The Cider House Rules (33 page)

It meant more to her than she could ever admit to herself: that Homer had promised never to leave St. Cloud’s without her.

Then she saw Wally; he was walking toward the Cadillac, in the direction of the hospital entrance, but he kept turning around to look at the hill. In his mind, he saw the orchard at harvest time—the long ladders were in the trees, the pickers were the orphans themselves. The bushel crates were stacked in the rows between the trees; in one row a tractor towed a flatbed trailer already heavy with apples. It looked like a good crop.

Where will they get a tractor? Wally wondered. He tripped, caught his balance, looked where he was walking—toward the abandoned Cadillac. Melony was gone. She’d lost her nerve. The thought of confronting that handsome young man, alone—she wasn’t sure if she could have tolerated his indifference. If he’d been clearly appalled by her appearance, that wouldn’t have bothered Melony; she rather enjoyed her ability to shock people. But she could not bear the thought that he might not even notice her. And if he’d handed her a jar of honey, she’d have cracked his skull with it. Nobody honeys me, she thought
—Little Dorrit
slipped inside her shirt, against her thudding heart.

She crossed the road between the boys’ and girls’ divisions just as the stationmaster’s assistant was climbing the same road, toward the hospital. At first she didn’t recognize him—he was so dressed up. To Melony he was just a simpleton in overalls, a busybody who tried to fashion for himself an air of self-importance out of what Melony imagined was the world’s stupidest job: watching for trains to arrive, and then watching them leave. The loneliness of the railroad station depressed Melony; she avoided the place. You went there for one thing: to leave. But to stand there all day, imagining leaving—could there be anything sadder, or more stupid, than that? And now here was this oaf, still wearing his year-long effort to grow a moustache, but dressed to kill—well, no, Melony realized: he’s dressed for a funeral.

That was it: the plain but ambitious boy had been impressed by the white Cadillac; he’d conceived that the stationmaster’s job was his for the taking if he exhibited a proper and adult solemnity regarding the stationmaster’s passing. He was terrified of Dr. Larch, and the idea of pregnant women made him feel furtive; but he had imagined that paying his respects at the orphanage, where the stationmaster’s body reposed, was a grueling but necessary rite of passage. The spit-up smell he associated with babies made him nauseous, too; an unusual bravery had guided him to the orphanage, giving his silly, young face an almost adult countenance—except for the silky smudge that marred his upper lip and made all his efforts at manhood ridiculous. He had also burdened himself for the uphill climb by carrying all the catalogues; the stationmaster wouldn’t be needing them now, and his assistant imagined that he could ingratiate himself to Dr. Larch by bringing the catalogues as a present—a kind of peace offering. He had not bothered to consider what use Wilbur Larch would have for seeds and lingerie, or how the old doctor would respond to declarations regarding the peril of souls—his own and many restless others.

The two orphans the stationmaster’s assistant most despised were Homer and Melony. Homer, because his serenity gave him a confident, adult appearance that the assistant felt powerless to achieve; and Melony, because she mocked him. Now, to make a bad day worse, here was Melony—blocking his way.

“What’s that on your lip? A fungus?” Melony asked him. “Maybe you should wash it.” She was bigger than the stationmaster’s assistant, especially now that she stood uphill from him. He tried to ignore her.

“I’ve come to view the body,” he said with dignity—had he any sense, he should have known these words were ill chosen for presentation to Melony.

“Wanna view
my
body?” she asked him. “I’m not kidding,” she added, when she saw how lost he was, and frightened. Melony had an instinct for pressing any advantage, but she relented when her adversary was too easy. She saw that the stationmaster’s assistant would go on standing in the road until he dropped from fatigue, and so she stepped aside for him, and said, “I
was
kidding.”

He stumbled ahead, blushing, and had almost turned the corner by the boys’ division when she called after him, “You’d have to
shave
before I’d
let
you!” He staggered slightly, causing Melony to marvel at her power; then he turned the corner and felt himself uplifted by the gleaming Cadillac—by what he mistook for the white hearse. If, at that moment, a choir had erupted into heavenly voice, the assistant would have fallen to his knees, the catalogues spilling around him. The same light that blessed the Cadillac seemed to shine forth from the blond hair of the powerful-looking young man: the driver of the hearse. Now
there
was a responsibility that awed the stationmaster’s assistant!

