Compass Rose

by John Casey

  Elsie was astounded.

  Miss Perry said, “Did I say that clearly? I may have muddled—”

  “No, no, I understand. Rome is your … Rome was your center, your mind. And now your feelings are moving on their own like the barbarians. And you’re changing your mind about the barbarians. Maybe there was more to them …” Miss Perry stood still. She looked at Elsie, her eyes enormous behind the lenses. Elsie said, “I think you’re speaking better than the ninety percent the doctor thought.”

  Miss Perry shook her head. “I must confess I rehearsed that speech. I said it aloud when I was alone.”

  It was only a few more steps to her house. Elsie felt warmed and confident. She said, “Shall we go in? We can have tea.”

  After Elsie opened the door she took Miss Perry’s hand. There was a step down into the main room. She settled Miss Perry on the sofa in full view of the playpen, the baby bottle on the table, the swing set with a padded safety seat. Elsie watched Miss Perry look from one thing to another. She paused at the Exercycle. Elsie said, “Oh. That’s mine.” And then in a rush, as though to another mother, “If Rose is still awake when I want to exercise, I put her in the swing seat and wind it up—it has a spring mechanism that rocks her. And she seems to like the sound of the Exercycle.”

  Miss Perry said, “Rose. And where is Rose now?”

  “She’s with Mary Scanlon. I usually pick her up about now.”

  “But Rose is your child?”

  “Yes. I’ve been meaning to tell you, but it was … difficult to know when. I didn’t know … I didn’t want to add another perplexity, but at the same time I thought—and then I knew you remembered.” Elsie took a breath and said, “But mainly I was afraid of what you would think of me.”

  Miss Perry sat still. After a while she said, “I’m being quite slow. But I think I would be slow even if I was not … already slow. I am supposing … your last remark leads me to suppose that you are not married.”

  Elsie said, “No. Not married.”

  “How very difficult. And I’m afraid I have made your life even more difficult. That is the first thing that occurs to me. But you are worried about what I will think of you.” Miss Perry closed her eyes, breathed, opened them. She said, “I never thought you would do as you were told. I knew that much long ago. I admired your spirit. My only worry then was that you would involve other people in your adventures, other people who did not have your resilience. You and I are coming back to me as we were then, and I’m afraid I can’t avoid a schoolmistress sigh. But perhaps the father is as resiliently free as you, and perhaps your daughter will be as well.” Miss Perry rested for several breaths. “Now,” she said. “Now we are friends. There is no justice between friends, as Aristotle has it, which is to say there is no judgment because each one wishes the best for the other.”

  Elsie heard this as high-minded iciness. Miss Perry pulling Aristotle out of her hat to remind herself of duty. Elsie had had a spurt of hope—for what? Unqualified forgiveness and sympathy?

  When she was alone with Rose she didn’t swing back and forth between anxiety and hope, shame and defiance. She said, “I’ll drive you back. I’ve got to go get Rose.”

  They rolled down the hill in silence. Elsie helped Miss Perry out of the car, through the door, and toward the stairs. Miss Perry stopped and said, “I believe I’ll go to the library. Nancy Tran will be here later, will she not?”

  “Yes. I’ll stop by again, too.”

  “It’s much nicer here now that Miss Peebles is gone. I get on very well. I don’t want to be an extra burden.”

  “No, don’t worry. Of course, now that you know all about Rose, I could bring her with me sometimes.”

  Miss Perry said, “I’m afraid I don’t very much like babies.”

  Elsie laughed. Then went numb, as if she’d been slapped. When she drove off she couldn’t remember if she’d turned and left or helped Miss Perry into the library.

  chapter sixteen

  It snowed around the clock. The snow drifted up to the bottom panes of the northeast-corner windows. Dick brought Spartina in just ahead of the worst of the blizzard. He took the Tran boy to the hospital with what he was pretty sure was a broken arm, then he went back to the boat. Tony Teixeira unloaded the catch with the help of some of the crew from Bom Sonho. Captain Teixeira (Tony’s great-uncle) had brought her in earlier but still had his crew stripping her for some refitting.

