Rescue - By Anita Shreve Page 0,88

made me laugh, and I knew then that everything would be OK.”

She gives Webster a quick pat on the arm. “I’ll never forget it,” she says.

Webster sits. He’s treated a number of people in the crowd. He isn’t a hero in town. In fact he’s someone they hope never to see at their homes or in the middle of a highway. But he’s part of the safety net that wraps itself around Hartstone, and for that they are grateful.

The sun beats on his head and the temperature rises. Maybe high seventies already? Webster watches as men shed their jackets, women their wraps. The field seems vast and fertile. Canned music begins from the speakers, and everyone stands. A line of students in maroon robes is poised at the entrance to the aisle of chairs. The teachers lead, some with academic gowns or sashes. Mrs. McDougal, the principal, has on a black velvet beret. Women in the audience have tissues out already. It’s the music that sets them off.

The kids in line seem ebullient, ready for anything. Is high school so awful, they can’t wait to be out? Or are they merely celebrating a milestone? Webster is aware of Sheila beside him and is glad she’s tall enough to witness the spectacle coming down the aisle. Webster will have to wait until the end to see his daughter. He minds that by the time Rowan reaches him, many of the parents will already have turned away and sat down. Webster will stand until all the students are in place up front.

The lump is in his throat already—the music must have been composed for this effect. He glances at Sheila, who has a tight smile on her face. But she softens when she catches a glimpse of Rowan. Webster turns and watches his daughter approach the stage. She’s unzipped her gown just enough to show off the blue and silver necklace—a gift to her mother. The mortarboard seems to be doing its job. Rowan’s posture is for once erect. Her walk is steady, and she’s a mixture of gravity and playfulness, winking at Webster as she passes.

The hooting and shouting dim as Mrs. McDougal takes the podium. She asks for a moment of silence for Kerry Coolidge, and Webster notices that many of the senior girls are crying. Parents, too. It’s an awful moment, and Webster can’t help but think that it might have been Rowan they were honoring with this brief silence. It’s an unbearable thought. He wonders if Kerry’s parents are in the crowd. Had it been his daughter who died, he would have stayed home. Or he’d be in Africa. Anywhere but on this field.

Mrs. McDougal swiftly returns to the ceremony by relating what a great year this has been for the seniors. She ticks off their collective accomplishments, the only interesting one being the fact that the debate team won the state championship. The football team didn’t fare as well, nor did the hockey team. The principal tells the crowd that eighty-five percent of the senior class will go to four-year colleges. The crowd applauds. Webster thinks about the fifteen percent who won’t. What will they do? Community college? The military? Farming? Mrs. McDougal adds that she’s particularly proud of the community outreach by Rowan’s class—how they’ve worked at shelters and volunteered their time to go into the elementary schools and work with special students.

And then Mrs. McDougal does something Webster didn’t anticipate. She asks all the parents to stand. She commands the students to rise as well and give their parents a big hand for the love they’ve given and the sacrifices they’ve made to get the students to this point.

Webster has eyes only for Rowan, who smiles and raises the fist of her good arm, her bad shoulder preventing clapping. He gives her a grin.

Webster glances down at Sheila, who looks as though she’s been socked in the face. He tries to get her to stand with him, but she sits rigid, waiting for the applause to end.

“I’m sorry about that,” Webster says when he sits down. “I had no idea they would do that, or I’d have prepared you.”

Sheila gives a small shrug, as though it means nothing to her, but Webster can see the pain on her face. For fifteen years, she’s had to make no sacrifices for her daughter. She simply wasn’t there.

The heat rises as the speeches drone on. Sports awards are handed out, giving them greater weight than the academic awards,