He approached Wally carefully. Wally was leaning on the Cadillac, smoking a cigarette and intently visualizing an apple orchard in St. Cloud’s. The stationmaster’s assistant, who looked like a mortician’s ghoulish lackey, surprised Wally.

“I’ve come to view the body,” the assistant said.

“The body?” Wally said. “
What
body?”

A fear of embarrassing himself almost paralyzed the stationmaster’s assistant. The world, he imagined, was brimming with etiquette beyond his grasp; obviously, it had been tactless to mention the body of the deceased to the very man who was responsible for safely driving the dead away.

“A thousand pardons!” the assistant blurted; it had been something he’d read.

“A thousand
what
?” Wally said, growing alarmed.

“How thoughtless of me,” said the stationmaster’s assistant, bowing unctuously and sliding toward the hospital entrance.

“Has someone
died
?” Wally asked anxiously, but the assistant managed to slip inside the hospital entrance, where he quickly hid himself in a corner of the wall and wondered what to do next. Clearly, he’d upset the high-strung and fine-tuned feelings of the hearse driver. This is a delicate business, the assistant thought, trying to calm himself. What mistake will I make next? He cowered in the corner of the hall, where he could smell ether wafting from the nearby dispensary; he had no idea that the body he wished to “view” was less than fifteen feet from him. He thought he could smell babies, too—he heard one bawling. He thought that babies were born while women had their legs straight up, the soles of their feet facing the ceiling; this vision pinned him to the corner of the hall. I smell blood! he imagined, struggling to control his panic. He clung to the wall like so much plaster—so much so that Wally failed to notice him when he came in the hospital entrance, worried about who had died. Wally entered the dispensary, as if drawn to the ether—although he quickly felt his nausea returning. He apologized to the feet of the stationmaster.

“Oh, excuse me,” Wally whispered, reeling back into the hall.

He heard Nurse Angela talking to Candy, who was already able to sit up. Wally barged in on them, but the look of relief on his face—to see that Candy was not the person rumored to be dead—was so touching to Nurse Angela that she wasn’t even cross with him for intruding.

“Please come in,” she said to Wally, in her best hospital voice, which was first-person plural. “We’re feeling much better now,” Nurse Angela said. “We’re not quite ready to jump around, but we’re sitting up nicely—aren’t we?” she asked Candy, who smiled. Candy was so clearly glad to see Wally that Nurse Angela felt she should leave them alone. St. Cloud’s did not have a great and tender history regarding the presence of couples in that operating room, and Nurse Angela was both surprised and happy to see a man and a woman who loved each other. I can clean up later, she thought—or I’ll ask Homer to do it.

Homer and Dr. Larch were talking. Nurse Edna had taken the Damariscotta woman back to her bed in the maternity ward, and Dr. Larch was examining the baby Homer Wells had delivered—young Steerforth (a name Larch had already criticized; there was some villainy in the character of Steerforth—or had Homer forgotten that part?—and there was also a death by drowning; it was more of a brand than a name, in Dr. Larch’s opinion). But they weren’t talking anymore about Steerforth.

“Wally said it would take just a couple of days,” Homer Wells was saying. “We’ll have to load a truck, I guess. There’s going to be forty trees. And I’d like to see the coast.”

“Of course, you should go, Homer—it’s a great opportunity,” Dr. Larch said. He poked Steerforth in the belly with a finger; then he tempted Steerforth into gripping one of his other fingers; then he shone a little light in Steerforth’s eyes.

“I’d be gone just two days,” Homer Wells said.

Wilbur Larch shook his head; at first Homer thought there was something wrong with Steerforth. “
Maybe
just two days, Homer,” Dr. Larch said. “You should be prepared to take advantage of the situation, you should not let an opportunity pass you by—in just two days.”

Homer stared at Dr. Larch, but Larch was peering into Steerforth’s ears. “If this young couple likes you, Homer, and if you like them . . . well,” Larch said, “I think you’ll be meeting their parents, too, and if their parents like you . . . well,” said Dr. Larch, “I think you should try to
make
their parents like you.”

