'I think her heart is broken,' said Mrs. Grogan miserably.

Dr. Larch pointed out that Melony had taken Jane Eyre with her; he accepted this as a hopeful sign- wherever Melony went, she would not be without guidance, she would not be without love, without faith; she had a good book with her. If only she'll keep reading it, and reading it, Larch thought.

The book that Melony had left behind was a puzzle to both Mrs. Grogan and Dr. Larch. They read the dedication to Homer 'Sunshine' Wells, which touched Mrs. Grogan deeply.

Neither of them had any luck reading Little Dorrit, either. Mrs. Grogan never would get to the Villainous' prison; the staring sun in Marseilles outstared her, it was too powerfully blinding. Dr. Larch, who-in the absence of Homer Wells and Melony-resumed his responsibilities as the nightly reader to both the boys' and the girls' divisions, attempted to read Little Dorrii to the girls; wasn't the main character a girl? But the contrast between the scorched air in the Marseilles sun and the tainted air in the Marseilles prison created such a powerful sleeplessness among the girls that Larch was relieved {289} to give up on the book in Chapter Three, which had an unfortunate title, for orphans: 'Home.' He began the description of London on a Sunday evening-hounded by church bells.

'Melancholy streets, in a penitential garb of soot,' read Dr. Larch, and then he stopped; we need no more melancholy here, he thought.

'Wouldn't we rather wait, and read Jane Eyre again?' Dr. Larch asked; the girls nodded eagerly.

Knowing that the beautiful boy with the face of a benefactor must have a mother with the heart for benefiting those who existed in (as she had written herself) 'less fortunate circumstances,' Dr. Larch wrote Olive Worthington.

My Dear Mrs. Worthington,

Here in St. Cloud's, we depend on our few luxuries and imagine (and pray) they will last forever. If you would be so kind, please tell Homer that his friend Melony has left us-her whereabouts are unknown- and that she took with her our only copy oljane Eyre. The orphans in the girls' division were accustomed to hearing this book read aloud-in fact, Homer used to read to them. If Homer could discover a replacement copy, the little girls and I would remain in his debt. In other parts of the world, there are bookshops…

Thus, Larch knew, he had accomplished two things. Olive Worthington herself would send him a replacement Jane Eyre (he doubted very much that it would be a secondhand copy), and Homer would receive the important message: Melony was out. She was loose in the world. Larch thought that Homer should know this, that he might want to keep an eye open for her,

As for Little Dorrit, Nurse Edna read Melony's inscription and wept. She was not a big reader, Edna; she penetrated no farther than the inscription. Nurse Angela had already been defeated by Dickens; she blinked once, {290} briefly, at the sun in Marseilles and failed to turn the page.

For years Candy's unread copy would rest in Nurse Angela's office; those nervously awaiting interviews with Dr. Larch would pick up Little Dorrit as they would pick up a magazine-restlessly, inattentively. Larch rarely kept anyone waiting past the first glare of the sun. And most preferred to scan the odd assortment of catalogues. The seeds, the fishing equipment, the stupendous undergarments -the latter modeled in an otherworldly way: on those headless, legless, armless stumps that were the period's version of the standard dressmaker's dummy.

'In other parts of the world,' Dr. Larch began once,'they have nursing bras.' But this thought led him nowhere; it fell as a fragment into the many, many pages of A Brief History of St. Cloud's.

Little Dorrit seemed condemned to an unread life. Even Candy, who replaced her stolen copy (and always wondered what happened to it), would never finish the book, although it was required reading for her class. She, too, could not navigate past the sun's initial assault on her senses; she suspected her difficulty with the book arose from its power to remind her of her discomfort on the long journey to and from St. Cloud's-and of what had happened to her there.

She would especially remember the ride back to the coast-how she'd stretched out in the back seat, with only the dash lights of the Cadillac and the glowing ash end of Wally's cigarette shining bright but small in the surrounding darkness. The tires of the big car hummed soothingly; she was grateful for Homer's presence because she didn't have to talk to-or listen to-Wally. She couldn't even hear what Wally and Homer were saying to each other. 'Life stories,' Wally would say to her later. 'That kid's had quite a life, but I should let him tell you.'

The drone of their conversation was as rhythmic as the tire song, but-as weary as she was-she couldn't {291} sleep. She thought about how much she was bleeding- maybe more than she should be, she worried. Between St. Cloud's and the coast, she asked Wally three limes to stop the car. She kept checking her bleeding and changing the pad; Dr. Larch had given her quite a few pads -but would there be enough, and how much bleeding was too much? She looked at the back of Homer's head. If it's worse tomorrow, or as bad the next day, she thought, I'll have to ask him.

When Wally went to the men's room and left them alone in the car, Homer spoke to her, but he didn't turn around. 'You're probably having cramps, about as bad as you get with your period,' he said. 'You're probably bleeding, but not like you bleed during your period- nothing near what it is, at your heaviest time. If the stains on the pad are only two or three inches in diameter, that's okay. It's expected.'

'Thank you,' Candy whispered.

'The bleeding should taper off tomorrow, and get much lighter the next day. If you're worried, you should ask me,' he said.

'Okay,' Candy said. She felt so strange: that a boy her own age should know this much about her.

'I've never seen a lobster,' said Homer Wells, to change the subject-to allow her to be the authority.

Then you've never eaten one, either,' Candy said cheerfully.

'I don't know if I want to eat something I've never seen,' Homer said, and Candy laughed. She was laughing when Wally got back in the car.

'We're talking about lobsters,' Homer explained.

'Oh, they're hilarious,' Wally said, and all three of them laughed.

'Wait till you see one!' Candy said to Homer. 'He's never seen one!' she told Wally.

'They're even funnier when you see them,' Wally said. Candy's laughter hurt her; she stopped very suddenly, but Homer laughed more. 'And wait till they try to talk {292} to you,' Wally added. 'Lobsters really break me up, every time they try to talk.'

When he and Wally stopped laughing, Homer said, Tve never seen the ocean, you know.'

'Candy, did you hear that?' Wally asked, but Candy had released herself with her brief laughter; she was sound asleep. 'You've never seen the ocean?' Wally asked Homer.

'That's right,' said Homer Wells.

'That's not funny,' said Wally seriously.

'Right,'Homer said.

A little later, Wally said, 'You want to drive for a while?'

'I don't know how to drive,' Homer said.

'Really?' Wally asked. And later still-it was almost midnight-Wally asked, 'Uh, have you ever been with a girl-made love to one, you know?' But Homer Wells had also felt released: he had laughed out loud with his new friends. The young but veteran insomniac had fallen asleep. Would Wally have been surprised to know that Homer hadn't laughed out loud with friends before, either? And possibly Homer would have had difficulty characterizing his relationship with Melony as a relationship based on making love.

What a new sense of security Homer had felt in that moment of laughter with friends in the enclosed dark of the moving car, and what a sense of freedom the car itself gave to him-its seemingly effortless journeying was a wonder to Homer Wells, for whom the idea of motion (not to mention the sense of change) was accomplished only rarely and only with enormous strife.