The Cider House Rules (60 page)

“Do you think I’m having a good time?” she asked him. “Do you think I’m teasing you? Do you think I
know
whether I want you or Wally?”

He drove back to Cape Kenneth Hospital; he needed work more substantial than mousing. It was the Goddamn mousing season again—how he hated handling the poison!

He arrived simultaneously with a sailor slashed up in a knife fight; it had happened where Ray worked—in Kittery Navy Yard—and the sailor’s buddies had driven him around in a makeshift tourniquet, running out of gas coupons and getting lost on the way to several hospitals much nearer to the scene of the fight than the one in Cape Kenneth. The gash, into the fleshy web between the sailor’s thumb and forefinger, extended nearly to the sailor’s wrist. Homer helped Nurse Caroline wash the wound with ordinary white soap and sterile water. Homer could not help himself—he was accustomed to speaking to Nurse Angela and to Nurse Edna in the voice of an authority.

“Take his blood pressure, opposite arm,” he said to Nurse Caroline, “and put the blood-pressure cuff on over a bandage—to protect the skin,” he added, because Nurse Caroline was staring at him curiously. “The cuff might have to be on there for a half hour or more,” said Homer Wells.

“I think
I
can give instructions to Nurse Caroline, if you don’t mind,” Dr. Harlow said to Homer; both the doctor and his nurse stared at Homer Wells as if they had witnessed an ordinary animal touched with divine powers—as if they half expected Homer to pass his hand over the profusely bleeding sailor and stop the flow of blood as quickly as the tourniquet stopped it.

“Very neat job, Wells,” Dr. Harlow said. Homer observed the injection of the 0.5 percent Procaine into the wound and the subsequent probing of Dr. Harlow. The knife had entered on the palmar side of the hand, observed Homer Wells. He remembered his
Gray’s,
and he remembered the movie he had seen with Debra Pettigrew: the cavalry officer with the arrow in his hand, the arrow that fortunately missed the branch of the median nerve that goes to the muscles of the thumb. He watched the sailor move his thumb.

Dr. Harlow was looking. “There’s a rather important branch of the median nerve,” Dr. Harlow said slowly, to the cut-up sailor. “You’re lucky if that’s not cut.”

“The knife missed it,” said Homer Wells.

“Yes, it did,” said Dr. Harlow, looking up from the wound. “How do
you
know?” he asked Homer Wells, who held up the thumb of his right hand and wiggled it.

“Not only an ether expert, I see,” said Dr. Harlow, still snidely. “Knows all about muscles, too!”

“Just about that one,” said Homer Wells. “I used to read
Gray’s Anatomy—
for fun,” he added.

“For
fun
?” said Dr. Harlow. “I suppose you know all about blood vessels, then. Why not tell me where all this blood is coming from.”

Homer Wells felt Nurse Caroline brush his hand with her hip; it was surely sympathetic contact—Nurse Caroline didn’t care for Dr. Harlow, either. Despite Candy’s certain disapproval, Homer couldn’t help himself. “The blood vessel is a branch of the palmar arch,” he said.

“Very good,” said Dr. Harlow, disappointed. “And what would you recommend I do about it?”

“Tie it,” said Homer Wells. “Three-o chromic.”

“Precisely,” said Dr. Harlow. “You didn’t get that from
Gray’s.
” He pointed out to Homer Wells that the knife had also cut the tendons of the
flexor digitorum profundus
and the
flexor digitorum sublimis.
“And where might they go?” he asked Homer Wells.

“To the index finger,” Homer said.

“Is it necessary to repair both tendons?” asked Dr. Harlow.

“I don’t know,” said Homer Wells. “I don’t know a lot about tendons,” he added.

“How surprising!” said Dr. Harlow. “It is only necessary to repair the
profundus,
” he explained. “I’m going to use two-o silk. I’ll need something finer to bring the edges of the tendon together.”

“Four-o silk,” recommended Homer Wells.

“Very good,” said Dr. Harlow. “And something to close the palmar
fascia
?”

“Three-o chromic,” said Homer Wells.

“This boy knows his stitches!” Dr. Harlow said to Nurse Caroline, who was staring intently at Homer Wells.

“Close the skin with four-o silk,” Homer said. “And then I’d recommend a pressure dressing on the palm—you’ll want to curve the fingers a little bit around the dressing.”

“That’s called ‘the position of function,’ ” Dr. Harlow said.

“I don’t know what it’s called,” Homer said.

“Were you ever in medical school, Wells?” Dr. Harlow asked him.

“Not exactly,” said Homer Wells.

“Do you plan to go?” Dr. Harlow asked.

