"What point is that?" Candy asked. Because his hand was on her breast, he could feel her holding her breath.
"When Angel is old enough to either know he's an orphan or know who his parents are," Homer said. "That's the point. I won't have Angel thinking he's adopted. I won't have him not knowing who his mother and father are."
"I'm not worried about Angel," Candy said. "Angel will get lots of love. I'm worried about you and me."
"And Wally," Homer said.
"We'll go crazy," Candy said.
"We won't go crazy," Homer said. "We've got to take care of Angel and make him feel loved."
"But what if I don't feel loved, or you don't--what then?" Candy asked him.
"We'll wait until then," said Homer Wells. "We'll just wait and see," he said, almost with a vengeance. A spring breeze blew over them, bearing with it the sickly-sweet stench of rotten apples. The smell
had an almost-ammonia power that so overwhelmed Homer Wells that he released Candy's breast and covered his mouth and nose with his hand.
It was not until the summer when Candy first heard directly from Wally. She got an actual letter--her first communication from him since he'd been shot down a year ago.
Wally had spent six weeks in Mr. Lavinia Hospital in Ceylon. They had not wanted to move him from there until he'd gained fifteen pounds, until his muscle tremors had ceased and his speech had lost the daydreaming vacantness of malnutrition. He wrote the letter from another hospital, in New Delhi; after a month in India, he had gained an additional ten pounds. He said that he'd learned to put cinnamon in his tea, and that the slap of sandals was nearly constant in the hospital.
They were promising him that they would allow him to commence the long trip home when he weighed one hundred forty pounds and when he had mastered a few basic exercises that were essential to his rehabilitation. He couldn't describe the route of his proposed voyage home because of the censors. Wally hoped that the censors would understand--in the light of his paralysis--that it was necessary for him to say something about his "perfectly normal" sexual function. The censors had allowed this to pass. Wally still didn't know he was sterile; he knew he'd had a urinary tract infection, and that the infection was gone.
"And how is Homer? How I miss him!" Wally wrote.
But that was not the part of the letter that devastated Candy. Candy was so devastated by the beginning of the letter that the rest of the letter was simply a continuing devastation to her.
"I'm so afraid that you won't want to marry a cripple," Wally began.
In her single bed, tugged into sleep and into wakefulness by the tide, Candy stared at the picture of her mother on the night table. She would have liked a mother to talk to at the moment, and perhaps because she had no memory of her mother she remembered the first night she had arrived at the orphanage. Dr. Larch had been reading to the boys from Great Expectations. Candy would never forget the line that she and Homer had walked in on.
" 'I awoke without having parted in my sleep with the perception of my wretchedness,' " Wilbur Larch had read aloud. Either Dr. Larch had predetermined that he would end the evening's reading with that line, or else he had only then noticed Candy and Homer Wells in the open doorway--the harsh hall light, a naked bulb, formed a kind of institutional halo above their heads--and had lost his place in the book, causing him, spur-of-the-moment, to stop reading. For whatever reason, that perception of wretchedness had been Candy's introduction to St. Cloud's, and the beginning and the end of her bedtime story.
10
Fifteen Years
For fifteen years they were a couple: Lorna and Melony. They were set in their ways. Once the young rebels of the women-only boardinghouse, they now occupied the choicest rooms--with the river view--and they served as superintendents to the building for a consideration regarding their rent. Melony was handy. She had learned plumbing and electricity at the shipyard where she was one of a staff of three electricians. (The other two were men, but they never messed with Melony; no one ever would.)
Lorna became more domestic. She lacked the concentration for advanced training at the shipyard, but she remained an employee--"Stay on for the pension plan," Melony had advised her. Lorna actually liked the assembly-line monotony, and she was smart about signing up for the overtime pay shifts--she was willing to work at odd hours if she could work less. Her being out late bothered Melony.
Lorna became increasingly feminine. She not only wore dresses (even to work) and used more makeup and perfume (and watched her weight); her voice, which had once been harsh, actually softened and she developed a smile (especially when she was being criticized). Melony found her increasingly passive.
As a couple, they rarely fought because Lorna would not fight back. In fifteen years, she had discovered that Melony relented if there wasn't a struggle; given any resistance, Melony would never quit.
"You don't fight fair," Melony would occasionally complain.
"You're much bigger than I am," Lorna would say coyly.
An understatement. By 195_, when Melony was forty-something (no one knew exactly how old she was), she weighed one hundred seventy-five pounds. She was five feet eight inches tall; she was almost fifty inches around at her chest, which meant that she wore men's shirts (large; anything smaller than a seventeen-inch neck wouldn't fit her; because her arms were short, she always had to roll up the sleeves). She had a thirty-six-inch waist, but only a twenty-eight-inch inseam (which meant that she had to roll up the cuffs of her trousers or have Lorna shorten them). Melony's pants were always so tight across her thighs that they quickly lost their crease there, but they were very baggy in the seat--Melony was not fat-assed, and she had the nondescript hips of most men. She had small feet, which always hurt her.
In fifteen years she'd been arrested only once--for fighting. Actually, the charge was assault, but in the end she was stuck with nothing more damaging than a disturbance of the peace. She'd been in the ladies' room of a pizza bar in Bath when some college boy had tried to engage Lorna in conversation. When he saw Melony take her place beside Lorna at the bar, he whispered to Lorna, "I don't think I could find anyone for your friend." He was imagining a possible double-date situation.
"Speak up!" Melony said. "Whispering is impolite."
"I said, I don't think I could find a date for you," the boy said boldly.
Melony put her arm around Lorna and cupped her breast.