by John Irving
Never mind that Melony murdered every moment of Dickensian wit with her ferocity, or that the rich and colorful details of character and place were turned uniformly drab by her voice. "The girl has no lilt," Nurse Edna complained. Never mind: the boys were terrified of Melony, and their fears made them pay more attention to her than they had ever paid to Homer Wells. Sometimes the interest in the literature isn't in the literature--the boys' division was an audience like any other: self-interest, personal memories, their secret anxieties crept into their perceptions of what they heard (regardless of what Charles Dickens had done and what Melony did to him).
Not feeling completely comfortable with leaving the girls' division unattended while she trotted to the boys' to hear Melony read, Mrs. Grogan developed the habit of following the excerpt from Jane Eyre with a short prayer that clung, both lovely and ominous, to the pale and stained bedspreads on which the moonlight glowed long after Melony and Mrs. Grogan had left the girls to themselves. Even Mary Agnes Cork was struck silent--if not exactly rendered well behaved--by Mrs. Grogan's prayer.
If Mrs. Grogan had known that the prayer was English in origin, she might not have used it; she had heard it on the radio and memorized it, and she always spoke it to herself before she allowed herself to sleep. The prayer was written by Cardinal Newman. When Melony started reading to the boys, Mrs. Grogan made her personal prayer public.
"Oh Lord," she said in the hall light, in the open doorway, while Melony stood restlessly beside her. "Oh Lord, support us all the day long, until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes, and the busy world is hushed, and the fever of life is over, and our work is done. Then in thy mercy grant us a safe lodging, and a holy rest, and peace at the last."
"Amen," Melony would say--not quite facetiously, but certainly not reverentially. She said it the way she read from Charlotte Bronte and from Charles Dickens--it gave Mrs. Grogan a chill, although the summer nights were warm and humid and she needed to take two steps for every one of Melony's, just to keep pace with Melony on her determined journey to the boys' division. The way Melony said "Amen" was the way she said everything. Hers was a voice without a soul, Mrs. Grogan thought--her teeth chattering as she sat in a chair in the boys' division, slightly out of the light, behind Melony, watching her broad back. Something in Mrs. Grogan's transfixed appearance may have been responsible for the rumor begun in the boys' division, possibly by Curly Day: that Mrs. Grogan had never gone to school, was actually illiterate, was incapable of reading even a newspaper to herself--and was, therefore, in Melony's control.
The little boys, lying frightened in their beds, felt that they were in Melony's control, too.
Nurse Edna was so disquieted by Melony's reading that she couldn't wait to launch into her Princes of Maine and Kings of New England refrain (even if she didn't know what it meant). Nurse Edna suggested that Melony was to blame for an increase in nightmares in the boys' division and that she should be removed from her responsibilities as reader. Nurse Angela disagreed; if Melony persisted in casting an evil presence, it was because she'd not been given enough responsibility. Also, Nurse Angela said, maybe there weren't more nightmares: with Homer Wells gone (it had now been a month), perhaps it was simply that Nurse Edna and Nurse Angela heard those suffering from night terrors--in the past, Homer heard them first and tended to them.
Mrs. Grogan was in favor of increasing Melony's responsibilities; she felt the girl was at the threshold of a change--she might either rise above her own bitterness or descend more deeply into it. It was Nurse Angela who suggested to Dr. Larch that Melony might be of use.
"Of more use, you mean?" Dr. Larch asked.
"Right," Nurse Angela said, but Dr. Larch didn't appreciate anyone imitating the speech habits of Homer Wells; he gave Nurse Angela such a look that she never said "Right" again. He also didn't appreciate the suggestion that Melony could be taught to replace Homer--not even in usefulness.
Nurse Edna took up Melony's cause. "If she were a boy, Wilbur," Nurse Edna said, "you would already have given her more to do."
"The hospital is connected to the boys' division," Larch said. "It's impossible to keep what's happening here a secret from the boys. But the girls are another matter," he concluded weakly.
"Melony knows what's happening here," Nurse Angela said.
