by John Casey
Rose laughed. Mary tried to hum and made a sound that made Rose laugh again. Mary cleared her throat and half opened her eyes. Green leaves were stirring outside the window, not in time with the song.
It wasn’t that she woke up not knowing where she was—there was no wall or window off by ninety degrees waiting for wakefulness to swing it into place like a compass needle. It was that she didn’t know when. She was fogbound in time, among wisps of songs she’d sung to Rose. The one that was fading in the light might have been one of them. Now she heard a bar or two from Rose’s baby days—“Where Is Thumbkin?”; “Hush, Little Baby, Don’t You Cry”—but then a Cole Porter medley—“You’re the Top,” “Let’s Do It, Let’s Fall in Love”—that was too racy for baby Rose. Then, passing through in a single breath, a complete stanza of a sailor’s hornpipe.
And when we get to the Black Wall docks
Them pretty young girls come down in flocks,
And one to another you can hear ’em say,
“Here comes Jack with his twelve months’ pay.”
When was that? Toddler Rose? Tomboy Rose? Plump, moody Rose? It would be moody Rose who liked Cole Porter, who liked Gershwin’s difficult intervals because she had an ear and Elsie didn’t. Was it in a dream that Rose sang “Stardust” so it broke your heart?
This was making it harder for Mary, her own songs mixing with Rose’s. But then something simpler—Rose surprising Mary by clinking out a tune on her toy xylophone, “You Are My Sunshine,” from beginning to end. Surely that was memory, the way Mary heard it now, heard it melt into “Red River Valley,” heard herself singing and Rose joining in.
… do not hasten to bid me adieu,
Just remember the Red River Valley
And the cowboy who loved you so true.
Herself singing the Welsh lullaby “Sleep my child and do not waken, all through the night,” and little genius Rose breaking into “Men of Harlech.” And quite right. It was nearly the same tune quickened into a marching song. It was tomboy Rose who liked a good march—she speeded up Mary’s “Goodnight, My Someone” into “Seventy-six Trombones.” She wouldn’t be one to sit still for moonlight and roses. But then hadn’t she made all the Teixeira women, and some of the men, weep when she sang “Ave Maria” at Sylvia’s wedding? Had that really happened? Each note pure, the phrasing as easy and sweet as a brook curling over a rock.
Was that the music in her dream? Was her dream one of those dreams that trailed on into waking, letting the dreamer undream gently, measure by measure? Mary didn’t want to turn her head. She’d turn her head and find a little girl who hadn’t learned the songs Mary had sung to her, who hadn’t taken on Mary’s ear or voice or even that bit of meat on her bones.
She turned her head. Rose put her hand on Mary’s shoulder and sang “Lazy Mary, will you get up, will you get up, will you get up? Lazy Mary, will you get up, will you get up this morning?” Mary felt the weight of Rose’s hand, looked up at Rose’s arm, bare to the shoulder of her summer dress, an arm as round and full as her own. The dress was Elsie’s.
“Mom called,” Rose said. “Miss Perry wants johnnycakes.”
The sunlight from the window covered the wall behind Rose with leaf shadows. Mary said, “What time is it?”
“It’s nine. I called Sawtooth and they’ve got the brunch thing covered. Mom says she’s sorry but Miss Perry hasn’t been eating and she just woke up and said johnnycakes.”
Now Mary was truly waking up and it was as good a place to start as any, someone wanting something for breakfast. And did Miss Perry like her johnnycakes plump and soft or thin and lacy at the edges?
Then Mary was awake to the pattern of the day ticking back into place from the day before: Elsie caring for Miss Perry as she had for years but this time more haggard and dazed by a stronger tug of grief. And there would be Dick, Captain Teixeira, Jack and Sally … Dick and Captain Teixeira standing by with silent, tight faces—they had sent their boats out without them, not uncommon for Captain Teixeira, a first for Dick. Elsie had turned snappish. Snappish with Jack, of course, but with Sally and Rose, too. Never mind—she’d be good with the old woman.
Thinking about Miss Perry’s johnnycakes or even thinking about these people who moved in the same bit of earth as she did, the strip between the hills and the salt water, was no more than a tilt of her head, a shallow breath, away from dreaming.
