Rescue - By Anita Shreve Page 0,60
see one from the street. He drives past a church called Saint Rose and a number of flat-roofed buildings on a busy road.
In spite of his MapQuest directions, Webster can’t find the address. He’s sure he’s circled and recircled the same teal and brick school. Because he needs gas anyway, he pulls into a Mobil station and asks the guy there if he has a local map for sale. There are no Chelsea street maps in the stack, but the man asks him what he’s looking for and Webster gives him an address. The man, with the name Peña embroidered on his pocket, draws out the directions for Webster. Webster tries to thank the guy with a five, but he won’t take it. Webster buys a coffee and a doughnut.
Webster follows the new directions, paying attention at every turn, and finds himself driving up a residential hill. He spots the sign he wants and then the correct house number. He parks across the street.
The house is a triple-decker with asphalt shingles: pink on top, gray on the bottom. The building runs right up to the sidewalk with only a chain-link fence holding it back. He takes a long sip of the coffee and then a bite of the doughnut. The sun is high. From where Webster is parked, he can see that whoever lives in that house has a terrific view of the Boston skyline and of a large body of water. Boston Harbor? The Mystic River? On his side of the street, in front of a pale green vinyl-sided house are a pair of Virgin Marys cemented onto concrete pedestals that form a front gate. Adjacent to that house is a dwelling with a Santa in a fake well. It’s the last week of May. The porch is covered with linoleum tile.
Finding Sheila was easier than Webster imagined. According to the Internet, there were twenty-two Sheila Websters in Massachusetts, but only six Sheila Arsenaults, one of them in Chelsea. He couldn’t be sure that one was his ex-wife; maybe there was a large clan of Arsenaults in the city. And for all he knew, Sheila could have settled in New York or California. It would be nearly an eight-hour drive round trip, and Webster wondered if it was worth going just to find out he had the wrong Sheila. He thought of calling to make sure, but he didn’t want his first contact with her to be over the telephone. They had to see each other face-to-face.
He thought of calling McGill over at the police station and requesting a search through their records, but then they might discover an outstanding warrant for Sheila Arsenault that could cause her all sorts of problems. What was the statute of limitations on vehicular assault, anyway? Webster wanted only to see Sheila. Ever since Rowan came home drunk, he’s felt that she might be able to help him with his daughter. The plan isn’t well thought out—he’s come on an impulse, the urge to see Sheila strong. What does he think she can do? See Rowan? Talk to her? He can’t really imagine either.
Long after the coffee in the cup is cold and he’s finished the plain doughnut, he steps out of the car and walks over to the porch. There are three residences in the building, each with its own buzzer. The third buzzer has the name Arsenault beside it. He rings the bell.
He hears footsteps coming fast down an interior stairway. He braces himself. For all he knows, the cop from Chelsea might open the door.
“I wondered when you were going to come in.”
It’s Sheila, and it isn’t. He feels the same as he did at his twentieth high school reunion, seeing hidden faces within faces, features morphing as he watched. Only this time, the sensation is so interior that he feels he is observing himself change in a mirror.
“Sheila,” he says.
The hair is long and dark brown and gray near the temples. She must be forty-two now. She has on jeans and a plaid shirt, both paint-splattered. No shoes. There are crow’s-feet around her eyes, but the mouth is precisely as he remembers it. She’s slim but not athletic-looking.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
Webster puts his hands in his pockets. “I came to talk to you about Rowan.”
There is no thought of shaking her hand or embracing her.
“You came from Vermont?” she asks.
“I did.”
She says nothing.
“Can I come in?” he asks.
She stands aside so that he can step over