John Irving - The Cider House Rules

It was fitting that the frame was teak-the wood of the tree that had held Wally Worthington in the air over Burma for one whole night-because the newspaper {557} article was about Captain Worthington, and the picture-which Melony had recognized, fifteen years ago-was also of Wally. The article was all about the miraculous rescue of the downed (and paralyzed) pilot, who had been awarded the Purple Heart. As far as Melony was concerned, the whole story resembled the plot of a cheap and unlikely adventure movie, but she liked the picture-and the part of the article that said Wally was a local hero, a Worthington from those Worthingtons who for years had owned and managed the Ocean View Orchards in Heart's Rock.

In her bedroom, in her boardinghouse in Bath, Melony hung the antique frame containing the article and photograph over her bed. In the darkness she liked knowing it was there-over her head, like history. She liked that as much as looking at the photograph in the daylight hours. And in the darkness, she would linger over the syllables of that hero's name.

'Worthington,' she liked to say aloud. 'Ocean View,' she said, at other times; she was more familiar with saying this. 'Heart's Rock,' she would say, quickly spitting the short words out.

In those predawn hours, which are the toughest for insomniacs, Melony would whisper, 'Fifteen years.' And just before she would fall asleep, she would ask of the first, flat light that crept into her bedroom, 'Are you still there, Sunshine?' What is hardest to accept about the passage of time is that the people who once mattered the most to us are wrapped up in parentheses.

For fifteen years, Homer Wells had taken responsibility for the writing and the posting of the cider house rules. Every year, it was the last thing he attached to the wall after the fresh coat of paint had dried. Some years he tried being jolly with the rules; other years he tried sounding nonchalant; perhaps it had been Olive's tone and not the rules themselves that had caused some offense, and thereby made it a matter of pride with the {558} migrants that the rules should never be obeyed.

The rules themselves did not change much. The rotary screen had to be cleaned out. A word of warning about the drinking and the falling asleep in the cold-storage room was mandatory. And long after the Ferris wheel at Cape Kenneth was torn down and there were so many lights on the coast that the view from the cider house roof resembled a glimpse of some distant city, the migrants still sat on the roof and drank too much and fell off, and Homer Wells would ask (or tell) them not to. Rules, he guessed, never asked; rules told.

But he tried to make the cider house rules seem friendly. He phrased the rules in a confiding voice.'There have been some accidents on the roof, over the years-especially at night, and especially in combination with having a great deal to drink while sitting on the roof. We recommend that you do your drinking with both feet on the ground,' Homer would write.

But every year, the piece of paper itself would become worn and tattered and used for other things-a kind of desperation grocery list, for example, always by someone who couldn't spell.

CORN MEEL

REGULAR FLOWER

was written across Homer's rules one year.

At times, the solitary sheet of paper gathered little insults and mockeries of a semi-literate nature.

'No fucking on the roof!' or 'Beat-off only in cold storage!'

Wally told Homer that only Mr. Rose knew how to write; that the pranks, and insults, and shopping lists were all composed by Mr. Rose, but Homer could never be sure.

Every summer Mr. Rose would write to Wally and Wally would tell Mr. Rose how many pickers he needed-and Mr. Rose would say how many he was bringing and the day they would arrive (give or take). No {559} contract ever existed-just the short, reliable assurances from Mr. Rose.

Some summers he came with a woman-large and soft and quiet, with a baby girl riding her hip. By the time the little girl could run around and get into trouble (s;he was about the age of Angel Wells), Mr Rose stopped bringing her or the woman.

For fifteen years the only migrant who was as constant as Mr. Rose was Black Pan, the cook.

'How's your little girl?' Homer Wells v/ould ask Mr. Rose-every year that the woman and the daughter didn't show up again.

'She growin', like your boy,' Mr. Rose would say.

'And how's your lady?' Homer would ask.

'She lookin' after the little girl,' Mr. Rose would say.

Only once in fifteen years did Homer Wells approach Mr. Rose on the subject of the cider house rules. 'I hope they don't offend anyone,' Homer began, 'I'm responsible-I write them, every year-and if anyone takes offense, I hope you'll tell me.' 'No offense,' said Mr. Rose, smiling.

'They're just little rules,' Homer said.

'Yes,' said Mr. Rose. 'They are.'

'But it does concern me that no one seems to pay attention to them,' Homer finally said.

Mr. Rose, whose bland face was unchanged by the years and whose body had remained thin and lithe, looked at Homer mildly. 'We got our own rules, too, Homer,' he said.

'Your own rules,' said Homer Wells.

''Bout lots of things,' said Mr. Rose. ''Bout how much we can have to do with you, for one thing.'

'With me?' Homer said.

'With white people,' said Mr. Rose. 'We got our rules about that.'

'I see,' Homer said, but he didn't really see.

'And about fightin',' said Mr. Rose.

'Fighting,' said Homer Wells.{560}

'With each other,' said Mr. Rose. 'One rule is, we can't cut each other bad. Not bad enough for no hospital, not bad enough for no police. We can cut each other, but not bad.'

'I see,' Homer said.

'No, you don't,' said Mr. Rose. 'You don't see-that's the point. We can cut each other only so bad that you never see-you never know we was cut. You see?'

'Right,'said Homer Wells.

'When you gonna say somethin' else?' Mr. Rose asked, smiling.

'Just be careful on the roof,' Homer advised him.

'Nothin' too bad can happen up there,' Mr. Rose told him. 'Worse things can happen on the ground.'

Homer Wells was on the verge of saying 'Right,' again, when he discovered that he couldn't talk; Mr. Rose had seized his tongue between his blunt, square-ended index finger and his thumb. A vague taste, like dust, was in Homer's mouth; Mr. Rose's hand had been so fast, Homer had never seen it-he never knew before that someone could actually catch hold of someone's tongue.

'Caught ya,' said Mr. Rose, smiling; he let Homer's tongue go.

Homer managed to say, 'You're very fast.'

'Right,' said Mr. Rose alertly. 'Ain't no one faster.'

Wally complained to Homer about the yearly wear and tear on the cider house roof. Every two or three years, they had to re-tin the roof, or fix the flashing, or put up new gutters.

'What's having his own rules got to do with not paying attention to ours?' Wally asked Homer.

'I don't know,' Homer said. 'Write him a letter and ask him.'

But no one wanted to offend Mr. Rose; he was a reliable crew boss. He made the picking and the pressing go smoothly every harvest.

Candy, who managed the money at Ocean View, claimed that whatever costs they absorbed in repairs to {561} the cider house roof were more than compensated for by Mr. Rose's reliability.

There's something a little gangland style about the guy,' Wally said-not exactly complaining. 'I mean, I don't really want to know how he gets all those pickers to behave themselves.'

'But they do behave themselves,' Homer said.

'He does a good job,' Candy said. 'Let him have his own rules.'

Homer Wells looked away; he knew that rules, for Candy, were all private contracts.

Fifteen years ago, they had made their own rules-or, really, Candy had made them (before Wally came home). They stood in the cider house (after Angel was born, on a night when Olive was looking after Angel). They had just made love, but not happily; something was wrong. It would be wrong for fifteen years, but that night Candy had said, 'Let's agree to something.'