He would not look at Homer, who was staring at him; Dr. Larch examined the tied end of the umbilical while Steerforth cried and cried.

“I think we both know it would do you good to get away for more than two days, Homer,” Dr. Larch said. “You understand, I’m not talking about an adoption, I’m talking about the possibility of a summer job—for a start. Someone might offer you the means to stay away for more than two days—that’s all I’m saying—if that’s an attractive prospect.” Dr. Larch looked at Homer; they stared at each other.

“Right,” Homer finally said.

“Of course, you might
want
to come back in two days!” Larch said heartily—but they looked away from each other, as they chose to look away from the likelihood of that. “In which case,” Larch said, washing his hands, “you know you’re always welcome here.” He left the room, and Homer with the baby—too quickly, again, for Homer to say how much he loved him. The cowering stationmaster’s assistant watched Wilbur Larch take Nurse Angela and Nurse Edna into the dispensary.

Perhaps, despite the stationmaster’s presence, the etherized atmosphere of the dispensary was comforting to Wilbur Larch, and helped him say to his loyal nurses what he needed to say.

“I want to pool our resources,” said Wilbur Larch. “I want the boy to have as much money as we can scrounge together, and whatever there is in the way of clothing that looks halfway decent.”

“Just for two days, Wilbur?” Nurse Edna asked.

“How much money does the boy need for two days?” Nurse Angela asked.

“It’s an opportunity for him, don’t you see?” Dr. Larch asked. “I don’t think he’ll be back here in two days. I hope he
doesn’t
come back—at least, not that soon,” said Wilbur Larch, whose breaking heart reminded him of what he’d forgotten: the story of Homer’s “weak” heart. How could he tell him? Where and when?

He crossed the hall to see how Candy was coming along. He knew that she and Wally wanted to leave as soon as possible; they had a long drive ahead of them. And if Homer Wells is leaving me, thought Wilbur Larch, he’d better leave me in a hurry—although twenty years, Dr. Larch knew, wasn’t what most would have called a hurried departure. Homer had to leave in a hurry, now, because Dr. Larch needed to see if he would ever get over it.

I don’t think so, he thought. He checked the spotting on the sterile vulval pad—while Wally looked at the ceiling, at his hands, at the floor. “You’re doing just fine,” Dr. Larch told Candy. He was about to tell her that Homer could advise her about any cramps she suffered, and that Homer could also check her for spotting, but he wanted to leave Homer free of that responsibility. Also, Dr. Larch couldn’t at the moment have said Homer’s name.

“They’re taking
you
?” Curly Day asked Homer, when Curly saw Homer packing.

“I’m
not
being adopted, Curly,” said Homer Wells. “I’ll be back in just two days.”

“They’re taking
you
!” said Curly Day; his face looked so stricken, Homer had to turn away.

Dr. Larch was an amateur historian, but he nonetheless understood the power of information that is received indirectly. For that reason, he told Candy and Wally about Homer’s weak heart. It was not only easier for Dr. Larch than lying to Homer; in the long run, Larch suspected, the story would be more convincing.

“I’ve never let him go before—not even for just two days—without saying just a little about his
condition,
” Dr. Larch told Candy and Wally. A wonderful word:
condition.
The effect of the word in a doctor’s mouth is truly astonishing. Candy seemed to forget she’d just had an abortion; the color came back to Wally’s face. “It’s his heart,” said Wilbur Larch. “I’ve not told him about it because I haven’t wanted to worry him. It’s the sort of condition that could be made worse by his worrying about it,” Dr. Larch confided to these two good-hearted innocents, who gave him their rapt attention.

“Just so he’s not exposed to anything too strenuous, or to anything too violent in the way of exercise—or to anything too shocking,” said Wilbur Larch, who had created a perfect history for someone who simply needed to be careful—who needed to stay out of danger. Larch had given his favorite orphan a history that he hoped would keep him safe. He was aware that it was a history a father would construct for his son—if a father could make his son believe it.

Homer Wells, at the moment, couldn’t construct a history or anything else that would be soothing to Curly Day, who buried himself under several pillows and a blanket and sobbed.

“What do
you
need to be adopted for?” Curly cried. “You’re practically a
doctor
!”