The Cider House Rules (50 page)

When Olive introduced him to Homer Wells, that measure of respect was made clear. “Homer,” Olive said, “this is Mister Rose. And this is Homer Wells,” Olive added.

“Glad to know you, Homer,” said Mr. Rose.

“Homer has become my good right hand,” Olive said affectionately.

“Glad to hear that, Homer!” said Mr. Rose. He shook Homer’s hand strongly, although he let go of the hand with unusual quickness. He was no better dressed than the rest of the picking crew, and he was slender, like most of them; yet he managed a certain style with shabbiness. If his jacket was dirty and torn, it was a pinstriped suit jacket, a double-breasted model that had, in its history, given someone a degree of sharpness, and Mr. Rose wore a real silk necktie for a belt. His shoes were also good, and good shoes were vital for farm work; they were old, but well oiled, resoled, comfortable-looking and in good condition. His socks matched. His suit jacket had a watch pocket, and in it was a gold watch that worked; he regarded the watch naturally and often, as if time were very important to him. He was so clean-shaven he looked as if he might never have needed a shave; his face was a smooth brick of the darkest, unsweetened, bitter chocolate, and in his mouth he expertly moved around a small, bright-white mint, which always surrounded him with a fresh and alert fragrance.

He spoke and moved slowly—modestly, yet deliberately; in both speech and gesture he gave the impression of being humble and contained. Yet, when one observed him standing still and not speaking, he looked extraordinarily fast and sure of himself.

It was a hot, Indian-summer day, and the apple mart was inland enough to miss what little sea breeze there was. Mr. Rose and Mrs. Worthington stood talking among the parked and moving farm vehicles in the apple-mart lot; the rest of the picking crew waited in the their cars—the windows rolled down, an orchestra of black fingers strumming the sides of the cars. There were seventeen pickers and a cook—no women or children this year, to Olive’s relief.

“Very nice,” Mr. Rose said, about the flowers in the cider house.

Mrs. Worthington touched the rules she’d tacked to the wall by the kitchen light switch as she was leaving. “And you’ll point out these to everyone, won’t you, please?” Olive asked.

“Oh yes, I’m good at rules,” said Mr. Rose, smiling. “You all come back and watch the first press, Homer,” Mr. Rose said, as Homer held open the van door for Olive. “I’m sure you got better things to watch—movies and stuff—but if you ever got some time on your hands, you come watch us make a little cider. About a thousand gallons,” he added shyly; he scuffed his feet, as if he were ashamed that he might be bragging. “All we need is eight hours, and about three hundred bushels of apples,” said Mr. Rose. “A thousand gallons,” he repeated proudly.

On the way back to the apple mart, Olive Worthington said to Homer, “Mister Rose is a real worker. If the rest of them were like him, they could improve themselves.” Homer didn’t understand her tone. Certainly he had heard in her voice admiration, sympathy—and even affection—but there was also in her voice the ice that encases a long-ago and immovable point of view.

Fortunately, for Melony, the picking crew at York Farm included two women and a child; Melony felt safe to stay in the cider house. One of the women was a wife and the other woman was the first woman’s mother and the cook; the wife picked with the crew, while the old lady looked after the food and the child—who was silent to the point of nonexistence. There was only one shower, and it was outdoors—installed behind the cider house, on a cinder-block platform, under a former grape arbor whose trellises were rotted by the weather. The women showered first, every evening, and they permitted no peeking. The York Farm crew boss was a mild man—it was his wife who came along—and he raised no objections to Melony’s sharing the cider house with his crew.

His name was Rather; it was a nickname, stemming from the man’s laconic habit of remarking during each activity that he’d rather be doing something else. His authority seemed less certain, or at least less electrical, than the authority commanded by Mr. Rose; no one called him
Mister
Rather. He was a steady but not an exceptionally fast picker, yet he always accounted for over a hundred bushels a day; it took Melony just one day to observe that his fellow workers paid Rather a commission. They gave him one bushel for every twenty bushels they picked.

“After all,” Rather explained to Melony, “I get them the job.” He was fond of saying that his commission, under the circumstances, was “rather small,” but Rather never suggested that Melony owed him anything. “After all, I didn’t get you your job!” he told her cheerfully.