  Dick told all this to May when he came home. Then he said, “Looks like I’ll be underfoot for a while.”

  May was a little surprised at his soft tone. She said, “How’d he break his arm?”

  “Fell. I didn’t see it. First thing I noticed was him trying to do something with one hand. Tugging at a pot, then holding on to a stay, then tugging again. We were bouncing around some. I got him below. Still stuff to do on deck. By the time I got a chance to look at him his arm was swollen. It was time to head home, anyway.” He stretched his legs out. “I feel bad for the kid.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t your fault.”

  “I didn’t say I felt guilty. Just bad for him. He’s a good kid. I should have started him on a full share earlier. He and Tony get along.”

  Dick was sounding drowsy now, talking into his chest. She hoped he wouldn’t nod off before supper. He didn’t take naps well, woke up cross. She said, “You want a cup of coffee? The boys’ll be back soon.”

  “No, thanks. Maybe a little fresh air. It’s awful warm in here. Let’s go for a walk.”

  “In all this snow?”

  “Yeah. Put your boots on. Just down to where we can see the salt marsh.”

  May didn’t feel like it, but she didn’t want this mood of his to change. The wind had died. The snow was falling steadily, but if she looked through it she could make out the snow-covered hummocks, the black creek bank with fringes of ice at its foot. The creek itself was still running, swallowing the falling snow.

  Dick stopped and stared. May moved closer to him. He put his arm around her and said, “Not cold, are you?” He looked for a while longer and then started back. He said, “Old Captain Teixeira just keeps going. Says he’s retiring but still goes out. Not every time. I don’t know what he does all day when he doesn’t. His daughters run the bakery and the rest of them run the fish store. I guess he keeps busy looking in on his family. Oh. He asked after Charlie and Tom and you. I was kind of at a loss, I couldn’t remember all his kids’ names. Had to say something like, ‘All your family doing okay?’ I asked Tony how he remembers all the Teixeira kids, and Tony said, ‘I’m used to a big family—all you got is two.’ ”

  May said, “Three.” Dick hunched his shoulders and walked back to the house. For a moment May wished she hadn’t opened her mouth. Then she ran after him. She caught up to him by the back door. She said, “So it’s against the law to say anything? Is that it?”

  Dick nodded at the door. “I think the boys are back.”

  “And when are they going to find out?”

  “Not now.”

  “You think everybody’s life stops when you go to sea? Mine doesn’t. I don’t disappear. Elsie doesn’t disappear. Your daughter doesn’t disappear. Elsie and Rose don’t just stay put up in that little house. And it’s not so little now that Eddie’s added a room. And how come? So Mary Scanlon can live there and help Elsie take care of Rose. You go out in your boat and it’s you say and your crew does. You come back and you make your list of things to fix on the boat. Maybe you better start another list.”

  “What makes you think I don’t think about all that? Because I do think about it. It’s not something to just toss around.”

  “I imagine you and Elsie Buttrick talked—”

  “You through?”

  “Oh, go ahead and clench up. But I’m not going to be the one tiptoeing around pretending nobody knows. Fact is, I’ve got a mind to go up there and see this child of yours.”

  “I’m going in.” Dick put his hand on the doorknob but turned around. �
��I may go check on the boat. Take the boys. Let ’em see what puts supper on the table.”

  He went in. May thought of ways to hurt him. She thought of ways to hurt herself. She pushed both away.

  “What puts supper on the table”—he said that. But before that he’d put his arm around her. He’d been talking about old Captain Teixeira; he’d been drifting into thinking about how he’d be when he got old. Old and what? Settled? Happy? And she’d said three. Then blistered him when he walked away. Did she want to be the one who got angry? Was that the choice? Angry or sad? Something else was going on in her. Those things she’d said—she couldn’t remember them all, but just saying them had opened up a new part of her. Dick had a whole stretch of sea to roam around in—she only had her way of looking at things, and she hadn’t gone very far from where she started, just stayed at home. Imagining her life becoming bigger made her dizzy. But at the same time she felt less at the mercy of unhappiness.

