The Cider House Rules (37 page)

“Nope,” Melony said. “I got things to do.” She waved the copy of
Little Dorrit
a trifle threateningly. “And I gotta look at what I’m gonna read tonight,” she added.

She went back to the girls’ division, to her window there, while Dr. Larch set Mary Agnes’s collarbone. Melony tried again to comprehend the power of the sun in Marseilles.

“The very dust was scorched brown,” she read to herself, “and something quivered in the atmosphere as if the air itself were panting.” Oh, Sunshine, she thought, why didn’t you take me anywhere? It wouldn’t have to have been to France, although that would have been nice.

She daydreamed as she read and therefore she missed the transition between the “universal stare” of the sun in Marseilles and the atmosphere of the prison in the same town. Suddenly, she discovered she was in the prison. “A prison taint was on everything . . .” she read. “Like a well, like a vault, like a tomb, the prison had no knowledge of the brightness outside . . .” She stopped reading. She left
Little Dorrit
on her pillow. She stripped a pillowcase off a bed neater than her own, and into the pillowcase she stuffed her canvas bag of toilet articles and some clothes. She also put
Jane Eyre
in the bag.

In Mrs. Grogan’s rather Spartan room, Melony had no difficulty locating Mrs. Grogan’s purse—she robbed Mrs. Grogan of her money (there wasn’t much), and also took Mrs. Grogan’s heavy winter coat (in the summer, the coat would be useful if she had to sleep on the ground). Mrs. Grogan was still at the hospital, worrying about Mary Agnes Cork’s collarbone; Melony would have liked to say good-bye to Mrs. Grogan (even after robbing her), but she knew the train schedule by heart—actually, she knew it by ear; the sound of every arrival and departure reached her window.

At the train station she bought a ticket only as far as Livermore Falls. She knew that even the new and stupid young stationmaster would be able to remember that, and he would tell Dr. Larch and Mrs. Grogan that Melony had gone to Livermore Falls. She also knew that once she was on the train she could purchase a ticket to some place much farther away than Livermore Falls. Can I afford Portland? she wondered. It was the coast that she would need to explore, eventually—because, below the Cadillac’s gold monogram on that Red Delicious apple, inscribed (also in gold) against the vivid green background of the apple leaf, she had been able to read OCEAN VIEW ORCHARDS. That had to be within sight of the coast, and the Cadillac had a Maine license plate. It mattered not to Melony that there were thousands of miles of coastline in the state of Maine. As her train pulled away from St. Cloud’s, Melony said to herself—so vehemently that her breath fogged the window and obscured the abandoned buildings in that forsaken town from her view—“I’m gonna find you, Sunshine.”

Dr. Larch tried to comfort Mrs. Grogan, who said she wished only that she’d had more money for Melony to steal. “And my coat’s not waterproof,” Mrs. Grogan complained. “She should have a real raincoat in this state.”

Dr. Larch tried to reassure Mrs. Grogan; he asserted that Melony was not a little girl. “She’s twenty-four or twenty-five,” Larch reminded Mrs. Grogan.

“I think her heart is broken,” said Mrs. Grogan miserably.

Dr. Larch pointed out that Melony had taken
Jane Eyre
with her; he accepted this as a hopeful sign—wherever Melony went, she would not be without guidance, she would not be without love, without faith; she had a good book with her. If only she’ll keep reading it, and reading it, Larch thought.

The book that Melony had left behind was a puzzle to both Mrs. Grogan and Dr. Larch. They read the dedication to Homer “Sunshine” Wells, which touched Mrs. Grogan deeply.

Neither of them had any luck reading
Little Dorrit,
either. Mrs. Grogan never would get to the “villainous” prison; the staring sun in Marseilles outstared her, it was too powerfully blinding. Dr. Larch, who—in the absence of Homer Wells
and
Melony—resumed his responsibilities as the nightly reader to both the boys’ and the girls’ divisions, attempted to read
Little Dorrit
to the girls; wasn’t the main character a girl? But the contrast between the scorched air in the Marseilles sun and the tainted air in the Marseilles prison created such a powerful sleeplessness among the girls that Larch was relieved to give up on the book in Chapter Three, which had an unfortunate title, for orphans: “Home.” He began the description of London on a Sunday evening—hounded by church bells.

