness. So her fingers trembled when she got a letter from him care of Sawtooth, but she wasn’t undone when it wasn’t a love letter.

  Dear Mary, you ne
ver answer your damn phone. You’re the only person I know who doesn’t have an answering machine. So call me. Best time would be next Sunday after you get through with the Sawtooth brunch.

  He didn’t pick up the phone right away—in fact the message on his answering service was well under way when his real voice cut in. He said, “Wait a second, we’ll have to wait,” while his recorded voice was saying, “… to send a fax, or leave your name and number after the beep.” “Okay. Mary, are you there? It’ll record for a bit, then click off. Sorry, I’ve been right by the phone, you just caught me the one minute I was in the can. Wait. I’ll turn the TV off.”

  Not sweeping her off her feet.

  “Okay. Here we are. Look, something’s come up. Don’t know where to begin. Do you know Tory Hazard?”

  “I know who she is. So how have you been?”

  “Yes, you’re right. How are you? You sound great. I can’t wait to see you. What day is today? Oh yeah, of course it’s Sunday. Are you still at Sawtooth? At your place?”

  “I just got home. Is something wrong?”

  “No, no, could be good. I can be there in two hours. Would that be okay? Sunday traffic’s all the other way, could be an hour and a half.”

  Mary thought this might well be what she wanted but that he needed a few pointers on presentation.

  He said, “What time is it? Not three yet. So it’ll still be light.”

  Their first three days had been a tumble of energy, and then, after she got over her Monday-morning snit of wanting to be alone and he’d gone for a swim and come out with his teeth chattering, she’d taken him home, put a warm quilt over the two of them, and they lay there, good-humoredly chatting and dozing. A bit more poetry out of him, not his own, Yeats—“ ‘And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow …’ ”—and he’d trailed off. Now here he was tumbling again.