by John Irving
Homer Wells had seen the products of conception in many stages of development: in rather whole form, on occasion, and in such partial form as to be barely recognizable, too. Why the old black-and-white drawings should have affected him so strongly, he could not say. In Gray's there was the profile view of the head of a human embryo, estimated at twenty-seven days old. Not quick, as Dr. Larch would be quick to point out, and not recognizably human, either: what would be the spine was cocked, like a wrist, and where the knuckles of the fist (above the wrist) would be, there was the ill-formed face of a fish (the kind that lives below light, is never caught, could give you nightmares). The undersurface of the head of the embryo gaped like an eel--the eyes were at the sides of the head, as if they could protect the creature from an attack from any direction. In eight weeks, though still not quick, the fetus has a nose and a mouth; it has an expression, thought Homer Wells. And with this discovery--that a fetus, as early as eight weeks, has an expression--Homer Wells felt in the presence of what others call a soul.
He displayed the pulmonary artery of the baby from Three Mile Falls in a shallow, white enamel examining tray; he used two clamps to hold the chest incision open, and one more clamp to lift and expose the lacerated artery. The baby's cheeks appeared deflated; someone's invisible hands appeared to press its small face at its sides; it lay on its back, resting on its elbows--its forearms held stiffly perpendicular to its chest. The tiny fingers of its hands were slightly open--as if the baby were preparing to catch a ball.
Homer Wells did not care for the tattered appearance of the stump of the umbilical cord, which was also too long; he clipped it again, and tied it off neatly. There was a little caked blood on the tiny penis, and Homer cleaned this away. A spot of old blood on the bright white edge of the enamel tray came off easily with just a cotton swab dabbed with alcohol. The color of the dead baby, especially against the whiteness of the tray, was of something sallow-going-gray. Homer turned to the sink and vomited rather deftly in it. When he ran the faucet to clean the sink, the old pipes pounded and howled; he thought it was the pipes, or his dizziness, that made the room--the whole building--tremble. He wasn't thinking about the wind from the coast--how strong it was!
He wasn't blaming Dr. Larch, either. Homer felt there was nothing as simple as anyone's fault involved; it was not Larch's fault--Larch did what he believed in. If Wilbur Larch was a saint to Nurse Angela and to Nurse Edna, he was both a saint and a father to Homer Wells. Larch knew what he was doing--and for whom. But that quick and not-quick stuff: it didn't work for Homer Wells. You can call it a fetus, or an embryo, or the products of conception, thought Homer Wells, but whatever you call it, it's alive. And whatever you do to it, Homer thought--and whatever you call what you do--you're killing it. He looked at the severed pulmonary artery, which was so perfectly displayed in the open chest of the baby from Three Mile Falls. Let Larch call it whatever he wants, thought Homer Wells. It's his choice--if it's a fetus, to him, that's fine. It's a baby to me, thought Homer Wells. If Larch has a choice, I have a choice, too.
He picked up the spotless tray and carried it into the hall, like a proud waiter carrying a special dish to a favorite guest. Curly Day, forever snot-nosed, was cruising in the corridor between the dispensary and Nurse Angela's office. He was not allowed to be playing there, but Curly Day had a bored-every-minute look about him; he had the attention span of a rabbit. At the moment, Curly was dragging a cardboard carton through the corridor. It was the carton the new enema bags had come in; Homer recognized the carton because he had unpacked it.
"Whatcha got?" Curly Day asked Homer, who held the tray and the dead baby from Three Mile Falls at shoulder level; Curly Day came up to Homer's waist. When Homer got close to the carton, he saw that it was not empty; David Copperfield, Junior, was in the bottom of the carton--Curly Day was giving him a ride.
"Get out of here, Curly," Homer said.
"Gomer!" cried David Copperfield.
"It's Homer, you idiot," Curly Day said.
"Gomer!" David Copperfield cried.
"Get out of here, please," Homer told them.
"Whatcha got?" Curly asked Homer. He reached upward, for the edge of the tray, but Homer picked off his dirty little hand; he grabbed Curly at the wrist and twisted Curly's arm behind his back. Homer balanced the tray and its content expertly; Curly Day tried to struggle.
"Ow!" Curly cried. David Copperfield tried to stand up in the bottom of the carton, but he lost his balance and sat down.
