A prayer for Owen Meany (10 page)

"YOU KNOW, I WAS THINKING," he said to me. "YOU
KNOW HOW WHEN YOU ASK ME TO SPEND THE NIGHT, I ALMOST ALWAYS DO FT-AND WE HAVE
A GOOD TIME, DON'T WE?"

"Sure we do, Owen," I said.

"WELL, IF YOU ASKED ME TO COME WITH YOU AND YOUR MOTHER TO
SAWYER DEPOT, I PROBABLY WOULD COME-YOU KNOW," he said. "OR DO YOU
THINK YOUR COUSINS WOULDN'T LIKE ME?"

"Of course they'd like you," I said, "but I don't
know if you'd like them." I didn't know how to tell him that I thought
he'd have a terrible time with my cousins-that if we picked him up and passed
him over our heads in Sunday school, it was frightening to imagine what games
my cousins might devise to play with Owen Meany. "You don't know how to
ski," I told him. "Or water-ski," I added. "And I don't
think you'd like the log-rolling-or the sawdust piles." I could have
added, "Or kissing Hester," but I couldn't imagine Owen doing that.
My God, I thought: my cousins would kill him!

"WELL, MAYBE YOUR MOTHER COULD TEACH ME HOW TO SKI. AND YOU
DON'T HAVE TO DO THE LOG-ROLLING IF YOU DON'T WANT TO, DO YOU?" he asked.

"Well, my cousins kind of make everything happen so
fast," I said. "You don't always have time to say 'Yes' or 'No' to
something."

"WELL, MAYBE IF YOU ASKED THEM NOT TO BE SO ROUGH WITH
ME-UNTIL I GOT USED TO IT," he said. "THEY'D LISTEN TO YOU, WOULDN'T
THEY?"

I could not imagine it-Owen together with my cousins! It seemed
to me that they would be driven insane by the sight of him, and when he
spoke-when they first encountered that voice-I could visualize their reaction
only in terms of their inventing ways for Owen to be a projectile: they would
make him the birdie for a badminton game; they would bind him to a single ski,
launch him off the mountaintop, and race him to the bottom. They would make him
sit in a salad bowl, and tow him-at high speeds-across Loveless Lake. They
would bury him in sawdust and lose him; they'd never find him. Firewater would
eat him.

"They're sort of hard to control-my cousins," I said.
"That's the problem."

"YOU MAKE THEM SOUND LIKE WILD ANIMALS," Owen said.

"They are-kind of," I said.

"BUT YOU HAVE FUN WITH THEM," Owen said.
"WOULDN'T I HAVE FUN, TOO?"

"I have fun, and I don't have fun," I told him.
"I just think my cousins might be too much for you."

"YOU THINK I MIGHT BE TOO MUCH OF A WIMP FOR THEM," he
said.

"I don't think you're a wimp, Owen," I said.

"BUT YOU THINK YOUR COUSINS WOULD THINK SO?" he said.

"I don't know," I said.

"MAYBE I COULD MEET THEM AT YOUR HOUSE, WHEN THEY COME FOR
THANKSGIVING," he suggested. "IT'S FUNNY HOW YOU DON'T INVITE ME OVER
WHEN THEY'RE STAYING HERE."

' 'My grandmother thinks there're too many kids in the house
already-when they're here," I explained, but Owen sulked about it so
moodily that I invited him to spend the night, which he always enjoyed. He went
through this ritual of calling his father to ask if it was all right, but it
was always all right with

 
 
Mr. Meany; Owen
stayed at  Front Street so frequently that he kept a toothbrush in my
bathroom, and a pair of pajamas in my closet. And after Dan Needham gave me the
armadillo, Owen grew almost as attached to the little animal-and to Dan-as I
was. When Owen would sleep in the other twin bed in my room, with the night
table between us, we would carefully arrange under the bedside lamp; in exact
profile to both of us, the creature stared at the feet of our beds. The
night-light, which was attached to one of the legs of the night table, shone
upward, illuminating the armadillo's chin and the exposed nostrils of its thin
snout. Owen and I would talk until we were drowsy; but in the morning, I always
noticed that had been moved -its face was turned more toward Owen than to me;
its profile was no longer perfect. And once when I woke up, I saw that Owen was
already awake; he was staring back at the armadillo, and he was smiling. After
Dan Needham's armadillo came into my life, and the first occasion for me to
travel to Sawyer Depot arose, I was not surprised that Owen took this
opportunity to express his concern for the armadillo's well-being.

"FROM WHAT YOU TELL ME ABOUT YOUR COUSINS," Owen said,
"I DON'T THINK YOU SHOULD TAKE TO SAWYER DEPOT." It had never
occurred to me to take with me, but Owen had clearly given some thought to the
potential tragedy of such a journey. "YOU MIGHT FORGET IT ON THE TRAIN,"
he said, "OR THAT DOG OF THEIRS MIGHT CHEW ON IT. WHAT'S THE DOG'S
NAME?"

