A prayer for Owen Meany (48 page)

And so they hired him away from the Congregationalists; once
more, The Voice did not go unheard. Toronto: May , -a sunny, cool day, a good
day to mow a lawn. The smell of freshly cut grass all along Russell Hill Road reflects
how widespread is my neighbors' interest in lawnmowing. Mrs. Brocklebank-whose
daughter, Heather, is in my Grade  English class-took a slightly different
approach to her lawn; I found her ripping her dandelions out by their roots.

"You'd better do the same thing," she said to me.
"Pull them out, don't mow them under. If you chop them up with the mower,
you'll just make more of them."

"Like starfish," I said; I should have known
better-it's never a good idea to introduce Mrs. Brocklebank to a new subject,
not unless you have time to kill. If I'd assigned "The Maiden" to
Mrs. Brocklebank, she would have gotten everything right-the first time.

"What do you know about starfish?" she asked.

"I grew up on the seacoast," I reminded her. It is
occasionally necessary for me to tell Torontonians of the presence of the
Atlantic and Pacific oceans; they tend to think of the Great Lakes as the
waters of the world.

"So what about starfish?" Mrs. Brocklebank asked.

"You cut them up, they grow more starfish," I said.

"Is that in a book?" asked Mrs. Brocklebank. I assured
her that it was. I even have a book that describes the life of the starfish,
although Owen and I knew not to chop them up long before we read about them;
every kid in Gravesend learned all about starfish at the beach at Little Boar's
Head. I remember my mother telling Owen and me not to cut them up; starfish are
very destructive, and their powers of reproduction are not encouraged in New
Hampshire. Mrs. Brocklebank is persistent regarding new information; she goes
after everything as aggressively as she attacks her dandelions. "I'd like
to see that book," she announced. And so I began again with what has
become a fairly routine labor: discouraging Mrs. Brocklebank from reading
another book-I work as hard at discouraging her, and with as little

        
 
success, as I sometimes latx>r to
encourage those BSS girls to read their assignments.

"It's not a very good book," I said. "It's
written by an amateur, it's published by a vanity press."

"So what's wrong with an amateur writing a book?" Mrs.
Brocklebank wanted to know. She is probably writing one of her own, it occurs
to me now. "So what's wrong with a 'vanity press'?" she asked. The
book that tells the truth about the starfish is called The Life of the Tidepool
by Archibald Thorndike. Old Thorny was an amateur naturalist and an amateur
diarist, and after he retired from Gravesend Academy, he spent two years
scrutinizing a tidepool in Rye Harbor; at his own expense, he published a book
about it and sold autographed copies of the book every Alumni Day. He parked
his station wagon by the tennis courts and sold his books off the tailgate,
chatting with all the alumni who wanted to talk to him; since he was a very
popular headmaster-and since he was replaced by a particularly unpopular
headmaster-almost all the alumni wanted to talk to old Thorny. I suppose he
sold a lot of copies of The Life of the Tidepool; he might even have made
money. Maybe he wasn't such an amateur, after all. He knew how to handle The Voice-by
not handling him. And The Voice would prove to be the undoing of the new
headmaster, in the end. In the end, I yielded to Mrs. Brocklebank's frenzy to
educate herself; I said I'd lend her my copy ofThe Life of the Tidepool.

"Be sure to remind Heather to reread the first 'phase' of
Tess," I told Mrs. Brocklebank.

"Heather's not reading her assignments?" Mrs.
Brocklebank asked in alarm.

"It's spring," I reminded her. "All the girls
aren't reading their assignments. Heather's doing just fine." Indeed, Heather
Brocklebank is one of my better students; she has inherited her mother's
ardor-while, at the same time, her imagination ranges far beyond dandelions. In
a flash, I think of giving my Grade  English class a sneak quiz; if they
gave the first "phase" of Tess such a sloppy reading, I'll bet they
skipped the Introduction altogether-and I had assigned the Introduction, too; I
don't always do that, but there's an Introduction by Robert B. Heilman that's
especially helpful to first readers of Hardy. I know a really nasty quiz
question! I think-looking at Mrs. Brocklebank, clutching her murdered
dandelions.

"What was Thomas Hardy's earlier title for TessT' Ha! It's
nothing they could ever guess; if they'd read the Introduction, they'd know it
was Too Late Beloved-they'd at least remember the "too late" part.
Then I remembered that Hardy had written a story-before Tess-called ' 'The
Romantic Adventures of a Milkmaid"; I wondered if I could throw in that
title, to confuse them. Then I remembered that Mrs. Brocklebank was standing on
the sidewalk with her handful of dandelions, waiting for me to fetch her The
Life of the Tidepool. And last of all I remembered that Owen Meany and I first
read Tess of the d'Urbervilles in our tenth-grade year at Gravesend Academy; we
were in Mr. Early's English class-it was the winter term of -and I was
struggling with Thomas Hardy to the point of tears. Mr. Early was a fool to try
Tess on tenth graders. At Bishop Strachan, I have long argued with my
colleagues that we should teach Hardy in Grade -even Grade  is too soon!
Even The Brothers Karamazov is easier than Tess!

