A prayer for Owen Meany (26 page)

" 'We Three Kings of Ory and R,' " Harold said.
"Where are 'Ory' and 'R'?"

" 'WE THREE KINGS OF ORIENT ARE,' " Owen corrected
him. "DON'T YOU READ?"

All Harold Crosby knew was that he did notify; he would ask any
question, create any distraction, procrastinate by any means he could imagine,
if he could delay being launched by Barb Wiggin. I-Joseph-had nothing to do,
nothing to say, nothing to learn. Mary Beth Baird suggested that, as a helpful
husband, I take turns with her in handling Owen Meany-if not exactly lifting
him out of the hay, because Barb Wiggin was violently opposed to this, then at
least, Mary Beth implied, we could fondle Owen, or tickle him, or pat him on
the head.

"NO TICKLING," Owen said.

"No nothing*." Barb Wiggin insisted. "No touching
Baby Jesus."

"But we're his parents'." proclaimed Mary Beth, who
was being generous to include poor Joseph under this appellation.

"Mary Beth," Barb Wiggin said, "if you touch the Baby
Jesus, I'm putting you in a cow costume."

         
 
And so it came to pass that the Virgin Mary
sulked through our rehearsal-a mother denied the tactile pleasures of her own
infant! And Owen, who had built a huge nest for himself-in a mountain of hay-appeared
to radiate the truly untouchable quality of a deity to be reckoned with, of a
prophet who had no doubt. Some technical difficulties with the harness spared
Harold Crosby his first sensation of angelic elevation; we noticed that
Harold's anxiety concerning heights had caused him to forget the lines of his
all-important announcement-or else Harold had not properly studied his part,
for he couldn't get past "Be not afraid; for behold, I bring you good news
..." without flubbing. The kings and shepherds could not possibly move
slowly enough, following the "pillar of light" in front of the altar
toward the arrangement of animals and Mary and Joseph surrounding the
commanding presence of the Christ Child enthroned on his mountain of hay; no matter
how slowly they moved, they arrived at the touching scene in the stable before
the end of the fifth verse of "We Three Kings of Orient Are." There
they had to wait for the end of the carol, and appear to be unsurprised by the
choir charging immediately into "Away in a Manger."

The solution, the Rev. Dudley Wiggin proposed, was to omit the
fifth verse of "We Three Kings," but Owen denounced this as
unorthodox. To conclude with the fourth verse was a far cry from ending with
the hallelujahs of the fifth; Owen begged us to pay special attention to the
words of the fourth verse-surely we did not wish to arrive in the presence of
the Christ Child on such a note. He sang for us, with emphasis-"
'SOR-ROWING, SIGHING, BLEED-ING, DY-ING, SEALED IN A STONE-COLD TOMB.' "

"But then there's the refrain!" Barb Wiggin cried.
" 'O star of won-der, star of night,' " she sang, but Owen was
unmoved. The rector assured Owen that the church had a long tradition of not
singing every verse of each hymn or carol, but somehow Owen made us feel that
the tradition of the church-however long-was on less sure footing than the
written word. Five verses in print meant we were to sing all five.

" 'SORROWING, SIGHING, BLEEDING, DYING,' " he
repeated. "SOUNDS VERY CHRISTMASY."

The Littk Lord Jesus
 
Mary
Beth Baird let everyone know that the matter could be resolved if she were
allowed to shower some affection upon the Christ Child, but it seemed that the
only agreements that existed between Barb Wiggin and Owen were that Mary Beth
should not be permitted to maul the Baby Jesus, and that the cows not move.
When the creche was properly formed, which was finally timed upon the
conclusion of the fourth verse of "We Three Kings," the choir then
sang "Away in a Manger" while we shamelessly worshiped and adored
Owen Meany. Perhaps the "swaddling clothes" should have been
reconsidered. Owen had objected to being wrapped in them up to his chin; he
wanted to have his arms free-possibly, in order to ward off a stumbling cow or
donkey. And so they had swaddled the length of his body, up to his armpits, and
then crisscrossed his chest with more "swaddling," and even covered
his shoulders and neck-Barb Wiggin made a special point of concealing Owen's
neck, because she said his Adam's apple looked "rather grown-up." It
did; it stuck out, especially when he was lying down; but then, Owen's eyes
looked "rather grown-up," too, in that they bulged, or appeared a
trifle haunted in their sockets. His facial features were tiny but sharp, not
in the least baby like-certainly not in the "pillar of light," which
was harsh. There were dark circles under his eyes, his nose was too pointed for
a baby's nose, his cheekbones too prominent. Why we didn't just wrap him up in
a blanket, I don't know. The "swaddling clothes" resembled nothing so
much as layers upon layers of gauze bandages, so that Owen resembled some
terrifying burn victim who'd been shriveled to abnormal size in a fire that had
left only his face and arms uncharted-and the "pillar of light," and
the worshipful postures of all of us, surrounding him, made it appear that Owen
was about to undergo some ritual unwrapping in an operating room, and we were
his surgeons and nurses. Upon the conclusion of "Away in a Manger,"
Mr. Wiggin read again from Luke: " 'When went away from them into heaven,
the shepherds said to one another, "Let us go over to Bethlehem and see
this thing that has happened, which the Lord has made known to us." And
they went with haste, and found Mary and Joseph, and the babe lying in a
manger. And when they saw it they made known the saying which had been told
them concerning this child; and all who

