The Cider House Rules

"She lookin' after the little girl," Mr. Rose would say.

Only once in fifteen years did Homer Wells approach Mr. Rose on the subject of the cider house rules. "I hope they don't offend anyone," Homer began. "I'm responsible--I write them, every year--and if anyone takes offense, I hope you'll tell me."

"No offense," said Mr. Rose, smiling.

"They're just little rules," Homer said.

"Yes," said Mr. Rose. "They are."

"But it does concern me that no one seems to pay attention to them," Homer finally said.

Mr. Rose, whose bland face was unchanged by the years and whose body had remained thin and lithe, looked at Homer mildly. "We got our own rules, too, Homer," he said.

"Your own rules," said Homer Wells.

" 'Bout lots of things," said Mr. Rose. " 'Bout how much we can have to do with you, for one thing."

"With me?" Homer said.

"With white people," said Mr. Rose. "We got our rules about that."

"I see," Homer said, but he didn't really see.

"And about fightin'," said Mr. Rose.

"Fighting," said Homer Wells.

"With each other," said Mr. Rose. "One rule is, we can't cut each other bad. Not bad en

ough for no hospital, not bad enough for no police. We can cut each other, but not bad."

"I see," Homer said.

"No, you don't," said Mr. Rose. "You don't see--that's the point. We can cut each other only so bad that you never see--you never know we was cut. You see?"

"Right," said Homer Wells.

"When you gonna say something' else?" Mr. Rose asked, smiling.

"Just be careful on the roof," Homer advised him.

"Nothin' too bad can happen up there," Mr. Rose told him. "Worse things can happen on the ground."

Homer Wells was on the verge of saying "Right," again, when he discovered that he couldn't talk; Mr. Rose had seized his tongue between his blunt, square-ended index finger and his thumb. A vague taste, like dust, was in Homer's mouth; Mr. Rose's hand had been so fast, Homer had never seen it--he never knew before that someone could actually catch hold of someone's tongue.

"Caught ya," said Mr. Rose, smiling; he let Homer's tongue go.

Homer managed to say, "You're very fast."

"Right," said Mr. Rose alertly. "Ain't no one faster."

Wally complained to Homer about the yearly wear and tear on the cider house roof. Every two or three years, they had to re-tin the roof, or fix the flashing, or put up new gutters.

"What's having his own rules got to do with not paying attention to ours?" Wally asked Homer.

"I don't know," Homer said. "Write him a letter and ask him."

But no one wanted to offend Mr. Rose; he was a reliable crew boss. He made the picking and the pressing go smoothly every harvest.