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"Who left it?" Mrs. Grogan asked.
"Someone named Lorna," Nurse Angela said. "I never saw her before."
"I never saw her before, either," said Wilbur Larch.
When the package was opened, there was still a mystery. Inside was a huge coat, much too large for Mrs. Grogan. An Army surplus coat, made for the Alaskan service, it had a hood and a fur collar and was so heavy that when Mrs. Grogan tried it on, it almost dragged her to the floor--she lost her balance a little and wobbled around like a top losing its spin. The coat had all sorts of secret pockets, which were probably for weapons or mess kits--"Or the severed arms and legs of enemies," said Dr. Larch.
Mrs. Grogan, lost in the coat and perspiring, said, "I don't get it." Then she felt the money in one of the pockets. She took out several loose bills and counted them, which was when she remembered that it was the exact amount of money that Melony had stolen from her when Melony had left St. Cloud's--and taken Mrs. Grogan's coat with her--more than fifteen years ago.
"Oh, my God!" Mrs. Grogan cried, fainting.
Nurse Caroline ran to the train station, but Lorna's train had already left. When Mrs. Grogan was revived, she cried and cried.
"Oh, that dear girl!" she cried, while everyone soothed her and no one spoke; Larch and Nurse Angela and Nurse Edna remembered Melony as anything but "dear." Larch tried on the coat, which was also too big and heavy for him; he staggered around in it for a while, frightening one of the smaller girls in the girls' division who'd come into the lobby to investigate Mrs. Grogan's cries.
Larch found something in another pocket: the snipped, twisted ends of some copper wire and a pair of rubber-handled, insulated wirecutters.
On his way back to the boys' division, Larch whispered to Nurse Angela: "I'll bet she robbed some electrician."
"A big electrician," Nurse Angela said.
"You two," Nurse Edna scolded them. "It's a warm coat, anyway--at least it will keep her warm."
"It'll give her a heart attack, lugging it around," Dr. Larch said.
"I can wear it," Nurse Caroline commented. It was the first time that Larch and his old nurses realized that Nurse Caroline was not only young and energetic, she was also big and strong--and, in a much less crude and vulgar way, a little reminiscent of Melony (if Melony had been a Marxist, thought Wilbur Larch--and an angel).
Larch had trouble with the word "angel" since Homer Wells and Candy had taken their son away from St. Cloud's. Larch had trouble with the whole idea of how Homer was living. For fifteen years, Wilbur Larch had been amazed that the three of them--Homer and Candy and Wally--had managed it; he wasn't at all sure what they had managed, or at what cost. He knew, of course, that Angel was a wanted child, and well loved, and well looked after--or else Larch couldn't have remained silent. It was difficult for him to remain silent about the rest of it. How had they arranged it?
But who am I to advocate honesty in all relationships? he wondered. Me with my fictional histories, me with my fictional heart defects--me with my Fuzzy Stone.
And who was he to ask exactly what the sexual relationship was? Did he need to remind himself that he had slept with someone else's mother and dressed himself in the light of her daughter's cigar? That he had allowed to die a woman who had put a pony's penis in her mouth for money?
Larch looked out the window at the apple orchard on the hill. That summer of 195_, the trees were thriving; the apples were mostly pale green and pink, the leaves were a vibrant dark green. The trees were almost too tall for Nurse Edna to spray with the Indian pump. I should ask Nurse Caroline to take over the tending of them, Dr. Larch thought. He wrote a note to himself and left it in the typewriter. The heat made him drowsy. He went to the dispensary and stretched himself out on the bed. In the summer, with the windows open, he could risk a slightly heavier dose, he thought.
The last summer that Mr. Rose was in charge of the picking crew at Ocean View was the summer of 195_, when Angel Wells was fifteen. All that summer, Angel had been looking forward to the next summer--when he would be sixteen, old enough to have his driver's license. By that time, he imagined, he would have saved enough money--from his summer jobs in the orchards and from his contribution to the harvests--to buy his first car.
His father, Homer Wells, didn't own a car. When Homer went shopping in town or when he volunteered at the hospital in Cape Kenneth, he used one of the farm vehicles. The old Cadillac, which had been equipped with a hand-operated brake and accelerator so Wally could drive it, was often available, and Candy had her own car--a lemon-yellow Jeep, in which she had taught Angel to drive and which was as reliable in the orchards as it was sturdy on the public roads.
"I taught your father how to swim," Candy always told Angel. "I guess I can teach you how to drive."
Of course Angel knew how to drive all the farm vehicles, too. He knew how to mow, and how to spray, and how to operate the forklift. The driver's license was simply necessary, official approval of something Angel already did very well on the farm.
And, for a fifteen-year-old, he looked much older. He could have driven all over Maine and no one would have questioned him. He would be taller than his boyish, round-faced father (they were dead even as the summer began), and there was a defined angularity in the bones of his face that made him seem already grown up; even the trace of a beard was there. The shadows under his eyes were not unhealthy-looking; they served only to accent the vivid darkness of his eyes. It was a joke between father and son: that the shadows under Angel's eyes were "inherited." "You get your insomnia from me," Homer Wells would tell his son, who still thought he was adopted. "You've got no reason to feel adopted," his father had told him. "You've got three parents, really. The best that most people get is two."
Candy had been like a mother to him, and Wally was a second father--or the favorite, eccentric uncle. The only life Angel had known was a life with all of them. At fifteen, he'd never suffered so much as a change of rooms; everything had been the same since he could remember it.
He had what had been Wally's room, the one Wally had shared with Homer. Angel had been born into a real boy's room: he'd grown up surrounded by Wally's tennis and swimming trophies, and the pictures of Candy with Wally (when Wally's legs worked), and even the picture of Candy teaching Homer how to swim. Wally's Purple Heart (which Wally had given to Angel) was hung on the wall over the boy's bed; it concealed an oddly smeared fingerprint--Olive's fingerprint, from the night when s
he'd crushed a mosquito against that wall, which was the same night Angel Wells had been conceived in the cider house. After fifteen years, the wall needed a fresh coat of paint.
Homer's room down the hall had been the master bedroom; it had been Olive's room and the room where Senior had died. Olive herself had died in Cape Kenneth Hospital before the war was over, even before they'd sent Wally home. It was an inoperable cancer, which spread very quickly after they'd done the exploratory.
Homer and Candy and Ray had taken turns visiting her; one of them was always with Angel but Olive was never alone. Homer and Candy had said--privately, only to each other--that things might have worked out differently if Wally had made it back to the States before Olive died. Because of Wally's precariousness and the added difficulty of moving him in wartime, it was thought best not to tell Wally of Olive's cancer; that was how Olive had wanted it, too.
In the end, Olive thought Wally had come home. She was pumped so full of pain-killers that she mistook Homer for Wally in their last few meetings. Homer had been in the habit of reading to her--from Jane Eyre, from David Copperfield, and from Great Expectations--but he gave that up when Olive's attention began to wander. The first few times Olive confused Homer with Wally, Homer couldn't be sure whom she thought she was addressing.
"You must forgive him," Olive said. Her speech was slurred. She took Homer's hand, which she did not really hold so much as contain in her lap.
