Rescue Page 3

  “He was the police,” she said with no emotion.

  “Restraining order?”

  “Really.”

  Webster noticed 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. 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.
r />   “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 warned. “He’ll have you up against the wall for a feel before the week is out.”

  She smiled. “Looking forward to it,” she said.

  “You going to invite me to sit down?”

  “No,” she said, dropping her cigarette into the sink and picking up her jacket. “I’m broke. I need a hot meal.”

  By the time Sheila had walked to the cruiser, gone back to lock the door, and returned, the tips of her wet hair had frozen. She played with the frost and broke the ends. “Christ, it’s cold. I hope your car doesn’t break down.”

  “You need a better jacket.”

  “You want to buy it for me?”

  He did. That was the problem. He made a U and pulled out onto 42.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “A place that serves good chili.”

  Webster drove north, past the town line, and then past the one after that. For a while, they didn’t talk in the car. She spent the time looking out the window at the lights in the houses. “They still have their Christmas trees up,” she mused.

  “They’ll be lit until the needles fall off. The wreaths will be up until Easter.”

  “How come?”

  “Long winter in Vermont.”

  “Think we’ve gone far enough?” she asked after a time, a note of sarcasm in her voice.

  “It’s the best place around.” A lie, and she knew it. “We can turn back if you want,” he offered.

  “What?” she asked, as if she hadn’t heard him.

  * * *

  The parking lot was full. Webster let Sheila off at the door. He watched as she left the car and straightened her shoulders.

  Webster searched for a spot, his frustration growing every second. He didn’t want to leave her alone. By the time he got inside, some guy would be hitting on her. He parked at the edge of an adjacent cornfield. Illegal, but so what? A farmer was going to come out and slash his tires? He jogged back to the restaurant.

  At first, he couldn’t spot her as he glanced from room to room.

  “She’s in a booth,” the guy behind the bar said. Webster gave a quick nod and headed for the red leatherette. The tables were highly varnished and slick to the touch, as if they weren’t entirely clean. The whole place smelled of cooked onions and cigarette smoke. Sheila had her jacket off. She was sitting sideways, a beer in front of her.

  She’s comfortable here, he thought.

  Three beers apiece and two half-empty chili bowls. Sheila was a delicate eater, and Webster had lost his appetite. Her skin was flushed, and the heat inside the restaurant had curled her hair at the ends. It softened her face.

  “It’s not that I’m trying to settle here or anything—fuck, no—it just seems like a good place to lie low for a while.”

  She said it as if she were used to lying low. As if she were an outlaw.

  “You know you’re in the police records,” Webster said. “Your boyfriend being a cop, he can easily find you.”

  She shrugged, but he could feel the vibration of the tip of her boot against the center pole of the table. Her eyes slid off his face.

  “What did he do to you?” Webster asked.

  “What do you think?”

  The ER nurse had said evidence of old bruises. Webster felt anger toward a cop he’d never met.

  “So what about you?” she asked. “You been here all your life? In Hartstone, I mean?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Ever lived in a city?”

  “Rutland. Didn’t live there exactly, but I did my training there.”

  “That’s a city?”

  “Maybe.”

  “How can you stand it?” she asked, turning and stretching out again in the booth. Dinner over. She blew the smoke away from him. It didn’t much matter. Webster could hardly see the pool tables against the back wall for all the fog.

  “Stand what?”

  “The… I don’t know… the nothing.”

  “People lead full, rich lives all over the planet,” he said with a half smile.

  “A philosopher now.”

  He liked watching her in profile, especially as she smoked. She had long fingers, a sophisticated drag, a lovely purse to her mouth as she exhaled. He hated smoking, but he knew the look was the reason girls took up the habit.

  “And you would know this how?” she asked.

  “I read,” he said.

  He was surprised when she let that go.

  “You have family?” he asked.

  “I’ve got a sister in Manhattan.”

  “You could have gone there.”

  “First place he’d look. Besides, she lives in a one-bedroom with her boyfriend and a baby on the way.”

  “You like her?”

  “My sister? What’s it to you?” She was facing him now, restless, but blew the smoke sideways this time. A mouth poised to play the flute.

  “Just want to know if you like anyone.”

  “I like her,” she said. “We’re different, and she doesn’t approve of me, but I like her.”

  “Older or younger?”

  “Older.”

  Webster nodded, took another sip of beer. He’d been glancing around from time to time to see if he recognized anyone. His being there—fraternizing with a patient he’d recently worked on—was questionable at best, unethical at worst.

  “What about you, Mr. EMT? You have any sisters or brothers hanging around?”

  “No.”

  “Only child,” she said, mulling it over. “And where’s your house?”

  “I’m… ah… I’m living with my parents,” he said. “I’m saving up for a piece of land I want to buy.”

  “Your parents. Wow.”

  “You want to go?” he asked, looking around for a waiter to give him a check. He thought he’d had enough.

  “No,” she said. “I want to shoot some pool.”

  “You any good?”

  “I’m great.”

  “Next you’ll be telling me you’re a hustler.”

  “You give me seventy-five, I can double it.”

  He didn’t believe her. If he gave her seventy-five with those sharks, she’d go home empty-handed.

  “Those guys back there?” he said, pointing his finger. “Th
ey’re good. They’ll take your money in five minutes.”

  “Watch me,” she said.

  He gave her the seventy-five.

  She chalked the end of the cue as if she were coloring it. She sidled up to a skinny guy with a blond mullet and asked if she could get into a game. Webster could tell that she’d already blown Mullet’s concentration, but he wasn’t the guy with the clout. Mullet looked to a large man with a black zippered vest over a blue and gray flannel shirt. The man’s head was shaved, as if he’d just gotten out of the military.

  “Luker, she OK?”

  Luker took a long look at Sheila and nodded at Mullet. Webster could see that they both liked the way her jeans fit. A good-looking woman could always get a game. Sheila pretended to be more drunk than she was in a way that made Webster nervous. He could see that Mullet and Luker each thought he was going home with her. Two other men in their early twenties were at the table, too, but Luker was the boss. “Lower the pot to twenty-five,” he said. “Five bucks a piece. Race to three.”

  Sheila held the cue like a novice. It was clear she was watching Mullet and imitating his every move, as if she were new to the game. Webster was surprised they didn’t throw her out then and there.

  “Any house rules I should know about?” she asked in a voice Webster hadn’t heard before.

  “Yeah, Sweetheart, it’s nine-ball.”

  The Mullet guffawed as if Luker had made a terrific joke. Sheila was all concentration as the balls were racked. “I go first?” she asked.

  “The table’s all yours,” Mullet said.

  Sheila bent, took her time, made her shot, and knocked the cue ball off the table. She put a hand over her mouth.

  “Scratched it,” Mullet said as he put the cue ball exactly where he wanted.

  By the time the table was Sheila’s again, the game was hers for the taking. One of the other players hadn’t been able to sink the eight, but the setup made for easy shots. Sheila sank the eight but jawed the nine. If she were hustling, Webster thought, she was good.

  “Nice one, Sweetheart,” Luker said. “Beginner’s bad luck.”

  Sheila lost the first race and begged to be allowed to continue. “Look, I almost got it in,” she said, raising her left shoulder and then lowering the right in a sinuous move. She put a five on the table. “Let me win it back,” she begged.