Rescue - By Anita Shreve Page 0,8
a half-empty bottle of Bacardi under the bed. The glass beside it still had liquor in it.
“Sometimes I walk to the hardware store down the road and buy bagels and coffee and cigarettes.”
The hardware store. His dad’s.
She didn’t have rounded shoulders like most tall women he knew. She wore her hair tucked behind her ears. Her jeans were tight and slim and didn’t come from L. L. Bean. He thought that when the bruises were gone her face would be pretty.
“I’m going to drive you to the Giant Mart just over the state line,” he said, “so you can get some food. And then I’ll drive you back.”
“I think that’s illegal. I’m not supposed to leave the state.”
“You’ll be fine with me.”
“No,” she said.
“You have to buy food,” he argued. “And you need a paper so you can get a job. What did you do in Chelsea?”
“I waited tables.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Is that the truth?”
She nodded.
“I like your accent,” he said.
“You mean the Ahss-n-all?” she asked, exaggerating the Boston pronunciation of her name.
He stood up. “You’ll starve if you don’t come with me.”
“I’ll get by,” she said.
“Put your jacket on.”
In the car, Sheila stared out the side window, as if they were a married couple, not speaking. She reached into her pocket and took out the cigarette pack. She glanced at him and put the pack away.
“You can smoke,” he said.
“Wouldn’t want to stink up your precious car. Where’d you get this anyway? It’s a cop car, right?”
“Was. Got demobbed.”
“What’s that?”
“Stripped. After four years, the police buy new cruisers, and then they strip the old ones of any markings or gear and sell them. I needed a car that was fast. For my job. Hell of an engine.”
“Rev it up,” she said. “Go fast.”
He held his speed.
She reached up, twisted her hair into a knot, and then let it fall over one shoulder. He drove another mile to the supermarket across the border.
“We’re in New York now?” she asked.
Webster nodded.
“Liked it better in Vermont.”
“Why?”
“Felt safer.”
No one could attribute safety to an invisible line, but Webster had always thought there was a difference between Vermont and New York. In New York, the roads immediately deteriorated; the houses had less charm and looked to be in poorer condition; and villages gave way to street grids with stores on them. There was age in some of the New York border towns, but it was an unappealing redbrick age. When he crossed the state line, Webster always felt he was one step closer to a life he didn’t want to live.
Still, the town had a supermarket, two gas stations, and a pharmacy. He turned into the lot of the Giant Mart and parked.
“So what’s the deal?” she asked. “You pick out the food and pay for it? You give me an allowance?”
“Let’s just go in. I have stuff to get.”
They headed for the door, but she wouldn’t walk next to him, as if she didn’t want any part of the awkward enterprise.
Webster grabbed a cart. “Find what you want and put it in. We’ll sort it out later.”
He bought more food than he actually needed so as to have the larger share when they reached the register. His parents would be surprised. He hardly ever grocery-shopped.
He put oranges, lettuce, white bread, lasagna noodles, and coffee into the cart, all the time trying to sense what aisle she was in. He added two pounds of hamburger meat and a plastic package of swordfish. The Giant Mart didn’t sell booze, so she couldn’t be doing that. He added detergent and napkins, having no idea whether these items were needed at home. He picked out an angel food cake and a pint of vanilla ice cream and found her in the canned goods aisle buying soups. She had saltines, peanut butter, and English muffins in her arms. She placed her items in the cart.
“How about some milk or juice?” he asked. “A steak or hamburger meat? A tomato?”
“You my daddy now?”
“You’re older than me.” He left the cart and returned with a chicken for roasting. “You know how to cook this?”
“What do you think?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“I can do a bird.”
He put the chicken into the cart. He went down another aisle and came back with a bag of potatoes, a plastic bag of string beans, and a carton of orange juice.
“OK, enough,” she said.
“You don’t want anything sweet? Cookies or something?”
“The old people have enough Devil Dogs in their cupboards to turn us all into diabetics.