Wilbur Larch knew he was cornered. He was also angry at Homer Wells--he had given the boy permission to extend his time away from St. Cloud's as long as possible, but he hadn't expected he wouldn't hear from Homer (not a word!) in nearly six weeks.
"I don't know that I have the patience to work with a teen-ager, anymore," Larch said peevishly.
"I think Melony is twenty-four or twenty-five," Mrs. Grogan said.
How could someone that old still be in an orphanage? Larch wondered. The same way that I can still be here, he answered himself. Who else would take the job? Who else would take Melony? "All right. Let's ask her if she's interested," Larch said.
He dreaded the meeting with Melony; he couldn't help himself, but he blamed her for whatever sullenness had crept into Homer's personality--and the rebellion Homer had manifested toward him recently. Larch knew he was being unfair, and this made him feel guilty; he began to answer the mail.
There was a long (albeit businesslike) letter from Olive Worthington, and a check--a rather sizable donation to the orphanage. Mrs. Worthington said she was happy her son had been so "taken" by the good work at St. Cloud's that he'd seen fit to bring one of Dr. Larch's "boys" home with him. It was fine with the Worthingtons that Homer stay through the summer. They frequently hired "schoolboy help," and she was frankly grateful that her son Wally had "the opportunity to mingle with someone his own age--but of less fortunate circumstances." Olive Worthington wanted Larch to know that she and her husband thought Homer was a fine boy, polite and a good worker, and that he seemed "altogether a sobering influence on Wally." She concluded that she hoped "Wally might even learn the value of a day's work from his proximity to Homer," and that Homer had "clearly profited from a rigorous education"--she based this judgment on Homer's ability to learn the apple business "as if he were used to more demanding studies."
Olive wanted Dr. Larch to know that Homer had requested to be paid in the form of a monthly donation to St. Cloud's, minus only what she fairly judged were his expenses; since he shared a room with Wally and could fit into Wally's clothes, and since he ate his meals with the Worthington family, Olive said the boy's expenses were minimal. She was delighted that her son had "such manly and honorable company" for the summer, and she was pleased to have the opportunity to contribute what little she could to the well-being of the orphans of St. Cloud's. "The kids," Olive said (it was how she referred to Wally and Candy), ". . . tell me you are doing great things there. They're so happy they stumbled upon you."
Wilbur Larch could tell that Olive Worthington didn't know she had an accomplished obstetrician tending to her apple trees, and he grumbled to himself about the "rigorous education" he felt had been quite wasted on Homer Wells--given his present occupation--but Dr. Larch calmed himself sufficiently to compose a cordial, albeit formal, letter in response to Mrs. Worthington.
Her donation was very gratefully received, and he was glad that Homer Wells was representing his upbringing at St. Cloud's in so positive a manner--he would expect no less of the boy, which Mrs. Worthington might be so kind as to tell him. Also, that it would be nice if Homer would write. Dr. Larch was happy that there was such healthy summer employment for Homer; the boy would be missed at St. Cloud's, where he had always been of use, but Larch emphasized his pleasure at Homer's good fortune. He congratulated Olive Worthington on the good manners and the generosity of her son; he said he would welcome those "kids" back at St. Cloud's--anytime. What luck--for everyone!--that they had "stumbled upon" the orphanage.
Wilbur Larch gritted his teeth and tried to imagine a harder place to stumble upon than St. Cloud's; he managed a supreme effort at concentration and proceeded with the p
art of the letter he had waited more than a month to write.
"There is one thing I must tell you about Homer Wells," Wilbur Larch wrote. "There is a problem with his heart," the doctor wrote; he elaborated. He was more careful than he'd been when he discussed Homer's heart defect with Wally and Candy; he tried to be as precise but as elusive as he knew he'd eventually have to be when he described the ailment to Homer Wells. His letter to Olive Worthington about Homer's heart was a kind of warm-up exercise. He was sowing seeds (an infuriating phrase, but he found himself thinking it--ever since his inheritance of the stationmaster's catalogues); he wanted Homer treated with kid gloves, as they say in Maine.
