by John Irving
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”).
Wally imagined that Candy was sitting up after her abortion, with that relief on her face of someone who had just had a nasty splinter removed; oddly, Wally populated the abortion room itself with the aura of celebration one associates with the birth of a welcome child. The air of Wally’s wishful thinking was rich with congratulation—and through the lighthearted scene traipsed the cute waifs of St. Cloud’s, each with his or her own jar of jelly. Little honey-carriers, as happy as bear cubs!
Candy closed her book and returned it to her lap again, and Wally felt he had to say something.
“How’s the book?” he said.
“I don’t know,” Candy said, and laughed.
He pinched her thigh; something caught in his throat when he tried to laugh with her. She pinched his thigh in return—a pinch of the exact same passion and pressure as the one he’d given her. Oh, how relieved he was that they were so alike!
Through the ever-poorer, gawking towns, as the sun rose and rose, they drove like lost royalty—the oyster-white Cadillac with its dazzling passengers was a head-turner. That scarlet upholstery, so curiously mottled by Senior’s accident with the chemicals, was unique. Everyone who saw them pass would not forget them.
“Not much farther,” Wally said. This time he knew better than to pinch her thigh; he simply let his hand rest in her lap, near Little Dorrit. Candy put her hand on top of his, while Melony—stalking through the girls’ division lobby with more than usual purpose—caught Mrs. Grogan’s generous and watchful eye.
“What’s going on, dear?” Mrs. Grogan asked Melony.
“I don’t know,” Melony said, shrugging. “You can bet it ain’t a new boy in town, or nothing,” which was a mild remark for Melony; Mrs. Grogan thought, How the girl has mellowed. She had mellowed—a little. A very little.
Something about the big young woman’s determination made Mrs. Grogan follow her outside. “My, what a wind!” Mrs. Grogan exclaimed. Where have you been? Melony thought, but she didn’t utter a word; the degree that she had mellowed could be confused with not caring much anymore.
“It’s the stationmaster,” said Homer Wells, who was the first to find the body.
“That moron!” Wilbur Larch muttered.
“Well, he’s dead, anyway,” Homer informed Dr. Larch, who was still struggling through the weeds, en route to the body. Dr. Larch refrained from saying that by dying in this manner the stationmaster was intending a further inconvenience to the orphanage. If Wilbur Larch was mellowing, he was also mellowing very little.
St. Cloud’s was not a place that mellowed you.
Homer Wells looked over the weeds that concealed the dead stationmaster and saw Melony striding toward him.
Oh, please! he felt his heart say to him. Oh, please, let me leave! The powerful wind swept his hair away from his face; he leaned his chest into the wind, as if he stood on the deck of a ship heading into the wind, slicing through the waves of an ocean he’d not yet seen.
Wilbur Larch was thinking about the weak heart he had invented for Homer Wells. Larch was wondering how he should tell Homer about having a weak heart without frightening the young man or reminding him of the vision frozen upon the face of the stationmaster. What in Hell had that fool imagined he’d seen? Dr. Larch wondered, as he helped the others lug the stationmaster’s stiffened body to the hospital entrance.
Curly Day, who enjoyed being kept busy, had already been sent to the railroad station; young Copperfield had gone with him, which slowed Curly down considerably—yet Curly was grateful for the company. Curly was slightly confused about the message he was sent to deliver, and Copperfield at least presented Curly with a model listener. Curly practiced the message he thought he was supposed to deliver by saying it aloud to David Copperfield; the message had no visible effect on Copperfield, but Curly found the repetition of the message soothing and the practice helped him to understand it, or so he thought.
“The stationmaster is dead!” Curly announced, dragging Copperfield down the hill—Copperfield’s head either nodding agreement or just bouncing loosely between the boy’s jerking shoulders. The downhill pace was hard for Copperfield, whose balance wasn’t the best, and his left hand (grasped in Curly Day’s hand) was pulled high above his left ear.
“Doctor Larch says he had a heart attack for several hours!” Curly Day added, which didn’t sound quite right to him, but after he repeated it a few times it sounded more reasonable. What Larch had said was that the stationmaster appeared to have had a heart attack several hours ago, but Curly’s version felt more or less correct to Curly—the more he said it.
“Tell the relatives and friends that there’s soon gonna be an automobile!” said Curly Day, and David Copperfield bobbed in agreement. This didn’t sound right to Curly, either, no matter how many times he repeated it, but he was sure he’d been told to say something like that. The word was “autopsy,” not “automobile”; Curly had part of the word right. Perhaps, he thought, there was some special car coming to carry the dead. It made a little sense, and a little sense was sense enough for Curly Day—and more sense than Curly saw in most things.
“Dead!” David Copperfield cried happily as they approached the train station. Two of the usual oafs were lounging on the bench that faced away from the tracks; they were the sort of louts who hung around the station all day, as if the station were a house of beautiful women and the women were known to grant favors to all the town’s untidy and unemployed. They paid no attention to Curly Day and
David Copperfield. (“Dead!” David Copperfield called out to them, with no effect.)
The assistant to the stationmaster was a young man who had modeled his particularly unlikable officiousness upon the officiousness of the stationmaster, so that he had a completely inappropriate old-fart, complaining, curmudgeonly aspect to his youthfulness—this in combination with the mean-spiritedness of a dogcatcher who enjoys his work. He was a stupid young man, who shared with the stationmaster an aspect of the bully: he would holler at children to keep their feet off the benches, but he would simper before anyone better dressed than himself and he tolerated any rudeness from anyone who had any advantage over him. He was without exception cold and superior to the women who got off the train and asked for directions to the orphanage, and he had not once taken the arm of even one of those women and offered his assistance when they mounted the stairs to the return train; and that first step was a high one—many of the women who’d been scraped clean had obvious trouble with that first step.
This morning the stationmaster’s assistant was feeling especially virtuous and disagreeable. He had given fifteen cents to one of the louts to go to the stationmaster’s house and find him, but the clod had returned with no more information than that the stationmaster’s bicycle had fallen over and been left where it had fallen. Ominous, thought the assistant, but frustrating. He was half irritated at having to do the stationmaster’s chores, which he’d done poorly, and half thrilled at the prospect of being in charge. When he saw those two dirty urchins from the orphanage crossing the main road in front of the station and coming his way, the stationmaster’s assistant felt his authority swell. Curly Day, wiping his nose on one arm, dragging David Copperfield with the other, seemed on the verge of speaking, but the stationmaster’s assistant spoke first.
“Beat it,” he said. “You don’t belong here.”
Curly halted; young Copperfield collided with him and staggered from the suddenness of the collision. Curly fully believed he “belonged” nowhere, but he gathered his confidence and delivered, quite loudly, his rehearsed message: “The stationmaster is dead! Doctor Larch says he had a heart attack for several hours! Tell the relatives and friends that there’s soon gonna be an automobile!”