Homer lifted Curly Day's arm behind his back--just slightly higher than the right-angle mark--which caused Curly to bend over and rest his forehead on the edge of the enema-bag carton. "Cut it out," Curly said.
"You're leaving, Curly--right?" Homer asked.
"Yeah, yeah," Curly said, and Homer let him go. "Tough guy," Curly said.
"Right," said Homer Wells.
"Gomer!" David Copperfield managed to say.
Curly Day wiped his nose on his disheveled sleeve. He jerked the carton so suddenly that David Copperfield rolled on his side. "Ack!" little Copperfield cried.
"Shut up," Curly said to his cargo. He shuffled away from Homer Wells, to whom he gave a look of peevish sorrow, of aimless complaint--nothing more. His body bobbed from side to side as he made his way with the carton containing David Copperfield. Homer noted that Curly's shoes were on the wrong feet, and one of them was untied, but he decided it would be unworthy criticism to mention this to Curly, who was as buoyant as he was messy--and wasn't his buoyancy more important than his carelessness, especially since he was an orphan?
"Good-bye, Curly," Homer said to the boy's slouched back; Curly's untucked shirt hung to his knees.
"See ya, Homer," Curly said, keeping his face turned away. When he passed the dispensary door, Nurse Edna appeared and scolded him.
"You're not supposed to be playing here, Curly," she said.
"Yeah, yeah," Curly said. "I'm going, I'm going."
"Medna!" David Copperfield cried in a muffled voice from the bottom of the enema-bag carton.
"It's Edna, you little scum," Curly said.
Then Homer was at the door of Nurse Angela's office, which was open. He could see Dr. Larch at the typewriter; the doctor wasn't writing; there wasn't even any paper in the machine. Dr. Larch was just looking out the window. In the doctor's trancelike expression Homer recognized the peaceful distance that ether provided in those moments when Homer had found the doctor "just resting" in the dispensary. Perhaps the state of mind that ether occasionally allowed Dr. Larch to enjoy was, increasingly, a state of mind that Larch could summon by just looking out a window. Homer assumed that Dr. Larch used a little ether because he was in some kind of pain; he suspected that almost everyone in St. Cloud's was in some kind of pain, and that Larch, as a doctor, was especially qualified in remedying it. The smell of ether was so cloying and nauseating to Homer Wells that it was no remedy he would have chosen. It hadn't yet occurred to him: what an addiction was. The state of a dream was so present on Wilbur Larch's face that Homer Wells paused in the doorway before continuing his gruesome presentation; he almost turned around and took the baby from Three Mile Falls away with him.
But no one encounters the presence of a soul so casually that one can permit the accompanying sense of mission to pass without remarking upon it; and a sense of mission usually requires a gesture more demonstrative than a passing remark. In the doorway of Nurse Angela's office, Homer hesitated; then he stepped forward and clunked the metal tray down on top of the typewriter. The dead baby from Three Mile Falls was level with Dr. Larch's throat--it was close enough to bite, as they say in Maine.
"Doctor Larch?" Homer Wells said. Larch looked away from his dream; he stared over the baby at Homer. "The source of the bleeding was the pulmonary artery, which was completely severed--as you see," Homer said, as Larch looked down at the display upon the typewriter. He stared at the baby as if it were something he'd written--come to life (and then to death) at his bidding.
Outside the hospital, someone was screaming, but the wind whipped the words to a muddle; the screamer's message sounded confused.
"Goddamn!" said Wilbur Larch, staring at the severed artery.
"I have to tell you that I won't perform an abortion, not ever," Homer Wells said. This followed, logically, from the severed artery; in Homer's mind, it followed, but Dr. Larch looked confused.
"You won't?" Larch said. "You what?"
Outside, the screaming was louder but no more distinct. Homer Wells and Dr. Larch just stared at each other--the baby from Three Mile Falls occupying the space between them.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," they heard Nurse Angela say.
"It's that Curly Day," Nurse Edna was explaining to Nurse Angela. "I just had to kick him and the Copperfield kid out of here."
"Not ever," Homer Wells said.
"You disapprove?" Dr. Larch asked Homer.
"I don't disapprove of you," Homer Wells said. "I disapprove of it--it's not for me."
