Rescue - By Anita Shreve Page 0,9

Besides, I don’t like the stuff.”

Sheila didn’t join him at the checkout counter. She was standing by the automatic doors when he went through with the cart.

“Thanks,” she said. And then immediately ruined it. “Am I going to have to put out for you?”

Webster stopped the cart. “Your view of human nature is warped.”

“And you have such a happy view of human nature?” she asked.

“I usually see people in distress. They’re pretty happy if they live.”

“Lucky you.”

They returned in silence to the blue Cape. When Webster parked the cruiser, he got out and handed Sheila her bag of groceries.

“You wanna come in?” she asked. Almost shy, but not quite.

“No,” he said.

Though he did.

He handed her a ten-dollar bill. “I didn’t buy you cigarettes. I figured I’d let you walk for them.”

She snatched the ten and headed for the house. He liked the way she walked—taking her time, as if she weren’t freezing in her leather jacket. She opened the door and went in without so much as a glance in his direction.

She was sexy and beautiful, and Webster wondered if he could smooth out the rough edges. Though maybe it was the rough edges that he liked.

Webster didn’t want to go home yet, even with the melting ice cream in the trunk. Instead, he drove up a steep dirt road to the ridge where he hoped one day to buy a piece of land and build a house. Fast-moving clouds made slashes of bright light on the hills below. In the distance, the Green Mountains had turned purple. Someday he would build a house with a large window pointed at those mountains. When he wasn’t at work, he’d sit behind that window and look out. The earth and the mountains were fluid, changing every second.

In that house, Webster thought, he would feel free.

For the first time since he’d been driving to the spot, Webster pictured a woman in the house with him. Not Sheila necessarily, but someone.

He drove by her place every night for a week, each time slowing to see if he could spot her through the windows of the glassed-in porch. Once he saw a moving shape and thought about pulling over, but he knew he wasn’t ready yet. Besides, he often had his uniform on, which might spook her.

On Saturday, he stopped. He expected lights to blaze. He guessed that neither she nor the old people had many visitors. The house remained dark apart from a dim light upstairs and a flickering blue from a television downstairs. He walked to the back door and knocked.

The overhead went on, and she opened the door. She wore a navy sweater over a pair of jeans. Her socks were bright red, and her hair was wet. The bruises on her face had all but faded.

“I came by to do the dishes,” he said.

She flipped on the kitchen light and gestured with her arm. “Be my guest,” she said.

Webster walked into a kitchen that if not spotless was at least tidied. No clutter on the counter, no overflowing trash.

“Guess I’m too late,” he said, relieved that he didn’t have to make his way to the bottom of the neglected sink.

“Couldn’t stand it,” she said.

She pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her leather jacket, which lay over the back of a kitchen chair. Webster noted her brown leather boots standing upright near the oven.

“You married?” she asked.

“No,” he said.

She took a long drag on the cigarette, as if she hadn’t had one in days. Maybe she was trying to cut down. She backed up to the counter and leaned against it, crossing her arms.

“You desperate for company?” she asked.

“Maybe.” He liked the way her navy sweater fell over her hips. “Got a job yet?”

“No, but I have an interview tomorrow.”

Webster stood by the door. She hadn’t invited him to sit down. “Who with?”

“A place called Keener’s.”

“Keezer’s,” he said. “They’re going to love you over there.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“Want to take me to the interview tomorrow?” she asked.

“Keezer’s?”

“Yeah.”

Webster pictured showing up at the diner in his instantly recognizable cruiser and waiting for her. The rumor would be all over town before she was back out the door.

“What time?” he asked.

“Any time in the afternoon.”

“I get off at two forty-five,” he said, lying. Three o’clock was the least busy hour of the day at the diner. After lunch and before the four o’clock beers and shots on the way home.

“Cool.”

“Just so you know, Keezer’s a son of a bitch,” Webster