"I can't read this!" I remember saying to Owen. He
tried to help me; he helped me with everything else, but Tess was simply too
difficult. "I can't read about milking cows!" I screamed.

"IT'S NOT ABOUT MILKING COWS," Owen said crossly.

"I don't care what it's about; I hate it," I said.

"THAT'S A TRULY INTELLIGENT ATTITUDE," Owen said.
"IF YOU CAN'T READ IT, DO YOU WANT ME TO READ IT ALOUD TO YOU?"

I am so ashamed of myself to remember this: that he would do
even that for me-that he would read Tess of the d'Urbervilles aloud to me! At
the time, the thought of hearing that whole novel in his voice was staggering.

"I can't read it and I can't listen to it, either," I
said.

"FINE," Owen said. "THEN YOU TELL ME WHAT YOU
WANT ME TO DO. I CAN TELL YOU THE WHOLE STORY, I CAN WRITE YOUR TERM PAPER-AND
IF THERE'S AN EXAM, YOU'LL JUST HAVE TO BULLSHIT AS WELL AS YOU CAN: IF I TELL
YOU THE WHOLE STORY, MAYBE YOU'LL ACTUALLY REMEMBER SOME OF IT. THE POINT IS, I
CAN DO YOUR HOMEWORK FOR YOU-IT'S NOT HARD FOR ME AND I DON'T MIND DOING IT-OR
I CAN TEACH YOU HOW TO DO YOUR OWN HOMEWORK. THAT WOULD BE A

        
 
LITTLE HARDER-FOR BOTH OF US-BUT IT MIGHT
TURN OUT TO BE USEFUL FOR YOU TO BE ABLE TO DO YOUR OWN WORK. I MEAN, WHAT ARE
YOU GOING TO DO-AFTER I'M GONE?"

"What do you mean, after you're goneT' I asked him.

"LOOK AT IT ANOTHER WAY," he said patiently. "ARE
YOU GOING TO GET A JOB? AFTER YOU'RE THROUGH WITH SCHOOL, I MEAN-ARE YOU GOING
TO WORK? ARE YOU GOING TO A UNIVERSITY? ARE WE GOING TO GO TO THE SAME
UNIVERSITY? AM I GOING TO DO YOUR HOMEWORK THERE, TOO? WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO
MAJOR IN?"

"What are you going to major in?" I asked him; my
feelings were hurt-but I knew what he was driving at, and he was right.

"GEOLOGY," he said. "I'M IN THE GRANITE
BUSINESS."

"That's crazy!" I said. "It's not your business.
You can study anything you want, you don't have to study rocks!"

"ROCKS ARE INTERESTING," Owen said stubbornly.
"GEOLOGY IS THE HISTORY OF THE EARTH."

"I can't read Tess of the d'Urbervillesl" I cried.
"It's too hard!"

"YOU MEAN IT'S HARD TO MAKE YOURSELF READ IT, YOU MEAN IT'S
HARD TO MAKE YOURSELF PAY ATTENTION," he said. "BUT IT'S NOT TESS OF
THE D'URBERVILLES THAT'S HARD. THOMAS HARDY MAY BORE YOU BUT HE'S VERY EASY TO
UNDERSTAND- HE'S OBVIOUS, HE TELLS YOU EVERYTHING YOU HA VETO KNOW."

"He tells me more than I want to know!" I cried.

"YOUR BOREDOM IS YOUR PROBLEM," said Owen Meany.
"IT'S YOUR LACK OF IMAGINATION THAT BORES YOU. HARDY HAS THE WORLD FIGURED
OUT. TESS IS DOOMED. FATE HAS IT IN FOR HER. SHE'S A VICTIM; IF YOU'RE A
VICTIM, THE WORLD WILL USE YOU. WHY SHOULD SOMEONE WHO'S GOT SUCH A WORKED-OUT
WAY OF SEEING THE WORLD BORE YOU? WHY SHOULDN'T YOU BE INTERESTED IN SOMEONE
WHO'S WORKED OUT A WAY TO SEE THE WORLD? THAT'S WHAT MAKES WRITERS INTERESTING!
MAYBE YOU SHOULD BE AN ENGLISH MAJOR. AT LEAST, YOU GET TO READ STUFF THAT'S
WRIT- TEN BY PEOPLE WHO CAN WRITE I YOU DON'T HAVE TO DO ANYTHING TO BE AN ENGLISH
MAJOR, YOU DON'T NEED ANY SPECIAL TALENT, YOU JUST HAVE TO PAY ATTENTION TO
WHAT SOMEONE WANTS YOU TO SEE-TO WHAT MAKES SOMEONE ANGRIEST, OR THE MOST
EXCITED IN SOME OTHER WAY. IT'S SO EASY; I THINK THAT'S WHY THERE ARE SO MANY
ENGLISH MAJORS."

"It's not easy for me!" I cried. "I hate reading
this book!"

