by John Irving
He approached Wally carefully. Wally was leaning on the Cadillac, smoking a cigarette and intently visualizing an apple orchard in St. Cloud’s. The stationmaster’s assistant, who looked like a mortician’s ghoulish lackey, surprised Wally.
“I’ve come to view the body,” the assistant said.
“The body?” Wally said. “What body?”
A fear of embarrassing himself almost paralyzed the stationmaster’s assistant. The world, he imagined, was brimming with etiquette beyond his grasp; obviously, it had been tactless to mention the body of the deceased to the very man who was responsible for safely driving the dead away.
“A thousand pardons!” the assistant blurted; it had been something he’d read.
“A thousand what?” Wally said, growing alarmed.
“How thoughtless of me,” said the stationmaster’s assistant, bowing unctuously and sliding toward the hospital entrance.
“Has someone died?” Wally asked anxiously, but the assistant managed to slip inside the hospital entrance, where he quickly hid himself in a corner of the wall and wondered what to do next. Clearly, he’d upset the high-strung and fine-tuned feelings of the hearse driver. This is a delicate business, the assistant thought, trying to calm himself. What mistake will I make next? He cowered in the corner of the hall, where he could smell ether wafting from the nearby dispensary; he had no idea that the body he wished to “view” was less than fifteen feet from him. He thought he could smell babies, too—he heard one bawling. He thought that babies were born while women had their legs straight up, the soles of their feet facing the ceiling; this vision pinned him to the corner of the hall. I smell blood! he imagined, struggling to control his panic. He clung to the wall like so much plaster—so much so that Wally failed to notice him when he came in the hospital entrance, worried about who had died. Wally entered the dispensary, as if drawn to the ether—although he quickly felt his nausea returning. He apologized to the feet of the stationmaster.
“Oh, excuse me,” Wally whispered, reeling back into the hall.
He heard Nurse Angela talking to Candy, who was already able to sit up. Wally barged in on them, but the look of relief on his face—to see that Candy was not the person rumored to be dead—was so touching to Nurse Angela that she wasn’t even cross with him for intruding.
“Please come in,” she said to Wally, in her best hospital voice, which was first-person plural. “We’re feeling much better now,” Nurse Angela said. “We’re not quite ready to jump around, but we’re sitting up nicely—aren’t we?” she asked Candy, who smiled. Candy was so clearly glad to see Wally that Nurse Angela felt she should leave them alone. St. Cloud’s did not have a great and tender history regarding the presence of couples in that operating room, and Nurse Angela was both surprised and happy to see a man and a woman who loved each other. I can clean up later, she thought—or I’ll ask Homer to do it.
Homer and Dr. Larch were talking. Nurse Edna had taken the Damariscotta woman back to her bed in the maternity ward, and Dr. Larch was examining the baby Homer Wells had delivered—young Steerforth (a name Larch had already criticized; there was some villainy in the character of Steerforth—or had Homer forgotten that part?—and there was also a death by drowning; it was more of a brand than a name, in Dr. Larch’s opinion). But they weren’t talking anymore about Steerforth.
“Wally said it would take just a couple of days,” Homer Wells was saying. “We’ll have to load a truck, I guess. There’s going to be forty trees. And I’d like to see the coast.”
“Of course, you should go, Homer—it’s a great opportunity,” Dr. Larch said. He poked Steerforth in the belly with a finger; then he tempted Steerforth into gripping one of his other fingers; then he shone a little light in Steerforth’s eyes.
“I’d be gone just two days,” Homer Wells said.
Wilbur Larch shook his head; at first Homer thought there was something wrong with Steerforth. “Maybe just two days, Homer,” Dr. Larch said. “You should be prepared to take advantage of the situation, you should not let an opportunity pass you by—in just two days.”
Homer stared at Dr. Larch, but Larch was peering into Steerforth’s ears. “If this young couple likes you, Homer, and if you like them . . . well,” Larch said, “I think you’ll be meeting their parents, too, and if their parents like you . . . well,” said Dr. Larch, “I think you should try to make their parents like you.”
He would not look at Homer, who was staring at him; Dr. Larch examined the tied end of the umbilical while Steerforth cried and cried.
