A prayer for Owen Meany (30 page)

"IT WAS THE NOISE THAT WAS THE WORST OF IT," he told
me tearfully, after the Brinker-Smiths had returned to their twins. "I
FELT LIKE I WAS UNDERNEATH THE FLYING YANKEE!"

That the Brinker-Smiths were engaged in a far more creative and
original use of Waterhouse Hall than Owen and I could make of the old dormitory
had a radical effect on the rest of our Christmas vacation. Shocked and
battered, Owen suggested we return to the tamer investigations of  Front
Street.

'' Hardness! Hardness!'' Ginger Brinker-Smith had screamed.

"Wetness! Wetness!" Mr. Brinker-Smith had answered
her. And bang! bang! bang! beat the bedspring on Owen Meany's head.

"STUPID 'HARDNESS,' STUPID 'WETNESS,' " Owen
complained. "SEX MAKES PEOPLE CRAZY."

I had only to think of Hester to agree. And so, because of
Owen's and my first contact with the act of love, we were at  Front
Street-just hanging around-the day our mailman, Mr. Morrison, announced his
resignation from the role of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.

"Why are you telling me?" my grandmother asked.
"I'm not the director."

"Dan ain't on my route," the glum mailman said.

"I don't relay messages of this kind-not even to Dan,'' my
grandmother told Mr. Morrison. "You should go to the next rehearsal and
tell Dan yourself."

Grandmother kept the storm door ajar, and the bitter December
air must have been cold against her legs; it was plenty cold for Owen and me,
and we were positioned deeper

        
 
into the hall, behind my grandmother-and were
both wearing wool-flannel trousers. We could feel the chill radiating off Mr.
Morrison, who held my grandmother's small bundle of mail in his mittened hand;
he appeared reluctant to give her the mail, unless she agreed to carry his
message to Dan.

"I ain't settin' foot in another of them rehearsals,"
Mr. Morrison said, shuffling his high-topped boots, shifting his heavy, leather
sack.

"If you were resigning from the post office, would you ask
someone else to tell the postmaster?" my grandmother asked him. Mr.
Morrison considered this; his long face was alternately red and blue from the
cold."It ain't the part I thought it was," he said to Grandmother.

"Tell Dan," Grandmother said. "I'm sure I don't
know the first thing about it."

"/ KNOW ABOUT IT," said Owen Meany. Grandmother
regarded Owen uncertainly; before she allowed him to replace her at the open
door, she reached outside and snatched her mail from Mr. Morrison's tentative
hand.

"What do you know about it?" the mailman asked Owen.

"IT'S AN IMPORTANT PART," Owen said. "YOU'RE THE
LAST OF THE SPIRITS WHO APPEAR TO SCROOGE. YOU'RE THE GHOST OF THE FUTURE-
YOU'RE THE SCARIEST GHOST OF ALL!"

"I got nothin' to say!" Mr. Morrison complained.
"It ain't even what they call a speakin' part."

"A GREAT ACTOR DOESN'T NEED TO TALK," Owen said.

"I wear this big black cloak, with a hood\" Mr.
Morrison protested. "No one can see my face."

"There's some justice, anyway," my grandmother said
under her breath to me.

"A GREAT ACTOR DOESN'T NEED A FACE," Owen said.

"An actor needs somethin' to do\" the mailman shouted.

"YOU SHOW SCROOGE WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO HIM IF HE DOESN'T
BELIEVE IN CHRISTMAS!" Owen cried. "YOU SHOW A MAN HIS OWN GRAVE!
WHAT CAN BE SCARIER THAN THAT?"

"But all I do is point," Mr. Morrison whined.
"Nobody would even know what I was pointin' at if old Scrooge didn't keep
givin' speeches to himself-'If there is any person in the town who feels
emotion caused by this man's death, show that person to me, Spirit, I beseech
you!' That's the kind of speech old Scrooge is always makinM" Mr. Morrison
shouted. " 'Let me see some tenderness connected with a death,' and so on
and so forth," the mailman said bitterly. "And all I do is point! I
got nothin' to say and all anybody sees of me is one J?ngeH" Mr. Morrison
cried; he pulled his mitten off and pointed a long, bony finger at Owen Meany,
who retreated from the mailman's skeletal hand.

"IT'S A GREAT PART FOR A GREAT ACTOR," Owen said
stubbornly. "YOU HAVE TO BE A PRESENCE. THERE'S NOTHING AS SCARY AS THE
FUTURE."

In the hall, behind Owen, an anxious crowd had gathered. Lydia
in her wheelchair, Ethel-who was polishing a candlestick-and Germaine, who
thought Owen was the Devil . . . they huddled behind my grandmother, who was
old enough to take Owen's point of view to heart: nothing is as scary as the
future, she knew, unless it's someone who knows the future. Owen threw up his
hands so abruptly that the women were startled and moved away from
him."YOU KNOW EVERY-'THING YET TO COMET' he screamed at the disgruntled
mailman. "IF YOU WALK ONSTAGE AS IF YOU KNOW THE FUTURE-I MEAN,
EVERYTHING!-YOU'LL SCARE THE SHIT OUT OF EVERYONE."

