The Cider House Rules (27 page)

He felt safer around the orphanage. Though he was frightened of Dr. Larch, the stationmaster became fairly aggressive in the presence of children and their imagined souls. Like most easily frightened people, the stationmaster was something of a bully when he perceived that he had the upper hand. “Damn kids,” he muttered, passing the girls’ division. He had trouble thinking of the girls’ division without imagining doing terrible things with that great big ruffian-girl—the destroyer, he called her. He’d had more than one night terror regarding her; she was often the model of the many bras and girdles in his dreams. He paused only briefly by the girls’ division, sniffing deeply—he thought he might catch some scent of Melony, the building wrecker—but the wind was too strong; the wind was everywhere. It is a Judgment Day wind! he thought, and walked quickly on. He was not going to stand still long enough for some terrible soul to enter him.

He was on the wrong side of the boys’ division to see the lighted window in Nurse Angela’s office, but he could look over the building, up the hillside, and see the light from the window illuminating the eroded, unplanted hill. He couldn’t see where the light was coming from, and this disquieted him; it seemed eerie how a light from nowhere was making the stripped hill glow all the way into the black edge of the woods.

The stationmaster could have wept at his own timidity, but he cursed himself instead; so much of his sleep was lost to fear, and the first train of the morning was such an early train. For most of the year, the train arrived when it was still dark. And those women who were on it, sometimes . . . the stationmaster shuddered. Those women in the loose clothes, always asking where the orphanage was—some of them back the same evening, their faces like ash, the color of so many of the faces in the stationmaster’s night terrors. Very nearly, he thought, the color of Clara’s face, though the stationmaster didn’t know her name. His one look at Clara had been so brief that it was unfair he should be doomed to see her so many times
since;
and each time, he saw more of her—in his dreams.

When the stationmaster heard what he thought were voices, he looked over the boys’ division at the lit hillside above St. Cloud’s, and that was when he saw the towering shadows of Wilbur Larch and Homer Wells—stretching, in the case of one, to the woods’ dark edge and, in the case of the other, stretching into the sky. The two giant figures flapped their huge, hill-spanning arms; whipped by the wind, the stationmaster caught the word “sorcerer!” It was then he knew that he could walk, or even run, all night—but he would
not
escape, not this time. The last thought that the stationmaster had was that the time for him, and for all the world, had come.

The next morning, the sea breeze still stirred St. Cloud’s. Even Melony noticed it; her usual grouchiness was suspended—she had trouble waking up, although she’d passed a wakeful night. She’d had the impression that all night an animal was prowling the grounds of the girls’ division, probably getting into the trash. And she’d been able to observe the two women walking up the hill from the train station in the predawn glow. The women were not speaking to each other—they probably didn’t know each other; they had certainly guessed each other’s circumstances. The women walked head down. They were both overdressed for the spring; Melony watched the wind press their baggy winter coats against the women’s bodies. They don’t
look
pregnant, Melony observed; she reminded herself to be on hand, at her favorite window, to watch the women heading down the hill for the evening train. With what they were giving up, Melony thought, one might expect their returning steps to be lighter; and, after all, they were heading downhill. But every time, the women walked more heavily down the hill than they had walked up it—it appeared they’d been given something to carry away with them. Their gait was quite the contrary from what one might expect in the gait of women who’d been, truly, scraped clean.

Scraped
not
so clean, maybe, Melony thought. Although Homer Wells had told her nothing, what trouble could exist that Melony couldn’t see? Whatever there was that glimmered of wrong, that shone of mistake—of loss, of hope abandoned, of the grim choices that were possible—Melony had an eye expertly trained to see this, and more.

She’d not yet set foot outdoors but she could tell something different was in the wind. She could not see the body of the stationmaster; he had fallen in the weeds by the delivery entrance to the boys’ division—which was little used; there was a separate delivery entrance for the hospital.

From his window-on-the-world, from Nurse Angela’s office, Dr. Larch could not have seen the weeds where the stationmaster lay stiffening, either. And it was not the stationmaster’s departed soul that troubled Larch that morning. He’d had other sleepless nights; sea breezes were rare, but he had felt them. There’d been a fight in the girls’ division that had required some stitching in one girl’s lip and in another girl’s eyebrow, but Wilbur Larch wasn’t worried about those girls. Homer Wells had done a very neat job with the lip; Larch had handled the eyebrow, which presented more of a problem with permanent scarring.

