The Cider House Rules / Правила виноделов

© Загородняя И. Б., адаптация, сокращение, словарь, 2018

© ООО «Издательство «Антология», 2018

Conventionality is not morality. Selfrighteousness is not religion. To attack the first is not to assail the last.^[1]

Charlotte Bronte, 1847

For practical purposes abortion may be defined as the interruption of gestation before viability of the child.^[2]

H.J. Boldt, M.D., 1906

1. The Boy Who Belonged to St. Cloud's

In the hospital of the orphanage at St. Cloud's, Maine, two nurses – Nurse Edna and Nurse Angela – gave names to the new babies.

The director of the boys' division was a doctor. His name was Wilbur Larch. One of the nurses thought that Dr Larch was like the hard wood of the tree of that name^[3].

Nurse Edna imagined that she was in love with Dr Larch, and she often named babies John Larch, or John Wilbur (her father's name was John).

The boy was named Homer Wells by the other nurse. “Homer” had been the name of one of her family's many cats. “Wells” was associated with Nurse Angela's father's business – drilling wells – hard and honest work. Angela thought that her father had those qualities, which gave the word “wells” a deep aura.

St. Cloud's, Maine – the town – had been a logging camp for most of the nineteenth century. The first building was a saw mill. The first settlers were French Canadians – woodcutters; then the river bargemen came, then the prostitutes, and (at last) there was a church. The first logging camp had been called, simply, Clouds – because the valley was low and the weather was cloudy.

Dr Wilbur Larch – who was not only the doctor for the orphanage and the director of the boys' division (he had also founded the place) – was the historian of the town. According to Dr Larch, the logging camp called Clouds became St. Clouds only because of the Catholic instinct to put a Saint before so many things. But by the time it became St. Cloud's, it looked like a mill town. The forest, for miles around, was cleared.

There was never any spring in that part of Maine. The roads were impassable. The work of the town was shut down. The springtime river was so swollen, and ran so fast, that no one wanted to travel on it. Spring in St. Cloud's meant trouble: trouble of drinking and prostituting. Spring was the suicide season. In spring, the seeds for an orphanage were planted.

When the valley around St. Cloud's was cleared and when there were no more logs to send downriver, the saw mill was closed down.

And what was left behind? The weather, the sawdust, and the buildings: the mill with its broken windows; the whore hotel with its dance hall downstairs; the few private homes, and the church, which was Catholic, for the French Canadians.

And the people who were left behind? There were people: the prostitutes and the children of these prostitutes. Not one of the officers of the Catholic Church of St. Cloud's stayed.

Anyway, in 190— Dr Wilbur Larch started to correct the wrongs of St. Cloud's. He had a lot of work. For almost twenty years, Dr Larch left St. Cloud's only once – for World War I. Dr Larch wanted to do something for the good of someone.

In 192—, when Homer Wells was born and named, Nurse Edna (who was in love) and Nurse Angela (who wasn't) had a special name for St. Cloud's founder, physician, town historian, war hero, and director of the boys' division.

They called him “Saint Larch,” – and why not?

Homer's first foster parents returned him to St. Cloud's; they thought there was something wrong with him – he never cried. They thought this wasn't normal.

His second foster family reacted differently to Homer's silence. They beat the baby regularly and Homer cried a lot. The boy's crying saved him. The stories of Homer's loud cries found their way to the orphanage. So Dr Larch brought the boy back to St. Cloud's.

Homer Wells came back to St. Cloud's so many times, after so many unsuccessful foster homes, that the orphanage made St. Cloud's his home. It was not easy to accept, but Nurse Angela and Nurse Edna – and, finally, Dr Wilbur Larch – had to admit that Homer Wells belonged to St. Cloud's.

“Well, then, Homer,” said St. Larch, “I expect that you will be of use.”