She touched Rose’s hand, her arm, her shoulder. “Come on,” Rose said. “You know how Mom is these days.”
Mary thought it might be time to leave this house. This wasn’t baby Rose or tomboy Rose or even plump, moody Rose. Rose was wearing Elsie’s dress. If Mary stayed she’d be in between Rose and Elsie. The more Mary loved Rose and Rose loved Mary, the harder it would be. Elsie and Rose were locked in their growing apart—it had to happen for a while at least, and the ease and comfort Mary could give to Rose couldn’t be given in this house.
Even what she said in the mildest way made it worse, even though she waited to say it privately to one or the other—“You know, I think Rose’ll figure that out on her own” or “If I were you, Rose, I’d …” They wanted their fights to hurt. The pair of them wanted to reach complete fury at the same time and exhaustion at the same time and their dark wordless recognition of each other at the same time.
She’d leave them to it. Not yet, not quite yet. Not while Elsie was sitting by Miss Perry’s bed. But she had to go. She’d go and wait for them on the other side of Rose’s stormy adolescence.
Rose stood up and pulled on Mary’s hand. Rose was growing out of her plumpness; her bones were giving her a lift out of girlhood.
Rose said, “Come on. I’ll leave the door open and you call down the stairs—you know all the stuff we need.”
Rose was out the door, swinging through it with one hand on the jamb, then down the stairs in three steps. The room was full of Rose’s voice and will, an Elsie-like swirl of energy that cleared out the last scattered notes of song.
chapter thirty-six
Mary got herself out of bed. Rose had laid everything out—the canister of cornmeal, the butter, the salt, the griddle that stretched across two burners.
She said to Rose, “I suppose you’ll want some, too.”
“Nope. I’m on a diet.”
“Breakfast is no time to diet. By noon you’ll be off somewhere eating junk.”
“Do you know how many calories there are in just one tablespoon of maple syrup?”
“Never mind the calories. You’re growing like a weed.”
“You’ve been saying that for years, and I’m still fat.”
“You’re nothing of the sort.”
“Then how come Mom’s always after me to exercise?”
“Because she’s an exercise fanatic.”
“And you’re a cooking fanatic. Between you and Mom, I feel like a tennis ball. Eat. Go jog. Eat. Go jog.”
“Forget I said anything.”
But Rose was on a tear. “But it’s even worse when you and Mom are on the same side. Mom says, ‘Take Latin,’ and you chime in, ‘Oh, I’ve always been glad I had a little Latin!’—like food has Latin names the way plants do. And—”
“You’re on a diet, fine. But don’t you go sneering at the work I do.”
Rose acted out “Huh?” as if she was playing charades, palms up, fingers spread, face twisted. Then she said, “You know what you are, you’re a thin-skinned rhinoceros. You trample around telling everyone what to do, but if anyone says the tiniest little thing, I mean, like so tiny a normal person wouldn’t even notice, and you get all huffy and like, ‘I’m wounded, oh my God, call nine-one-one.’ ” Rose fell onto the sofa clutching her heart. She lifted her head. “Call the rhinoceros-abuse hotline.”
Mary was still pissed off but about to laugh anyway when Elsie came in. Elsie said to Rose, “What are you doing lying down? You were supposed to bring the johnnycakes.” She took in the unlit stove. “You haven’t even started yet?”
Rose poked her head up over the back of the sofa and looked at Mary, raising one eyebrow (as she’d recently learned to do). Mary was glad she held back a sharp answer when Elsie sat down and held her face in her hands. Rose said, “First I had to call Sawtooth to tell them Mary—”
Mary waved a hand at Rose. “Not just now, Rose.” She lit the burners, tossed the pats of butter on the griddle, and began to mix the johnnycake batter, keeping an eye on Elsie. She waved at Rose to come over to the stove. She put her arm around her and whispered in her ear, “Your mother—”
Rose pulled away and said, “I know.”
“Listen to me,” Mary said, pulling her back. “She’s doing things and doing things, but there’s not a thing she can do. She knows Miss Perry is dying, but she hasn’t—”
“Accepted it. I know that.”
“You do and you don’t.”
