Compass Rose (30 page)

May saw how Dick would have wanted to touch her. She saw this without pain.

M
ary woke up, closed her eyes again. She pulled the sheet up over her face, decided she didn’t have a headache, just a terrible thirst. She said, “I wonder if you’d get me a glass of water,” which meant she knew she was in bed with the white-haired baritone. Nothing wrong with that. And when he brought her a glass of water and said, “Now, where can we get a really good breakfast?” she thought that was just the right thing to say. It only bothered her that it took her a moment to remember his name. Ah, there it was—he went by his initials—JB, JB Callahan.

The other thing that bothered her (once she’d drunk some water and made her way to the bathroom wrapped in the top sheet) was that the two of them were in the guest room of the Perryville School. JB didn’t seem anything but happy, and told her she looked like a Roman goddess. She pulled back the blinds and saw, just outside the door, her pickup covered with dewdrops. The dew was a good sign in that it meant it was still early enough to have that really good breakfast. It was a bad sign in that it would be clear to anyone at all that the truck had been there for the night without giving itself so much as a shake. Who knew how many of the kids were Sawtooth brats who would have seen her truck coming or going round the back of the Wedding Cake with a load of groceries? She didn’t want to make a fuss, so she was thinking of the least fussy way to bring up the problem as they got dressed. He was humming the tune to “Down by the Salley Gardens,” another good omen. She pulled back the blinds again. A bunch of kids sauntered across a patch of lawn, too far away for her to see their faces. Oh, dear God, and what if Rose was wandering around? Hadn’t her last words been “I’ll sleep on the floor”?

Apparently her peeking past the blinds made enough of a fuss. He said, “Okay. You got your keys? Let me know when the coast is clear.”

“It’s just that Rose spent the night in the dorm. But let’s just go—she’d recognize my truck, anyway.”

“What kind of a school is this? Don’t they have morning prayers? We could go back to bed until they’re all in the chapel. Or until they’re all in class.”

“It’s Saturday. I don’t know what they do on Saturday.”

When she started the engine she realized she had no idea how she’d got through the maze of buildings the night before. She came round a corner and had to stop for a line of students—a line stretching across the narrow road onto a porch and then into what must be the dining hall. The students made way for her to roll through. She was concentrating on the road but caught the motion of JB waving his hand.

There were still a lot of dewdrops clinging to the hood. They’d slid a few inches, leaving what looked like the traces of a herd of snails.

“Is Rose your niece? Some sort of relative?”

“Was she there?”

“I’m afraid so. You came by just now to show me around. That’s our story, and we’ll stick to it.
Honi soit qui mal y pense.
”

“And what might all that French mean?”

“Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.”

“You’re pretty bouncy for this early in the morning.”

“Well, I had a pretty good night.”

“Is that all?”

“A sweet, splendid night. You have lovely shoulders. Skin like gardenia petals. What are you doing tonight?”

“Hard at work.”

“Then what about tomorrow morning?”

“The famous Sawtooth Sunday brunch.”

“Then Sunday afternoon?”

“We’ll see. But right now do you really want a good breakfast? Would you rather have an omelet or pancakes and sausage? Do you like your omelet a bit runny?”

“I hope this means we’re going to your house.”

“It does.” He made a pleased noise in his throat. She said, “Not a house, just a small apartment.”

He leaned over, slid the hem of her dress an inch higher, and kissed her knee. “There’s my big knee,” she said. “I’ve often wished my knees weren’t so big.”

“No. Just right for your long legs. I like walking beside your long legs. I can’t wait till we go swimming so I can see your long legs waving in the water.”

All right. Let him keep talking himself into it. He said, “How small an apartment?”

“One bedroom.” That would be the reason he was asking—the possibility of a roommate. “I haven’t been there all that long. I used to share a house with Rose’s mother and Rose. Since Rose was a baby, in fact. For one reason and another, I’m on my own for a bit.”

There was a pause while he absorbed this. It was a pause during which she could have said, “And yourself?” She put off any questions that might tip a weight onto the rest of the morning.

A
fter Elsie dropped Deirdre off in Narragansett she drove back to the Perryville School. In the parking lot she had second thoughts. If she went tramping around the grounds looking for Rose, Rose would be embarrassed. “Oh my God—there’s my mom.” Find a student and send her? A teacher? “Your mother’s out in the parking lot. She wants to see you.” Just as bad.