"Firewater," I said.

"YES, FIREWATER-HE SOUNDS DANGEROUS TO TO ME," Owen
said. "AND IF YOUR COUSINS ARE THESE RUFFIANS, LIKE YOU SAY, THERE'S NO
TELLING WHAT KIND OF GAME THEY MIGHT THINK UP-THEY MIGHT RIP TO PIECES. OR LOSE
IT IN THE SNOW."

"Yes, you're right," I said.

"IF THEY WANTED TO TAKE WATERSKIING, COULD YOU STOP
THEM?" he asked.

"Probably not," I said.

"THAT'S JUST WHAT I THOUGHT," he said. "YOU
BETTER NOT TAKE WITH YOU."

"Right," I said.

"YOU BETTER LET ME TAKE IT HOME. I CAN LOOK AFTER IT WHILE
YOU'RE AWAY- IF IT'S ALL ALONE HERE, ONE OF THE MAIDS MIGHT DO SOMETHING
STUPID-OR THERE COULD BE A FIRE," he said.

"I never thought of that," I said.

"WELL, IT WOULD BE VERY SAFE WITH ME," Owen said. Of
course, I agreed. "AND I'VE BEEN THINKING," he added. "OVER NEXT
THANKSGIVING, WHEN YOUR COUSINS ARE HERE, YOU BETTER LET ME TAKE HOME WITH ME
THEN, TOO. IT SOUNDS TO ME LIKE THEY'D BE TOO VIOLENT WITH IT. IT HAS A VERY
DELICATE NOSE-AND THE TAIL CAN BREAK, TOO. AND I DON'T THINK IT'S A GOOD IDEA
TO SHOW YOUR COUSINS THAT GAME WE PLAY WITH IN THE CLOSET WITH YOUR
GRANDFATHER'S CLOTHES," he said. "IT SOUNDS TO ME LIKE THEY'D TRAMPLE
ON IN THE DARK." Or else they'd throw it out the window, I thought.

"I agree," I said.

"GOOD," Owen said. "THEN IT'S ALL SETTLED: I'LL
LOOK AFTER WHEN YOU'RE AWAY, AND WHEN YOUR COUSINS ARE HERE, I'LL LOOK AFTER
IT, TOO-OVER NEXT THANKSGIVING, WHEN YOU'RE GOING TO INVITE ME OVER TO MEET
YOUR COUSINS. OKAY?"

"Okay, Owen," I said.

"GOOD," he said; he was very pleased about it, if a
trifle nervous. The first time he took home with him, he brought a box stuffed
with cotton-it was such an elaborately conceived and strongly built carrying
case that could have been mailed safely overseas in it. The box, Owen
explained, had been used to ship some granite-carving tools-some grave-marking
equipment-so it was very sturdy. Mr. Meany, in an effort to bolster the
disappointing business at the quarry, was expanding his involvement in monument
sales. Owen said his father resented selling some of his best pieces of granite
to other granite companies that made gravestones, and charged an arm and a leg
for them-according to Mr. Meany. He had opened a gruesome monument shop
downtown-Meany Monuments, the store was called-and the sample gravestones in
the storefront window looked not so much like samples as like actual graves
that someone had built a store around.

"It's absolutely frightful," my grandmother said.
"It's a cemetery in a store," she remarked indignantly, but Mr. Meany
was new to monument sales; it was possible he needed just a little more time to
make the store look right. Anyway, was packed in a box designed for
transporting chisels-for something Owen called WEDGES AND FEATHERS-and Owen
solemnly promised that no harm would corne to the diminutive beast. Apparently,
Mrs. Meany was frightened by it-Owen gave his parents no forewarning that was
visiting; but Owen maintained that this small shock served his mother right for
going into his room uninvited. Owen's room (what little I ever saw of it) was
as orderly and as untouchable as a museum. I think that is why it was so easy
for me to imagine, for years, that the baseball that killed my mother was
surely a resident souvenir in Owen's odd room. I will never forget the
Thanksgiving vacation when I introduced Owen Meany to my reckless cousins. The
day before my cousins were to arrive in Gravesend, Owen came over to 
Front Street to pick up the armadillo.

"They're not getting here until late tomorrow," I told
him.

"WHAT IF THEY COME EARLY?" he asked. "SOMETHING
COULD HAPPEN. IT'S BETTER NOT TO TAKE A CHANCE."

Owen wanted to come over to meet my cousins immediately
following Thanksgiving dinner, but I thought the day after Thanksgiving would
be better; I suggested that everyone always felt so stuffed after Thanksgiving
dinner that it was never a very lively time.

