John Irving: The Cider House Rules

He felt the pregnant woman squeeze his hand so hard that it hurt. The word 'Mother!' was strangely on his lips when Nurse Angela finally got the door open and seized Homer Wells in her arms.

'Oh, ohY she cried. 'Oh, Homer -my Homer, our Homer! I knew you'd be back!'

And because the pregnant woman's hand still firmly held Homer's hand-neither one of them felt able to let go-Nurse Angela turned and included the woman in her embrace. It seemed to Nurse Angela that this pregnant woman was just another orphan who belonged (like Homer Wells) exactly where she was.

What he told Dr. Larch was that he'd felt of no use in Waterville. Because of what the Drapers had said, when they'd called Larch to say that Homer had run away, Homer had to explain about the buggery-afterward, St. Larch explained all about buggery to Homer. The professor's drinking surprised Dr. Larch (he was good, as a rule, at detecting that), and the prayers baffled Larch. Dr. Larch's note to the Drapers was of a brevity the professor's own language rarely allowed.

'Repent,' the note said. Larch might have left it at that, but he couldn't resist adding, 'You are vile, you should abhor yourselves.'

Wilbur Larch knew that a fourth foster family for Homer Wells would not be easy to find. The search took Dr. Larch three years, by which time Homer was twelve-almost thirteen. Larch knew what the danger {38} would be: it would take Homer a great many years to feel as comfortable anywhere else as he felt at St. Cloud's.

'Here in St. Cloud's,' Larch wrote in his journal, 'we have only one problem. That there will always be orphans is not in the category of a problem; that is simply not to be solved-one; does the best one can with that, one takes care of them. That our budget will always be too small is also not a problem; that won't be solved, either-an orphanage goes down to the wire; by definition, that is what should happen. And it is not a problem that every woman who gets pregnant doesn't necessarily want her baby; perhaps we can look ahead to a more enlightened time, when women will have the right to abort the birth of an unwanted child-but some women will always be uneducated, will always be confused, will always be frightened. Even in enlightened times, unwanted babies will manage to be born.

'And there will always be babies, who were very much wanted, who will end up orphans-by accident, by both planned and random acts of violence, which are not problems either. Here in St. Cloud's we would waste our limited energy and our limited imagination by regarding the sordid facts of life as if they were problems. Here in St. Cloud's we have only one problem. His name is Homer Wells. We have been very successful with Homer. We have managed to make the orphanage his home, and that is the problem. If you try to give an institution of the state, or of any government, anything like the love one is meant to invest in a family-and if the institution is an orphanage and you succeed in giving it love-then you will create a monster: an orphanage that is not a way-station to a better life, but an orphanage that is the first and last stop, and the only station the orphan will accept.

There is no excuse for cruelty, but-at an orphanage -perhaps we are obliged to withhold love; if you fail to withhold love at an orphanage, you will create an orphanage that no orphan will willingly leave. You will {39} create a Homer Wells-a true orphan, because his only home will always be at St. Cloud's. God (or whoever) forgive me. I have made an orphan; his name is Homer Wells and he will belong to St. Cloud's forever.'

By the time Homer was twelve, he had the run of the place. He knew its stoves and its wood boxes, its fuse boxes, its linen closets, its laundry room, its kitchen, its corners where the cats slept-when the mail carne, who got any, everyone's name, who w as on what shift; where the mothers went to be shaved when they arrived, how long the mothers stayed, when-and with what necessary assistance-they left. He knew the bells; in fact, he rang them. He knew who the tutors were; he could recognize their style of walking from the train station, when they were still two hundred yards away. He was even known at the girls' division, although the very few girls older than he was frightened him and he spent as little time there as he could-going only on errands for Dr. Larch: messages and delivering medicines. The director of the girls' division was; not a doctor, so when the girls were sick, either they visited Dr. Larch at the hospital or Larch went to the girls' division to visit them. The director of the girls' division was Boston Irish and had worked for a while at The New England Home for Little Wanderers. Her name was Mrs. Grogan, although she never mentioned Mr. Grogan, and no one seeing her would have an easy time imagining that there had ever been a man in her life. She may have preferred the sound of Missus to the sound of Miss. At The New England Home for Little Wanderers she had belonged to a society called God's Little Servants, which had given Dr. Larch pause. But Mrs. Grogan showed no signs of seeking members for such a society in St. Cloud's; perhaps she was too busy-in addition to her duties as director of the girls' division, she was responsible for arranging what little education was available for the orphans.

If there was an orphan who remained at St. Cloud's past the sixth grade level of school, there was no school to {40}go to-and the only school for grades one through six was in Three Mile Falls; this was only a one-station stop on the train from St. Cloud's, but in 193- the trains were often delayed, and the Thursday engineer was notorious for forgetting to stop at the St. Cloud's station (as if the sight of so many abandoned buildings convinced him that St. Cloud's was still a ghost town, or perhaps he disapproved of the women who got off the train there).

The majority of the pupils in the one-room schoolhouse in Three Mile Falls thought themselves superior to the occasional orphans in attendance; this feeling prevailed the most strongly among those students who came from families where they were neglected or abused, or both, and thus grades one through six, for Homer Wells, were comprised of experiences more combative than educational. He missed three Thursdays out of four, for years, and at least one other day (every week) because of a late train; in the winters, he missed a day a week because he was sick. And when there was too much snow, the trains didn't run.

The three tutors suffered the same perils pressed upon the train service in those years, because they all came to St. Cloud's from Three Mile Falls. There was a woman who taught math; she was a bookkeeper for a textile mill -'a real-life accountant,' Nurse Edna claimed-but she refused to have anything to do with algebra or geometry, and she firmly preferred addition and subtraction to multiplication and division (Homer Wells would be a grown man before Dr. Larch would discover that the boy had never learned the multiplication table).

Another woman, a well-to-do plumber's widow, taught grammar and spelling. Her method was rigorous and messy. She presented great clumps of uncapitalized, misspelled, and unpunctuated words, and demanded that the clumps be put into proper sentences, meticulously punctuated and correctly spelled. She then corrected the corrections; the final document-she employed a system of different-colored inks-resembled 41 a much-revised treaty between two serniliterate countries at war. The text itself was always strange to Homer Wells, even when it was finally correct. This was because the woman borrowed heavily from a family hymnal, and Homer Wells had never seen a church or heard a hymn (unless one counted Christmas carols, or the songs Mrs. Grogan sang-and the plumber's widow was not such a fool that she used Christmas carols). Homer Wells used to have nightmares about deciphering the passages that the plumber's widow concocted.