The Cider House Rules

by John Irving

They agreed Homer could have written something and sent it sooner than six weeks, but they argued that this indicated only how happy he was—how busy and how glad to be busy, too. And what experience did Homer Wells have with writing letters, or with writing of any kind? they wanted to know. “You want him to be a doctor, Wilbur,” Nurse Edna said, “but it’s his life.” “Do you expect him to be a writer, too?” Nurse Angela chimed in. “And never get married?” Nurse Edna asked dangerously. I expect him to be of use, thought Wilbur Larch tiredly. And I want him with me; this last wish he knew was unfair. In the dispensary, he rested from the summer heat. All that glass and steel were somehow cooling, and the ether fumes evaporated more slowly in the humidity. He seemed to be traveling both farther away and for longer in his ether dreams now. When he came out of the ether, he seemed to come out of it more slowly. I’m getting older, he repeated to himself.