In his journal – A Brief History of St. Cloud's — Dr Larch kept his daily record of the business of the orphanage. “Here in St. Cloud's,” Larch wrote in his journal, “we have only one problem. His name is Homer Wells. He is a true orphan, because his only home will always be at St. Cloud's. God 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 years old, he knew the place perfectly. He knew its laundry room, its kitchen, its corners where the cats slept. He knew the bells; in fact, he rang them. He knew who the tutors were. He knew ah the girls. The director of the girls' division was not a doctor, so when the girls were sick, they visited Dr Larch at the hospital or Larch went to the girls' division to visit them. The director of the girls' division was Mrs Grogan, although she never mentioned Mr Grogan.

The three tutors came to St. Cloud's from a nearby small town. There was a woman who taught math; she was a bookkeeper for a textile mill. She preferred addition and subtraction to multiplication and division. (Dr Larch discovered one day that Homer had never learned the multiplication table).

Another woman, a rich plumber's widow, taught grammar and spelling. Her method was chaotic. She gave her pupils long texts with uncapitalized, misspelled, and unpunctuated words, and told the children to put them into sentences, correctly punctuated and correctly spelled. She then corrected the corrections; the final document looked like a treaty between two illiterate countries at war which was revised many times. The text was always strange to Homer Wells, even when it was finally correct. This was because the woman took the texts from a book of hymns for the church, and Homer Wells had never seen a church or heard a hymn.

The third tutor, a retired teacher, was an old, unhappy man who lived with his daughter's family because he couldn't take care of himself. He taught history, but he had no books. He taught the world from memory; he said the dates weren't important. He could talk about Mesopotamia for a full half hour, but when he stopped for a moment to drink some water, he continued to speak about Rome.

So Homer liked doing chores more than education. His favorite chore was selecting the evening reading.

Dr Larch read aloud twenty minutes every evening. Dickens was a personal favorite of Dr Larch. It took him several months to read Great Expectations^[4], and more than a year to read David Copperfield^[5].

Almost none of the orphans understood the novels because the language was too difficult. But the evening reading helped them to fall asleep and those few who understood the words and the story could leave St. Cloud's in their dreams.

Both Great Expectations and David Copperfield were about orphans. (“What else could you read to an orphan?” Dr Larch wrote in his journal.)

2. The Lord's Work

Wilbur Larch was born in Portland, Maine, in 186—. He was the son of a tidy woman who served a man named Neal Dow, the mayor of Portland and the so-called father of the Maine law that introduced Prohibition^[6] to that state. Wilbur Larch's mother loved her employer and saw herself more as his co-worker for the reform than as his servant (which she was).

Interestingly, Wilbur Larch's father was a drunk. To young Wilbur, his father never looked drunk – he never fell or lay in a stupor, he never shouted. But he always looked a little surprised, as if he had suddenly remembered (or had just forgotten) something important.

When Wilbur was a boy, it never occurred to him that his father's missing fingers were the result of too many bottles of beer while operating the lathe – “just accidents,” his father said.

Although he grew up in the mayor's mansion, Wilbur Larch always used the kitchen entrance. He studied hard because he preferred the company of books to his mother's talk with other servants.

Wilbur Larch went to Bowdoin College, and to Harvard Medical School where he was an excellent student.

In the same year, 188—, when Wilbur Larch became a doctor, Neal Dow died. In grief, Wilbur Larch's mother died soon, too. A few days later, Wilbur's father sold everything and went to Montreal, where he drank a lot and eventually died of cirrhosis. His body was returned to Portland on the same train that had carried him away. Wilbur Larch met the train and buried his father.

Larch was an ether addict. He was an open-drop-method man. With one hand he held a mask over his mouth and nose. He made this mask himself: he wrapped many layers of gauze around a cone of stiff paper. With his other hand, he wet the cone with ether dropping from the can.

Wilbur gave much less ether to himself than to patients during an operation. When the hand that held the ether can felt weak, he put the can down; when the hand that held the cone over his mouth and nose dropped to his side, the cone fell off his face. He didn't feel the panic that a patient experiences – before that happened, he always dropped the mask.

When young Dr Larch started to deliver babies in the poor district of Boston, the South End, he thought that ether could relieve childbirth. Although he carried the ether can and the gauze cone with him, he didn't always have time to anesthetize the patient. Of course he used it when he had the time; he didn't agree with his elder colleagues that children should be born in pain.

