Rescue - By Anita Shreve Page 0,62

back.”

Webster thinks of reminding Sheila that it was he who sent her away, but he doesn’t want to argue about who is to blame. He sees no good outcome to that conversation.

“Will you at least think about it?” he asks.

“Meeting her?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“You came all this way for nothing.”

“But you’ll think about it.”

Sheila was silent.

“May I see a painting?” Webster asks in desperation.

Sheila seems confused by the abrupt request. When she leaves the kitchen, Webster follows her. In the front room, she turns a painting around. It’s of an old wooden table, an aged plaster wall behind it, a shiny blue and white bowl on top of the table with a red chili pepper in the foreground. It’s beautifully executed. He recognizes the blue and white bowl. It used to be his mother’s, but she gave it to Sheila.

One by one, Sheila turns all the paintings around. He watches as she bends, handles each item with care, and then leans it against the wall.

Each is a domestic scene, painstakingly rendered. Another picture shows three bowls against the backdrop of the horrible flower-print curtains they had in their apartment. Another is of a cut lemon, so realistically painted that one can almost taste the juice. The background is the wallpaper in Sheila’s kitchen. Another is of a chair against a table, a trio of apples, and a book.

“They’re called sharp-focus still lifes,” Sheila says.

“Where did you learn to paint?”

“In Mexico.”

“You paint from memory.”

“I do.”

“They’re really very good,” Webster says.

“Thank you.”

There is a long silence between them. What does he hope? That she’ll change her mind right here?

“Well,” he says. “I’d better go.”

Reluctantly, he walks to the door. He examines Sheila for another few seconds. He wonders if this will be the last time he’ll ever see her. Her hands are tight fists. Her entire body is rigid.

He won’t beg. He won’t try to negotiate. In a way, he gets it.

“I shouldn’t have come,” Webster says.

Sheila opens her mouth and then closes it.

He jogs down the steps and shuts the front door behind him.

He drives furiously out of the city, having no idea where he’s going until he comes to a sign that reads, ENTERING QUINCY, which he knows is south of Boston and not where he wants to be. He pulls the cruiser onto a side road. He’s lucky he didn’t get a ticket.

He rolls down the window and breathes in metallic air.

He takes out his cell phone and punches in his daughter’s number. She picks up on the second ring. “Hello?” she whispers.

“Rowan, it’s Dad,” he says.

“I know.”

“I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“Dad?”

“Yup?”

“It’s twenty past one.”

“OK,” he says.

“I’m in history class. If I don’t hang up, Mr. Cahill is going to kill me.”

“Oh, sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“You OK?” Rowan asks, still in a whisper.

“I’m fine. Talk to you later.”

Webster leans his head back and shuts his eyes. He decides he’ll stop at the first decent restaurant he finds and eat a proper meal. Then he’ll find a map and drive like a normal person back to Hartstone.

Caddyshack is in the DVD player for the hundredth time. The probies watch it over and over during their first three months. They need the mindless laughter to calm their nerves.

The radio sounds out the tones at 3:10 a.m. Powell, a probie who has the haircut of a marine and the skinny frame of a geek, pops up from the couch like a jack-in-the-box.

“Attention, Hartstone. We need a crew at 35 High Street. Fifty-one-year-old female, difficulty breathing and severe chest pain.”

Webster responds: “602 and 704 in the building. Any other info?”

“Patient made the call. Appears to be alone.”

“You drive,” he tells Powell as they run to the rig.

It’s Webster’s first shift with the kid, and he needs to monitor him as well as take care of the patient. Webster glances at the speedometer. “You want to push it as high as you can without danger of causing an accident. Almost all rig accidents take place in intersections.”

The probie is memorizing acronyms. Webster can see it on his face.

“Remember how to get to each call, not only because you might be called back to the same place, but because it’s the best way to learn the geography. Though you should be studying the maps, too. You studying the maps?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Name’s Webster. We don’t do sir.”

“Understood.”

“Where did you train?”

“Saint John’s Hospital. This was the only job I could find.”

“You move here?”

“Yes.”

“Family?”

“No.”

Webster shakes his head. The guy’s probably renting a single room in someone’s