“I think we both know it would do you good to get away for more than two days, Homer,” Dr. Larch said. “You understand, I’m not talking about an adoption, I’m talking about the possibility of a summer job—for a start. Someone might offer you the means to stay away for more than two days—that’s all I’m saying—if that’s an attractive prospect.” Dr. Larch looked at Homer; they stared at each other.
“Right,” Homer finally said.
“Of course, you might want to come back in two days!” Larch said heartily—but they looked away from each other, as they chose to look away from the likelihood of that. “In which case,” Larch said, washing his hands, “you know you’re always welcome here.” He left the room, and Homer with the baby—too quickly, again, for Homer to say how much he loved him. The cowering stationmaster’s assistant watched Wilbur Larch take Nurse Angela and Nurse Edna into the dispensary.
Perhaps, despite the stationmaster’s presence, the etherized atmosphere of the dispensary was comforting to Wilbur Larch, and helped him say to his loyal nurses what he needed to say.
“I want to pool our resources,” said Wilbur Larch. “I want the boy to have as much money as we can scrounge together, and whatever there is in the way of clothing that looks halfway decent.”
“Just for two days, Wilbur?” Nurse Edna asked.
“How much money does the boy need for two days?” Nurse Angela asked.
“It’s an opportunity for him, don’t you see?” Dr. Larch asked. “I don’t think he’ll be back here in two days. I hope he doesn’t come back—at least, not that soon,” said Wilbur Larch, whose breaking heart reminded him of what he’d forgotten: the story of Homer’s “weak” heart. How could he tell him? Where and when?
He crossed the hall to see how Candy was coming along. He knew that she and Wally wanted to leave as soon as possible; they had a long drive ahead of them. And if Homer Wells is leaving me, thought Wilbur Larch, he’d better leave me in a hurry—although twenty years, Dr. Larch knew, wasn’t what most would have called a hurried departure. Homer had to leave in a hurry, now, because Dr. Larch needed to see if he would ever get over it.
I don’t think so, he thought. He checked the spotting on the sterile vulval pad—while Wally looked at the ceiling, at his hands, at the floor. “You’re doing just fine,” Dr. Larch told Candy. He was about to tell her that Homer could advise her about any cramps she suffered, and that Homer could also check her for spotting, but he wanted to leave Homer free of that responsibility. Also, Dr. Larch couldn’t at the moment have said Homer’s name.
“They’re taking you?” Curly Day asked Homer, when Curly saw Homer packing.
“I’m not being adopted, Curly,” said Homer Wells. “I’ll be back in just two days.”
“They’re taking you!” said Curly Day; his face looked so stricken, Homer had to turn away.
Dr. Larch was an amateur historian, but he nonetheless understood the power of information that is received indirectly. For that reason, he told Candy and Wally about Homer’s weak heart. It was not only easier for Dr. Larch than lying to Homer; in the long run, Larch suspected, the story would be more convincing.
“I’ve never let him go before—not even for just two days—without saying just a little about his condition,” Dr. Larch told Candy and Wally. A wonderful word: condition. The effect of the word in a doctor’s mouth is truly astonishing. Candy seemed to forget she’d just had an abortio
n; the color came back to Wally’s face. “It’s his heart,” said Wilbur Larch. “I’ve not told him about it because I haven’t wanted to worry him. It’s the sort of condition that could be made worse by his worrying about it,” Dr. Larch confided to these two good-hearted innocents, who gave him their rapt attention.
“Just so he’s not exposed to anything too strenuous, or to anything too violent in the way of exercise—or to anything too shocking,” said Wilbur Larch, who had created a perfect history for someone who simply needed to be careful—who needed to stay out of danger. Larch had given his favorite orphan a history that he hoped would keep him safe. He was aware that it was a history a father would construct for his son—if a father could make his son believe it.
Homer Wells, at the moment, couldn’t construct a history or anything else that would be soothing to Curly Day, who buried himself under several pillows and a blanket and sobbed.
“What do you need to be adopted for?” Curly cried. “You’re practically a doctor!”
“It’s just for two days,” Homer Wells repeated; with each repetition his promise sounded less and less likely.
“They’re taking you! I can’t believe it!” cried Curly Day.
Nurse Angela came and sat beside Homer on Curly’s bed. Together they regarded the sobbing mound under the blanket.
