A prayer for Owen Meany (55 page)

"IS HE OUT THERE TONIGHT?" Owen would whisper to me.
"DO YOU SEE HIM?"

In , Owen and I searched the audience for that special face in
the bleacher seats-maybe a familiar face; and maybe not. We were looking for
the man who responded-or did not respond-to my mother's wave. It was a face, we
were sure, that would have registered some expression-upon witnessing the
results of Owen Meany making contact with that ball. It was a face, we
suspected, that my mother would have seen in many audiences before-not just at
Little League games, but staring out at her from the potted orange trees and
the tanks full

        
 
of tropical fish at The Orange Grove. We were
looking for a face that "The Lady in Red" would have sung to ... at
least once, if not many times.

" you see him?" I would ask Owen Meany.

"NOT TONIGHT," Owen would say. "EITHER HE'S NOT
HERE, OR HE'S NOT THINKING ABOUT YOUR MOTHER," he said one night.

"What do you mean?" I asked him.

"SUPPOSE DAN DIRECTED A PLAY ABOUT MIAMI!" said Owen
Meany. "SUPPOSE THE GRAVESEND PLAYERS PUT ON A PLAY ABOUT A SUPPER CLUB IN
MIAMI, AND IT WAS CALLED THE ORANGE GROVE, AND THERE WAS A SINGER CALLED 'THE
LADY IN RED,' AND SHE SANG ONLY THE OLD SINATRA SONGS."

"But there is no play like that," I said.

"JUST SUPPOSE'" Owen said. "USE YOUR IMAGINATION.
GOD CAN TELL YOU WHO YOUR FATHER IS, BUT YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE IT-YOU'VE GOT TO
GIVE GOD A LITTLE HELP! JUST SUPPOSE THERE WAS SUCH A PLAY!"

"Okay," I said. "I'm supposing."

"AND WE CALLED THE PLAY EITHER THE ORANGE GROVE OR THE LADY
IN RED-DON'T YOU SUPPOSE THAT YOUR FATHER WOULD COME TO SEE THAT PLAY? AND
DON'T YOU SUPPOSE WE COULD RECOGNIZE HIM THEN!" asked Owen Meany.

"I suppose so," I said. The problem was, Owen and I
didn't dare tell Dan about The Orange Grove and "The Lady in Red"; we
weren't sure that Dan didn't already know. I thought it would hurt Dan to know
that he wasn't enough of a father to me-for wouldn't he interpret my curiosity
regarding my biological father as an indication that he (Dan) was less than
adequate in his adoptive role? And if Dan didn't know about The Orange Grove
and "The Lady in Red," wouldn't that hurt him, too? It made my
mother's past-before Dan-appear more romantic than / ever thought it had been.
Why would Dan Needham want to dwell on my mother's romantic past? Owen
suggested that there was a way to get The Gravesend Players to perform a play
alxmt a female vocalist in a Miami supper club without involving Dan in our
discovery.

" COULD WRITE THE PLAY," said Owen Meany. "I
COULD SUBMIT IT TO DAN AS THE FIRST ORIGINAL PRODUCTION OF THE GRAVESEND PLAYERS.
I COULD TELL IN ONE SECOND IF DAN ALREADY KNEW THE STORY."

"But you don't know the story," I pointed out to Owen.
"You don't have a story, you just have a setting-and a very sketchy cast
of characters."

"IT CAN'T BE VERY HARD TO MAKE UP A GOOD STORY," said
Owen Meany. "CLEARLY, YOUR MOTHER HAD A TALENT FOR IT-AND SHE WASN'T EVEN
A WRITER."

"I suppose you're a writer," I said; Owen shrugged.

"IT CAN'T BE VERY HARD," Owen repeated. But I said I
didn't want him to try it and take a chance of hurting Dan; if Dan already knew
the story-even if he knew only the "setting"-he would be hurt, I
said.

"I DON'T THINK IT'S DAN YOU'RE WORRIED ABOUT," said
Owen Meany.

"What do you mean, Owen?" I asked him; he shrugged-
sometimes I think that Owen Meany invented shrugging.

"I THINK YOU'RE AFRAID TO FIND OUT WHO YOUR FATHER
IS," he said.

"Fuck you, Owen," I said; he shrugged again.

"LOOK AT IT THIS WAY," said Owen Meany. "YOU'VE
BEEN GIVEN A CLUE. NO EFFORT FROM YOU WAS REQUIRED. GOD HAS GIVEN YOU A CLUE.
NOW YOU HAVE A CHOICE: EITHER YOU USE GOD'S GIFT OR YOU WASTE IT. I THINK A
LITTLE EFFORT FROM YOU IS REQUIRED."