And the two women who were waiting for their abortions were very early in their respective pregnancies, and—in Nurse Edna’s judgment—both seemed robust and sane. And there was an almost cheerful woman from Damariscotta—she’d just begun her contractions, which appeared perfectly normal; she’d had one previous delivery, very routine, and so Larch anticipated no difficulty with her. He was thinking he’d have Homer deliver the Damariscotta woman because it looked straightforward and because the woman, Nurse Angela had said, had taken a particular liking to Homer; she had talked up a storm to him every second he’d been around her.

So what’s wrong? thought Wilbur Larch. Or if not wrong, different?

So what if the mail was late and the dining hall said there’d been no milk delivery? Larch didn’t know—and wouldn’t have cared—that the train station had been more than usually disorganized in the stationmaster’s absence; he didn’t know that the stationmaster was missing. Wilbur Larch had noticed no disturbance among the souls crowding the sky above St. Cloud’s. With the work he felt was his calling, Dr. Larch could not afford too rigorous a contemplation of the soul.

Previous to this morning, Homer Wells had not been presented with an occasion to contemplate the soul. A study of the soul had not been a part of his training. And since there were no windows in the room where Homer conducted his studies of Clara, it was not the stationmaster—or his soul—that suddenly presented itself to Homer Wells.

Dr. Larch had asked Homer to prepare a fetus for an autopsy.

A woman from Three Mile Falls had been stabbed, or she had stabbed herself; this was not unusual in Three Mile Falls but the pregnancy of the woman was nearly full-term—and the possibility of delivering a live baby from the dead woman had been unusual, even for Dr. Larch. He had attempted to rescue the child but the child—or, rather, the embryo, nearly nine months—had not escaped one of the stab wounds. Like its mother, the child (or the fetus, as Dr. Larch preferred) had bled to death. It would have been a boy—that much was clear to Homer Wells, or even to the untrained eye; whatever one called it, it was very nearly a fully developed baby. Dr. Larch had asked Homer to help him determine (more exactly than “bled to death”) the source of the fetus’s bleeding.

Homer Wells borrowed Dr. Larch’s sternum shears before he realized that a pair of heavy scissors was all he needed to open the fetus’s sternum. He cut straight up the middle, noticing immediately the slashed pulmonary artery; to his surprise, the wound was less than half an inch away from a wide-open ductus—in the fetus, the ductus arteriosus is half the size of the aorta, but Homer had never looked inside a fetus before; in the
born,
within ten days, the ductus becomes nothing but a fibrous thread. This change is initiated not by any mystery but by the first breath, which closes the ductus and opens the lungs. In the fetus, the ductus is a shunt—the blood bypasses the lungs on its way to the aorta.

It should not have been a shock for Homer Wells to see the evidence that a fetus has little need for blood in its lungs; a fetus doesn’t breathe. Yet Homer was shocked; the stab wound, at the base of the ductus, appeared as a second eye alongside the little opening of the ductus itself. The facts were straightforward enough: the ductus was wide open because this fetus had never taken its first breath.

What was the life of the embryo but a history of development? Homer attached a tiny, needle-nosed clamp to the severed pulmonary artery. He turned to the section in
Gray’s
devoted to the embryo. It was another shock for him to remember that
Gray’s
did not begin with the embryo; it ended with it. The embryo was the last thing considered.

Homer Wells had seen the products of conception in many stages of development: in rather whole form, on occasion, and in such partial form as to be barely recognizable, too. Why the old black-and-white drawings should have affected him so strongly, he could not say. In
Gray’s
there was the profile view of the head of a human embryo, estimated at twenty-seven days old. Not quick, as Dr. Larch would be quick to point out, and not recognizably human, either: what would be the spine was cocked, like a wrist, and where the knuckles of the fist (above the wrist) would be, there was the ill-formed face of a fish (the kind that lives below light, is never caught, could give you nightmares). The undersurface of the head of the embryo gaped like an eel—the eyes were at the sides of the head, as if they could protect the creature from an attack from any direction. In eight weeks, though still not quick, the fetus has a nose and a mouth; it has an expression, thought Homer Wells. And with this discovery—that a fetus, as early as eight weeks, has an
expression—
Homer Wells felt in the presence of what others call a soul.