“It’s not likely,” Homer said. He tried to leave the operating room then, but Dr. Harlow called after him.

“Why aren’t you in the service?” he called.

“I’ve got a heart problem,” Homer said.

“I don’t suppose you know what it’s called,” said Dr. Harlow.

“Right,” said Homer Wells.

He might have found out about his pulmonary valve stenosis on the spot, if he had only asked; he might have had an X ray, and an expert reading—he could have learned the truth. But who seeks the truth from unlikable sources?

He went and read some stories to the tonsillectomy patients. They were all dumb stories—children’s books didn’t impress Homer Wells. But the tonsillectomy patients were not likely to be around long enough to hear
David Copperfield
or
Great Expectations.

Nurse Caroline asked him if he would give a bath and a back rub to the large man recovering from the prostate operation.

“Don’t ever underestimate the pleasure of pissing,” the big man told Homer Wells.

“No, sir,” Homer said, rubbing the mountain of flesh until the big man shone a healthy pink.

Olive was not home when Homer returned to Ocean View; it was her time for plane spotting. They used what was called the yacht-watching tower at the Haven Club, but Homer didn’t think any planes had been spotted. All the men spotters—most of them Senior’s former drinking companions—had the silhouettes of the enemy planes tacked on their lockers; the women brought the silhouettes home and stuck them on places like the refrigerator door. Olive was a plane spotter for two hours every day.

Homer studied the silhouettes that Olive had on the refrigerator.

I could learn all those, he was thinking. And I can learn everything there is to know about apple farming. But what he already knew, he knew, was near-perfect obstetrical procedure and the far easier procedure—the one that was against the rules.

He thought about rules. That sailor with the slashed hand had not been in a knife fight that was according to anyone’s rules. In a fight with Mr. Rose, there would be Mr. Rose’s own rules, whatever they were. A knife fight with Mr. Rose would be like being pecked to death by a small bird, thought Homer Wells. Mr. Rose was an artist—he would take just the tip of a nose, just a button or a nipple. The
real
cider house rules were Mr. Rose’s.

And what were the rules at St. Cloud’s? What were Larch’s rules? Which rules did Dr. Larch observe, which ones did he break, or replace—and with what confidence? Clearly Candy was observing some rules, but whose? And did Wally know what the rules were? And Melony—did Melony obey
any
rules? wondered Homer Wells.

“Look,” said Lorna. “There’s a war, have you noticed?”

“So what?” said Melony.

“Because he’s probably in it, that’s so what!” Lorna said. “Because he either enlisted or he’s gonna get drafted.”

Melony shook her head. “I can’t see him in a war, not him. He just doesn’t belong there.”

“For Christ’s sake,” Lorna said. “You think everyone in a war
belongs
there?”

“If he goes, then he’ll come back,” Melony said. The ice on the Kennebec in December was not secure; it was a tidal river, it was brackish, and there was open water, gray and choppy, in the middle. But not even Melony could throw a beer bottle as far as the middle of that river in Bath. Her bottle, bounding off the creaky ice, made a hollow sound and rolled toward the open water it couldn’t reach. It disturbed a gull, who got up and walked a short way along the ice, like an old woman holding up a number of cumbersome petticoats above a puddle.

“Not everyone’s comin’ back from this war—that’s all I’m sayin’,” Lorna replied.

Wally had trouble coming back from Texas. There were a series of delays, and bad weather; the landing field was closed—when Homer and Candy picked him up in Boston, the first thing he told them was that he had only forty-eight hours. He was still happy, however—“He was still Wally,” Candy would say later—and especially pleased that he’d received his commission.

“Second Lieutenant Worthington!” Wally announced to Olive. Everyone cried, even Ray.

With the gas rationing, they couldn’t manage the usual driving around and around. Homer wondered when Wally would want to be alone with Candy and how they would manage it. Surely
he
wants to manage it, Homer thought. Does
she
want to, too? he wondered.

For Christmas Eve everyone was together. And Christmas Day there was nowhere to go; Olive was home, and Ray wasn’t building torpedoes or pulling lobster traps. And the day after Christmas, Candy and Homer would have to take Wally back to Boston.

Oh, Candy and Wally did plenty of hugging and kissing—everyone could see that. On Christmas night, in Wally’s bedroom, Homer realized that he’d been so glad to see Wally that he’d forgotten to notice very much about his second Christmas away from St. Cloud’s. He also realized he’d forgotten to send Dr. Larch anything—not even a Christmas card.

“I’ve got more flying school to get through,” Wally was saying, “but I think it’s going to be India for me.”

“India,” said Homer Wells.

“The Burma run,” said Wally. “To go from India to China, you got to go over Burma. The Japs are in Burma.”