“It’s just for two days, Curly,” Nurse Angela said lamely.
“Doctor Larch said Homer was here to protect us!” Curly cried. “Some protection!”
Nurse Angela whispered to Homer: that if he’d go clean up the operating table, she’d sit with Curly until he felt better; she’d not wanted to clean up the table while the nice young couple needed to be alone. “Your friends seemed to be having a nice moment together,” Nurse Angela whispered to Homer Wells. My friends! he thought. Is it possible I’m going to be having friends?
“You’re not the best one, Homer!” Curly cried, under the blanket.
“Right,” Homer said; he tried to pat Curly, but Curly stiffened and held his breath. “I’ll see you, Curly,” Homer said.
“Traitor!” cried Curly Day. Curly seemed to recognize Nurse Angela’s touch; his rigid body relaxed, and he gave himself over to a steady sobbing.
Nurse Edna had finally stopped young Steerforth from crying, or she had simply outlasted the baby, who was now washed and dressed and almost asleep in Nurse Edna’s arms. He had taken enough of the formula to satisfy Nurse Edna, and so she put him in his bed and finished cleaning the room where he’d been delivered. As soon as she’d put a fresh sheet on the table—she was just wiping the gleaming stirrups—Dr. Larch lurched into the room with the stationmaster’s stiff body a somewhat pliable plank over his shoulder.
“Wilbur!” Nurse Edna said critically. “You should let Homer help you with that.”
“It’s time to get used to not having Homer around,” Dr. Larch said curtly, dropping the stationmaster’s body on the table. Oh, dear, Nurse Edna thought, we’re in for a ferocious time of it.
“I don’t suppose you’ve seen the sternum shears,” Dr. Larch asked her.
“The snips?” she asked.
“They’re called shears,” he said. “If you’d just undress him—I’ll ask Homer.”
Homer knocked before he entered the operating room, where Candy had dressed herself, with Wally’s fumbling help, and now stood leaning against him in what struck Homer as an oddly formal pose—as if the couple had just finished a dance competition and were awaiting the judges’ applause.
“You can relax now,” said Homer Wells, not quite able to look at Candy’s face. “Maybe you’d like some fresh air. I won’t be long; I have to clean the table.” As an awkward second thought, he added to Candy, “You’re feeling all right, aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, her eyes passing over Homer very quickly; she smiled reassuringly at Wally.
That was when Dr. Larch came in and asked Homer if he knew where the sternum shears were.
“They’re with Clara,” Homer admitted. “I’m sorry,” he added quickly. “I had them there because I thought I might need them for the autopsy. On the fetus,” he added.
“You don’t use sternum shears on a fetus,” Dr. Larch said.
“I know—I used the scissors,” said Homer Wells, who was aware that the words “fetus” and “autopsy” fell like drops of blood on Wally and Candy. “I’ll go get the shears for you,” Homer said to Dr. Larch.
“No, finish what you’re doing here,” Larch said. “You two should get some fresh air,” he said to Wally and Candy, who took his suggestion for a command—which it was. They left the operating room; on their way down the hall to the hospital entrance, they would have spotted the stationmaster’s assistant, lurking in his corner, had the assistant not been so unnerved by the sight of Dr. Larch carrying the stationmaster’s body out of the dispensary that he had cautiously attempted to follow this troubling vision. In his fear, he made a wrong turn and found himself in the dispensary. He was staring at the mud on the sheet at the foot of the bed when Wally led Candy outdoors.
“If you’re so sure it was his heart,” Homer Wells was asking Dr. Larch, “why are you in such a hurry to do the autopsy?”
“I like to keep busy,” Larch said, surprised by the barely restrained anger in his own voice. He might have told Homer, then, that he loved him very much and that he needed something very active to occupy himself at this moment of Homer’s departure. He might have confessed to Homer Wells that he wanted very much to lie down on his own bed in the dispensary and administer a little ether to himself, but that he couldn’t very well have done that while the stationmaster had occupied his bed. He wanted to take Homer Wells in his arms, and hug him, and kiss him, but he could only hope that Homer understood how much Dr. Larch’s self-esteem was dependent on his self-control. And so he said nothing; he left Homer alone in the operating room while he went to find the sternum shears.