“And besides, if Miss Perry’s asking for johnnycakes …”
“The day before my father died he asked for steamer clams and blueberry muffins. There’s a lot you don’t know. When you were about to be born, your mother wanted to know exactly when, and of course no one could say. No one knows exactly when someone’s going to be born, and no one knows when someone’s going to die. And it’s a good thing it’s a mystery, because a mystery wears you out and slows you down to where you’re not able to think—otherwise, no one could bear to be that close to someone they love who’s that close to eternity.”
As Mary had been pouring this into Rose’s ear, Rose had relaxed and even leaned into her. And now Rose put her arm around Mary’s waist and squeezed and said, “Sometimes you are so corny.”
Mary went rigid.
Rose moved away. Mary couldn’t bear to look at her. If it had been anyone else, Mary would have slapped her across the face with the wooden spoon.
Rose said, “Oh, God, you’re going ballistic again. I didn’t mean it’s a bad thing.”
Mary said in a voice that carried across the room, “Elsie—does Miss Perry like her johnnycakes thin and lacy at the edges or plump?”
Elsie raised her head and said, “Thin.”
Rose said, “Come on, Mary.”
“Don’t talk to me.”
“All right, it may have sounded—”
“Get away from me.”
“Fine. I’m going to May’s.”
After Rose shut the front door behind her, Elsie looked up again. Mary said, “You go on back to Miss Perry. I’ll bring the johnnycakes along in a minute or two.”
Mary wrapped the platter of johnnycakes in a linen napkin and put it in a Sawtooth delivery box that had ended up in her truck. After she dropped it off, she drove to Sawtooth. She saw Rose walking on the shoulder of Route 1, headed home. Rose waved at her to stop. Mary rolled down the window. Rose said, “May told me I couldn’t stay there until I apologized. So I’m sorry.”
“That might be good enough for May. Not for me. Make of that what you want. I have work to do.”
chapter thirty-seven
When Miss Perry woke up from her nap, her voice was crusty. It reminded Elsie of granular snow. Miss Perry said, “I believe I saw s-something of what comes after. The afterlife. They were waiting. No one I know. They were waiting for my brain vapors. They didn’t say ‘brain vapors,’ but they thought brain vapors. Odd. I didn’t like it.”
“A dream,” Elsie said. “A bad dream.”
“Please don’t interrupt. The dogs were coming in and going out. I have never kept a dog. My father kept several. Let them out, let them in. I thought, I am old dogs. They murmured approvingly—the ones who were waiting. It was alarming. I did not wish to lose grammar. I did not wish to become dogs. I told you. I told you that later.”
Miss Perry closed her eyes. Elsie thought she’d fallen asleep again, but then she saw that Miss Perry’s fingers were tugging at the edge of the coverlet. Elsie reached for them, felt the awful distance of Miss Perry’s fingers from Miss Perry’s effort to be. Elsie willed herself to touch them. She willed her hand to touch Miss Perry’s, as if it were happening at some other time. Their hands were framed in too sharp a focus. She took a breath to blur herself. If she was to be of any use, she should do simple things simply.
chapter thirty-eight
The youngest of the Tran girls was on during the day. She was also the chattiest. She stopped Elsie in the upstairs hall one day and said, “How should I spell my name? My parents spell it L-I, but in American it could be L-E-E or L-E-A, which means ‘field,’ or L-E-I-G-H.”
Elsie said, “Why not stick with L-I? It’s very pretty—if you choose L-E-I-G-H, some people will pronounce it ‘lay.’ If you spell it L-E-A they might say ‘lee-ah’ or ‘lay-ah.’ When I see ‘L-E-E,’ I say it longer than ‘Li.’ When I see ‘Li,’ I hear a short, bright sound—a little ring to it.”
Li laughed. “You explain things like Miss Perry.” Then she looked down. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh.”
“Hey—it’s just us. When it’s just us, we can take it easy every so often.” Elsie was surprised at her own mildness. At home she’d been either biting someone’s head off or enforcing silence by being heavily silent herself. Now she felt clear and nimble, just another of the Tran girls, moving weightlessly.
