Rescue - By Anita Shreve Page 0,7
her eyes. Webster took out his ID. She studied it and stepped to one side. “Come in,” she said. “I’m freezing.”
Coke cans, empty cigarette packs, a mess of Devil Dogs wrappers, and a Stouffer’s box on the counter. A tin pail overflowing with trash and tissues. The rectangular table had a soiled green and white oilcloth tacked to the edges. A spoonful of purple jelly lay on the cloth inside a dozen coffee rings and toast crumbs and a smear of what might be butter. Clots of illegal wiring on the kitchen counter.
“This isn’t exactly all mine. The mess, I mean. The Devil Dogs are theirs,” she said, pointing to the ceiling.
“How long have you been here?” Webster asked, looking around.
“Couple of days.”
He unzipped his jacket in the overheated room. “Renting?”
“Not right now. I will be when I get a job.”
“How’d you end up here?”
“A nurse.”
Webster nodded.
“So you’ve seen me,” she said. “I’m fine. You can go now.”
Webster didn’t move.
“The old folks live upstairs,” she said. “They hardly ever come down except to make a meal. He never comes down at all.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “He’s sick with something. I can hear him coughing at night. I think I’m supposed to do their dishes, but no one’s ever said. The old woman is the nurse’s aunt. Why the fuck am I telling you all this?”
He didn’t answer, but the question didn’t stop her.
“The nurse came once and took the old lady out to do some shopping. The old lady’s a mouse, hardly speaks at all. I think she’s afraid of me, though I can’t imagine why.” She smiled as if she knew precisely why. “I have the ‘front room’ here,” she added, putting her fingers in quotes, “and I can use the kitchen and the bathroom. I sit in the living room and watch TV. I steal their booze.”
She raised her chin slightly, daring Webster to reprimand her.
“You drink too much,” he said. “You were drinking too much the night you rolled your car.”
“And that’s your business how?”
“You might have injured someone else, and that is my business.”
“What’s next?” she asked. “The physical exam?”
She walked out of the kitchen and into the jalousie porch. Because it was frigid outside and overheated inside, the windows had steamed up, leaving a small ellipsis in the center of each pane.
“They keep the heat up to God-knows-what, and I can’t touch it.”
No curtains at the windows. A bed pushed against the shingles of what had once been the outside of the house. The bed was neatly made. A few clothes hung from a portable rod on wheels. A suitcase had been tucked behind the portable closet. In the corner were a round wooden table and two chairs.
Sheila sat on the bed.
Webster pulled out a chair. “I wanted to see if you have any remaining injuries or difficulties from the accident.”
“Are you a social worker?” she asked.
“No.”
“OK. I don’t have a driver’s license anymore. I’m in this lousy shit hole. The nurse gave me a hundred bucks. I have to find a job. Other than that, I’m fine.”
She reached over to a leather jacket at the end of the bed and removed a pack of cigarettes. “I’m here because the old lady needed someone in case of emergency.” She took a drag on her cigarette. “Where do you live?” she asked.
“In Hartstone,” he said, not mentioning his parents.
She gestured with her lit cigarette to her jacket. “The cops gave me the wallet back, but guess what? No license and no money.”
“How much was in it?”
“Hundred and twenty.”
Fucking Weasel.
“Did you ask for it back?”
She gazed at the frosty glass. “They said it was never there. Was I surprised? No.”
“Do you mind if I ask you what you were doing in Vermont the night of your accident? The police said you had a Massachusetts license.”
“Is this in your manual? Question number thirty-eight?”
“No.”
“I live in Chelsea. Lived. Near Boston. I had a boyfriend who drank so much he started pissing the bed. I threw him out, told him to get lost. He came back. Stuck to me like a booger you can’t get off your finger.” She glanced quickly in Webster’s direction to see how he was taking the booger. “Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore. I packed a bag, got in the car, and drove. Didn’t stop till I rolled the car.”
“You could have called the police, got the guy arrested,” Webster said.
“He was the police,” she said with no emotion.
“Restraining order?”
“Really.”
Webster noticed