By her third day in the field, she was managing eighty bushels; she also assisted as a bottler with the first cider press. Yet Melony was disappointed; she’d found the time to ask if anyone had heard of Ocean View, and no one had.

Perhaps because he viewed everything with slightly less cynicism than Melony brought to each of her experiences, Homer Wells needed a few days to notice the commission Mr. Rose exacted from his crew. He was the fastest picker among them, without ever appearing to rush—and he never dropped fruit; he never bruised the apples by bumping his canvas picking bucket against the ladder rungs. Mr. Rose could have managed a hundred and ten bushels a day on his own, but—even with his speed—Homer realized that his regular hundred and fifty or hundred and sixty bushels a day were very high. He took as his commission only one bushel out of every forty, but he had a crew of fifteen and no one picked fewer than eighty bushels a day. Mr. Rose would pick a very fast half dozen bushels, then he’d just rest for a while, or else he’d supervise the picking technique of his crew.

“A little slower, George,” he’d say. “You bruise that fruit, what’s it gonna be good for?”

“Just cider,” George would say.

“That’s right,” Mr. Rose would say. “Cider apples is only a nickel a bushel.”

“Okay,” George would say.

“Sure,” Mr. Rose would say, “everythin’s gonna be okay.”

The third day it rained and no one picked; both apples and pickers slip in the rain, and the fruit is more sensitive to bruising.

Homer went to watch Meany Hyde and Mr. Rose conduct the first cider press, which they directed out of range of the splatter. They put two men on the press, and two bottling, and they shifted fresh men into the rotation almost every hour. Meany watched only one thing: whether the racks were stacked crookedly or whether they were right. When the press boards are stacked crookedly, you can lose the press—three bushels of apples in one mess, eight or ten gallons of cider and the pomace flying everywhere. The men at the press wore rubber aprons; the bottlers wore rubber boots. The whine of the grinder reminded Homer Wells of the sounds he had only imagined at St. Cloud’s—the saw-mill blades that were ear-splitting in his dreams, and in his insomnia. The pump sucked, the spout disgorged a pulp of seeds and skin and mashed apples, and even worms (if there were worms). It looked like what Nurse Angela calmly called upchuck. From the big tub under the press, the cider whirred through a rotary screen, which strained it into the thousand-gallon vat where, only recently, Grace Lynch had exposed herself to Homer.

In eight hours of no nonsense, they had a thousand gallons. The conveyor tracks rattled the jugs along, straight into cold storage. A man named Branches was assigned to hose out the vat and rinse off the rotary screen; his name stemmed from his dexterity in the big trees—and his scorn for using a ladder. A man named Hero washed the press cloths; Meany Hyde told Homer that the man had been a kind of hero, once. “That’s all I heard. He’s been comin’ here for years, but he was a hero. Just once,” Meany added, as if there might be more shame attached to the rarity of the man’s heroism than there was glory to be sung for his moment in the sun.

“I’ll bet you was bored,” Mr. Rose said to Homer, who lied—who said it had been interesting; eight hours of hanging around a cider mill are several hours in excess of interesting. “You got to come at night to get the real feel of it,” Mr. Rose confided. “This was just a rainy-day press. When you pick all day and press all night, then you get the
feel
of it.” He winked at Homer, assuming he’d managed to make some secret life instantly clear; then he handed Homer a cup of cider. Homer had been sipping cider all day, but the cup was offered solemnly—some pledge about pressing cider at night was being made on the spot—and so Homer took the cup and drank. His eyes watered instantly; the cider was so strongly laced with rum that Homer felt his face flush and his stomach glow. Without further acknowledgment, Mr. Rose took back the cup and offered the remaining swallows to the man called Branches, who bolted it down without needing to make the slightest adjustment on the spray nozzle of his hose.

When Homer Wells was loading some cider jugs into the van, he saw the cup make its way between Meany Hyde and the man called Hero—all of it under the calm supervision of Mr. Rose, who had not revealed the source of the rum to anyone. The phrase “a gift for concealment” occurred to Homer Wells in regard to Mr. Rose; Homer had no idea where such a phrase had come from, unless it was Charles Dickens or Charlotte Brontë—he doubted he had encountered it in
Gray’s Anatomy
or in Bensley’s
Practical Anatomy of the Rabbit.