        
 
heard it wondered at what the shepherds told
them. But Mary kept all these things, pondering them in her heart.' "

While the rector read, the kings bowed to the Baby Jesus and
presented him with the usual gifts-ornate boxes and tins, and shiny trinkets,
difficult to distinguish from the distance of the congregation but somehow
regal in appearance. A few of the shepherds offered more humble, rustic presents;
one of the shepherds gave the Christ Child a bird's nest.

"WHAT WOULD I DO WITH A BIRD'S NEST?" Owen complained.

"It's for good luck," the rector said.

"DOES IT SAY SO IN THE BIBLE?" Owen asked. Someone
said that from the audience the bird's nest looked like old, dead grass;
someone said it looked like "dung."

"Now now," Dudley Wiggin said.

"It doesn't matter what it looks like!" Barb Wiggin
said, with considerable pitch in her voice. "The gifts are symbolic."

Mary Beth Baird foresaw a larger problem. Since the reading from
Luke concluded by observing that "Mary kept all these things, pondering
them in her heart"-and surely the "things" that Mary so kept and
pondered were far more matterful than these trivial gifts-shouldn't she do
something to demonstrate to the audience what a strain on her poor heart it was
to do such monumental keeping and pondering?

"What?" Barb Wiggin said.

"WHAT SHE MEANS IS, SHOULDN'T SHE ACT OUT HOW A PERSON
PONDERS SOMETHING," Owen said. Mary Beth Baird was so pleased that Owen
had clarified her concerns that she appeared on the verge of hugging or kissing
him, but Barb Wiggin moved quickly between them, leaving the controls of the '
'pillar of light'' unattended; eerily, the light scanned our little assembly
with a will of its own-appearing to settle on the Holy Mother. There was a
respectful silence while we pondered what possible thing Mary Beth Baird could
do to demonstrate how hard her heart was working; it was clear to most of us
that Mary Beth would be satisfied only if she could express her adoration of
the Christ Child physically.

"I could kiss him," Mary Beth said softly. "I
could just bow down and kiss him-on the forehead, I mean."

"Well, yes, you could try that, Mary Beth," the rector
said cautiously.

"Let's see how it looks," Barb Wiggin said doubtfully.

"NO," Owen said. "NO KISSING."

"Why not, Owen?" Barb Wiggin asked playfully. She
thought an opportunity to tease him was presenting itself, and she was quick to
pounce on it.

"THIS IS A VERY HOLY MOMENT," Owen said slowly.

"Indeed, it is," the rector said.

"VERY HOLY," Owen said. "SACRED," he added.

"Just on the forehead," Mary Beth said.

"Let's see how it looks. Let's just try it, Owen,"
Barb Wiggin said.

"NO," Owen said. "IF MARY IS SUPPOSED TO BE
PONDERING-'IN HER HEART'-THAT I AM CHRIST THE LORD, THE ACTUAL SON OF GOD ... A
SAVIOR, REMEMBER THAT ... DO YOU THINK SHE'D JUST KISS ME LIKE SOME ORDINARY
MOTHER KISSING HER ORDINARY BABY? THIS IS NOT THE ONLY TIME THAT MARY KEEPS
THINGS IN HER HEART. DON'T YOU REMEMBER WHEN THEY GO TO JERUSALEM FOR PASSOVER
AND JESUS GOES TO THE TEMPLE AND TALKS TO THE TEACHERS, AND JOSEPH AND MARY ARE
WORRIED ABOUT HIM BECAUSE THEY CAN'T FIND HIM-THEY'RE LOOKING ALL OVER FOR
HIM-AND HE TELLS THEM, WHAT ARE YOU WORRIED ABOUT, WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING FOR ME
FOR, 'DID YOU NOT KNOW THAT I MUST BE IN MY FATHER'S HOUSE?' HE MEANS THE
TEMPLE. REMEMBER THAT? WELL, MARY KEEPS THAT IN HER HEART, TOO."