He displayed the pulmonary artery of the baby from Three Mile Falls in a shallow, white enamel examining tray; he used two clamps to hold the chest incision open, and one more clamp to lift and expose the lacerated artery. The baby’s cheeks appeared deflated; someone’s invisible hands appeared to press its small face at its sides; it lay on its back, resting on its elbows—its forearms held stiffly perpendicular to its chest. The tiny fingers of its hands were slightly open—as if the baby were preparing to catch a ball.

Homer Wells did not care for the tattered appearance of the stump of the umbilical cord, which was also too long; he clipped it again, and tied it off neatly. There was a little caked blood on the tiny penis, and Homer cleaned this away. A spot of old blood on the bright white edge of the enamel tray came off easily with just a cotton swab dabbed with alcohol. The color of the dead baby, especially against the whiteness of the tray, was of something sallow-going-gray. Homer turned to the sink and vomited rather deftly in it. When he ran the faucet to clean the sink, the old pipes pounded and howled; he thought it was the pipes, or his dizziness, that made the room—the whole building—tremble. He wasn’t thinking about the wind from the coast—how strong it was!

He wasn’t blaming Dr. Larch, either. Homer felt there was nothing as simple as anyone’s fault involved; it was not Larch’s fault—Larch did what he believed in. If Wilbur Larch was a saint to Nurse Angela and to Nurse Edna, he was both a saint and a father to Homer Wells. Larch knew what he was doing—and for whom. But that quick and not-quick stuff: it didn’t work for Homer Wells. You can
call
it a fetus, or an embryo, or the products of conception, thought Homer Wells, but whatever you call it, it’s alive. And whatever you do to it, Homer thought—and whatever you call what you do—you’re killing it. He looked at the severed pulmonary artery, which was so perfectly displayed in the open chest of the baby from Three Mile Falls. Let Larch call it whatever he wants, thought Homer Wells. It’s his choice—if it’s a fetus, to him, that’s fine. It’s a baby to me, thought Homer Wells. If Larch has a choice, I have a choice, too.

He picked up the spotless tray and carried it into the hall, like a proud waiter carrying a special dish to a favorite guest. Curly Day, forever snot-nosed, was cruising in the corridor between the dispensary and Nurse Angela’s office. He was not allowed to be playing there, but Curly Day had a bored-every-minute look about him; he had the attention span of a rabbit. At the moment, Curly was dragging a cardboard carton through the corridor. It was the carton the new enema bags had come in; Homer recognized the carton because he had unpacked it.

“Whatcha got?” Curly Day asked Homer, who held the tray and the dead baby from Three Mile Falls at shoulder level; Curly Day came up to Homer’s waist. When Homer got close to the carton, he saw that it was not empty; David Copperfield, Junior, was in the bottom of the carton—Curly Day was giving him a ride.

“Get out of here, Curly,” Homer said.

“Gomer!” cried David Copperfield.

“It’s
Homer,
you idiot,” Curly Day said.

“Gomer!” David Copperfield cried.

“Get out of here, please,” Homer told them.

“Whatcha got?” Curly asked Homer. He reached upward, for the edge of the tray, but Homer picked off his dirty little hand; he grabbed Curly at the wrist and twisted Curly’s arm behind his back. Homer balanced the tray and its content expertly; Curly Day tried to struggle.

“Ow!” Curly cried. David Copperfield tried to stand up in the bottom of the carton, but he lost his balance and sat down.

Homer lifted Curly Day’s arm behind his back—just slightly higher than the right-angle mark—which caused Curly to bend over and rest his forehead on the edge of the enema-bag carton. “Cut it out,” Curly said.

“You’re leaving, Curly—right?” Homer asked.

“Yeah, yeah,” Curly said, and Homer let him go. “Tough guy,” Curly said.

“Right,” said Homer Wells.

“Gomer!” David Copperfield managed to say.

Curly Day wiped his nose on his disheveled sleeve. He jerked the carton so suddenly that David Copperfield rolled on his side. “Ack!” little Copperfield cried.