"Well, I've never forced you," Dr. Larch said. "And I never will. It's all your choice."
"Right," said Homer Wells.
A door opened, but what Curly Day was caterwauling about was no clearer. Dr. Larch and Homer Wells heard the test tubes in the rack by the dispensary door tinkle; over these chimes, and for the first time holding its own with the wind, the word "Dead!" came through to them.
"Dead! Dead! Dead!" Curly Day was screaming, his announcement punctuated by the unintelligible, monosyllabic utterances of young Copperfield.
"Who's dead, dear?" Nurse Angela asked Curly sweetly.
Curly Day had discovered that the stationmaster was dead; Curly didn't know it was the stationmaster--Curly hadn't taken a long enough look.
"A guy is dead!" Curly said to Nurse Angela and Nurse Edna.
Wilbur Larch, who heard this distinctly, got up from the desk and walked past Homer Wells, into the hall.
"And if it's all the same to you," Homer Wells said to him, "I'd like permission to not be there, when you do what you have to do. I want to be of use in any other way, and I'm not disapproving of you," Homer said. "If it's okay, I just don't want to watch it."
"I'll have to think about that, Homer," Dr. Larch said. "Let's see who's dead, shall we?" As Homer followed Larch down the hall, he noted that the door to the delivery room was closed, and that the door light was on--which meant that Nurse Edna or Nurse Angela had prepared the two women who were waiting for their abortions. The woman from Damariscotta, whose contractions were still slow and regular, probably wouldn't be needing the delivery room until long after Larch was through the two abortions. Homer agreed with Dr. Larch that it was cruel to make the women waiting for the abortions wait any longer than was necessary, especially after they'd been prepared, and so Homer opened the delivery room door and poked his head inside without really looking at either woman. He announced, "The doctor will be right with you--please don't worry."
Homer Wells regretted his timing; before he could close the delivery room door, Curly Day began his "Dead!" chant all over again.
Curly Day possessed the kind of restlessness that would always lead him to unwanted discoveries. He had tired of dragging David Copperfield around in the enema-bag carton, and therefore he had conceived of launching young Copperfield (in the carton) off the loading platform at the boys' division delivery entrance. It had been a struggle to get the carton and Copperfield up the ramp; but once elevated above the little-used driveway and the tall weeds, Curly imagined that Copperfield might be taught how to almost fly. Surely it wasn't such a high drop; in the carton, especially, it wouldn't be much of a fall. And the weedy hill that sloped away from the loading platform would probably allow the enema-bag carton to slide. Curly did foresee the possible damage to the carton--the destruction of which would leave him in the company of David Copperfield, all alone, and the prospect of Copperfield without a carton or another plaything was powerfully boring. But Curly was already tired of the possible uses of Copperfield with (or in) the carton; he had exhausted the safe things there were to do, and Copperfield was not complaining. Copperfield didn't know he was on the brink of the loading platform; he couldn't see over the sides of the carton. When Curly pushed the carton and Copperfield over the edge, he was careful to keep the carton in an upright position, thus preventing Copperfield from landing on his head. The carton landed on one corner, which collapsed; and young Copperfield was propelled down the bank of tall weeds. Like an unsteady chick staggering out of its shell, he came briefly to his feet before he fell and rolled, again and again. From the platform, Curly Day watched the weeds waving at him; if the weeds indicated Copperfield's whereabouts, they were too tall for Curly to actually see Copperfield.
Copperfield was not injured, but he was disoriented. He couldn't see Curly, and he couldn't see the carton--which he'd grown rather fond of. When he stopped rolling, he tried to stand, but dizziness, in combination with the uneven ground, unbalanced him, and he sat down. What he sat on was something hard and round, like a stone, but when he looked at what it was, he saw it was the stationmaster's head--face up, eyes open, a strangely accepting terror in the frozen expression.
An older child, or even an adult, might have been upset at sitting on the dead stationmaster's face, but young David Copperfield viewed it much as he viewed the rest of the world: with more curiosity than surprise. However, when he touched the face and felt its coldness, the correctness of the child's sensibilities was apparent: the coldness was surely wrong. Young Copperfield leaped away, rolled, came to his feet, ran, fell, rolled again. Finally on his feet, he began to yelp like a dog. Curly Day began to track him through the tall weeds.