There were no movements wasted in what movement there was to be seen by Mr. Rose—a quality that Homer Wells had formerly associated only with Dr. Larch; surely Dr. Larch had other, quite different qualities, as did Mr. Rose.

Back at the apple mart, the harvest appeared at a momentary standstill, held up by the rain, which Big Dot Taft and the mart women watched sourly from their assembly-line positions along the conveyor tracks in the packing line.

No one seemed very excited by the cider Homer brought. It was very bland, as the first cider usually is, and too watery—composed, typically, of early Macs and Gravensteins. You don’t get a good cider until October, Meany Hyde had told Homer, and Mr. Rose had confirmed this with a solemn nod. A good cider needs some of those last-picked apples—Golden Delicious and Winter Banana, and the Baldwins or Russets, too.

“Cider’s got no smoke before October,” said Big Dot Taft, inhaling her cigarette listlessly.

Homer Wells, listening to Big Dot Taft, felt like her voice—dulled. Wally was away, Candy was away, and the anatomy of a rabbit was, after Clara, no challenge; the migrants, whom he’d so eagerly anticipated, were just plain hard workers; life was just a job. He had grown up without noticing
when
? Was there nothing remarkable in the transition?

They had four days of good picking weather at Ocean View before Meany Hyde said there would be a night press and Mr. Rose again invited Homer to come to the cider house and “get the feel of it.” Homer had a quiet dinner with Mrs. Worthington and only after he’d helped her wash the dishes did he say he thought he’d go to the cider house and see if he could help with the pressing; he knew they would have been hard at work for two or three hours.

“What a good worker you are, Homer!” Olive told him appreciatively.

Homer Wells shrugged. It was a cold, clear night, the very best weather for McIntosh apples—warm, sunny days, and cold nights. It was not so cold that Homer couldn’t smell the apples as he walked to the cider house, and it was not so dark that he needed to keep on the dirt road; he could go overland. Because he was not on the road, he was able to approach the cider house unobserved.

For a while he stood outside the range of the lights blazing in the mill room and listened to the sounds of the men working the press, and talking, and laughing—and the murmur of the men who were talking and laughing on the cider house roof. Homer Wells listened for a long time, but he realized that when the men were not making an effort to be understood by a white person, he couldn’t understand them at all—not even Mr. Rose, whose clear voice appeared to punctuate the other voices with calm but emphatic interjections.

They were also pressing cider at York Farm that night, but Melony wasn’t interested; she wasn’t trying to understand either the process or the lingo. The crew boss, Rather, had made it clear to her that the men resented her working the press, or even bottling; it cut into their extra pay. Melony was tired from the picking, anyway. She lay on her bed in the bunkroom of the cider house, reading
Jane Eyre;
there was a man asleep at the far end of the bunkroom, but Melony’s reading light didn’t disturb him—he had drunk too much beer, which was all that Rather allowed the men to drink. The beer was kept in the cold-storage room, right next to the mill, and the men were drinking and talking together while they ran the press.

The friendly woman named Sandra, who was Rather’s wife, was sitting on a bed not far from Melony, trying to mend a zipper on a pair of one of the men’s trousers. The man’s name was Sammy and he had only one pair of trousers; every so often he’d wander in from the mill room to see how Sandra’s work was progressing—an overlarge, ballooning pair of undershorts hanging almost to his knobby knees, his legs below the knees like tough little vines.

Sandra’s mother, whom everyone called Ma and who cooked plain but large meals for the crew, lay in a big lump on the bed next to Sandra, more than her share of blankets piled on top of her—she was always cold, but it was the only thing she complained about.

Sammy came into the bunkroom, sipping a beer and bringing with him the apple-mash odor of the mill room; the splatter from the press dotted his bare legs.

“Legs like that, no wonder you want your pants back,” Sandra said.

“What are my chances?” Sammy asked.

“One, your zipper is jammed. Two, you tore it off your pants,” Sandra said.

“What you in such a hurry with your zipper for?” Ma asked, without moving from her lumped position.

“Shit,” Sammy said. He went back to the press. Every once in a while the grinder caught on something—a thick stem or a congestion of seeds—and it made a noise like a circular saw gagging on a knot. When that happened, Ma would say, “There goes somebody’s hand.” Or, “There goes somebody’s whole head. Drunk too much beer and fell in.”