"I think you care more about who my father is than /
do," I told him; he nodded. It was the day of New Year's Eve, December , ,
about two o'clock in the afternoon, and we were sitting in the grubby living
room of Hester's apartment in Durham, New Hampshire; it was a living room we
routinely shared with Hester's roommates-two university girls who were almost
Hester's equal in slovenliness, but sadly no match for Hester in sex appeal.
The girls were not there; they had gone to their parents' homes for Christmas
vacation. Hester was not there, either; Owen and I would never have discussed

        
 
my mother's secret life in Hester's presence.
Although it was only two o'clock in the afternoon, Hester had already consumed
several rum and Cokes; she was sound asleep in her bedroom-as oblivious to
Owen's and my discussion as my mother was.

"LET'S DRIVE TO THE GYM AND PRACTICE THE SHOT," said
Owen Meany.

"I don't feel like it," I said.

"TOMORROW IS NEW YEAR'S DAY," Owen reminded me.
"THE GYM WILL BE CLOSED TOMORROW."

From Hester's bedroom-even though the door was closed-we could
hear her breathing; Hester's breathing, when she'd been drinking, was something
between a snore and a moan.

"Why does she drink so much?" I asked Owen.

"HESTER'S AHEAD OF HER TIME," he said.

"What's that mean?" I asked him. "Do we have a
generation of drunks to look forward to?"

"WE HAVE A GENERATION OF PEOPLE WHO ARE ANGRY TO LOOK
FORWARD TO," Owen said. "AND MAYBE TWO GENERATIONS OF PEOPLE WHO
DON'T GIVE A SHIT," he added.

"How do you know?" I asked him.

"I DON'T KNOW HOW I KNOW," said Owen Meany. "I
JUST KNOW THAT I KNOW," he said. Toronto: June , -after a weekend of
wonderful weather here, sunny and clear-skyed and as cool as it is in the fall,
I broke down and bought The New York Times; thank God, no one I know saw me.
One of the Brocklebank daughters got married on the weekend in the Bishop
Strachan chapel; the BSS girls tend to do that-they come back to the old school
to tie the knot, even the ones who were miserable when they were students here.
Sometimes, I'm invited to the weddings-Mrs. Brocklebank invited me to this
one-but this particular daughter had managed to escape ever being a student of
mine, and I felt that Mrs. Brocklebank invited me only because I ran into her
while she was fiercely trimming her hedge. No one sent me a formal invitation.
I like to stand on a little ceremony; I felt it wasn't my place to attend. And
besides: the Brocklebank daughter was marrying an American. I think it's
because I ran into a carload of Americans on Russell Hill Road that I broke
down and bought The New York Times. The Americans were lost; they couldn't rind
The Bishop Strachan School or the chapel-they had a New York license plate and
no understanding of how to pronounce Strachan.

"Where's Bishop Sfray-chen?" a woman asked me.

"Bishop Strawn," I corrected her.

"What?" she said. "I can't understand him,"
she told her husband, the driver. "I think he's speaking French."

"I was speaking English," I informed the idiot woman.
"They speak French in Montreal. You're in Toronto. We speak English
here."

"Do you know where Bishop Sfray-chen is?" her husband
shouted.

"It's Bishop Strawn\" I shouted back.

"No, Sfray-chen!" shouted the wife. One of the kids in
the back seat spoke up.

"I think he's telling you how to pronounce it," the
kid told his parents.

"I don't want to know how to pronounce it," his father
said, "I just want to know where it is."

"Do you know where it is?" the woman asked me.

"No," I said. "I've never heard of it."

"He's never heard of it!" the wife repeated. She took
a letter out of her purse, and opened k. "Do you know where Lonsdale Road
is?" she asked me.

"Somewhere around here," I said. "I think I've
heard of that."