“ ‘Melancholy streets, in a penitential garb of soot,’ ” read Dr. Larch, and then he stopped; we need no more melancholy here, he thought.

“Wouldn’t we rather wait, and read
Jane Eyre
again?” Dr. Larch asked; the girls nodded eagerly.

Knowing that the beautiful boy with the face of a benefactor must have a mother with the heart for
benefiting
those who existed in (as she had written herself) “less fortunate circumstances,” Dr. Larch wrote Olive Worthington.

My Dear Mrs. Worthington,

Here in St. Cloud’s, we depend on our few luxuries and imagine (and pray) they will last forever. If you would be so kind, please tell Homer that his friend Melony has left us—her whereabouts are unknown—and that she took with her our only copy of
Jane Eyre.
The orphans in the girls’ division were accustomed to hearing this book read aloud—in fact, Homer used to read to them. If Homer could discover a replacement copy, the little girls and I would remain in his debt. In other parts of the world, there are bookshops . . .

Thus, Larch knew, he had accomplished two things. Olive Worthington herself would send him a replacement
Jane Eyre
(he doubted very much that it would be a secondhand copy), and Homer would receive the important message: Melony was out. She was loose in the world. Larch thought that Homer should know this, that he might want to keep an eye open for her.

As for
Little Dorrit,
Nurse Edna read Melony’s inscription and wept. She was not a big reader, Edna; she penetrated no farther than the inscription. Nurse Angela had already been defeated by Dickens; she blinked once, briefly, at the sun in Marseilles and failed to turn the page.

For years Candy’s unread copy would rest in Nurse Angela’s office; those nervously awaiting interviews with Dr. Larch would pick up
Little Dorrit
as they would pick up a magazine—restlessly, inattentively. Larch rarely kept anyone waiting past the first glare of the sun. And most preferred to scan the odd assortment of catalogues. The seeds, the fishing equipment, the stupendous undergarments—the latter modeled in an otherworldly way: on those headless, legless, armless stumps that were the period’s version of the standard dressmaker’s dummy.

“In other parts of the world,” Dr. Larch began once, “they have nursing bras.” But this thought led him nowhere; it fell as a fragment into the many, many pages of
A Brief History of St. Cloud’s.

Little Dorrit
seemed condemned to an unread life. Even Candy, who replaced her stolen copy (and always wondered what happened to it), would never finish the book, although it was required reading for her class. She, too, could not navigate past the sun’s initial assault on her senses; she suspected her difficulty with the book arose from its power to remind her of her discomfort on the long journey to and from St. Cloud’s—and of what had happened to her there.

She would especially remember the ride back to the coast—how she’d stretched out in the back seat, with only the dash lights of the Cadillac and the glowing ash end of Wally’s cigarette shining bright but small in the surrounding darkness. The tires of the big car hummed soothingly; she was grateful for Homer’s presence because she didn’t have to talk to—or listen to—Wally. She couldn’t even hear what Wally and Homer were saying to each other. “Life stories,” Wally would say to her later. “That kid’s had quite a life, but I should let him tell you.”

The drone of their conversation was as rhythmic as the tire song, but—as weary as she was—she couldn’t sleep. She thought about how much she was bleeding—maybe more than she should be, she worried. Between St. Cloud’s and the coast, she asked Wally three times to stop the car. She kept checking her bleeding and changing the pad; Dr. Larch had given her quite a few pads—but would there be enough, and how much bleeding was too much? She looked at the back of Homer’s head. If it’s worse tomorrow, or as bad the next day, she thought, I’ll have to ask him.

When Wally went to the men’s room and left them alone in the car, Homer spoke to her, but he didn’t turn around. “You’re probably having cramps, about as bad as you get with your period,” he said. “You’re probably bleeding, but not like you bleed during your period—nothing near what it is, at your heaviest time. If the stains on the pad are only two or three inches in diameter, that’s okay. It’s expected.”

“Thank you,” Candy whispered.

“The bleeding should taper off tomorrow, and get much lighter the next day. If you’re worried, you should ask me,” he said.

“Okay,” Candy said. She felt so strange: that a boy her own age should know this much about her.

“I’ve never seen a lobster,” said Homer Wells, to change the subject—to allow her to be the authority.

“Then you’ve never eaten one, either,” Candy said cheerfully.

“I don’t know if I want to eat something I’ve never seen,” Homer said, and Candy laughed. She was laughing when Wally got back in the car.

