'What's more,' she remarked to Dr. Gingrich, who was given no warning and had no map with which he could have followed her thoughts, Til bet they're not married.'

The young couple, he thought, looked a little sad. Perhaps they needed a psychiatrist; perhaps it was the weather-they'd been planning to sail.

'I've figured out what he is,' Mrs. Goodhall told Dr. Gingrich, who thought she was referring to the young man, Homer Wells. 'He's a nonpractising homosexual,' Mrs. Goodhall announced. She meant Dr. Larch, who was on her mind night and day.

Dr. Gingrich was rather amazed at what struck him as Mrs. Goodhall's wild guess, but he looked at the young man with renewed interest. True, he was not actually fondling the young woman; he seemed a trifle distant.

'If we could catch him at it, we'd have him out in a minute,' Mrs. Goodhall observed. 'Of course we'd still have to find someone willing to replace him.'

Dr Gingrich was lost. He realized that Mrs. Goodhall couldn't be interested in replacing the young man on the veranda, and that therefore she was still thinking about Dr. Larch. But if Dr. Larch were a 'nonpractising homosexual,' what could they ever catch him at?

'We would catch him at being a homosexual, just not practising as such?' Dr. Gingrich asked cautiously; it was not hard to rile Mrs. Goodhall.

'He's obviously queer,' she snapped.

Dr. Gingrich, in all his years of psychiatric service to Maine, had never been moved to apply the label of 'nonpractising homosexual' to anyone, although he had {565} often heard of such a thing; usually, someone was complaining about someone else's peculiarity. In Mrs. Goodhall's case, she despised men who lived alone. It wasn't normal. And she despised young couples who displayed their affection, or weren't married, or both; too much of what was normal also enraged her. Although he shared with Mrs. Goodhall the desire to replace Dr. Larch and his staff at St. Cloud's, it occurred to Dr. Gingrich that he should have had Mrs. Goodhall as a patient-she might have kept him out of retirement for a few more years.

When the young couple came inside the hotel, Mrs. Goodhall gave them such a look that the young woman turned away.

'Did you see her turn away in shame?' Mrs. Goodhall would ask Dr. Gingrich, later.

But the young man stared her down. He looked right through her! Dr. Gingrich marveled. It was one of the best looks, in the tradition of 'withering,' that Dr. Gingrich had ever seen and he found himself smiling at the young couple.

'Did you see that couple?' Candy asked him later, in the long drive back to Ocean View.

'I don't think they were married,' said Homer Wells. 'Or if they're married, they hate each other.'

'Maybe that's why I thought they were married,' Candy said.

'He looked a little stupid, and she looked completely crazy,' Homer said.

'I know they were married,' Candy said.

In the sad, dingy dining room in Ogunquit, while the rain pelted down, Mrs. Goodhall said, 'It's just not normal. Doctor Larch, those old nurse-the whole bit. If someone new, in some capacity, isn't hired soon, I say we send a janitor up there-just anyone who can look the place over and tell us how bad it is.'

'Maybe it's not as bad as we think,' Dr. Gingrich said {566} tiredly. He had seen the young couple leave the hotel, and they had filled him with melancholy.

'Let somebody go there and see,' Mrs. Goodhall said, the dark chandelier above her small gray head.

Then, in the nick of time-in everyone's opinion- a new nurse came to St. Cloud's. Remarkably, she appeared to have found out about the place all by herself. Nurse Caroline, they called her; she was constantly of use, and a great help when Melony's present for Mrs. Grogan arrived.

'What is it?' Mrs. Grogan asked. The carton was almost too heavy for her to lift; Nurse Edna and Nurse Angela had brought it over to the girls' division together. It was a sweltering summer afternoon; still, because it had been a perfectly windless day, Nurse Edna had sprayed the apple trees.

Dr. Larch came to the girls' division to see what was in the package.

'Well, go on, open it,' he said to Mrs. Grogan. 'I haven't got all day.'

Mrs. Grogan was not sure how to attack the carton, which was sealed with wire and twine and tape-as if a savage had attempted to contain a wild animal. Nurse Caroline was called for her help.

What would they do without Nurse Caroline? Larch wondered. Before the package for Mrs. Grogan, Nurse Caroline had been the only large gift that anyone sent to St. Cloud's; Homer Wells had sent her from the hospital in Cape Kenneth. Homer Wells knew that Nurse Caroline believed in the Lord's work, and he had persuaded her to go where her devotion would be welcome. But Nurse Caroline had trouble opening Melony's present.

'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.{567}

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 wire-cutters.

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. {568}

'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.