Rescue - By Anita Shreve Page 0,40

said before walking into the bedroom and willing himself to sleep, too tired and crushed to leave the apartment with Rowan or even threaten to. “That smile, when you came out of the meeting, that was a con, right?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

Webster made it clear that he wouldn’t fight with Rowan in the room. Sheila agreed but sometimes forgot herself. In the worst of the bad episodes, Webster thought again about bailing. It sometimes seemed like Sheila was asking him to abandon her. Then he’d convince himself that Sheila was just going through a really bad patch in a young mother’s life. Any minute now, she’d go on her own to AA, or she’d find a way to level out.

They had periods of calm. All would be forgiven during a night of great sex. Love of a certain kind would be rekindled. Webster and Sheila would inch closer and closer, each waiting for the other to give.

Sheila went to AA by herself and stuck with it for a month.

Webster knew that once he had been as happy as a man could be, but he couldn’t feel that happiness anymore. Even when he and Sheila were good together, Webster couldn’t get there. He closed his eyes and remembered the details, but it was as though a piece of him had floated beyond his reach.

Within this irregular heartbeat, Rowan grew.

Sometimes, riding in the Bullet to a scene, or chopping wood with his silent father, Webster wondered if all marriages had this pattern—some good periods, some bad periods. He thought they probably did. The doomed marriages would be the ones that got stuck in the bad periods, when neither husband nor wife knew how or cared to climb out.

During his training, an instructor had talked about “stressors.” He’d meant them in the context of the job, the horrors the medics would inevitably see, the way they could, over time, make a medic indifferent to his patients. Webster had experienced some of those stressors, and though they sometimes rattled him, he had for the most part found a place to put them. Webster had no idea where to put the stressors of his marriage. They were making him indifferent to his wife.

His mother was on her hands and knees, patting the floor, playing a game with Rowan. Webster hadn’t been paying attention. Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, a show that made Webster want to grit his teeth, was still on the television. He wasn’t paying attention to that, either.

Sheila was at work.

Rowan’s lips still had tracings of purple frosting. Webster let his mother feed Rowan anything she wanted. His mother had never had a girl she could spoil before. It tickled Webster.

His mother, breathless, got back up on the sofa. Rowan seemed mesmerized by a show that reminded Webster of grass growing.

“You’re Mr. Quiet today,” his mother said, giving him a poke.

“Mom, cut it out. You sound like a character in that stupid show.”

“Mr. Testy now,” his mother said, her beatific expression unchanging.

Webster tried to smile but couldn’t quite manage it.

“You want something to drink? Iced tea?”

“No,” he said.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, the expression on her face switching to one of concern. “You’re worried about Sheila’s drinking, aren’t you?”

“How did you know?”

“It’s pretty obvious. We have eyes.”

“You and Dad have talked about it?”

“Only to each other.”

Webster looked away, embarrassed.

“It’s not your fault,” his mother said.

“How do you know that?” Webster retorted. “Who’s to say that something I’m doing or not doing isn’t driving her crazy?”

“Has she said as much?” his mother asked. She turned to look at Rowan to make sure her granddaughter was still involved in the television show. “You both have this utterly precious child,” she added.

“I know that.”

“You look so dejected.”

“I am. It’s been a hell of a ride lately.”

“Does Sheila love you?”

“I think so.”

“Then she’ll stop this nonsense,” his mother said. “For you. For Rowan.”

“It’s not that easy.”

Webster noted that his daughter was beginning to squirm as the program neared to a close.

“Get out more,” his mother advised. “Get outside. Go for walks together. Instead of one of you with Rowan at a time, do things together.”

He knew his mother meant well. But it was like offering a man a straw to stop a leak.

Rowan toddled to her grandmother and mashed her face, snot and all, into her knees. His mother didn’t seem to mind. “Just remember this,” she said, patting Rowan’s head, “you can’t regret anything that leads to your children.”

* * *

The following Sunday, Webster heeded his mother’s advice.