Rescue - By Anita Shreve Page 0,65

rolled out onto the field. Another player, whom Webster doesn’t know, shoots it back to Rowan for the cutoff. Rowan throws it to the catcher in time to prevent a homer. The runner waits on third.

Rowan couldn’t have caught that ball off the bat anyway, Webster decides. Too high.

When the team runs off the field at the third out, Rowan, ponytail flapping through the hole at the back of her baseball cap, gives a quick wave in his direction. Though it isn’t cool to wave to your dad during a game, Rowan usually does. A teammate throws Rowan a bottle of water, and she drinks it straight down.

Webster asks a guy standing near him what the score is.

“Seven–five, Hartstone’s losing.”

Rowan ditches the empty water bottle and walks to the batting circle, searching for her favorite bat. The first batter flies out, so Rowan makes her way to the plate. Webster can tell by Rowan’s stance and her practice swings that she wants to hit it over the fence.

Rowan swings and misses. Strike one. Webster loves the chatter from the dugout. Hey, batta, batta, batta. Rowan sets up for the second pitch.

It’s as solid a hit as he’s seen from his daughter all season. Keeping his eye on the center fielder, Webster watches Rowan take off, running as if the World Series were at stake. Part of her speed is due to the fact that Webster is watching—the Parental Effect—but part is pure Rowan. As Rowan rounds second, he feels the old familiar hope soaring. The center fielder leaps, doesn’t even get her glove on the ball. While she is scrambling behind her, Rowan keeps up the pace, beating the shortstop’s cutoff throw to the catcher. Home run.

All right, Rowan.

Webster watches her team high-five her. Rowan grabs a towel to wipe off her face.

Webster checks his watch. He has ten minutes left. Maybe he’ll get to see another inning.

He’s aware of a person moving toward him from the direction of the bleachers. He turns to see a woman he thinks he knows but can’t immediately place.

“Mr. Webster?” she asks.

He turns. “Yes, hello.”

“Hi, I’m your daughter’s English teacher, Elizabeth Washington.”

“Of course,” Webster says, wanting to smack his forehead. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she says. “My daughter just joined the team this year. She’s a sophomore. Julie Washington?”

“Is she playing today?”

“No, she’s on the bench for now.”

“The coach will give her playing time,” Webster assures her.

“I was wondering,” Mrs. Washington says, “if Rowan has been OK at home.”

The hair prickles on the back of Webster’s neck. The woman has on a gray blazer and sneakers. He puts her in her late forties. Her eyes look pinched, or maybe that’s just the sun in her face.

Webster doesn’t want to tell Elizabeth Washington about Rowan’s drunken episode. On the other hand, he doesn’t want to seem an oblivious parent, because he isn’t. “She baffles me sometimes,” Webster says. “Sweet one day, moody the next. I don’t always know why.”

Elizabeth Washington nods. “That’s just normal teenage behavior, and maybe this is partly that, too. She’s letting her grades slip. All second-semester seniors do it to some extent, but she’s in danger of failing English. Calculus, too. I checked. She’s not doing the homework, not paying attention. Not doing the reading.”

Webster rocks back on his feet. Elizabeth shades her eyes.

“I’m… I guess I’m shocked,” Webster says. “Rowan’s always been such a good student that I long ago stopped checking her homework. I talk about it with her sometimes, but I always thought she had everything under control.”

He tries to remember her last report card. B+ in English, he’s pretty sure. C+ in math, and he questioned her about that. He can’t remember what Rowan’s response was. She didn’t seem worried, even though her grades weren’t as good as they’d been in the past.

“She could make up some of the work,” Elizabeth says, “but it’s only two weeks to graduation. I’m concerned. If she fails English and calculus, UVM may not take her in the fall. We have to send the final transcripts along to the college.”

“Will she graduate?”

“She’ll graduate. She’s had enough credits since early fall. But it isn’t just the grades. I guess I’m trying to find out if anything’s amiss at home.”

“Hard to read her right now,” Webster says. “You assigned a big book recently. Something about gravity?”

Elizabeth smiles. “Gravity’s Rainbow. Yes. A lot of the students found the book challenging—mainly its length. But as far as I can tell, Rowan never read a word.”

Webster