“We’re talking about lobsters,” Homer explained.

“Oh, they’re hilarious,” Wally said, and all three of them laughed.

“Wait till you see one!” Candy said to Homer. “He’s never seen one!” she told Wally.

“They’re even funnier when you see them,” Wally said. Candy’s laughter hurt her; she stopped very suddenly, but Homer laughed more. “And wait till they try to talk to you,” Wally added. “Lobsters really break me up, every time they try to talk.”

When he and Wally stopped laughing, Homer said, “I’ve never seen the ocean, you know.”

“Candy, did you hear that?” Wally asked, but Candy had released herself with her brief laughter; she was sound asleep. “You’ve
never
seen the ocean?” Wally asked Homer.

“That’s right,” said Homer Wells.

“That’s not funny,” said Wally seriously.

“Right,” Homer said.

A little later, Wally said, “You want to drive for a while?”

“I don’t know how to drive,” Homer said.

“Really?” Wally asked. And later still—it was almost midnight—Wally asked, “Uh, have you ever been with a girl—made love to one, you know?” But Homer Wells had also felt released: he had laughed out loud with his new friends. The young but veteran insomniac had fallen asleep. Would Wally have been surprised to know that Homer hadn’t laughed out loud with friends before, either? And possibly Homer would have had difficulty characterizing his relationship with Melony as a relationship based on making love.

What a new sense of security Homer had felt in that moment of laughter with friends in the enclosed dark of the moving car, and what a sense of freedom the car itself gave to him—its seemingly effortless journeying was a wonder to Homer Wells, for whom the idea of motion (not to mention the sense of change) was accomplished only rarely and only with enormous strife.

“Candy?” Wally whispered. And a little later, he whispered, “Homer?” He rather liked the idea of steering these two through the blackened world, of being their guide through the night, and their protector from whatever lay just beyond the headlights’ reach.

“Well, buddy,” Wally said to the sleeping Homer Wells, “it’s high time you had some
fun.
”

Wilbur Larch, almost a month later—still waiting to hear from Homer Wells and too proud to write the first letter—wondered about the “fun” Homer was having. Swimming lessons! he thought. What does one wear for swimming in a heated pool? How do they heat the pool, and how much do they heat it?

In 194_, the pool at the Haven Club was the first heated swimming pool in Maine. Although Raymond Kendall thought it was ridiculous to heat water for purposes other than cooking and bathing, he had invented the heating system for the Haven Club pool. It was just an exercise in mechanics for Ray.

“If you learn to swim in the ocean,” Ray told Homer, “you’ll learn the proper response for a body to make to all that water.”

“But
you
don’t know how to swim, Daddy,” Candy said.

“That’s what I mean,” Ray said, winking at Homer Wells. “You set foot in the ocean, or fall in, you’ll have enough sense never to set foot in it again—it’s too cold!”

Homer liked Candy’s father, perhaps because surgery is the mechanics of medicine and Homer’s early training had been surgical. He made instant identification with the machinery with which Ray Kendall worked, both the apple farm equipment and the mechanisms for hauling the lobsters and keeping them alive.

Contrary to Wally’s promise to him regarding the humor of lobsters, Homer was unamused by his first look at the creatures. They crammed the tank in Ray Kendall’s lobster pound, crawling over each other, their claws pegged shut so that they wielded them underwater like ineffective clubs. Homer knew he had seen a good reason for learning how to swim. If one ever fell in the sea, one wouldn’t want to fall to the bottom where these creatures lived. It was some while before Homer learned that the lobsters did not cover the ocean’s floor in such density as they occupied the tank. The first question that leaped to his mind did not concern how a lobster ate or how it multiplied—but why it lived at all.

“There’s got to be something that picks up what’s lying around,” Ray Kendall advised Homer.

“It’s the garbage monster of the ocean’s floor,” Wally said laughing—he always laughed when he discussed lobster.

“The sea gull cleans up the shore,” Ray Kendall said. “The lobster cleans up the bottom.”

“Lobsters and sea gulls,” Candy said, “they take what’s left over.”

Wilbur Larch might have observed that they were given the orphan’s share. This occurred to Homer Wells, who discovered he could spend time watching lobsters, with dread, and sea gulls, with pleasure—while watching both with awe and respect.