Olive Worthington had mentioned that Homer was taking driving lessons from Wally and swimming lessons from Candy--the latter in the Haven Club's heated pool. The latter--swimming lessons from that girl!--made Wilbur Larch growl, and he concluded his cautionary advice about Homer's heart with the suggestion that Homer "take it easy with the swimming."
Dr. Larch did not share Olive Worthington's opinion that "every boy should know how to drive and swim"; Dr. Larch could do neither.
"Here in St. Cloud's," he wrote, to himself, "it is imperative to have good obstetrical procedure, and to be able to perform a dilatation and curettage. In other parts of the world, they learn how to drive and swim!"
He showed Olive Worthington's letter to Nurse Angela and Nurse Edna, who both wept over it. They were of the opinion that Mrs. Worthington sounded "charming" and "warm" and "intelligent," but Larch grumbled how it was strange that Mr. Worthington was so little in view; what was the matter with him? "What's his wife running the farm for?" Larch asked his nurses, who both scolded him for his readiness to assume there was something wrong whenever a woman was in charge of anything. They reminded him that he had an appointment with Melony.
Melony had been working herself into a proper state of mind for her meeting with Dr. Larch. She prepared herself by lying in her bed and reading over and over again the inscription she had written in the stolen copy of Little Dorrit:
TO HOMER "SUNSHINE" WELLS
FOR THE PROMISE
YOU MADE ME
LOVE, MELONY
Then she tried, again and again, to begin the book through her angry tears.
The image of the staring, blazing sun in Marseilles--the oppressive glare--was both dazzling and mystifying to Melony. What experience did she have to help her comprehend a sun of that brightness? And the coincidence of so much sunshine (considering her nickname for Homer Wells) was too much for her. She read, got lost, began again, got lost again; she grew angrier and angrier.
Then she looked in her canvas bag of toilet articles and saw that the horn-rim barrette, which Mary Agnes had stolen from Candy--and which Melony had snatched out of Mary Agnes's hair and taken for herself--had been stolen again. She marched to Mary Agnes Cork's bed and retrieved the elegant barrette from under Mary Agnes's pillow. Melony's hair was cropped too short for her to be able to use the barrette, which she was not exactly sure how to use, anyway. She jammed it into her jeans' pocket; this was uncomfortable--her jeans were so tight. She went into the girls' shower room, where Mary Agnes Cork was washing her hair, and she turned the hot water up so hot that Mary Agnes was nearly scalded. Mary Agnes flung herself out of the shower; she lay red and writhing on the floor, where Melony twisted her arm behind her back and then stepped with all her weight on Mary Agnes's shoulder. Melony didn't mean to break anything; she was repelled by the sound of Mary Agnes's collarbone giving way, and she stepped quickly away from the younger girl--whose naked body turned from very red to very white. She lay on the shower room floor, shivering and moaning, not daring to move.
"Get dressed and I'll take you to the hospital," Melony said. "You broke something."
Mary Agnes trembled. "I can't move," she whispered.
"I didn't mean to," Melony said, "but I told you to keep outta my stuff."
"Your hair's too short," Mary Agnes said. "You can't wear it, anyway."
"You want me to break something else?" Melony asked the girl.
Mary Agnes tried to shake her head, but she stopped. "I can't move," she repeated. When Melony bent over to help her up, Mary Agnes screamed, "Don't touch me!"
"Suit yourself," Melony said, leaving her there. "Just keep outta my stuff."
In the lobby of the girls' division, on her way to her meeting with Dr. Larch, Melony told Mrs. Grogan that Mary Agnes had "broken something." Mrs. Grogan naturally assumed that Melony meant that Mary Agnes had broken a lamp, or a window, or even a bed.
"How are you liking the book, dear?" Mrs. Grogan asked Melony, who always carried Little Dorrit with her; she'd not been able to get past the first page.
"It starts kinda slow," said Melony.
When she got to Nurse Angela's office, where Dr. Larch was waiting for her, she was slightly out of breath and sweating.
"What's the book?" Dr. Larch asked her.
"Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens," Melony said; she felt the barrette bite into her leg when she sat down.
"Where'd you get it?" Dr. Larch asked her.