Larch delivered his first child to a Lithuanian family in a coldwater top-floor apartment in a dirty street. There was no ice in the apartment. (The ice was necessary in case of bleeding). So Larch asked the husband to bring some. There was a pot of water already boiling on the stove, but Larch wished he could sterilize the entire apartment. He listened to the fetus's heartbeat while he watched a cat toying with a dead mouse on the kitchen floor.

When the husband returned with the ice, he stepped on the cat, which cried so loudly that Wilbur Larch thought the child was being born. It was a short and safe delivery, but the patient continued bleeding. Larch knew it was dangerous; fortunately, the ice helped.

After washing the baby Larch left the apartment. Just then he heard a noisy quarrel of the family. The delivery had been only a brief interruption to their life.

He walked out of the house and looked up in time to see the object flying through the window of the Lithuanian apartment. Larch was shocked to see that the object thrown from the window – and now dead on the ground at his feet – was the cat.

“Here in St. Cloud's,” Dr Larch wrote later, “I am constantly grateful for the South End of Boston.” He meant he was grateful for its children and for the feeling they gave him: that the act of helping them to be born was perhaps the safest phase of their life.

One night, when Wilbur was sleeping in the South End Branch of the Boston Lying-in Hospital, he was informed by one of the doctors that a patient was waiting for him.

There were stories about an abortionist in the South End who charged nearly five hundred dollars for an abortion, which very few poor women could afford, so they became his prostitutes. His place was called, simply, “Off Harrison”. One of lying-in hospitals was on Harrison Street, so that “Off Harrison,” in street language, meant not-official, or illegal.

The woman who came to see Dr Larch knew “Off Harrison” methods, which was why she asked Wilbur Larch to do the job.

“You want an abortion,” Wilbur Larch said softly. It was the first time he had spoken the word.

“It isn't moving yet!” said the woman.

Wilbur Larch didn't think anyone had a soul, but until the middle of the nineteenth century, the law's attitude toward abortion was simple and (to Wilbur Larch) sensible: before the first movement of the fetus – abortion was legal. And it was not dangerous to the mother to perform an abortion before the fetus started moving.

Wilbur Larch could hear the nurse-anesthetist sleeping. For an abortion, he needed only a little more ether than he usually gave himself. He had everything he needed. He could operate.

But Wilbur Larch was too young; he hesitated. He didn't know what to say to his colleagues, or to the nurse if she woke up. It was illegal; it was dangerous. So the woman left.

She was brought back to the South Branch a week later. No one knew how she got there; she was beaten, perhaps because she hadn't paid the usual abortion fee. She had a very high fever – her swollen face was as hot and dry to the touch as bread fresh from the oven. They woke Wilbur.

The woman died before Dr Larch could operate on her. “I refused to give her an abortion a week ago,” Wilbur Larch said.

“Good for you!” said the house officer.

But Wilbur Larch thought this was no good for anyone.

In the morning, Dr Larch visited “Off Harrison.” He needed to see for himself what happened there; he wanted to know where women went when doctors refused to help them. “If pride was a sin,” thought Dr Larch, “the greatest sin was moral pride.”

He beat on the door but no one heard him. When he opened the door and stepped inside, no one bothered to look at him. They did not use ether “Off Harrison.” For pain they used music. A group called The German Choir practiced Lieder in the Front rooms “Off Harrison.” They sang passionately.

The only instrument was a piano; there were not enough chairs for the women; the men stood in two groups, far from the women. The choir conductor stood by the piano. The air was full of cigar smoke and the stink of cheap beer. The choir followed the man's wild arms.

Larch walked behind the piano and through the only open door. He entered into a room with nothing in it – not a piece of furniture, not a window. There was only a closed door. Larch opened it and found himself in the waiting room. There were newspapers and fresh flowers and an open window; four people sat in pairs. No one read the papers or sniffed the flowers or looked out the window; everyone looked down and continued to look down when Wilbur Larch walked in. A man was sitting at a desk and eating something out of a bowl. The man looked young and strong and indifferent; he wore a pair of work overalls and a sleeveless undershirt; around his neck, like a gym instructor's whistle, hung a key – obviously to the cashbox.

