Rescue - By Anita Shreve Page 0,41

The night before, he’d talked Sheila into taking Rowan to a park in the woods. It had picnic tables and benches and trails and even a place with playground equipment. All three of them would go. “I’ll bring a picnic,” he’d said. “Let’s do breakfast.”

In the morning, he packed up matches, bread, bacon, long skewers, paper plates, juice, paper towels, a skillet, a thermos of coffee, and a couple of mugs. “That looks interesting,” Sheila said.

“You just wait.”

Rowan seemed giddy at the notion of a family outing, and Webster wondered why they hadn’t done more of this before. They’d gone shopping together, had been together when doing other errands, and they’d eaten at his parents’ at least once every two weeks, but outings to the park were infrequent.

While Sheila ran around after Rowan, who had to try out every piece of equipment, Webster made his fire in one of several barbecue pits that dotted the beautiful acreage. As he worked, other families came into the area as well. Most of the kids had just dads with them. The mothers, Webster knew, were sleeping in or simply desperate to have time to themselves.

Webster set out the skillet on the grill above the fire. He cooked the bacon the way his father had taught him to—slowly and with a good scald. The scent made its way over to Sheila, who raised an eyebrow. He set out a paper plate padded with paper towels and left the bacon to drip. Next, he grilled the toast using the long skewers, browning each piece until it started to show dark spots, just as it should be. He poured the juice into paper cups, the coffee into the mugs. Then he put three slices of bacon between two slices of the toast. He made a sandwich for each of them. He thought the other fathers might be envious right about now. When he had everything ready on the picnic table, he called to his wife and daughter. “Come and get it.”

He could tell by the pleasurable moans from both that he’d got it right.

“When you oversell something, I’m usually skeptical,” Sheila said. “This is even better than I imagined.”

“You have to do it outdoors, and you have to use a wood fire. Otherwise it tastes completely different,” Webster said. He watched his daughter open her mouth as wide as it could go to get a bite of sandwich.

“Wish I’d brought the camera,” he said. “You do realize that this is an important milestone?”

“Her first bacon sandwich?” Sheila asked. “I think you need to get out more.”

“My mother said that to me on Tuesday. I am out. We’re all out.”

Sheila drank her juice.

“Want another one?” Webster asked. “I’ve got plenty of bacon cooked already. Just take a second to toast the bread.”

“I’ll take another,” Sheila said.

“Me, too,” Rowan said, though she had just learned to open the sandwich and tear the bacon apart.

Sheila and Webster each had another sandwich. All three sat on the benches facing one another. Webster felt a tenuous flutter of happiness.

Sheila cleaned up while Webster took Rowan for a short walk along a trail. He didn’t want her on the equipment until she’d settled her stomach. The walk turned out to be even shorter than he’d intended because Rowan, like a dog, felt compelled to look at and touch all the rocks and pinecones along the way. When they turned back, he saw that Sheila was idling on a swing.

“Want a push?” he asked when he reached her.

“Sure,” she said.

“I want a push,” Rowan echoed, trying to sit on a swing next to her mother.

Webster pushed both Rowan and Sheila until Sheila was laughing and Rowan screaming in delight. He loved the sounds. Loved them. Finally, Sheila asked him to slow down. “I’m getting dizzy,” she said.

Rowan and Sheila hopped off the swings, and the three sat on a bench along a path not far from the table where they’d had their picnic. Rowan slid off the bench and began exploring the natural treasures on the ground. Sheila was silent. Webster feared a curtain was slowly descending.

“Sheila,” he said. When she turned to him, she had that half smile that he’d learned to distrust.

Webster could create moments, but he couldn’t string enough of them together to make a life.

Webster laid his arms along the bench but didn’t touch Sheila. He kept his eyes on Rowan. He could tell that Sheila was aching for a drink. He told Rowan not to put a pebble