  She stopped worrying about what to say to Dick when he got back. She would make supper, he’d come in, he’d say something or he wouldn’t. Didn’t matter if he groused or acted sheepish. She’d just see how she felt.

  chapter seventeen

  Phoebe telephoned early the next morning. Dick was still asleep. Charlie and Tom were outside throwing snowballs at each other across the backyard. Phoebe said she was going up to see Mr. Salviatti’s statues, and would May like to come along? May said yes and laughed.

  Phoebe said, “Well, you’re in a good mood.”

  “Good timing’s more like it. The boys are on vacation and Dick’s back. I’d just as soon let them look after themselves for a bit.”

  When they got in Phoebe’s car, Phoebe said, “I may be flattering myself, but it occurred to me … Maybe it’s all nonsense, but I did have some let us say ‘awkward’ moments in Italy. Of course that was years ago. Anyway, when I asked if I could bring a friend, Mr. Salviatti said, ‘Certainly, certainly,’ perfectly nicely.”

  “Oh,” May said. “You thought he might get fresh?”

  “He is an old charmer—not that old. Oh, I fibbed a little bit and said you’d been to see the RISD show.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, I know. It just came out in a rush, and I don’t think he was paying attention.” Phoebe reached into the backseat and handed May a folder. “I saved the catalog.”

  “I’m not much good at pretending.”

  “You can take a look and … I’m sorry, it was just this little bit that popped out. It’s not as if he’s going to … I mean, we’ll go into the garden and then we’ll see them and if we talk about anything, we’ll talk about that.”

  They stopped at a large gate. May was impressed that Phoebe immediately knew what to do. She herself hadn’t noticed a little brass grille in the middle of one of the pillars. Phoebe got out and said something into it. May saw the puffs of Phoebe’s breath. The gate swung open all by itself.

  Mr. Salviatti came out to meet them. Standing at the top of the steps, he opened his arms. “Mrs. Fitzgerald, Mrs. Pierce—welcome.” He came down and shook their hands. “If you don’t mind, we’ll go right to the garden. Then we can have a cup of coffee and get warm. Good—you’ve got the right kind of boots. All this snow. But it gives a different look to the angels.”

  May thought his garden was beautiful. It was big—the size of a football field. Walled in. There were apple and pear trees in squares, their black limbs dusted with snow. Along the paths there was green—rhododendron, arborvitae, and dwarf juniper. There were things that looked like haystacks along the north wall. Mr. Salviatti came up beside her. “My fig trees. They would die in this weather, so we cut them back and make overcoats for them. Out of straw.”

  Phoebe had gone straight to one of the angels. She gave a little cry. “Oh, I’m so glad it snowed! They’re so gorgeous in the snow.”

  Mr. Salviatti went to her. May followed in his footprints. She found the angel a little frightening. She had to look up to it even though it was kneeling on one knee. It? She? There was a sort of gown, but the chin, nose, and cheeks were large and definite. The outstretched hand was broad and had knuckles like a man’s. The wings had bits of snow caught in the carved feathers, which made them look more like scales. The two angels in the corner of the garden were smaller and much sadder. They faced each other, heads bowed, their hands—smaller and prettier—pressed together in prayer. May felt she was being asked to believe in something Catholic.

  Phoebe examined the smaller angels—walked around them, touched the hands. She said something, and her breath drifted past the mouth of an angel so that it appeared for an instant that the angel had breathed. There was something wrong, May thought, in making real-life pictures of things that were meant to be invisible. It was as if horror movies and religion got mixed up.

  She was glad Phoebe was finding plenty to say. She didn’t know what she herself would talk about when they went in. Mr. Salviatti walked back to her. “Mrs. Pierce, you may not remember, but we met once, a long time ago.”

  “Yes.”

  “I miss your husband at the boatyard. I’m glad he’s doing well for himself, of course, but the boatyard isn’t the same.” Mr. Salviatti rubbed his hands together. “And the angels—are they in the right place? Or should we put them in the middle?”

