Rescue - By Anita Shreve Page 0,24

at Webster—“into the world.”

“Mom.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to suggest that you would,” she said to Sheila. “Every birth, as I’m sure you know, is different.”

“I hope I’ll be a good mother,” Sheila said.

“Oh, you will, dear, you will,” Webster’s mother said, patting Sheila’s knee, the first time the two had touched.

Sheila blinked. Webster’s father stared at Sheila’s face. Webster’s mother stared at Sheila’s waist. Webster was horrified. They had just under two hours still to go.

At dinner, Webster and Sheila talked about the apartment they’d found over the ice-cream shop, causing Webster’s mother to reminisce about the years when “Petey” had always liked his chocolate cones with jimmies on them.

Webster shut his eyes.

Sheila complimented the meal, which seemed to be a soupy concoction of chicken, mushrooms, sour cream, and bread crumbs, with sprigs of parsley around the border of the casserole dish. Webster guessed that Sheila would have a hard time getting it down. When she did, he thought her heroic.

His father brought the bottle of red wine to the table, poured a glass, and offered it to Sheila, who hesitated and then took it, surprising Webster. He then felt compelled to mention that some doctors thought that an occasional glass of red wine was beneficial to the mother and not harmful to the baby. He also wanted to tell his father to fuck off, but that wasn’t anywhere in the script.

Webster checked his watch so often it became a tic. Sheila asked him if he had a shift that night, perhaps hoping that he would say he did.

She drank the glass of wine quickly and used the words shacking up to describe her move with Webster into the apartment above the ice-cream shop. Webster’s father seemed pleased and even went so far as to smile. Was his initial distrust waning, or was he merely proving himself right in his character assessment? By the time Webster’s mother served up a Boston cream pie, Sheila was on her second glass of wine, and his father was laughing. Sheila was flirting with the man, which made Webster as nervous as hell. Or was she merely opening up, being charming, trying to save the occasion?

Webster’s mother had a pleasant smile on her face and could be pulled from her happy daze only when spoken to. She roused herself to ask for coffee requests.

Webster knew the coffee would make Sheila feel sick. He didn’t ask for any, but his father did. Sheila devoured the pie and told Webster’s mother that she would love to learn how to make it.

“Surely, you’ve had it before, being from Boston.”

“I’ve had what passes for Boston cream pie,” Sheila said, “but nothing that compares to this one.”

When the coffee arrived, Sheila put the backs of her fingers to her nose and immediately went pale. She glanced at Webster across the table.

Webster pushed his chair back. “I think I’ll take Sheila for a little stroll around the house. She’s never seen the yard before.”

“I’d like to help with the dishes,” Sheila said in a weak voice.

“Nonsense,” Webster’s mother insisted. “You two go enjoy yourselves.”

Webster held Sheila’s hand as they walked into the backyard. Her heels dipped into the soft sod. Out of sight of the parents, she whispered, “You ate every last nut and piece of cheese!”

“I was so afraid you were going to give an answer other than car trouble. I just had to stop the questions.”

“I wish I’d worn a pillow for your mother.”

“She couldn’t take her eyes off your stomach.”

“What do you think they’re saying about us?” Sheila asked, glancing up at the kitchen window.

Webster didn’t want to know. His father would be saying that he didn’t trust the girl as far as he could throw her. His mother would be defending Sheila, saying, “Don’t be silly. She’s lovely.” His father would shake his head and use it as an excuse to leave his wife to do the dishes alone.

“You really want to know how to make Boston cream pie?” Webster asked.

“God, no,” Sheila said. “I’ve had enough Boston cream pie to sink the city of Chelsea.”

The next afternoon, Webster’s father arrived with a set of tools just as Webster was moving in his few possessions. He’d let Webster get the mattress from his old bedroom by himself, but he helped his son haul it up the back stairs to the new apartment. “Small,” he said to Webster when he saw the place.

Webster’s mother had found an old love seat in the basement that was in decent