"It was a gift," Melony said--which was not exactly a lie.
"That's nice," said Wilbur Larch.
Melony shrugged. "It starts kinda slow," she said.
They eyed each other for a moment, cautiously. Larch smiled a little. Melony tried to smile but she was unsure how this looked on her face--so she stopped. She shifted in the chair; the barrette in her pocket hurt her a little less.
"He's not coming back, is he?" Melony asked Dr. Larch, who regarded her with the respect and wariness you feel for someone who has read your mind.
"He has a summer job," Larch said. "Of course, some other opportunity might develop."
Melony shrugged. "He might go to school, I suppose," she said.
"Oh, I hope so!" Larch said.
"I suppose you want him to be a doctor," Melony said.
Larch shrugged. It was his turn to feign indifference. "If he wants to be," he said.
"I broke someone's arm, once," Melony said. "Or maybe it was something in the chest."
"The chest?" Larch asked. "When did you do this?"
"Not too long ago," Melony said. "Pretty recently. I didn't mean to."
"How did it happen?" Dr. Larch asked her.
"I twisted her arm behind her back--she was on the floor--and then I stepped on her shoulder, the same shoulder of the arm I twisted."
"Ouch," said Dr. Larch.
"I heard it," Melony said. "Her arm or her chest."
"Perhaps her collarbone," Larch suggested. Given the position, he guessed it would be the collarbone.
"Well, whatever it was, I heard it," Melony said.
"How did that make you feel?" Wilbur Larch asked Melony, who shrugged.
"I don't know," Melony said. "Sick, I guess, but strong," she added. "Sick and strong," she said.
"Perhaps you'd like to have more to do?" Larch asked her.
"Here?" Melony asked.
"Well, here, yes," Larch said. "I could find more things for you to do here--more important things. Of course, I could also inquire for you about jobs--outside, I mean. Away from here."
"You want me to go, or do more chores, is that it?"
"I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do. You told me you didn't want to leave, once--and I'll never force you. It's just that I thought you might be looking for a change."
"You don't like how I read, huh?" Melony asked. "Is that it?"
"No!" Dr. Larch said. "I want you to keep reading, but that's only one of the things you might do here."
"You want me to do what Homer Wells did?"
"Homer did a lot of studying," Dr. Larch said. "Perhaps you could assist Nurse Angela and Nurse Edna, and me. Perhaps you'd be interested in just observing--to see if you liked it."
"I think it's sick," Melony said.
"You disapprove?" Larch asked, but Melony looked genuinely puzzled.
"Wha
t?" she asked.
"You don't believe we should perform the abortions, is that it?" Larch asked. "You don't believe in terminating a birth, in aborting the fetus?"
Melony shrugged. "I just think it would make me sick," she repeated. "Delivering babies--yuck," she said. "And cutting babies out of people--yuck, again."
Larch was confused. "But it's not that you think it's wrong?" he asked.
"What's wrong about it?" she asked him. "I think it's sick. Blood, people leaking stuff out of their bodies--ick," Melony said. "It smells bad around here," she added, meaning the hospital air--the aura of ether, the scent of old blood.
Wilbur Larch stared at Melony and thought, Why, she's just a big child! She's a baby thug!
"I don't want to work around the hospital," Melony said flatly. "I'll rake leaves, or something--stuff like that is okay, if you want me to work more, for my food or something."
"I want you to be happier than you are, Melony," Dr. Larch said cautiously. He felt miserable for how neglected the creature before him was.
"Happier!" said Melony; she gave a little jump in her chair and the stolen barrette dug into her. "You must be stupid, or crazy." Dr. Larch wasn't shocked; he nodded, considering the possibilities.
He heard Mrs. Grogan calling him from the hall outside the dispensary.
"Doctor Larch! Doctor Larch!" she called. "Wilbur?" she added, which gave Nurse Edna a tremor, because she felt a certain possessiveness regarding the use of that name. "Mary Agnes has broken her arm!" Larch stared at Melony, who for the first time managed a smile.
"You said this happened 'not too long ago'?" Larch asked her.
"I said 'pretty recently,' " Melony admitted.