  “Oh, not in the middle. I like your garden. It’s like Miss Perry’s but bigger. And more out in the open. I can imagine what that north wall looks like when the fig trees leaf out. But to tell the truth, that big angel is sort of frightening. Maybe that’s just me—I wouldn’t want to think about death when I’m gardening.”

  “Ah. Of course. You’re right—the statues were meant to be in a cemetery. But the hand—the way the hand is reaching out—what is it saying?”

  May thought she’d already said too much. She looked at Mr. Salviatti. He lifted his arm so it was doing the same thing as the angel’s. She said, “I guess it’s saying that it’s time. It’s all over.”

  “Ah. Yes. That would be if the hand is lifted over a living person. But I think of it as over a grave, and it means rest. Don’t be frightened, just rest.” He smiled. “Not so bad, then. Am I changing your mind at all?”

  “Maybe. Maybe a little.”

  “I’ll tell you another thing. It’s technically more difficult to make a statue with the arms away from the body like that. So when I look at it I think of the man working on it. When you saw the exhibit you saw the name of who made it.” May thought she should tell him Phoebe had—what?—been confused. But Mr. Salviatti went on. “Ugo Serra. But it didn’t say that’s my uncle. My mother’s brother. When I was a boy, I saw him work. So I like it when someone like you sees it fresh. And I like it that you think it’s frightening. Don’t let me talk you out of it.”

  Phoebe joined them, and Mr. Salviatti asked them to come inside and get warm.

  The view from the main room was wide and long. When she was down in the harbor and looked out to sea, Block Island was on the horizon—from up here it was well this side of it. There was the sound, then the island, and then a good stretch of ocean before it glimmered into the gray sky. Closer in, she saw the tip of Sawtooth Point, the roof of the Wedding Cake. Still closer but to the east there was the end of Rocky Bound Pond and then the tall trees that hid Miss Perry’s house. And then the rise where Elsie Buttrick had her house. May felt a satisfaction—this was the view she wished for, the map she’d used to comfort herself. The houses and the people were hedged in by trees that in their slow growth outdid whatever else went on, absorbed the breaths of all the creatures who ran around wanting one thing and another.

  The same maid who’d taken their coats brought in a tray with two coffee pots and crinkly pastries. May wondered where Mrs. Salviatti was.

  “Come have some coffee,” Mr. Salviatti said to May. He pointed to the bigger pot. “This is American, the other is Italian.”

  Phoebe said, “I love Italian coffee.”

  May joined them but picked a sea
t so she could still look out the plate-glass window. When she sat down, the far wall of the garden cut off the end of the pond, the near wall the first rows of fruit trees. She said, “If your angel is putting out her hand to say rest, it’d be nice if you put her so she’s looking out to sea.”

  Phoebe said, “Oh, May,” as if to say, “What’s got into you?”

  “Ah. So she’d be telling the sea to be calm,” Mr. Salviatti said. “That’s good. I’ll think about that. My older daughter wants me to move it somewhere else. She knows I’m thinking of having it over my grave, and she says she doesn’t want to think about that every day. My younger daughter, she’s not around enough to have an opinion.”

  “Is she at college?” Phoebe said.

  “She was. Off and on. You know how that goes—finding herself. You have kids, you love them—” Mr. Salviatti lifted his hand and let it fall. “You love them and then they go away.”

  “You have two daughters …,” Phoebe said.

  “That’s it—just the two.”

  May said, “A pigeon’s clutch.”

  Mr. Salviatti laughed. “I’ll bet you got that from Mary Scanlon. That’s an Irish saying. She’s got a million. And songs. Every time I go to Sawtooth, I look in on the kitchen—she’s got three pans on the stove, one in the oven, two other cooks she’s keeping in line, and when she’s not talking over her shoulder at them, she’s singing. One time I went in and she was holding a baby in one arm, stirring soup with the other, always singing. So it’s crazy in there, but good cooks are a little bit crazy, like artists. I told Jack—you know Jack Aldrich—I told him just leave her alone.”

  May felt as if she was picked up by a wave. No weight to her, her feet and hands somewhere far away, her body suspended, her eyes open but telling her nothing about up or down.