"DO YOU HATE TO READ MOST BOOKS?" Owen asked me.

"Yes!" I said.

"DO YOU SEE THAT THE PROBLEM IS NOT TESST' he asked me.

"Yes," I admitted.

"NOW WE'RE GETTING SOMEWHERE," said Owen Meany-my
friend, my teacher. Standing on the sidewalk with Mrs. Brocklebank, I felt the
tears start to come.

"Do you have allergies?" Mrs. Brocklebank asked me; I
shook my head. I feel so ashamed of myself that-even for a moment-I could
consider zapping my Grade  girls with a nasty quiz on Tess of the d'
Urbervilles. Remembering how I suffered as a student, remembering how much I
needed Owen's help, how could I even think of being a sneaky teacher?

"I think you do have an allergy," Mrs. Brocklebank
concluded from my tears. "Lots of people have allergies and don't even
know; I've read about that."

"It must be the dandelions," I said; and Mrs.
Brocklebank glared at the pestilential weeds with a fresh hatred. Every spring
there are dandelions; they always remind me of the spring term of -the
burgeoning of that old decade that once seemed so new to Owen Meany and me.
That was the spring when the Search Committee found a new headmaster. That was
the decade that would defeat us. Randolph White had been the headmaster of a
small private day school in Lake Forest, Illinois; I'm told that is a
super-rich and exclusively WASP community that does its utmost to pretend it is
not a suburb of Chicago-but that may be unfair; I've never been there. Several
Gravesend students came from there, and they unanimously groaned to hear the
announcement of Randolph White's appointment as headmaster at the acad-

        
 
envy; apparently, the idea that anyone from
Lake Forest had followed them to New Hampshire depressed them. At the time,
Owen and I knew a kid from Bloomfield Hills, Michigan, and he told us that
Bloomfield Hills was to Detroit what Lake Forest was to Chicago, and that-in
his view- Bloomfield Hills "sucked"; he offered a story about
Bloom-field Hills as an example of what he meant-it was a story about a black
family that moved there, and they were forced to sell and move out because
their neighbors kept burning crosses on their lawn. This shocked Owen and me;
in New Hampshire, we thought such things happened only in the South-but a black
kid from Atlanta informed us that we knew "shit" about the problem;
they burned crosses all over the country, the black kid said, and we weren't
exactly "overwhelmed by a sea of black faces" at Gravesend Academy,
were we? No, Owen and I agreed; we were not. Then another kid from Michigan
said that Grosse Pointe was more to Detroit what Lake Forest was to
Chicago-that Bloomfield Hills wasn't a proper analogy-and some other kid argued
that Shaker Heights was more to Cleveland what Lake Forest was to Chicago . . .
and so forth. Owen and I were not very knowledgeable of the geography of the
country's rich and exclusive; when a Jewish kid from Highland Park, Illinois,
told us that there were "no Jews allowed" in Lake Forest, Owen and I
began to wonder what ominous kind of small private day school in Lake Forest
our new headmaster had come from. Owen had another reason to be suspicious of
Randolph White. Of all the candidates whom the Search Committee dragged through
the school in our tenth-grade year, only Randolph White had not accepted the
invitation for A PRIVATE AUDIENCE with The Voice. Owen had met Mr. White
outside Archie Thorndike's office; Thorny introduced the candidate to The Voice
and told them he would, as usual, vacate his office in order for them to be alone
for Owen's interview.

"What's this?" Randolph White asked. "I thought I
already had the student interview,"

"Well," old Thorny said, "Owen, you know, is The
Voice-you know our school newspaper, The Grave?"

"I know who he is," Mr. White said; he had still not
shaken Owen's outstretched hand. "Why didn't he interview me when the
other students interviewed me?"

"That was the student subcommittee," Archie Thorndike
explained. "Owen has requested 'a private audience' ..."

"Request denied, Owen," said Randolph White, finally
shaking Owen's small hand. "I want to have plenty of time to talk with the
department heads," Mr. White explained; Owen rubbed his fingers, which
were still throbbing from the candidate's handshake. Old Thorny tried to
salvage the disaster. "Owen is almost a department head," he said
cheerfully.

"Student opinion isn't a department, is it?" Mr. White
asked Owen, who was speechless. White was a compact, trimly built man who
played an aggressive, relentless game of squash-daily. His wife called him
"Randy"; he called her "Sam"-from Samantha. She came from a
"meat money" family in the Chicago area; his was a "meat
family" background, too-although there was said to be more money in the
meat she came from. One of the less-than-kind Chicago newspapers described
their wedding as a "meat marriage." Owen remembered from the
candidate's dossier that White had been credited with' 'revolutionizing
packaging and distribution of meat products"; he'd left meat for education
rather recently-when his own children (in his opinion) were in need of a better
school; he'd started one up, from scratch, and the school had been quite a
success in Lake Forest. Now White's children were in college and White was
looking for a "bigger challenge in the education business." In Lake
Forest, he'd had no "tradition" to work with; White said he liked the
idea of "being a change-maker within a great tradition."