"I have to go deliver someone's baby," Homer told Wally.
"Gosh," Wally said. He seemed reluctant to leave the hill. "I think I'll stay up here. I don't think I want to hear anything," he added; he gave Homer a likable and confessional smile.
"Oh, there's not much noise," Homer said; he wasn't thinking of the Damariscotta woman; he was thinking of Candy. He thought of the gritty sound the curette made, but he'd spare his new friend that detail.
He left Wally on the hill and jogged toward Nurse Angela; he looked back at Wally once and waved. A boy his own age! A boy his own size! They were the same height, although Wally was more muscular--from sports, Dr. Larch had guessed. He has the body of a hero, Dr. Larch thought, remembering the heroes he had tried to help in France, in World War I. Lean but well muscled: that was a hero's body--and shot full of holes, thought Wilbur Larch. He didn't know why Wally's body reminded him of this.
And Wally's face? Wilbur Larch was thinking. It was handsome in a finer way than Homer's face, which was also handsome. Although Wally's body was stronger, his bones were somewhat sharper--and more delicate. There wasn't a trace of anger in Wally's eyes; they were the eyes of good intentions. The body of a hero, and the face . . . the face of a benefactor! concluded Wilbur Larch, brushing aside a blond curl of pubic hair that had not gone directly into the refuse bag but had clung to Candy's inner thigh, near her raised, bent knee. He exchanged the medium-sized curette for the smaller one, noting that the girl's eyelids were fluttering, noting Nurse Edna's gentle thumbs--massaging the girl's temples--and the girl's slightly parted lips; she had been remarkably relaxed for such a young girl, and under ether she was even more composed. The beauty in her face, Larch thought, was that she was still free of guilt. It surprised Larch: how Candy looked as if she would always be free of it.
He was aware of Nurse Edna observing the scrutiny he was giving to the girl, and so he bent once more to the view the speculum afforded him and finished his task with the small curette.
A benefactor, thought Wilbur Larch. Homer has met his benefactor!
Homer Wells was thinking on parallel lines. I have met a Prince of Maine, he was thinking; I have seen a King of New England--and I am invited to his castle. In all his journeys through David Copperfield, at last he understood young David's first vision of Steerforth. "He was a person of great power in my eyes," young Copperfield observed. "No veiled future glanced upon him in the moonbeams. There was no shadowy picture of his footsteps, in the garden that I dreamed of walking in all night."
"No veiled future," thought Homer Wells. I am going to the coast!
"Push," he said to the woman from Damariscotta. "Is Damariscotta on the coast?" he asked the woman, whose neck was taut with straining--who held Nurse Angela's hand in a white-knuckled grip.
"Near it!" the woman cried, and shoved her child forth into St. Cloud's--its slick head captured perfectly in the palm of Homer's confident right hand. He slip
ped the heel of his hand under the baby's fragile neck; his left hand lifted the baby's bottom as he guided the baby "outdoors"--as Dr. Larch would say.
It was a boy. Steerforth, Homer Wells would name this one--his second solo delivery. Homer cut the cord and smiled to hear young Steerforth's healthy bawling.
Candy, coming out of ether, heard the baby's cries and shuddered; if Dr. Larch had seen her face at that moment, he might have detected some guilt upon it. "Boy or girl?" she asked, her speech slurred. Only Nurse Edna heard her. "Why is it crying?" Candy asked.
"It was nothing, dear," Nurse Edna said. "It's all over."
"I would like to have a baby, one day," Candy said. "I really would."
"Why, of course, dear," Nurse Edna told her. "You can have as many as you want. I'm sure you'd have very beautiful children."
"You'd have Princes of Maine!" Dr. Larch told Candy suddenly. "You'd have Kings of New England!"
Why, the old goat, Nurse Edna thought--he's flirting! Her love for Larch felt momentarily ruffled.
What a strange idea, Candy thought--I can't see what they would look like. Her mind drifted for a while. Why is the baby crying? she wondered. Wilbur Larch, cleaning up, noticed another curly clump of her pubic hair; it was the same tawny tone of Candy's skin, which was doubtlessly why Nurse Edna had missed it. He listened to the cries of the Damariscotta woman's baby and thought that he mustn't be selfish; he must encourage Homer to make friends with this young couple. He stole a look at the dozing girl; opportunity shone from her like light.
And people will always eat apples, he thought--it must be a nice life.
The apple enameled on the Cadillac's door--and monogrammed in gold--was of special interest to Melony, who managed to prod herself into action; she tried to steal the apple on the door before she realized it wouldn't come off. Mary Agnes's arrival at the girls' division--with her scrawny arms hoarding jars of jelly and honey--had prompted Melony to go see for herself what was going on. She thought, sourly, how it was typical how nothing had been left for her--not even a glimpse of the beautiful people; she wouldn't have minded another look at them. There was nothing worth stealing, she could see at a glance--just an old book; it was fate, she would think later, that the title of the book and the name of its author were visible to her. The book appeared discarded on the car's floor. Little Dorrit meant nothing to Melony, but Charles Dickens was a name she recognized--he was a kind of hero to Homer Wells. Without thinking that this was her life's first unselfish act, she stole the book--for Homer. At the time, she wasn't even thinking how it might press him, how it might gain for her some favorable light in his eyes. She thought only generously: Oh look, a present for Sunshine!
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.