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She reread, twice, that passage near the end of Chapter Twenty-seven that concludes: "Preconceived opinions, foregone determinations, are all I have at this hour to stand by: there I plant my foot."
With that she closed the book and turned out the light. Melony lay bravely on her back, her broad nostrils full of the sharp cider-vinegar air--the same air Homer Wells is smelling, she thought. Just before she fell asleep, she whispered--although there were only the mice to hear her--"Good night, Sunshine."
The next day it rained. It rained from Kennebunkport to Christmas Cove. There was such a strong northeast wind that the flags on the boats moored at the Haven Club, even though they were saturated with rain, pointed to shore, and made a brisk snapping sound as constant as the chafe of Ray Kendall's lobster boat against the old worn-rubber tires that padded his dock.
Ray would spend the day under the John Deere in Building Number Two; he was, alternately, replacing the tractor's manifold and sleeping. It was the place he slept best: under a large, familiar machine. He was never detected; his legs at times extended from under the vehicle in a posture of such extreme sprawl that he looked dead--run over or crushed. One of the apple workers, startled to see him, would speak out, "Ray? Is that you?" Whereupon, like Dr. Larch brought back from ether, Ray Kendall would wake up and say, "Right here. I'm right here."
"Some job, huh?" the worried party would inquire.
"Yup," Ray would say. "Some job, all right."
The rain came pelting down, the wind so strongly onshore that the gulls moved inland. At York Farm they huddled against the cider house and woke up Melony with their fretting; at Ocean View they squatted together on the tin roof of the cider house, where a crew of scrubbers and painters were at work again.
Grace Lynch, as usual, had the worst job, scouring the thousand-gallon cider tank; she was kneeling inside the vat, and the sound of her movements in there impressed the others with a kind of furtive energy as if an animal were scrounging for a nest or for its dinner. Meany Hyde had left the cider house on what his wife, Florence, called "another bullshit errand." Meany had determined that the fan belt on the conveyor was loose, and so he removed it and said he was taking it to Ray Kendall to see what Ray could do about it.
"So what's Ray gonna do with a loose fan belt?" Florence asked Meany. "Order a new one, or take a piece out of that one--right?"
"I suppose," Meany said warily.
"And what do you need the conveyor for today?" Florence asked.
"I'm just takin' it to Ray!" Meany said peevishly.
"You don't wanna work too much, do you?" Florence said, and Meany shuffled out into the rain; he smiled and winked at Homer Wells as he was climbing into the pickup.
"I got a lazy husband," Florence said happily.
"That's better than some other kinds," said Irene Titcomb--and everyone automatically looked in the direction of the thousand-gallon vat where Grace Lynch was feverishly scrubbing.
Irene and Florence, who had patient, steady hands, were painting the sashes and the window trim in the bedroom wing of the cider house. Homer Wells and Big Dot Taft and Big Dot's kid sister, Debra Pettigrew, were painting the kitchen with broader, more carefree strokes.
"I hope you don't feel I'm crampin' you," Big Dot said to Debra and Homer. "I ain't your chaperone or nothin'. If you want to make out, just go right ahead."
Debra Pettigrew looked embarrassed and cross, and Homer smiled shyly. It was funny, he thought, how you have two or three dates with someone--and just kiss them and touch them in a few odd places--and everyone starts talking to you as if you've got doing it on your mind every minute. Homer's mind was much more on Grace Lynch in the vat than it was on Debra Pettigrew, who stood right beside him painting the same wall. When Homer encountered the light switch by the kitchen door, he asked Big Dot Taft if he should just paint all around it or let Florence and Irene, with their smaller brushes, trim it more neatly.
"Just paint right over it," said Big Dot Taft. "We do this every year. We just make it look new and fresh. We're not tryin' to win no neatness contest."
By the light switch, there was a tack that pinned a piece of typing paper to the wall--the type itself was very faint, from long exposure to the sunlight that came through the kitchen's curtainless windows. It was some kind of list; the bottom quarter of the page had been torn away; whatever it was, it was incomplete. Homer pulled the tack out of the wall and would have crumpled the paper and tossed it toward the trash barrel if the top line of type hadn't caught his attention.
CIDER HOUSE RULES
the top line said.
What rules? he wondered, reading down the page. The rules were numbered.
1. Please don't operate the grinder or the press if you've been drinking.
2. Please don't smoke in bed or use candles.
3. Please don't go up on the roof if you've been drinking--especially at night.
4. Please wash out the press cloths the same day or night they are used.
5. Please remove the rotary screen immediately after you've finished pressing and hose it clean WHEN THE POMACE IS STILL WET ON IT!
6. Please don't take bottles with you when you go up on the roof.
7. Please--even if you are very hot (or if you've been drinking)--don't go into the cold-storage room to sleep.