Mr. Morrison considered this; there was even a glimmer of
comprehension in his gaze, as if he saw-albeit momentarily- his own, terrifying
potential; but his eyes were quickly fogged over by his breath in the cold air.

"Tell Dan I quit, that's all," he said. Thereupon, the
mailman turned and left-"most undramatically," my grandmother would
say, later. At the moment, despite her dislike of vulgar language, Grandmother
appeared almost charmed by Owen Meany.

"Get away from the open door now, Owen," she said.
"You've given that fool much more attention than he deserves, and you'll
catch your death of cold."

"I'M CALLING DAN, RIGHT AWAY," Owen told us
matter-of-factly. He went directly to the phone and dialed the number; the
women and I wouldn't leave the hall, although I think we were all unconscious
of how very much we had

        
 
become his audience. "HELLO, DAN?"
he said into the phone. "DAN? THIS IS OWEN!" (As if there could have
been any doubt concerning who it was!) "DAN, THIS IS AN EMERGENCY. YOU'VE
LOST THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS YET TO COME. YES, I MEAN MORRISON-THE COWARDLY
MAILMAN!"

"The cowardly mailman!" my grandmother repeated admiringly.

"YES, YES-I KNOW HE WASN'T ANY GOOD," Owen told Dan,
"BUT YOU DON'T WANT TO BE STUCK WITHOUT A SPIRIT FOR THE FUTURE."

That was when I saw it coming; the future-or at least one, small
part of it. Owen had failed to talk Mr. Morrison into the role, but he had
convinced himself it was an important part-far more attractive than being Tiny
Tim, that mere goody-goody. Furthermore, it was established that the Ghost of
Christmas Yet to Come was not a speaking part; Owen would not have to use his
voice-not as the Christ Child and not as the Ghost of the Future.

"I DON'T WANT YOU TO PANIC, DAN," Owen said into the
phone, "BECAUSE I THINK I KNOW SOMEONE WHO'D BE PERFECT FOR THE PART-WELL,
IF NOT PERFECT, AT LEAST DIFFERENT."

It was with the word DIFFERENT that my grandmother shivered; it
was also the first time she looked at Owen Meany with anything resembling
respect. Once again, I thought, the little Prince of Peace had taken charge. I
looked at Germaine, whose lower lip was captured in her teeth; I knew what she
was thinking. Lydia, rocking in her wheelchair, appeared to be mesmerized by
the onesided phone conversation; Ethel held the candlestick like a weapon.

"WHAT THE PART REQUIRES IS A CERTAIN PRESENCE," Owen
told Dan. "THE GHOST MUST TRULY APPEAR TO KNOW THE FUTURE. IRONICALLY, THE
OTHER PART I'M PLAYING THIS CHRISTMAS-YES, YES, I MEAN THE STUPID
PAGEAJSTIWflCW-ICALLY, THIS PREPARES ME FOR THE ROLE. I MEAN, THEY'RE BOTH
PARTS THAT FORCE YOU TO TAKE COMMAND OF THINGS, WITHOUT WORDS . . . YES, YES,
OF COURSE I MEAN ME!" There was a rare pause, while Owen listened to Dan.
"WHO SAYS THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS YET TO TO COME HAS TO BE TALL?" Owen
asked angrily. "YES, OF COURSE I KNOW HOW TALL MISTER FISH IS. DAN, YOU'RE
NOT USING YOUR IMAGINATION." There was another brief pause, and Owen said:
"THERE'S A SIMPLE TEST. LET ME REHEARSE IT. IF EVERYBODY LAUGHS, I'M OUT.
IF EVERYONE IS SCARED, I'M THE ONE. YES, OF COURSE- 'INCLUDING MISTER FISH.'
LAUGH, I'M OUT. SCARED, I'M IN."

But I didn't need to wait to know the results of that test. It
was necessary only to look at my grandmother's anxious face, and at the
attitudes of the women surrounding her-at the fear of Owen Meany that was
registered by Lydia's transfixed expression, by Ethel's whitened knuckles
around the candlestick, by Germaine's trembling lip. It wasn't necessary for me
to suspend my belief or disbelief in Owen Meany until after his first
rehearsal; I already knew what a presence he could summon-especially in regard
to the future. That evening, at dinner, we heard from Dan about Owen's
triumph-how the cast stood riveted, not even knowing what dwarf this was, for
Owen was completely hidden in the black cloak and hood; it didn't matter that
he never spoke, or that they couldn't see his face. Not even Mr. Fish had known
who the fearful apparition was. As Dickens wrote, "Oh cold, cold, rigid,
dreadful Death, set up thine altar here, and dress it with such terrors as thou
hast at thy command, for this is thy dominion!"