"BUT I WAS THINKING THAT THEY MIGHT BE CALMER, RIGHT AFTER
THEY HAD EATEN," Owen said. I admit, I enjoyed his nervousness. I was
worried that my cousins might be in some rare, mellow condition when Owen met
them, and therefore he'd think I'd just been making up stories about how wild
they were-and that there was, therefore, no excuse for my never inviting him to
Sawyer Depot. I wanted my cousins to like Owen, because / liked him-he was my
best friend-but, at the same time, I didn't want everything to be so enjoyable
that I'd have to invite Owen to Sawyer Depot the next time I went. I was sure
that would be disastrous. And I was nervous that my cousins would make fun of
Owen; and I confess I was nervous that Owen would embarrass me-I am ashamed of
feeling that, to this day. Anyway, both Owen and I were nervous. We talked on
the phone in whispers Thanksgiving night.

"ARE THEY ESPECIALLY WILD?" he asked me.

"Not especially," I said.

"WHAT TIME DO THEY GET UP? WHAT TIME TOMORROW SHOULD I COME
OVER?" he asked.

"The boys get up early," I said, "but Hester
sleeps a little later-or at least she stays in her room longer."

"NOAH IS THE OLDEST?" Owen said, although he had
checked these statistics with me a hundred times.

"Yes," I said.

"AND SIMON IS THE NEXT OLDEST, ALTHOUGH HE'S JUST AS BIG AS
NOAH-AND EVEN A LITTLE WILDER?" Owen said.

"Yes, yes," I said.

"AND HESTER'S THE YOUNGEST BUT SHE'S BIGGER THAN YOU,"
he said. "AND SHE'S PRETTY, BUT NOT THAT PRETTY, RIGHT?"

"Right," I said. Hester just missed the Eastman good
looks. It was an especially masculine good looks that Noah and Simon got from
my Uncle Alfred-broad shoulders, big bones, a heavy jaw-and from my Aunt Martha
the boys got their blondness, and their aristocracy. But the broad shoulders,
the big bones, and the heavy jaw-these were less attractive on Hester, who did
not receive either my aunt's blondness or her aristocracy. Hester was as dark
and hairy as Uncle Alfred-even including his bushy eyebrows, which were
actually one solid eyebrow without a gap above the bridge of the nose-and she
had Uncle Alfred's big hands. Hester's hands looked like paws. Yet Hester had
sex appeal, in the manner-in those days-that tough girls were also sexy girls.
She had a large, athletic body, and as a teenager she would have to straggle
with her weight; but she had clear skin, she had solid curves; her mouth was
aggressive, flashing lots of healthy teeth, and her eyes were taunting, with a
dangerous-looking intelligence. Her hair was wild and thick.

"I have this friend," I told Hester that evening. I
thought I would begin with her, and try to win her over-and then tell Noah and
Simon about Owen; but even though I was speaking

 
 
quietly to Hester
and I thought that Noah and Simon were engaged in finding a lost station on the
radio, the boys heard me and were instantly curious.

"What friend?" Noah said.

"Well, he's my best friend," I said cautiously,
"and he wants to meet all of you."

"Fine, great-so where is he, and what's his name?"
Simon said.

"Owen Meany," I said as straightforwardly as possible.

"Who?" Noah said; the three of them laughed.

"What a wimp name!" Simon said.

"What's wrong with him?" Hester asked me.

' 'Nothing's wrong with him,'' I said, a little too defensively.
"He's rather small."

"Rather small," Noah repeated, sounding very British.

"Rather a wimp, is he?" said Simon, imitating his
brother.

"No, he's not a wimp," I said. "He's just small.
And he has a funny voice," I blurted out.

"A funny voice!" Noah said in a funny voice.

"A funny voice?" said Simon in a different funny
voice.

"So he's a little guy with a funny voice," Hester
said. "So what? So what's wrong with him?"

"Nothing!" I repeated.

"Why should anything be wrong with him, Hester?" Noah
asked her.

"Hester probably wants to molest him," Simon said.

"Shut up, Simon," Hester said.

"Both of you shut up," Noah said. "I want to know
why Hester thinks there's something wrong with everybody."

"There's something wrong with all of your friends,
Noah," Hester said. "And every friend of Simon's," she added.
"I'll just bet there's something wrong with Johnny's friends, too."

"I suppose there's nothing wrong with your friends,"
Noah said to his sister.

'Hester doesn't have any friends!" Simon said.

'Shut up!" Hester said.

'I wonder why?" Noah said.

'Shut up!" Hester said.

'Well, there's nothing wrong with Owen," I said.
"Except he

s small, and his voice is a little different."

'He sounds like fun," Noah said pleasantly. 'Hey,"
Simon said, patting me on the back. "If he's your friend, don't
worry-we'll be nice to him."

"Hey," Noah said, patting me on the back, too.
"Don't worry. We'll all have fun."

Hester shrugged. "We'll see," she said. I had not
kissed her since Easter. In my summer visit to Sawyer Depot, we had been
outdoors every waking minute and there'd been no suggestion to play "Last
One Through the House Has to Kiss Hester." I doubted we'd get to play that
game over Thanksgiving, either, because my grandmother did not allow racing all
over the house at  Front Street. So maybe I'll have to wait until
Christmas, I thought.