Homer scrubbed the table with disinfectant. He had sealed the refuse bag when he noticed the almost transparent blondness of the clump of pubic hair that clung to his pantleg—a tight, clean curl of Candy’s especially fine hair was caught on his knee. He held it up to the light, then put it in his pocket.
Nurse Edna was crying as she undressed the stationmaster. Dr. Larch had told her and Nurse Angela that there would be no hoopla of heartfelt well-wishing upon the departure of Homer Wells—nothing that would lead Candy and Wally to suspect that Homer Wells was even considering he might be gone more than two days. “Nothing,” Dr. Larch had said. No hugs, no kisses, thought Nurse Edna, weeping. Her tears had no influence on the expression of the stationmaster, whose face remained seized by fear; Nurse Edna completely ignored the stationmaster. She devoted herself to her misery at being forbidden to gush over saying good-bye to Homer Wells.
“We will all appear casual about his leaving,” Dr. Larch had said. “Period.”
Casual! Nurse Edna thought. The stationmaster was down to his socks when Dr. Larch walked in with the sternum shears.
“There will be no crying,” he said sternly to her. “Do you want to give everything away?” She yanked off the stationmaster’s socks and threw them at Dr. Larch; then she left him alone with the body.
Homer Wells gave the operating table a thorough inspection, a final examination—a last look. He transferred the cluster of Candy’s pubic hair from his pocket to his wallet; he once more counted the money Dr. Larch had given him. There was almost fifty dollars.
He went back to the boys’ sleeping room; Nurse Angela still sat on the edge of the bed where Curly Day was still sobbing. She kissed Homer without altering the motion of her hand, which was rubbing Curly Day’s back through the blanket; Homer kissed her, and left her without a word.
“I can’t believe they took him,” murmured Curly Day through his tears.
“He’ll be back,” whispered Nurse Angela soothingly. Our Homer! she thought—I know he’ll be back! Doesn’t he know where he belongs?
&nbs
p; Nurse Edna, attempting to compose herself, stepped into the dispensary, where she encountered the trembling stationmaster’s assistant.
“May I help you?” Nurse Edna asked, pulling herself together.
“I’ve come to view the body,” mumbled the assistant.
From across the hall, Nurse Edna heard the familiar crack of the sternum shears, splitting the stationmaster’s chest. She doubted that the assistant would care to view the body in its present state. What she said to the assistant was, “Doctor Larch isn’t finished with the autopsy.”
“I brought some catalogues for Doctor Larch,” the assistant said, handing the mess to Nurse Edna.
“Why, thank you,” she said, but the young goon in his funeral finery showed no signs of leaving. Perhaps the ether in the dispensary air was unraveling him. “Would you like to wait?” Nurse Edna asked him. He stared at her. “To view the body,” she reminded him. “You could wait in Nurse Angela’s office.” He nodded gratefully as Nurse Edna pointed the way down the hall. “The last door on your right,” she told him. “Just make yourself comfortable.”
Unburdened of the stationmaster’s catalogues, the assistant had a lighter, more relaxed step as he aimed himself toward Nurse Angela’s office. He was pleased to see there was a choice of chairs to sit in. Naturally, he would not choose the desk chair, behind the typewriter, but there were two lower, more comfortable-looking chairs positioned in front of the desk and the typewriter. They were the chairs that the prospective foster parents sat in when they were being interviewed. They were unmatched paisley easy chairs, and the stationmaster’s assistant chose the lower, more overstuffed one. He regretted his decision as soon as he felt how very low the chair was; everything in the cluttered office seemed to loom over him. If Dr. Larch had been sitting at the desk, at the typewriter, he would have towered over the assistant in his low-sunk chair.
The assistant saw a white enamel sort of pan, or tray, upon the typewriter, but he was seated so very low that he couldn’t view the pan’s contents. Two tiny hands reached above the edge of the examining tray, but only the fingertips of the dead baby from Three Mile Falls were visible to the stationmaster’s assistant. He had never seen a fetus before, or even a newborn baby; he was unprepared for how small the fingers can be. He kept looking around the room, from his sunken and growingly uncomfortable position, but his eyes kept coming back to the fingertips sticking above the rim of the examining tray. He couldn’t believe he was really looking at fingers.