This mildness served Elsie well for the few days that Miss Perry lay still. Miss Perry didn’t recognize Elsie, didn’t suck on the plastic straw that Elsie put in her mouth. During the afternoon of the third day Miss Perry became restless, tried to put her hand on her face. Elsie thought it might be because of the flickering of sunlight. The leaves outside the window were stirring in the light air. Elsie got up and pulled the curtain. It bunched on the curtain rod. As she reached up to smooth it she heard Miss Perry’s breath catch. It caught twice, hesitated, was gone.
Elsie lost the next minute or minutes. It was only when Li came in that she knew she must have called out. When Li bent over and put her ear to Miss Perry’s lips, Elsie remembered that she herself had bent over and listened, but it seemed to have happened a long time before.
Elsie called Mary Scanlon first. Mary made a long sympathetic noise and then told Elsie to open a window in Miss Perry’s room. Elsie didn’t ask why. She called the doctor, who said he’d come right over. Elsie said, “No hurry,” and was embarrassed. The blood came back to her cheeks.
While she was on the phone Li had made the bed neater. Miss Perry’s arms were on top of the covers by her sides, and her eyes were closed. Li said, “Do you want to be alone?”
Elsie said, “No.” Then, “Yes.”
Li had pulled the curtain back and opened the window. Elsie said, “Wait. Is that a Catholic thing—opening the window?”
Li blushed and said, “No. It’s just an old superstition.” Elsie nodded. She sat down, closed her eyes, and floated. Her chin sank a little, but her head kept on nodding as if bobbing in a current. She was blank and that was all right, let whatever was happening happen, she’d stay out of the way.
When the doctor came, the sun was much lower and she was mute. The doctor looked at Li, and Li gathered Elsie up with an arm around her shoulders. Li took her down the stairs. Elsie stopped on the last broad stair, where she’d nursed Rose on one side and held Miss Perry on the other. Mary Scanlon came in the front door.
Elsie said, “What happens now?”
“It’s all right,” Mary said. “They’ll take care of things upstairs. You’ve done everything. Hasn’t she, Li? Right up to the last.” Mary drove Elsie home in her little truck, continuing to murmur a white noise of common comfort.
chapter thirty-nine
Jack took over. Mary blamed herself since she’d been the one to call him to say that Miss Perry was dead, and she’d gone on to say that Elsie could use some help. Jack installed a secretary at Miss Perry’s house to answer the phone, he called the local newspapers and the Providence Journal, he called the Episcopal priest. All that was okay. But he called again to say he’d decided to have the reception at Sawtooth. Mary said, “That’s ge
nerous of you.” Jack cleared his throat in a way that Mary thought meant he’d bill the estate. He changed the subject. He said, “I’ve got an idea for the music. A couple of hymns that we’ll all sing; I’ve been looking through the hymnal. But then I also thought we should have a little Latin for Miss Perry. And it would make the RCs feel at home. There’s Mr. Salviatti and all those Teixeiras and the Tran girls. They’re not Buddhists, are they? The Agnus Dei from the Verdi Requiem. It’s a duet for soprano and mezzo-soprano. Didn’t Rose sing at the Teixeira girl’s wedding?” Jack didn’t pause after either question. “So there we are,” he said. “You and Rose. The organist is on board, and the padre says you can rehearse in the church. After the service the timing might be a little tight for you to get back to the kitchen, but the rest of the staff’ll be there.”
He said good-bye before Mary could say any of the things that occurred to her. When Elsie got back—she’d gone for yet another long walk in the woods—Mary told her, thought she was telling it the way she usually told stories about preposterous Jack. Mary added, “I think I know what’s going on. He’s having a grand dream about his own funeral.”
But Elsie seized on the phrase “might be a little tight for you to get back to the kitchen.” She repeated it twice and then said, “That thick son of a bitch.” When Elsie picked up the phone, Mary said, “Don’t,” but she saw that Elsie had gone into a zone of rage, a rage she’d been storing up, and why not let her fire it off at Jack?
But Elsie apparently got Sally on the phone. She said, “Tell him to call me. Have him call me before he does anything else.” Then she listened for a long time. She finally said, “Don’t tell me not to get upset. And don’t tell me that he’s trying to spare me. This is more like some gala promotional event for Sawtooth.”