Owen had a way of gliding across stage; he several times
startled Mr. Fish, who kept losing his sense of where Owen was. When Owen
pointed, it was all of a sudden, a convulsive, twitchy movement-his small,
white hand flashing out of the folds of the cloak, which he flapped. He could
glide slowly, like a skater running out of momentum; but he could also skitter
with a bat's repellent quickness. At Scrooge's grave, Mr. Fish said: "
'Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point, answer me one question.
Are these the shadows of the things that Will be or are they shadows of the
things that May be, only?' "

As never before, this question seemed to seize the attention of
every amateur among The Gravesend Players; even Mr. Fish appeared to be
mortally interested in the answer. But the midget Ghost of Christmas Yet to
Come was inexorable; the

 
 
tiny phantom's
indifference to the question made Dan Need-ham shiver. It was then that Mr.
Fish approached close enough to the gravestone to read his own name thereon.''
'Ebenezer Scrooge ... am / that man?' " Mr. Fish cried, falling to his
knees. It was from the perspective of his knees-when Mr. Fish's head was only
slightly above Owen Meany's-that Mr. Fish received his first full look at the
averted face under the hood. Mr. Fish did not laugh; he screamed. He was
supposed to say, " 'No, Spirit! Oh, no, no! Spirit, hear me! I am not the
man I was!' " And so on and so forth. But Mr. Fish simply screamed. He
pulled his hands so fiercely away from Owen's cowl that the hood was yanked off
Owen's head, revealing him to the other members of the cast-several of them
screamed, too; no one laughed.

"It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up, just to
remember it!" Dan told us, over dinner.

"I'm not surprised," my grandmother said. After
dinner, Mr. Fish made a somewhat subdued appearance.

"Well, at least we've got one good ghost," Mr. Fish
said. "It makes my job a lot easier, really," he rationalized.
"The little fellow is quite effective, quite effective. It will be
interesting to see his ... effect on an audience."

"We've already seen it," Dan reminded him.

"Well, yes," Mr. Fish agreed hastily; he looked
worried.

"Someone told me that Mr. Early's daughter wet her
pants," Dan informed us.

"I'm not surprised," my grandmother said. Germaine,
clearing one teaspoon at a time, appeared ready to wet hers.

"Perhaps you might hold him back a little?" Mr. Fish
suggested to Dan.

"Hold him back?" Dan asked.

"Well, get him to restrain whatever it is he does,"
Mr. Fish said.

"I'm not at all sure what it is he does," Dan said.

"I'm not either," Mr. Fish said. "It's just ...
so disturbing."

"Perhaps, when people are sitting back a few rows-in the
audience, I mean-it won't be quite so ... upsetting," Dan said.

"Do you think so?" Mr. Fish asked.

"Not really," Dan admitted.

"What if we saw his face-from the beginning?" Mr. Fish
suggested.

"If you don't pull his hood off, we'll never see his
face," Dan pointed out to Mr. Fish. "I think that will be
better."

"Yes, much better," Mr. Fish agreed. Mr. Meany dropped
Owen off at  Front Street-so he could spend the night. Mr. Meany knew that
my grandmother resented the racket his truck made in the driveway; that was why
we didn't hear him come and go-he let Owen out of the cab on Front Street. It
was quite magical; I mean, the timing: Mr. Fish saying good night, opening the
door to leave-precisely at the same time as Owen was reaching to ring the
doorbell. My grandmother, at that instant, turned on the porch light; Owen
blinked into the light. From under his red-and-black-checkered hunter's cap,
his small, sharp face stared up at Mr. Fish-like the face of a possum caught in
a flashlight. A dull, yellowish bruise, the sheen of tarnished silver, marked
Owen's cheek-where the Brinker-Smiths' mobile bed had struck him-giving him a
cadaver's uneven color. Mr. Fish leaped backward, into the hall.

"Speak of the Devil," Dan said, smiling. Owen smiled
back-at us all.

"I GUESS YOU HEARD-I GOT THE PART!" he said to my
grandmother and me.

"I'm not surprised, Owen," my grandmother said.
"Won't you come in?" She actually held the door open for him; she
even managed a charming curtsy-inappropriately girlish, but Harriet Wheelwright
was gifted with those essentially regal properties that make the inappropriate
gesture work . . . those being facetiousness and sarcasm. Owen Meany did not
miss the irony in my grandmother's voice; yet he beamed at her-and he returned
her curtsy with a confident bow, and with a little tip of his
red-and-black-checkered hunter's cap. Owen had triumphed, and he knew it; my
grandmother knew it, too. Even Harriet Wheelwright- with her Mayflower
indifference toward the Meanys of this world-even my grandmother knew that
there was more to The Granite Mouse than met the eye. Mr. Fish, perhaps to
compose himself, was humming the tune to a familiar Christmas carol. Even Dan
Needham