The Cider House Rules (17 page)

“Right,” Homer said, “there isn’t.”

“You
bet
there isn’t!” Melony cried, but her lips looked sore—even bruised—and he saw tears in the anger in her eyes. She yanked the mattress out from under him; then she folded it in half and threw it out the window. The mattress fell on the roof and stuck half through the hole the shutter had made. This seemed to enrage Melony: that the mattress hadn’t passed cleanly through to the river. She began to dismantle the bunk bed nearest her, crying while she worked. Homer Wells, as he had retreated from her outrage at the “gleams of sunshine,” retreated from her now. He sneaked down the weakened stairs; when he stepped on the porch, it gave a sharp creak and slumped in the direction of the river, momentarily throwing him off-balance. He heard what sounded like several bunk beds, or a part of a wall, landing on the roof above him; he fled for open ground. Melony must have seen him through the upstairs window.

“You promised me, Sunshine!” she screamed at him. “You promised you wouldn’t leave me! As long as I stay, you stay!”

“I promise!” he called to her, but he turned away and started down the river, along the bank, heading back to the occupied buildings of St. Cloud’s and to the orphanage on the hill above the river. He was still on the riverbank, near the water’s edge, when Melony managed to dislodge the overhanging porch (the porch roof went with it); he stood and watched what looked like half the building float downstream. Homer imagined that Melony—given time enough—could possibly rid the landscape of the entire town. But he didn’t stay to watch her ongoing efforts at destruction. He went directly to his bed in the sleeping room of the boys’ division. He lifted his mattress; he intended to throw the photograph away, but it was gone.

“It wasn’t me,” said Fuzzy Stone. Although it was midday, Fuzzy was still in the sleeping room, imprisoned in his humidified tent. That meant, Homer knew, that Fuzzy was having a kind of relapse. The tent, at night, was Fuzzy’s home, but when Fuzzy spent the day in the tent, the tent was referred to as his “treatment.” He had to have what Dr. Larch called “tests” all the time, too, and every day, everyone knew, he had to have a shot. Homer stood next to the flapping, breathing, gasping contraption and asked Fuzzy Stone where the photograph was. Homer was informed that John Wilbur had wet his bed so thoroughly that Nurse Angela had told him to lie down on Homer’s bed while she replaced the ruined mattress. John Wilbur had found the photograph; he showed it to Fuzzy and to a few of the other boys who were around—among them, Wilbur Walsh and Snowy Meadows; Snowy had thrown up.

“Then what happened?” Homer asked Fuzzy, who was already out of breath. Fuzzy was nine; next to Homer Wells, he was the oldest orphan in the boys’ division. Fuzzy said that Nurse Angela had come back with a fresh mattress for John Wilbur and
she
had seen the photograph; naturally, she’d taken it away. Of course, John Wilbur had told her where he’d found it. By now, Homer knew, Nurse Edna would have seen it, and Dr. Larch would have seen it, too. It crossed Homer’s mind to go find John Wilbur and hit him, but the boy was too small—he would only pee; there would be this new evidence against Homer.

“But what
was
it?” Fuzzy Stone gasped to Homer.

“I thought you saw it,” Homer said.

“I saw it, but what
was
it?” Fuzzy repeated. He looked genuinely frightened.

Snowy Meadows had thought that the woman was eating the pony’s intestines, Fuzzy explained; Wilbur Walsh had run away. John Wilbur had probably peed some more, thought Homer Wells. “What were they
doing
?” Fuzzy Stone pleaded. “The woman,” Fuzzy said with a gasp, “how
could
she? How could she
breathe
?” Fuzzy asked breathlessly. He was wheezing badly when Homer left him. In the daylight Fuzzy seemed almost transparent, as if—if you held him up to a bright enough source of light—you could see right through him, see all his frail organs working to save him.

Dr. Larch was not in Nurse Angela’s office, where Homer had expected to find him; Homer was thankful that Nurse Edna and Nurse Angela were not around; he felt especially ashamed to face them. Outside the hospital entrance he could see Nurse Angela talking to the man who hauled away the nonburnable trash. The issue of their conversation was John Wilbur’s old mattress. Homer went to the dispensary to see if Dr. Larch was there.

It had been quite a day for Wilbur Larch, who had reclined on his hospital bed in the dispensary with a gauze cone that was more heavily saturated with ether than was his usual habit. The reported vandalism to the so-called sawyer’s lodge had upset Larch less than it had disturbed certain townspeople who had witnessed the damage done by Homer and Melony—mostly by Melony, Dr. Larch was sure. What are abandoned buildings for? Dr. Larch wondered—if not for kids to vandalize, a little? The report that half the building had floated downriver was surely exaggerated.