Homer Wells had studied the maps at Cape Kenneth High. He knew that Burma was mountains, that Burma was jungles. When they shot your plane down, there would be quite a wide range of possible things to land on.

“How are things with Candy?” Homer asked.

“Great!” Wally said. “Well, I’ll see tomorrow,” he added.

Ray went early to build the torpedoes, and Homer observed that Wally left Ocean View at about the same time Ray would be leaving for Kittery. Homer spent the early morning being of little comfort to Olive. “Forty-eight hours is not what I’d call coming home,” she said. “He hasn’t been here for a year—does he call this a proper visit? Does the Army call it a proper visit?”

Candy and Wally came to pick up Homer before noon. Homer imagined that they had “managed it.” But how does one know such things, short of asking?

“Do you want me to drive?” Homer asked; he had the window seat, and Candy sat between them.

“Why?” Wally asked.

“Maybe you want to hold hands,” Homer said; Candy looked at him.

“We’ve already held hands,” Wally said, laughing. “But thank you, anyway!”

Candy did not look amused, Homer thought.

“So you’ve done it, you mean?” Homer Wells asked them both.

Candy stared straight ahead, and Wally didn’t laugh this time.

“What’s that, old boy?” he asked.

“I said, ‘So you’ve done it?’—had sex, I mean,” said Homer Wells.

“Jesus, Homer,” said Wally. “That’s a fine thing to ask.”

“Yes, we’ve done it—had sex,” Candy said, still looking straight ahead.

“I hope you were careful,” Homer said, to both of them. “I hope you took some precautions.”

“Jesus, Homer!” Wally said.

“Yes, we were careful,” Candy said. Now she stared at him, her look as neutral as possible.

“Well, I’m glad you were careful,” Homer said, speaking directly to Candy. “You should be careful—having sex with someone who’s about to fly over Burma.”

“Burma?” Candy turned to Wally. “You didn’t say where you were going,” she said. “Is it Burma?”

“I don’t know where I’m going,” Wally said irritably. “Jesus, Homer, what’s the matter with you?”

“I love you both,” said Homer Wells. “If I love you, I’ve got a right to ask anything I want—I’ve got a right to know anything I want to know.”

It was, as they say in Maine, a real conversation stopper. They rode almost all the way to Boston in silence, except that Wally said—trying to be funny—“I don’t know about you, Homer. You’re becoming very philosophical.”

It was a rough good-bye. “I love you both, too—you know,” Wally said, in parting.

“I know you do,” Homer said.

On the way home, Candy said to Homer Wells: “I wouldn’t say ‘philosophical’; I would say
eccentric.
You’re becoming very eccentric, in my opinion. And you
don’t
have a right to know everything about me, whether you love me or not.”

“All you’ve got to know is, do you really love him?” Homer said. “Do you love Wally?”

“I’ve grown up loving Wally,” Candy said. “I have always loved Wally, and I always will.”

“Fine,” Homer said. “That’s all there is to it, then.”

“But I don’t even know Wally, anymore,” Candy said. “I know you better, and I love you, too.”

Homer Wells sighed. So we’re in for more waiting and seeing, he thought. His feelings were hurt: Wally hadn’t once asked him about his heart. What would he have answered, anyway?

Wilbur Larch, who knew that there was absolutely nothing wrong with Homer’s heart, wondered
where
Homer’s heart was. Not in St. Cloud’s, he feared.

And Wally went to Victorville, California—advanced flying school. U.S. ARMY AIR FORCES—that is what his stationery said. Wally spent several months in Victorville—all the pruning months, as Homer Wells would remember them. Shortly after apple blossom time, when Ira Titcomb’s bees had spread their marvelous life energies through the orchards of Ocean View, Wally was sent to India.

The Japanese held Mandalay. Wally dropped his first bombs on the railroad bridge in Myitnge. Tracks and the embankment of the south approach were badly smashed, and the south span of the bridge was destroyed. All aircraft and crews returned safely. Wally also dropped his bombs on the industrial area of Myingyan, but heavy clouds prevented adequate observation of the destruction. In that summer, when Homer Wells was painting the cider house white again, Wally bombed the jetty at Akyab and the Shweli bridge in northern Burma; later he hit the railroad yards at Prome. He contributed to the ten tons of bombs that were dropped on the railroad yards at Shwebo, and to the fires that were left burning in the warehouses at Kawlin and Thanbyuzayat. The most spectacular hits he would remember were in the oil fields in Yenangyat—the sight of those oil derricks ablaze would stay with Wally on his return flight, across the jungles, across the mountains. All aircraft and crews returned safely.