Just before the harvest--when Olive Worthington had put fresh flowers in the bedroom wing of the cider house and had typed a clean page of rules (almost exactly the same rules from the previous years) and had tacked them next to the light switch by the kitchen door--she offered the Bedouin a home.
"I always hate it when Wally goes back to college," Olive told Homer. "And this year, with Senior gone, I'm going to hate it more. I would like it very much if you thought you could be happy here, Homer--you could stay in Wally's room. I like having someone in the house at night, and someone to talk to in the morning." Olive was keeping her back to Homer while she looked out the bay window in the Worthingtons' kitchen. The rubber raft that Senior used to ride was bobbing in the water within her view, but Homer couldn't be sure if Olive was looking at the raft.
"I'm not sure how Doctor Larch would feel about it," Homer said.
"Doctor Larch would like you to go to college one day," Olive said. "And so would I. I would be happy to inquire, at the high school in Cape Kenneth, if they'd work with you--if they'd try to evaluate what you know and what you need to learn. You've had a very . . . odd education. I know that Doctor Larch is interested in having you take all the sciences." (Homer understood that her mind must have been recalling this from a letter from Dr. Larch.) "And Latin," said Olive Worthington.
"Latin," said Homer Wells. This was surely Dr. Larch's work. Cutaneus maximus, thought Homer Wells, dura mater, not to mention good old umbilicus. "Doctor Larch wants me to be a doctor," Homer said to Mrs. Worthington. "But I don't want to be."
"I think he wants you to have the option of becoming a doctor, should you change your mind," Olive said. "I think he said Latin or Greek."
They must have had quite some correspondence, thought Homer Wells, but all he said was, "I really like working on the farm."
"Well, I certainly want you to keep working here," Olive told him. "I need your help--through the harvest, especially. I don't imagine you'd be a full-time student; I have to talk to the high school, but I'm sure they'd view you as something of an experiment."
"An experiment," said Homer Wells. Wasn't everything an experiment for a Bedouin?
He thought about the broken knife he'd found on the cider house roof. Was it there because he was supposed to find it? And the broken glass, a piece of which had signaled to him in his insomnia at Wally's window: was the glass on the roof in order to provide him with some message?
He wrote to Dr. Larch, requesting Larch's permission to stay at Ocean View. "I'll take biology," Homer Wells wrote, "and anything scientific. But do I have to take Latin? Nobody even speaks it anymore."
Where did he get to be such a know-it-all? wondered Wilbur Larch, who nevertheless saw certain advantages to Homer Wells not knowing Latin or Greek, both the root of so many medical terms. Like coarctation of the aorta, Dr. Larch was thinking. It can be a relatively mild form of a congenital heart disorder that could decrease as the patient grew older; by the time the patient was Homer's age, the patient might have no murmur at all and only a trained eye could detect, in an X ray, the slight enlargement of the aorta. In a mild case, the only symptoms might be a hypertension in the upper extremities. So don't learn Latin if you don't want to, thought Wilbur Larch.
As for the best congenital heart defect for Homer Wells, Dr. Larch was leaning toward pulmonary valve stenosis. "From infancy, and throughout his early childhood, Homer Wells had a loud heart murmur," Dr. Larch wrote--for the record, just to hear how it sounded. "At twenty-one," he noted elsewhere, "Homer's old heart murmur is difficult to detect; however, I find that the stenosis of the pulmonary valve is still apparent in an X ray." It might be barely detectable, he knew; Homer's heart defect was not for everyone to see--that was the point. What was necessary was that it just be there.
"Don't take Latin or Greek if you don't want to," Dr. Larch wrote to Homer Wells. "It's a free country, isn't it?"
Homer Wells was beginning to wonder. In the same envelope with Dr. Larch's letter was a letter Dr. Larch had forwarded to him from good old Snowy Meadows. In Wilbur Larch's opinion, Snowy was a fool, "but a persistent one."
"Hi, Homer, it's me--Snowy," Snowy Meadows began. He explained that his name was now Robert Marsh--"of the Bangor Marshes, we're the big furniture family," Snowy wrote.
The furniture family? thought Homer Wells.
Snowy went on and on about how he'd met and married the girl of his dreams, and how he'd chosen the furniture business over going to college, and how happy he was that he'd gotten out of St. Cloud's; Snowy added that he hoped Homer had "gotten out," too.