Elsie thought she’d write a note and leave it in Rose’s mailbox. Or did only boarders have mailboxes? She dimly remembered day students having separate message boxes. And the stigma. “Yes, he’s cute, but he’s a day student.” When Elsie had been mad at Rose she’d thought other kids’ giving her a hard time was just what Rose needed. Now that Elsie’s remorse peeled her to the quick, she felt the sting of every embarrassment she might inflict, had inflicted.

She saw kids walking past Main to the dining room. She slid down in her seat. Easy to imagine their talk: “Who’s that woman sitting in her car, that really old Volvo? I think it’s Rose’s mom.” “No, Rose’s mom and dad drive a pickup. He’s like some kind of fisherman; you can smell fish in the truck.” “Don’t you know about Rose?”

Elsie said out loud, “I’m sorry, Rose.” She peered over the dashboard. Everyone at lunch. She found a ballpoint, tore off the blank corner of a map, and started writing. The pen went dry. She found a pencil in the glove compartment, its point broken. She had a knife; she always had a knife. “Hey, did you know Rose’s mom carries a knife? A humungous knife.” “That’s nothing, she used to carry a pistol.” “She should’ve had a shotgun—you know, to get Rose’s dad to marry her.” Teenage girls: every oddity a deformity, every deformity an anguish to Rose.

Okay. Enough. Just write the note. She’d give it to a secretary in Main before lunch was out.

Her first draft on the piece of map was a mess. She rummaged through the debris under her feet and found an old electric-bill envelope. When she put it up on the dashboard to write she saw the white-haired baritone walking into the parking lot from the road. She tried to remember his name from the program. She got out and waved, said, “Excuse me, you’re in the play, you’re Rose’s father in the play.” She sounded like an idiot, but then the man looked odd himself, looked like he’d slept in his suit and hadn’t noticed it yet.

He said, “Yes,” as if he had to think about it.

“Yes,” Elsie said. “You could do me a big favor. I’m Rose’s mother. You’ll see Rose before the play, right?”

“You’re Rose’s mother …”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, I practically know you. You’re Mary Scanlon’s friend.” He looked a little less dazed. “What’s the favor?”

“To start with, you could get in the car.”

As he slid onto the passenger seat, he eyed her bare hunting knife. She said, “I was sharpening a pencil,” and sheathed it.

He laughed. He eyed the mess in the back, poked at her pruning shears. “And these are for cutting your nails?”

She didn’t have time for a joke. “I garden. Can you give this note to Rose? You’re sure you’ll see her?”

“Yes. The music teacher’s giving a supper party for the cast before.” Now he looked at his suit. “You don’t happen to have an iron tucked away back there? I’ve got another shirt but just the one suit. I was going to go back to Boston after the show, but now I’m staying through Sunday. Or Monday.”

“Here’s one of Heloise’s Helpful Household Hints—hang your suit in the bathroom while you take a shower. The steam takes the wrinkles out.”

“Is that right? Are all you Rhode Island women so good around the house?”

Elsie looked at him. She said, “Did you know Mary Scanlon before?”

He blushed. “We just met, but she was kind enough to give me a tour of the countryside. She just dropped me off on her way to work.”

Elsie thought, And up on the road out of sight. She said, “I’m glad. We had a fight last night, so I’m glad she had someone to take her mind off it. She used to live with Rose and me.”

“So she said.”

“It was sort of a three-way fight. I was wrong. The note is for Rose.”

“Okay.”

“Did Mary think Rose was good?”

“My God, yes. And she’s right. You and I might have a talk about Rose. There’s a gift there.”

“I’m not all that musical. Mary’s the one who taught her.”

“Yes. Mary has a fine voice. But Rose … The music teacher here is good, but Rose might want a voice coach as she comes along. Someone serious but not pushy. I could ask around; you’re not that far from Providence.”

“Is that how you learned? Your own voice coach?”

“God, no. I’m an amateur like Mary. I’m just doing this because I know the part—I wrote the lyrics. The music teacher’s a friend, and he’s a friend of the composer. That’s why we’re doing it here, while we’re waiting for—”

“I’ll tell you what,” Elsie said. “I’ll take you to my house and you can iron your shirt.”

“That’s very nice of you.”

“If you’re staying through Monday, we should iron your suit, too.”

