Rescue by Anita Shreve Page B

by a single word.
    Under the .9 moon, he’d asked her if she was on the pill, and she’d nodded. Then later, she said she preferred a diaphragm.
     Had she really nodded? Had he been mistaken?
    Fucking biology. It didn’t give a shit what Mother Nature was doing on the outside.
    He almost said, “How can you be sure it’s mine?” but stopped himself just in time.
    Don’t go there.
    “I don’t know what happened,” she said. “I was on the pill, and then I started getting these bleeds and I switched to a diaphragm.
     They’re both supposed to work.”
    He studied the quilt. A blur of colors slowly came into focus. He noted red flowers on an ivory background, whole squares
     of blue, knots of thread in the corners of the patches. For a moment, he imagined Sheila happy, the happiness infectious.
     Then he pictured her wanting an abortion, and supporting her decision. Finally, he saw her as frightened, at least as confused
     as he was.
    “I’ll be such a good mother,” she said, and Webster was surprised a second time. She turned and stared at him, as if she knew
     she might have pushed him too far, as if he might still be in shock.
    “How will you know what to do?”
    She kissed him. “We’ll figure it out together, Webster.”
    She was not going to ask him how he felt about the pregnancy.
    Again, Webster imagined Sheila happy. He tried to see past the sheet to the flat of her belly. His child was lodged somewhere
     just below the runway scar.
    All he had to do was let go, let it happen.
    If he asked another question, she’d see his uncertainty, and once the baby came, she’d never forget that waffling and would
     always wonder. Webster would regret that. He loved Sheila, of that he was certain. The idea of not being with her hurt. Besides,
     he was just as responsible for the seed inside her as she was. More so. He was the guy, for Christ’s sake. He was an EMT!
     Why hadn’t he just used a condom?
    He stroked her hair where it fell against her back. He liked the way the two sides curled toward each other. He imagined other
     women paying big bucks over the years to achieve what Sheila came by naturally.
    A baby. Settling down. Maybe a place of their own. And he’d be with her every step of the way. As much as he could. He thought
     about the long nights he’d be gone, and for just a second, he had an image of Sheila with a baby sleeping in her lap, a glass
     of Bacardi under the sofa. He made the image vanish as quickly as it had come.
    He thought about how much she’d had to drink the night before and felt a little sick. Why had Sheila done it? She’d known.
     A last hurrah?
    He told himself to flatline his anger.
    This was risk. Risk of the most dangerous and wonderful kind. To bet your life on something as tiny as a sprout.
    “I’m in,” he said.

W ebster, in a clean shirt and a pair of khakis, fresh from his day’s nap after a Friday-night call, found his father, two Rolling
     Rocks in hand, in the kitchen.
    “OK if I join you?” Webster asked. Occasionally, during the last year, Webster had been invited to have a drink during his
     parents’ hour together. Sometimes he would. Sometimes not.
    “Sure,” his father said, clearly happy to have his son spend time with the old man. He nudged the fridge open with his elbow.
    “I’ll get that,” Webster said.
    His own beer in hand, Webster followed his father into the living room. If his father had looked happy, his mother was delighted.
     Webster winced. If either of them detected a summit, they didn’t let on.
    A cheese ball, studded with chopped walnuts, had been placed on a dinner plate, surrounded by saltines. “We hardly ever see
     you,” his mother said, patting her hair. She plumped the cushions next to her with something like giddiness. “You must be
     working all the hours of the day.”
    His mother drank beer in a wineglass. Webster sat next to her and fingered the condensation on his Kelly green bottle.
    “In another few