Without looking at Wilbur Larch, the man said: “Hey, don't come here. It's only for ladies.”

“I'm a doctor,” Dr Larch said.

The man continued eating, but he looked up at Larch. The singers took a deep breath, and in the silence Larch heard the sound of someone vomiting. One of the women in the waiting room began to cry, but the choir sang again. “Something about Christ's blood,” Larch thought.

“What do you want?” the man asked Larch.

“I'm a doctor, I want to see the doctor here,” Larch said.

“There is no doctor here,” the man said. “Just you.”

“Then I want to give advice,” Larch said. “Medical advice. Free medical advice.”

The man studied Larch's face. “You're not the first one here,” the man said, after a while. “Wait for your turn.”

Larch looked for a seat. He was shocked by everything. He tapped his foot nervously and looked at a couple sitting next to him – a mother and her daughter. The daughter looked too young to be pregnant, but then why, Larch wondered, had the mother brought the girl here?

Wilbur Larch stared at the shut door, behind which he had heard unmistakable vomiting. Suddenly he heard the scream.

It was louder than the choir. The young girl jumped from her seat, sat down, cried out; she put her face in her mother's lap. Larch realized that she needed the abortion – not her mother. The girl didn't look older than ten or twelve years old.

“Excuse me,” Larch said to the mother. I'm a doctor.”

“So you're a doctor,” the mother said, bitterly. “And how can you help?” the mother asked him.

“How many months is she?” Larch asked the mother.

“Maybe three,” the mother said. “But I already paid them here.”

“How old is she?” Larch asked.

The girl looked up from her mother's lap. “I'm fourteen,” she said.

“She'll be fourteen, next year,” the mother said.

Larch stood up and said to the man with the cashbox key, “Pay them back. I'll help the girl.”

“I thought you came for advice,” the man said.

“To give it,” Dr Larch said.

“When you pay, there's a deposit. You can't get a deposit back.”

“How much is the deposit?” Larch asked. The man drummed his fingers on the cashbox.

“Maybe half,” he said.

When the evil door opened, an old couple looked into the waiting room. Behind them, on a bed, a woman lay under a sheet; her eyes were open but unfocused.

“He says that he's a doctor,” the cashbox man said, without looking at the old couple. “He says that he came to give you free medical advice. He tells me to pay these ladies back. He says that he'll take care of the young lady himself.”

Larch realized that the old white-haired woman was the abortionist; the old white-haired man was her assistant.

“Doctor Larch,” Dr Larch said, bowing.

“Well?” the woman asked, aggressively. “What's your advice, Doctor?”

“You don't know what you're doing,” Dr Larch said.

“At least I'm doing something,” the old woman said. “If you know how to do it, why don't you do it?” she asked. “If you know how, why don't you teach me?”

The woman under the sheet looked shaky. She sat up and tried to examine herself; she discovered that, under the sheet, she still wore her own dress. This knowledge relaxed her.

“Please listen to me, “Dr Larch said to her. “If you have a fever, you must come to the hospital. Don't wait.”

“I thought the advice was for me,” the old woman said. “Where's my advice?”

Larch tried to ignore her. He went out to the waiting room and told the mother with her young daughter that they should leave.

“Pay them back!” the old woman told the cashbox man the angrily.

She put her hand on Dr Larch's arm. “Ask her who the father is,” she said.

“That's not my business,” Larch said.

“You're right,” the old woman said. “But ask her, anyway – it's an interesting story.”

She spoke to the mother. “Tell him who the father is,” she said. The daughter began to cry; the old woman looked only at the mother. “Tell him,” she repeated.

“My husband,” the woman said, “her father.”

“Her father is the father,” the old woman said to Dr Larch. “Do you understand? About a third of them get it from their fathers, or their brothers. Rape,” she said. “Incest. Do you understand?”