"Hang on, hang on, don't get excited!" Curly called to the boy, but Copperfield ran and fell in circles, barking strangely. "Stay in one place so I can find you!" Curly yelled. He stepped on something that rolled under his shoe; it felt like a freshly fallen branch that had not yet settled into the ground; it was the stationmaster's arm. In an attempt to catch his balance, Curly put his hand on the stationmaster's chest. The wide-eyed, unflinching face, which the tall weeds sheltered from the wind, stared past Curly, undisturbed. And then, in the plot of weeds, there were two barking dogs, who moved as if trapped in a maze. It was a testimony to something basically brave and responsible in Curly Day that the boy did not bolt from the weeds until he found David Copperfield.
Melony, at her window, watched the inexplicable thrashing through the weeds; at any time, she could have yelled out to Curly Day and told him the whereabouts of David Copperfield--she could see by the movement of the weeds which yelping animal was where. But she let them fend for themselves. Only when Curly Day was dragging young Copperfield up the driveway, around the boys' division toward the hospital entrance, did Melony feel inclined to comment.
"Hey, Curly, your shoes are on the wrong feet!" Melony called. "You jerk!" But the wind was too strong. Curly couldn't hear her; she couldn't hear what Curly was yelling. She spoke just one more word out the window, to no one in particular; she felt that the wind allowed her to say exactly what she felt, from the heart, as loudly as she chose, although she did not even bother to speak loudly. "Boring," she said.
But things became more interesting to Melony when Wilbur Larch and Homer Wells--and Nurse Edna and Nurse Angela--appeared in the driveway by the boys' division delivery entrance. They were clearly searching the plot of tall weeds.
"What are you looking for?" Melony yelled out the window, but either the noise of the wind or the intentness with which the searchers plunged through the weeds caused her question to be ignored. She decided to go see for herself.
Melony felt uneasy about the way this day was developing, but at the same time she felt grateful that something seemed to be happening--that anything at all was happening was vaguely all right with Melony.
This was not a feeling shared by either Candy Kendall or Wally Worthington, who for the last three hours had maintained an awkward silence--their sense of
anticipation was too keen to conceal with conversation. It had still been dark when they'd left the coast at Heart's Haven and ventured inland--away from the wind, although the wind was still surprisingly strong. Wally had studied the map so excessively the night before that the white Cadillac moved as purposefully away from the sea as an oyster or its pearl washing resolutely ashore. It was really too windy, even inland, for the top to be down, but Wally preferred the Cadillac when it was a proper convertible, and also--with the top down, with the rush of the wind so noisily in the car--the absence of conversation between him and Candy was less obtrusive. Candy preferred it, too; her honey-blond hair was all around her face--such wild swirls of hair surrounded her face at times that she knew Wally couldn't see her expression. Wally knew what her expression was, anyway; he knew her very well.
Wally glanced at the unread book in Candy's lap; she picked it up to read every so often, but when she returned the book to her lap, the same page was dog-eared. The book was Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens. It was required summer reading for all the girls in Candy's would-be graduating class; Candy had begun it four or five times, but she had no idea what the book was about, or whether she even liked it.
Wally, who was no reader, didn't bother to notice the name of the book; he just watched the same dog-eared page and thought about Candy. He was also thinking about St. Cloud's. He was already (in his mind) through the abortion; Candy was recovering nicely; the doctor was telling jokes; all the nurses were laughing. There were enough nurses to win a war, in Wally's imagination. All of them were young and pretty. And the orphans were amusing little tykes, with the appropriate gaps in their toothy smiles.
In the trunk of Senior Worthington's gliding Cadillac, Wally had three apple crates crammed full of goodies for the orphans. If it had been the proper season, he would have brought them apples and cider; in the spring there weren't any fresh apples, and there wasn't any cider, but Wally had provided the next best thing--in his opinion. He had loaded the Cadillac with jars and jars of the Worthingtons' best apple-cider jelly and crab-apple jelly, and with half-gallon jugs of Ira Titcomb's best apple-blossom honey. He imagined arriving for this abortion like Santa Claus (an unfortunate image, if one considered Wilbur Larch's memory of the abortion place "Off Harrison").
