Rescue - By Anita Shreve Page 0,19

thought about the long nights he’d be gone, and for just a second, he had an image of Sheila with a baby sleeping in her lap, a glass of Bacardi under the sofa. He made the image vanish as quickly as it had come.

He thought about how much she’d had to drink the night before and felt a little sick. Why had Sheila done it? She’d known. A last hurrah?

He told himself to flatline his anger.

This was risk. Risk of the most dangerous and wonderful kind. To bet your life on something as tiny as a sprout.

“I’m in,” he said.

Webster, in a clean shirt and a pair of khakis, fresh from his day’s nap after a Friday-night call, found his father, two Rolling Rocks in hand, in the kitchen.

“OK if I join you?” Webster asked. Occasionally, during the last year, Webster had been invited to have a drink during his parents’ hour together. Sometimes he would. Sometimes not.

“Sure,” his father said, clearly happy to have his son spend time with the old man. He nudged the fridge open with his elbow.

“I’ll get that,” Webster said.

His own beer in hand, Webster followed his father into the living room. If his father had looked happy, his mother was delighted. Webster winced. If either of them detected a summit, they didn’t let on.

A cheese ball, studded with chopped walnuts, had been placed on a dinner plate, surrounded by saltines. “We hardly ever see you,” his mother said, patting her hair. She plumped the cushions next to her with something like giddiness. “You must be working all the hours of the day.”

His mother drank beer in a wineglass. Webster sat next to her and fingered the condensation on his Kelly green bottle.

“In another few weeks,” said his mother, “we’ll be sitting on the porch this time of night. I really have to clear out all that winter dirt.”

“How’s the job going?” his father asked. “You save anyone I know?”

His father knew almost everyone in Hartstone.

“Asa Bennet had a fall yesterday,” Webster said, forgoing the “Mr.” as he wouldn’t have just two months earlier. Crazy how a single word could signal a change in a father-son relationship. “Broke his hip.”

“What will the poor man do?” his mother asked. “He’s how old now?”

“Eighty-four.”

“And Alice passed away, oh, at least two years now.”

Three, Webster knew from the patient report. “I don’t know what he’ll do after he recovers,” Webster said. “I see them only as far as the hospital. Sometimes I know what happens after that, but most of the time I don’t.”

“What a job you have!” she exclaimed, not for the first time. Webster was never sure if she meant, “What a horrible job you have,” or “You have such a wonderful chance to help people.” As far as being an EMT went, both were true.

Webster cleared his throat. “I’ve been seeing someone,” he announced.

His mother coughed on her beer. Webster patted her back. “That’s nice,” she said when she could speak, her voice scratchy.

“Who is she?” His father sat in the upholstered wing chair, always known, since Webster was a boy, as “Dad’s chair.”

“Her name is Sheila Arsenault. She’s from Boston but is in the process of settling in Vermont.”

“I used to know some Arsenaults,” his mother mused, “but they were from Quebec.”

“How long have you been seeing her?” his father asked.

“About four months,” Webster replied, exaggerating a bit.

“What does she do?” his mother asked.

“Right now, she’s working as a waitress, but she’s looking for a better job.”

“Where does she work?” his mother continued.

Webster wished he could name a better place. “Keezer’s. But that’s just temporary. For now.”

“I see,” his mother said, more curious than concerned. “Tell me what she looks like.”

“She’s tall and slim. Beautiful brown hair. Blue eyes. Pretty.”

“And where did you meet?” his father asked.

“I met her in the diner,” Webster lied, knowing that the truth would steer their thoughts in an unfortunate direction.

Webster knew that his father had picked up on something. He was staring at Webster, as if searching for a tell. When had Webster ever told his parents he was seeing someone?

“You should bring her to dinner,” his mother offered, probably already thinking about a menu.

“Thanks. I will. But there’s one other thing.” Webster bent forward and held the nearly full Rolling Rock between his knees. “Sheila’s pregnant.”

Both parents froze, their arms in midair. In other circumstances, it would have been comical.

Webster had to remind himself to breathe. The house sounded the way it did when he was alone