“Yes, thank you,” Dr Larch said, pulling the girl with him.

After he had helped the poor girl, Larch became very popular with the unhappy women who needed him badly. He had a feeling that they followed him everywhere asking for help. Finally, he decided to return home.

Wilbur Larch applied to the Maine State board of medical examiners for a useful position in obstetrics. While they sought a position for him in some developing community, they liked his Harvard degree and made him a member of their board. Larch waited for his new appointment in his old hometown of Portland, in the old mayor's mansion where he had spent his childhood.

Larch often thought about the orphans of the South End. In 189—, less than half the mothers were married. According to the rules of the lying-in hospital, only married or recently widowed women of good moral character could be admitted. But in truth almost everyone was admitted: there were an astonishing number of women who said that they were widows.

He wondered why there were no orphans, no children or women in need in the tidy town of Portland. Wilbur Larch did not feel of much use there. He looked forward to getting a letter from the Maine State board of medical examiners.

But before the letter arrived, Wilbur Larch had another invitation. He was invited to Boston to have dinner with the family of Channing-Peabodys and friends. Larch knew that Channing and Peabody were old Boston family names, but he was unfamiliar with this strange combination of the two.

He felt uncomfortably dressed for the season – his only suit was a dark and heavy, and he hadn't worn it since the day of his visit “Off Harrison.” When Larch lifted the big brass door knocker of the Channing-Peabody house, he felt the suit was too hot. Mrs Channing-Peabody opened the door to receive him.

“Doctor Larch?” Mrs Channing-Peabody asked.

“Yes, Doctor Larch,” answered Larch and bowed to the woman with a tanned face and silver-gray hair.

“You must meet my daughter,” the woman said. “And all the rest of us!” she added with a loud laugh that chilled the sweat on Wilbur Larch's back.

All the rest of them were named Channing or Peabody or Channing-Peabody, and some of them had first names that resembled last names. Mrs Channing-Peabody's daughter was young and unhealthy-looking. Her name was Missy.

“Missy?” Wilbur Larch repeated. The girl nodded and shrugged.

They were sitting at a long table, next to each other. Across from them there was one of the young men. He looked angry.

The girl looked unwell. She was pale; she picked at her food. The dinner was delicious, but there was no subject for conversation.

The old retired surgeon who was sitting on Wilbur's other side – he was either a Channing or a Peabody – looked disappointed when he learnt that Larch was an obstetrician. The old man was hard of hearing and asked young Larch to speak louder. Their conversation was the dinner table's only conversation; they were talking about operations.

Wilbur Larch saw that Missy Channing-Peabody's skin was changing color from milk to mustard to spring-grass green, and almost back to milk. Her mother and the angry young man took the girl to the fresh air.

Wilbur Larch already knew what Missy needed. She needed an abortion. It was clear because of the visible anger of the young man, the old surgeon's interest in “modern” obstetrical procedure and the absence of other conversation. That was why he'd been invited: Missy Channing-Peabody, suffering from morning sickness, needed an abortion. Rich people needed them, too. Even rich people knew about him. He wanted to leave, but now his fate held him. He felt that he needed to perform the abortion.

Mrs Channing-Peabody took him out into the hall. He let her lead him to the room that had been prepared for him. On the way she said, “We have this little problem.”

Missy Channing-Peabody had certainly been ready. The family had converted a small reading room into an operating theater. There were old pictures of men in uniform and many books. There was a table, and Missy herself was lying in the correct position. She had already been prepared for the operation. Someone had done the necessary homework. Dr Larch saw the alcohol, the soap, the nail brush. There was a set of medical instruments.

Everything was perfect, but Wilbur Larch could not forgive the loathing which the family felt for him. Mrs Channing-Peabody seemed unable to touch him.

“These people need me but they hate me”, Larch was thinking, scrubbing under his nails. He thought that the Channing-Peabodys knew many doctors but they didn't want to ask one of them for help with this “little problem.” They were too pure for it.

