Rescue - By Anita Shreve Page 0,42

up her nose. She looked at him with lids lowered as if weighing the pros and cons. An older woman, sitting on a bench not far from them, leaned forward. It was the first time Webster had noticed her.

“These are the best years of your life,” she said, smiling.

Webster nodded at the woman to acknowledge her pronouncement. Sheila bent her head as if examining the dirt.

“Really,” she said to no one.

The backyard of the ice-cream shop wasn’t much to look at, but Webster and Sheila had spent an hour hanging balloons from trees, decorating a picnic table with red cups and birthday hats and plates, and setting up games that two-year-olds could play. Overly excited, Rowan crisscrossed the yard. She already had grass stains on the yellow and white dress her mother had bought for the occasion. Sheila and Webster stood and surveyed the lawn.

“It looks like a birthday party,” she said.

“Thank God it hasn’t rained like they said it would.”

“They always get it wrong.”

“Rowan’s fit to bust,” Webster said, smiling at his little girl.

They’d had a long run of calm. Webster hadn’t dared to hope that he and Sheila were on solid ground, but enough time had passed that he felt like celebrating their long good spell as much as his daughter’s birthday. Sheila had made the birthday cake, a slightly listing chocolate cake with yellow frosting. Three candles, one of them for good luck.

They’d celebrated Rowan’s first birthday party with family. This time Sheila wanted to invite four children Rowan knew from day care as well as their parents. Webster didn’t know the parents; he’d seen them mostly in passing. Rowan’s grandmother and grandfather would come to the party, too.

Sheila seemed happy. She poured Coke into one of the taller red cups meant for adults and asked Webster if he wanted some. He was about to say yes when the first of the parents arrived with their child, a boy named Jason. Rowan dragged Jason off to see the games her dad had set up. Sheila offered the parents a beverage and pointed out the chips and dips. Conversation was awkward, and there were a lot of jokes about living over an ice-cream shop. Webster had heard every one before, but he chuckled nevertheless.

Sheila laughed loud and long with the mothers. She knew them better than Webster did.

Webster lost himself in his job as master of ceremonies.

It wasn’t until an hour had passed that he noticed that Sheila was never without her red cup. A ping of alarm went through him. She was nervous, he told himself, she needed a prop. When it was time for the cake, Rowan made a wish and puffed herself up. To Webster’s astonishment, Sheila bent in and blew out all the candles herself. He was certain Rowan would cry, but instead she whapped her palm flat on the top of the cake, disturbing the icing that said “Happy Birthday Rowan.” Only Webster saw the gesture as angry. Sheila chose to think it adorable and laughed. Webster glanced at the parents and noted their wary eyes.

While Webster oversaw the remaining games, Sheila leaned against the cement wall of the ice-cream shop, red cup in hand. By one thirty, she was slurring her words when she said good-bye to the parents. Webster noted how they drew their children close to them when Sheila approached. Webster was furious, embarrassed for himself and for Rowan. When the last of the guests had left, he told Sheila to go upstairs, that he would clean up and watch Rowan, too.

Sheila pulled herself up the stairs. Webster’s mother took over the cleanup, while Webster stood next to his father under a red maple, both watching Rowan.

“Sheila’s in a bad way,” his father said, getting right to the point. “Something has to be done.”

“I’ve tried everything I can think of,” Webster said, “short of actually leaving her.”

“You’re going to have to do more. Maybe look into some of those programs.”

“You mean a rehab program?”

“That’s it.”

“They’re expensive, Dad.”

Webster winced. His father would think that he was asking for money.

“We could help…,” his father began.

Webster put his palms up. “I’m sorry I mentioned the cost. That’s the last thing I want. Whatever we do, we do on our own.”

His father put his hands in his pockets. Neither Webster nor his father had taken their eyes off Rowan, who seemed to have forgotten the incident with the cake. “I’ll tell you this, son,” his father said. “There’s no better place your mother and