"But shouldn't I do something, Owen?" Mary Beth asked.
"What should I do?"

"YOU KEEP THINGS IN YOUR HEART!" Owen told her.

"She should do nothing?" the Rev. Mr. Wiggin asked
Owen. The rector, like one of the teachers in the temple, appeared
"amazed." That is how the teachers in the temple are described-in
their response to the Boy Jesus: "All who heard him were amazed at his
understanding and his answers."

"Do you mean she should do nothing, Owen?" the rector
repeated. "Or that she should do something less, or more, than
kissing?"

"MORE," Owen said.  Mary Beth Baird trembled; she

        
 
would do anything that he required. "TRY
BOWING," Owen suggested.

"Bowing?" Barb Wiggin said, with distaste. Mary Beth
Baird dropped to her knees and lowered her head; she was an awkward girl, and
this sudden movement caused her to lose her balance. She assumed a three-point
position, finally-on her knees, with her forehead resting on the mountain of
hay, the top of her head pressing against Owen's hip. Owen raised his hand over
her, to bless her; in a most detached manner, he lightly touched her hair-then
his hand hovered above her head, as if he meant to shield her eyes from the
intensity of the "pillar of light." Perhaps, if only for this
gesture, Owen had wanted his arms free. The shepherds and kings were riveted to
this demonstration of what Mary pondered in her heart; the cows did not move.
Even the hind parts of the donkeys, who could not see the Holy Mother bowing to
the Baby Jesus-or anything at all- appeared to sense that the moment was
reverential; they ceased their swaying, and the donkeys' tails hung straight
and still. Barb Wiggin had stopped breathing, with her mouth open, and the
rector wore the numbed expression of one struck silly with awe. And I, Joseph-I
did nothing, I was just the witness. God knows how long Mary Beth Baird would
have buried her head in the hay, for no doubt she was ecstatic to have the top
of her head in contact with the Christ Child's hip. We might have maintained
our positions in this tableau for eternity-we might have made creche history, a
pageant frozen in rehearsal, each of us injected with the very magic we sought
to represent: Nativity forever. But the choirmaster, whose eyesight was
failing, assumed he had missed the cue for the final carol, which the choir
sang with special gusto. Hark! the her-ald an-gels sing,  "Glory to
the new-born King; Peace on earth, and mer-cy mild, God and sin-ners rec-
on-ciled!"

Joy-ful, all ye na-tions, rise, Join the tri-umph of the skies;
With the an-gel-ic host pro-claim,  "Christ is born in
Beth-le-hem!" Hark! the her-ald an-gels sing, "Glo-ry to the new-born
King!"

The Little Lard Jesus
 
Mary Beth Baird's head shot up at the first' 'Hark!'' Her hair was wild
and flecked with hay; she jumped to her feet as if the little Prince of Peace
had ordered her out of his nest. The donkeys swayed again, the cows-their horns
falling about their heads-moved a little, and the kings and shepherds regained
their usual lack of composure. The rector, whose appearance suggested that of a
former immortal rudely returned to the rules of the earth, found that he could
speak again. "That was perfect, I thought," he said. "That was
marvelous, really."

"Shouldn't we run through it one more time?" Barb
Wiggin asked, while the choir continued to herald the birth of "the
ever-lasting Lord."

"NO," said the Prince of Peace. "I THINK WE'VE
GOT IT RIGHT."

Weekdays in Toronto: : A.M., Morning Prayer; : P.M., Evening
Prayer; Holy Eucharist every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday. I prefer these
weekday services to Sunday worship; there are fewer distractions when I have
Grace Church on-the-Hill almost to myself-and there are no sermons. Owen never
liked sermons-although I think he would have enjoyed delivering a few sermons
himself. The other thing preferable about the weekday services is that no one
is there against his will. That's another distraction on Sundays. Who hasn't
suffered the experience of having an entire family seated in the pew in front
of you, the children at war with each other and sandwiched between the mother
and father who are forcing them to go to church? An aura of stale arguments
almost visibly clings to the hasty clothing of the children. "This is the
one morning I can sleep in!" the daughter's linty sweater says. "I
get so bored!" says the upturned collar of the son's suit jacket. Indeed,
the children imprisoned between their parents move constantly and restlessly in
the pew; they are so crazy with self-pity, they seem ready to scream. The
stern-looking father who occupies the aisle seat has his attention interrupted
by fits of vacancy-an expression so perfectly empty accompanies his sternness
and his concentration that I think I glimpse an underlying truth to the man's
churchgoing: that he is doing it only for the children, in the manner that some
men with much vacancy of expression are committed to a marriage. When the
children are old enough to