He inhaled and thought about what had really upset him: that photograph. That woman with the pony.

Larch was not bothered that Homer Wells had the picture; teenagers were interested in that kind of thing. Larch knew that Homer never would have shown it to the younger boys; that Homer had kept such a photograph meant to Wilbur Larch that it was time Homer was given more serious, adult responsibilities. It was time to step up the apprenticeship.

And the photograph itself—to Larch—was not that upsetting. After all, he had worked in the South End. Such photographs were everywhere; in Wilbur Larch’s days at the Boston Lying-In, such pictures cost a dime.

What troubled Larch was the particular woman in the photograph; he had no trouble recognizing Mrs. Eames’s brave daughter. Larch had seen her cheeks puffed out before—she was a veteran cigar smoker, no stranger to putting terrible things in her mouth. And when she’d been brought to his door with acute peritonitis, the result of whatever unspeakable injuries she had suffered “Off Harrison,” her eyes had bulged then. To look at the photograph reminded Larch of the life she must have had; it reminded him, too, that he could have eased the pain of her life—just a little—by giving her an abortion. The photograph reminded Larch of a life he could have—even if only momentarily—saved. Mrs. Eames’s tragic daughter should have been his first abortion patient.

Wilbur Larch looked at the photograph and wondered if Mrs. Eames’s daughter had been paid enough for posing with the pony to be able to afford the abortion fee “Off Harrison.” Probably not, he concluded—it wasn’t even a very good photograph. Whoever had posed the participants had been careless with the young woman’s stunning, dark pigtail; it could have been draped over her shoulder, or even been made to lie near her breast, where its darkness would have accented the whiteness of her skin. It could have been flung straight back, behind her head, which at least would have emphasized the pigtail’s unusual thickness and length. Obviously, no one had been thinking about the pigtail. It lay off to the side of Mrs. Eames’s daughter’s face, curled in a shadow that was cast by one of the pony’s stout, short, shaggy legs. In the photograph, the pigtail was lost; you had to know Mrs. Eames’s daughter to know what that dark shape off to the side of the woman’s straining face was.

“I’m sorry,” Larch said, inhaling. Mrs. Eames’s daughter did not respond, so he said again, “I’m sorry.” He exhaled. He thought he heard her calling him.

“Doctor Larch!”

“Rhymes with screams,” Wilbur Larch murmured. He took the deepest possible breath. His hand lost touch with the cone, which rolled off his face and under the bed.

“Doctor Larch?” Homer Wells said again. The smell of ether in the dispensary seemed unusually strong to Homer, who passed through the labyrinth of medicine chests to see if Dr. Larch was on his bed.

“Shit or get off the pot!” he heard Dr. Larch say. (Inhale, exhale.) “I’m sorry,” Dr. Larch said when he saw Homer beside his bed. He sat up too fast; he felt very light-headed; the room was swimming. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“That’s okay,” said Homer Wells. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“Rhymes with screams,” said Wilbur Larch.

“Pardon me?” said Homer Wells.

In the closed dispensary, a fragrant mothball sent its vapory messages everywhere.

“Sit down, Homer,” said Dr. Larch, who realized that Homer was already sitting beside him on the bed. Larch wished his head was clearer; he knew this was an important confrontation for the boy. Homer expected to be reprimanded, and not in uncertain terms, but Larch feared he might not be in the best shape for sounding certain.

“Vandalism!” Larch launched in. “Pornography!” Now there’s a start, he thought, but the boy sitting beside him just waited patiently. Larch took a gulp of what he hoped was clearer air; the fragrance of ether was still heavily present in the dispensary; the air in the immediate vicinity was alternately drowsy and sparkling with little stars.

“Vandalism is one thing, Homer,” Larch said. “And pornography—quite another.”

“Right,” said Homer Wells—growing older, learning something new every day.

“More central to our relationship, Homer, is the issue of you deceiving me. Right?”

“Right,” Homer said.

“Fine,” Larch said.

The stars sparkled so brightly on the ceiling of the dispensary that for a moment Dr. Larch thought that their dialogue was taking place under the nighttime firmament. He tipped his head back, to escape the fumes, but he lost his balance and fell back on the bed.

“Are you okay?” Homer asked him.

“Fine!” Larch boomed heartily. Then he started to laugh.

It was the first time Homer Wells had heard Dr. Larch laugh.

