weeks,” said his mother, “we’ll be sitting onthe porch this time of night. I really have to clear out all that winter dirt.”
“How’s the job going?” his father asked. “You save anyone I know?”
His father knew almost everyone in Hartstone.
“Asa Bennet had a fall yesterday,” Webster said, forgoing the “Mr.” as he wouldn’t have just two months earlier. Crazy how
a single word could signal a change in a father-son relationship. “Broke his hip.”
“What will the poor man do?” his mother asked. “He’s how old now?”
“Eighty-four.”
“And Alice passed away, oh, at least two years now.”
Three, Webster knew from the patient report. “I don’t know what he’ll do after he recovers,” Webster said. “I see them only
as far as the hospital. Sometimes I know what happens after that, but most of the time I don’t.”
“What a job you have!” she exclaimed, not for the first time. Webster was never sure if she meant, “What a horrible job you
have,” or “You have such a wonderful chance to help people.” As far as being an EMT went, both were true.
Webster cleared his throat. “I’ve been seeing someone,” he announced.
His mother coughed on her beer. Webster patted her back. “That’s nice,” she said when she could speak, her voice scratchy.
“Who is she?” His father sat in the upholstered wing chair, always known, since Webster was a boy, as “Dad’s chair.”
“Her name is Sheila Arsenault. She’s from Boston but is in the process of settling in Vermont.”
“I used to know some Arsenaults,” his mother mused, “but they were from Quebec.”
“How long have you been seeing her?” his father asked.
“About four months,” Webster replied, exaggerating a bit.
“What does she do?” his mother asked.
“Right now, she’s working as a waitress, but she’s looking for a better job.”
“Where does she work?” his mother continued.
Webster wished he could name a better place. “Keezer’s. But that’s just temporary. For now.”
“I see,” his mother said, more curious than concerned. “Tell me what she looks like.”
“She’s tall and slim. Beautiful brown hair. Blue eyes. Pretty.”
“And where did you meet?” his father asked.
“I met her in the diner,” Webster lied, knowing that the truth would steer their thoughts in an unfortunate direction.
Webster knew that his father had picked up on something. He was staring at Webster, as if searching for a tell. When had Webster
ever told his parents he was seeing someone?
“You should bring her to dinner,” his mother offered, probably already thinking about a menu.
“Thanks. I will. But there’s one other thing.” Webster bent forward and held the nearly full Rolling Rock between his knees.
“Sheila’s pregnant.”
Both parents froze, their arms in midair. In other circumstances, it would have been comical.
Webster had to remind himself to breathe. The house sounded the way it did when he was alone in it. Silent except for the
clock and the fridge and the heating system.
His mother lowered her drink. His father finished off his and set the bottle down hard.
“It’s mine,” Webster said, short-stopping the inevitable.
His father rolled his head back in disbelief. “How can you be sure?”
His father asking the question the son had stopped himself from asking the girlfriend.
“I’m sure,” Webster said.
“Peter,” his mother moaned. “You’re only twenty-one!”
“Almost twenty-two,” Webster said.
“How far along is she?” his father, persistent, asked. His mother looked as though she might cry.
“Three months,” Webster said.
It was simple math.
His father looked away. Webster thought his dad would get up from the wing chair and leave the room and then the house and
maybe not come back for a couple of hours.
“You’re only twenty-one,” his mother repeated, seemingly unable to move beyond that thought.
His father wasn’t
“How’s the job going?” his father asked. “You save anyone I know?”
His father knew almost everyone in Hartstone.
“Asa Bennet had a fall yesterday,” Webster said, forgoing the “Mr.” as he wouldn’t have just two months earlier. Crazy how
a single word could signal a change in a father-son relationship. “Broke his hip.”
“What will the poor man do?” his mother asked. “He’s how old now?”
“Eighty-four.”
“And Alice passed away, oh, at least two years now.”
Three, Webster knew from the patient report. “I don’t know what he’ll do after he recovers,” Webster said. “I see them only
as far as the hospital. Sometimes I know what happens after that, but most of the time I don’t.”
“What a job you have!” she exclaimed, not for the first time. Webster was never sure if she meant, “What a horrible job you
have,” or “You have such a wonderful chance to help people.” As far as being an EMT went, both were true.
Webster cleared his throat. “I’ve been seeing someone,” he announced.
His mother coughed on her beer. Webster patted her back. “That’s nice,” she said when she could speak, her voice scratchy.
“Who is she?” His father sat in the upholstered wing chair, always known, since Webster was a boy, as “Dad’s chair.”
“Her name is Sheila Arsenault. She’s from Boston but is in the process of settling in Vermont.”
“I used to know some Arsenaults,” his mother mused, “but they were from Quebec.”
“How long have you been seeing her?” his father asked.
“About four months,” Webster replied, exaggerating a bit.
“What does she do?” his mother asked.
“Right now, she’s working as a waitress, but she’s looking for a better job.”
“Where does she work?” his mother continued.
Webster wished he could name a better place. “Keezer’s. But that’s just temporary. For now.”
“I see,” his mother said, more curious than concerned. “Tell me what she looks like.”
“She’s tall and slim. Beautiful brown hair. Blue eyes. Pretty.”
“And where did you meet?” his father asked.
“I met her in the diner,” Webster lied, knowing that the truth would steer their thoughts in an unfortunate direction.
Webster knew that his father had picked up on something. He was staring at Webster, as if searching for a tell. When had Webster
ever told his parents he was seeing someone?
“You should bring her to dinner,” his mother offered, probably already thinking about a menu.
“Thanks. I will. But there’s one other thing.” Webster bent forward and held the nearly full Rolling Rock between his knees.
“Sheila’s pregnant.”
Both parents froze, their arms in midair. In other circumstances, it would have been comical.
Webster had to remind himself to breathe. The house sounded the way it did when he was alone in it. Silent except for the
clock and the fridge and the heating system.
His mother lowered her drink. His father finished off his and set the bottle down hard.
“It’s mine,” Webster said, short-stopping the inevitable.
His father rolled his head back in disbelief. “How can you be sure?”
His father asking the question the son had stopped himself from asking the girlfriend.
“I’m sure,” Webster said.
“Peter,” his mother moaned. “You’re only twenty-one!”
“Almost twenty-two,” Webster said.
“How far along is she?” his father, persistent, asked. His mother looked as though she might cry.
“Three months,” Webster said.
It was simple math.
His father looked away. Webster thought his dad would get up from the wing chair and leave the room and then the house and
maybe not come back for a couple of hours.
“You’re only twenty-one,” his mother repeated, seemingly unable to move beyond that thought.
His father wasn’t
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