Rescue by Anita Shreve

Not smiling.
    “Will you marry me?” he asked.
    Sheila paused, fork in midair. She put her fork down.
    “What?” she asked.
    Webster was silent.
    “This is kind of a surprise,” she said.
    “Sheila.”
    “Do we have to do this now?”
    Webster let her hand go. “Do what now?” he asked.
    “Talk. Make plans.”
    “We make plans all the time,” he said.
    “We don’t make concrete plans.”
    “Yeah, we do. We’re having a baby. That’s a pretty concrete plan.”
    She pressed her lips together.
    “What the hell, Sheila?” he said, sitting back. “This isn’t your average plan. I’m proposing to you.”
    Sheila rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. “It’s so good the way it is,” she said wearily. “Let’s not mess it up.”
    Sheila’s skin was pink from the hot water, and her hair was flowing damp and straight behind her ears. She wore no makeup,
     as she did when she went out, and he felt, when he saw her naked face, that he was seeing the real Sheila.
    “I’m not asking you just because you’re pregnant,” he explained.
    “I know.”
    “Then what is it?”
    “Why formalize everything?” she asked, lighting a cigarette.
    He stared at her.
    “See?” she said. “You want me to put this out.”
    “I do.”
    “Why?”
    “Sheila, you know why.”
    “That’s just it! I don’t want all these fucking rules. You’re smothering me.”
    She wants a drink.
    Knowing that, Webster couldn’t argue further. There was no persuading Sheila that she didn’t want a drink or that the reason
     she was picking a fight was her need for the booze. As much as he wanted to remind her that it was dangerous to drink with
     a sprout the size of his pinky growing inside her, she wouldn’t listen to him. All he could do was distract her, the way he
     dealt with alcoholics on tours.
    “I take it back,” he said. “I don’t want to marry you.”
    She glanced up. “Make up your mind.”
    “I did want to, but now I don’t.”
    “You teasing with me?”
    “Do I look like I’m teasing with you?”
    She stubbed out her cigarette, picked up her fork, and ate a bite of the green beans. Behind her head, an empty bottle of
     Dawn rested on a sill under a window. The dirty pots from the meal listed in the sink.
    “I’ve got a tour,” he said, checking his watch.
    “What? It’s Friday night.”
    “A probie called in sick.”
    “You mean there’s someone greener than you?”
    Webster pushed his chair back. He felt something drain from his chest as he did so.
    “You’re lying,” she said.
    He was but said nothing.
    “It’s because I don’t want to talk about getting married, isn’t it?” she asked, sipping her water.
    The sight of the candles made Webster sad. Why play house?
    He went into the bedroom to change. He had nowhere to go, but he put on his uniform anyway. He grabbed his radio and his utility
     belt.
    When he emerged from the bedroom, she was blocking the front door. In her hand, she held a Tupperware container in which she’d
     put the rest of his dinner.
    He stood ten feet from her.
    “You need a fork and knife?” she asked.
    “They’ve got forks and knives at Rescue.”
    “Will you marry me?” she asked.
    “No.”
    “Please?”
    “What about all the rules?” he asked. “And the smothering?”
    “Fuck the rules,” she said. “We’ll make our own rules.”
    “Such as?”
    “We could get married on that piece of land of yours with just a few dogs for witnesses.”
    “The land’s not mine.”
    “Details,” she said, though he could see in the way she turned her gaze aside that she was just this minute registering the
     results of an equation Webster had solved weeks ago. Webster + Sheila + Baby = No Land. The land by itself was meaningless
     without Sheila and the baby. And he would need whatever was left of hissavings to help support the three of them when the baby came. He would take twenty-four-hour shifts if he had to.
    He watched her glance from the corner