“Listen, Homer,” Dr. Larch said, but he giggled. “If you’re old enough to vandalize whole buildings and masturbate to pictures of women giving blow jobs to ponies, then you’re old enough to be my assistant!” This struck Larch as so funny that he doubled up on the bed. Homer thought it was a funny thing to say, too, and he began to smile. “You don’t get it, do you?” Larch asked, still giggling. “You don’t get what I mean.” He lay on his back and waved his feet in the air while the firmament of stars circled above them. “I’m going to teach you surgery!” Larch shouted at Homer, which dissolved both of them into tears of laughter. “Obstetrical procedure, Homer,” Larch said; Homer, now, fell back on the bed, too. “The Lord’s work
and
the Devil’s, Homer!” Larch said, hooting. “The
works
!” he screamed. Homer started to cough, he was laughing so hard. He was surprised when Larch—like a magician—produced the photograph of the woman and the pony and waved it in front of him. “If you’re old enough even to contemplate this,” Larch said, “you’re old enough to have a grown-up’s job!” This cracked up Larch so completely that he had to hand the photograph to Homer Wells—or else he would have dropped it.

“Listen, Homer,” Larch said. “You’re going to finish medical school before you start high school!” This was especially funny to Homer, but Dr. Larch suddenly grew serious. He snatched the photograph back from Homer. “Look at this,” he commanded. They sat on the edge of the bed and Larch held the photograph steady on his knee. “I’ll show you what you don’t know. Look at that!” he said, pointing to the pigtail, obscured in the shadow of the pony’s leg. “What is it?” he asked Homer Wells. “Teen-agers: you think you know everything,” Larch said threateningly. Homer caught the new tone of voice; he paid close attention to this part of the picture he’d never looked at before—a stain on the rug, maybe, or was it a pool of blood from the woman’s ear?

“Well?” Larch asked. “It’s not in
David Copperfield.
It’s not in
Jane Eyre,
either—what you need to know,” he added almost nastily.

The medical slant of the conversation convinced Homer Wells that it
was
a pool of blood in the photograph—that only a doctor could recognize it so positively. “Blood,” Homer said. “The woman’s bleeding.” Larch ran with the photograph to the lamp at the dispensary counter.

“Blood?” Larch said. “Blood!” He looked the photograph all over. “That’s not blood, you idiot! That’s a pigtail!” He showed the photograph once more to Homer Wells; it would be Homer’s last look at the photograph, though Dr. Larch would look at it often. He would keep it attached to the pages of
A Brief History of St. Cloud’s;
he did not keep it for pornographic interest but because it reminded him of a woman he had abused twice. He had slept with her mother in front of her, and he had not provided her with a service that she had every right to request. He had not been a proper doctor to her, and he wanted to remember her. That he was forced to remember her with a pony’s penis in her mouth made Dr. Larch’s mistakes all the more forcefully mistakes to him; Larch liked it that way.

He was a hard man—on himself, too.

He took a harder line toward Homer Wells than the hilarity of his promises to the boy at first suggested—to teach him “the works,” as Larch called it, was not so funny. Surgery, obstetrical procedure—even a normal birth, even the standard D and C—required considerable background and preparation.

“You think it’s tough to look at a woman with a pony’s penis in her mouth, Homer?” Larch asked him the next day—when he was not under the influence of ether. “You ought to look at something that’s harder to understand than that. Here,” Larch said, handing Homer the well-worn copy of
Gray’s Anatomy,
“look at this. Look at it three or four times a day, and every night. Forget pony penises, and learn this.”

“Here in St. Cloud’s,” wrote Dr. Wilbur Larch, “I have had little use for my
Gray’s Anatomy;
but in France, in World War I, I used it every day. It was the only road map I had over there.”

Larch also gave Homer his personal handbook of obstetrical procedure, his notebooks from medical school and from his internships; he began with the chemistry lectures and the standard textbook. He set aside a corner of the dispensary for a few easy experiments in bacteriology, although the sight of Petri dishes caused Larch flashes of no uncertain pain; he was not fond of the world there was to be seen under the microscope. Larch was also not fond of Melony—specifically, he was not fond of her apparent hold on Homer Wells. Larch assumed that they slept together; he assumed that Melony had initiated him, which was true, and now forced him to continue, which was not the case. In time, they would sleep together, albeit routinely, and that hold that Dr. Larch imagined Melony had on Homer was balanced by a hold Homer had on Melony (Homer’s promise to her, which Larch couldn’t see). He saw Melony as Mrs. Grogan’s responsibility, and he was unaware how his responsibility for Homer Wells might cloud his other responsibilities.