He laughed. He had a nice laugh, something Mary had noticed about Johnny Bienvenue. He said, “I’ve never been so well looked after.”

Was he flirting? Was she? It had been a while since she had the full attention of a man. Well, Jack.

Elsie said, “You’ve never been so well looked after? I guess Mary cooked you breakfast.”

He blushed easily with his fair skin, up to the roots of his hair. She said, “Hey—it’s okay, I’m her best friend.”

As she started the engine, May’s car went by and pulled up next to Main. May got out with Rose’s maid’s uniform over one arm and a bag in the other. Two white ribbons hung out, fluttering as May
walked briskly toward the auditorium. Everyone was taking care of someone else’s wrinkles.

He said, “You know how Mary gets her omelets so light? She beats the egg whites separately. It’s something to see, the way she twirls the whisk and her hair hanging down her back, bobbing in its own rhythm. And she knows all the old songs.” He hummed a tune. “You must have heard that one. ‘The Rose of Tralee.’ ” He sang, “ ‘The pale moon was rising … ’ ” and broke off with a faraway look.

Good for Mary, then. The man was smitten.

T
he first thing Tom said when he came in was “Walt’s put his foot in it this time.”

May said, “I thought he was finally settling down.”

“He was,” Tom said. “But he picked another fight with Phoebe. She told him for the umpteenth time that it made a bad impression—his driving over to the job at Sawtooth on his motorcycle. He leans back in his chair and asks her what she’s doing all those times she’s going up to see Mr. Salviatti. He says it right there in front of Eddie and me. Then nobody said anything, and Walt must have figured he’d hit a nerve. He said, ‘I don’t mind what anybody gets up to, it’s just that you’re the one talking about bad impressions.’ Phoebe did that thing she does—she goes all soft and puzzled. She says, ‘Why, Walt, I’m not sure exactly what you mean.’ And then Eddie says—and you know Eddie, he never gets riled but this time he says, ‘I know what you mean, and you got about one minute to apologize. Phoebe is the model for an angel.’ It did sound like he just meant something soppy, and Walt laughs. That made Eddie go another shade of red. Phoebe says, ‘It’s the statue, the one that’s going to go down by the town docks.’ Walt is squinting like he’s ready to hear more and maybe mumble his way out of it, but it’s too
late. Eddie starts barking, ‘Stand up! Take your hands out of your pockets!’ and he pulls Walt out of the chair by his shirtfront. Walt whacks Eddie’s hands down. They’re chest to chest, real close to it; I mean, that close. Phoebe gives a little shriek and starts batting me on the arm, like I’m supposed to do something. So I get my shoulder in there and I’m face-to-face with Walt. Not exactly face-to-face, since he’s bigger than me. I feel his breath on my forehead.”

Tom paused. May said, “Go on. I was afraid of this; I’ve been afraid of this for a long time.”

“Eddie was still shoving, and I couldn’t help leaning into Walt, so he got pushed into sitting down again. And then it just popped into my head to do something funny. So I sat in Walt’s lap and I said, ‘Walt, honey, maybe we should tell them
our
secret.’ None of them has much of a sense of humor. Walt just stood up, and I landed on the floor. Walt left. Eddie stood there. Phoebe sat down. She didn’t cry, but she kind of mewed. I said, ‘Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall end up on their ass.’ ”

May said “Tom” reflexively, though “ass” wasn’t all that bad. She was mainly thinking of how they all felt. Phoebe and Eddie, of course, but she imagined Walt wishing he’d kept his mouth shut, but once he’d said what he said and with Eddie coming at him, it had to boil over.

Then she replayed Tom’s mimicking the three voices; she heard Phoebe saying, “Why, Walt, I’m not sure exactly what you mean,” and she saw Phoebe going all wide-eyed and tilting her head. But it was Walt’s saying “I don’t mind what anybody gets up to” that was the bigger spark. The truth was that it was Eddie who didn’t mind. He hadn’t minded Phoebe’s going off for her ski weekends, or her going off to Sawtooth in her short tennis dress or going up through Mr. Salviatti’s electric gate—all that dancing around in places Eddie didn’t go, to get the kind of attention Eddie figured was brighter than his. As long as it was between Phoebe and Eddie, Eddie could maybe go glum or mopey when Phoebe left, keep extra-busy while she was away, and be happy when she came back.