“Take her temperature every hour,” Larch told the servant after he had finished operating. “If there's more than a little bleeding, or if she has a fever, I should be called. And treat her like a princess,” Wilbur Larch told the old woman and the young man. “Don't make her feel ashamed.”

When he put his coat on, he felt the envelope in the pocket. He didn't count the money, but he saw that there were several hundred dollars. It was the servant's treatment; it meant that the Channing-Peabody's were not going to ask him back for tennis or croquet.

Larch handed about fifty dollars to the old woman who had prepared Missy for the abortion. He gave about twenty dollars to the young tennis player, who had opened the door to the yard to breathe a little of the garden air. Larch was going to leave. He looked for the old surgeon, but there were only servants in the dining room – still clearing the table. He gave each of them about twenty or thirty dollars.

He found the kitchen and several servants busy in it, and gave away about two hundred dollars there.

He gave the last of the money, another two hundred dollars, to a gardener who was on his knees in a flower bed by the main door. He tried to fold the envelope and pin it to the main door; the envelope kept blowing free in the wind. Then he got angry, made a ball out of the envelope and threw it into the green lawn.

On his way back to Portland, Wilbur Larch was thinking about the last century of medical history – when abortion was legal. By the time he got back to Portland, he had made a decision. He was an obstetrician; he delivered babies into the world. His colleagues called this “the Lord's work.” And he was an abortionist; he delivered mothers, too. His colleagues called this “the Devil's work,” but it was all the Lord's work to Wilbur Larch.

He decided to deliver babies. He decided to deliver mothers, too.

In Portland, a letter from St. Cloud's waited for him. The Maine State board of medical examiners sent him to St. Cloud's.

In the first week spent in St. Cloud's, Wilbur Larch founded an orphanage (because it was needed), delivered three babies (one wanted, two unwanted – one became another orphan), and performed one abortion (his third). Dr Larch educated the population about birth control. Over the years, there was one abortion for every five births.

During World War I, when Wilbur Larch went to France, the replacement doctor at the orphanage did not perform abortions; the number of orphans doubled, but the doctor said to Nurse Edna and to Nurse Angela that he was put on this earth to do the Lord's work, not the Devil's. Dr Wilbur Larch wrote his good nurses from France that he had seen the real Devil's work: the Devil worked with weapon. The Devil's work was gas bacillus infection.

“Tell him,” Larch wrote Nurse Angela and Nurse Edna, “the work at the orphanage is all the Lord's work – everything you do, you do for the orphans!”

And when the war was over, and Wilbur Larch came home to St. Cloud's, Nurse Edna and Nurse Angela were already familiar with the language for the work of St. Cloud's – the Lord's work and the Devil's work, they called it, just to make it clear between themselves which operation was being performed. Wilbur Larch didn't mind – it was useful language – but both nurses agreed with Larch: that it was all the Lord's work.

It was not until 193— that they had their first problem. His name was Homer Wells. He went out into the world and came back to St. Cloud's so many times that it was necessary to put him to work; by the time a boy is a teen-ager, he should be of use.

After the Lord's work, or after the Devil's, the wastebasket contained the same things. In most cases: blood, cotton, gauze, placenta. Sometimes in the wastebaskets that Homer Wells carried to the cremator there were human fetuses.

And that is how Homer Wells (when he was thirteen) discovered that both the babies and the fetuses were delivered at St. Cloud's. One day, walking back from the cremator, he saw a fetus on the ground: it had fallen from the wastebasket, but when he saw it, he thought it had fallen from the sky. He looked for a nest but there were no trees.

Holding the thing in one hand, Homer ran with it to Dr Larch. Larch was sitting at the typewriter in Nurse Angela's office; he was writing a letter.

“I found something,” Homer Wells said. Larch took the fetus from him and placed it on a clean white piece of paper on Nurse Angela's desk. It was about three months. “What is it?” Homer Wells asked.

“The Lord's work,” said Wilbur Larch, that saint of St. Cloud's, because at that moment he realized that this was also the Lord's work: teaching Homer Wells, telling him everything, explaining what was good and what was bad. It was a lot of work, the Lord's work.