"And what do you hear from Fuzzy Stone?" Snowy Meadows wanted to know. "Old Larch says Fuzzy is doing well. I'd like to write Fuzzy, if you know his address."
Fuzzy Stone's address! thought Homer Wells. And what did "old Larch" mean (that "Fuzzy is doing well")? Doing well at what? wondered Homer Wells, but he wrote to Snowy Meadows that Fuzzy was, indeed, doing well; that he had misplaced Fuzzy's address for the moment; and that he found apple farming to be healthy and satisfying work. Homer added that he had no immediate plans to visit Bangor; he would surely look up "the furniture Marshes" if he was ever in town. And, no, he concluded, he didn't agree with Snowy that "a kind of reunion in St. Cloud's" was such a hot idea; he said he was sure that Dr. Larch would never approve of such a plan; he confessed that he did miss Nurse Angela and Nurse Edna, and of course Dr. Larch himself, but wasn't the place better left behind? "Isn't that what it's for?" Homer Wells asked Snowy Meadows. "Isn't an orphanage supposed to be left behind?"
Then Homer wrote to Dr. Larch.
"What's this about Fuzzy Stone 'doing well'--doing well at WHAT? I know that Snowy Meadows is an idiot, but if you're going to tell him some stuff about Fuzzy Stone, don't you think you better tell me, too?"
In time, in time, thought Wilbur Larch wearily; he was feeling harassed. Dr. Gingrich and Mrs. Goodhall had prevailed upon the board of trustees; the board had requested that Larch comply with Dr. Gingrich's recommendation of a "follow-up report" on the status of each orphan's success (or failure) in each foster home. If this added paperwork was too tedious for Dr. Larch, the board recommended that Larch take Mrs. Goodhall's suggestion and accept an administrative assistant. Don't I have enough history to attend to, as is? Larch wondered. He rested in the dispensary; he sniffed a little ether and composed himself. Gingrich and Goodhall, he said to himself. Ginghall and Goodrich, he muttered. Richhall and Ginggood! Goodging and Hallrich! He woke himself, giggling.
"What are you so merry about?" Nurse Angela said sharply to him from the hall outside the dispensary.
"Goodballs and Ding Dong!" Wilbur Larch said to her.
He went to Nurse Angela's office, with a vengeance. He had plans for Fuzzy Stone. He called Bowdoin College (where Fuzzy Stone would successfully complete his undergraduate studies) and Harvard Medical School (where Larch intended Fuzzy to do very, very well). He told the registrar's office at Bowdoin that a sum of money had been donated to the orphanage at St. Cloud's for the express purpose of paying the medical school expenses of an exceptional young man or woman who would be willing--more than willing, even dedicated--to serve St. Cloud's. Could Dr. Larch have access to the transcripts of Bowdoin's recent graduates who had gone on to medical school? He told a slightly different story to Harvard Medical School; he wanted access to transcripts, of course, but in this case the sum of money had been donated to establish a training fellowship in obstetrics.
It was the first traveling Wilbur Larch had done since he'd ch
ased after Clara, the first time he'd slept in a place other than the dispensary since World War I; but he needed to familiarize himself with the transcript forms at Bowdoin and at Harvard Medical School. Only in this way could he create a transcript for F. Stone; he begged the use of a typewriter and some paper--"one of your blank transcript forms will make it easier for me"--and pretended to type out the names and credentials of a few interesting candidates. "I see so many who'd be perfect," he told them at Bowdoin and Harvard, "but it's impossible to know if any of them could tolerate Saint Cloud's. We're very isolated," he confessed, thanking them for their help, handing them back their transcripts (Fuzzy's in the proper place, among the S's).
When he had returned to St. Cloud's, Dr. Larch wrote to Bowdoin and Harvard, requesting copies of the transcripts of a few outstanding graduates; he had narrowed the choices down to these few, he told them. A copy of Fuzzy's transcript came in the mail with the others.
When Larch had visited Harvard Medical School, he'd taken a Cambridge post office box in Fuzzy's name. Now he wrote to the postmaster there, requesting the mail for F. Stone be forwarded to St. Cloud's. The P.O. box address would be useful, too, if young Dr. Stone were to pursue his zealous instincts to a mission abroad. Then he sent an empty envelope to the Cambridge address and waited for its return.