They drove off-in the direction of St. Clair, and the reservoir;
they went the wrong way, of course. Their plans were certainly unclear, but
they exhibited an exemplary American firmness. And so I must have been feeling
a little homesick; I get that way from time to time. And what a day it was to
buy The New York Times! I don't suppose there's ever a good day to buy it. But
what a story I read! Nancy Reagan Says Hearings Have Not Affected President Oh,
boy. Mrs. Reagan said that the congressional hearings on the Iran-contra deals
had not affected the president. Mrs. Reagan was in Sweden to observe a
drug-abuse program in a high school in a Stockholm suburb; I guess she's one of
those many American adults of a certain advanced age who believe that the root
of all evil lies in the area of young people's

        
 
self-abuse. Someone should tell Mrs. Reagan
that young people-even young people on drugs-are not the ones responsible for
the major problems besetting the world! The wives of American presidents have
always been active in eradicating their pet peeves; Mrs. Reagan is all upset
about drug abuse. I think it was Mrs. Johnson who wanted to rid the nation of
junk cars; those cars that no longer could be driven anywhere, but simply
sat-rusting into the landscape . . . they made her absolutely passionate about
their removal. And there was another president's wife, or maybe it was a
vice-president's wife, who thought it was a disgrace how the nation, as a
whole, paid so little attention to "art"; I forget what it was that
she wanted to do about it. But it doesn't surprise me that the president is
"not affected" by the congressional hearings; he hasn't been too
"affected" by what the Congress tells him he can and can't do,
either. I doubt that these hearings are going to "affect" him very
greatly. Who cares if he "knew"-exactly, or inexactly-that money
raised by secret arms sales to Iran was being diverted to the support of the
Nicaraguan rebels? I don't think most Americans care. Americans got bored with
hearing about Vietnam before they got out of Vietnam; Americans got bored with
hearing about Watergate, and what Nixon did or didn't do-even before the
evidence was all in. Americans are already bored with Nicaragua; by the time
these congressional hearings on the Iran-contra affair are over, Americans
won't know (or care) what they think-except that they'll be sick and tired of
it. After a while, they'll be tired of the Persian Gulf, too. They're already
sick to death of Iran. This syndrome is as familiar to me as Hester throwing up
on New Year's Eve. It was New Year's Eve, ; Hester was vomiting in the rose
garden, and Owen and I were watching TV. There were , U.S. military personnel
in Vietnam. On New Year's Eve in ', a total of , Americans were there; Hester
was barfing her brains out again, I think the January thaw was early that year;
I think that was the year Hester was puking in the rain, but maybe the early
thaw was New Year's Eve in , when there were , U.S. military personnel in
Vietnam. Hester just threw up; she was nonstop. She was violently opposed to
the Vietnam War; she was radically opposed to it. Hester was so ferociously
antiwar that Owen Meany used to say that he knew of only one good way to get
all those Americans out of Vietnam.

"WE SHOULD SEND HESTER INSTEAD," he used to say.
"HESTER SHOULD DRINK HER WAY THROUGH NORTH VIETNAM," Owen would say.
"WE SHOULD SEND HESTER TO HANOI," he told me. "HESTER, I'VE GOT
A GREAT IDEA," Owen said to her. "WHY DON'T YOU GO THROW UP ON HANOI
INSTEAD?"

On New Year's Eve, , there were , U.S. military personnel in
Vietnam; , had been killed in action. Hester and Owen and I weren't together
for New Year's Eve that year. I watched the television at  Front Street by
myself. Somewhere, I was sure, Hester was throwing up; but I didn't know where.
In ', there were , Americans in Vietnam; , had been killed there. I watched
television at  Front Street, alone again. I'd had a little too much to
drink myself; I was trying to remember when Grandmother had purchased a color
television set, but I couldn't. I'd had enough to drink so that / was sick in
the rose garden; it was cold enough to make me hope, for Hester's sake, that
she was throwing up in a warmer climate. Owen was in a warmer climate. I don't
remember where I was or what I did for New Year's Eve in . There were , U.S.
military personnel in Vietnam; that was still about , short of what our peak
number would be. Only , Americans had been killed in action, about , short of
the number of Americans who would die there. Wherever I was for New Year's Eve,
, I'm sure I was drunk and throwing up; wherever Hester was, I'm sure she was
drunk and throwing up, too. As I've said, Owen didn't show me what he wrote in
his diary; it was much later-after everything, after almost everything-when I
saw what he'd written there. There is one particular entry I wish I could have
read when he wrote it; it is a very early entry, not far from his excited
optimism following Kennedy's inauguration, not all that far from his thanking
my grandmother for the gift of the diary and his announced intention to make
her proud of him. This entry strikes me as important; it is dated January , ,
and it reads as follows:

        
 
I KNOW THREE THINGS. I KNOW THAT MY VOICE
DOESN'T CHANGE, AND I KNOW WHEN I'M GOING TO DIE. I WISH I KNEW WHY MY VOICE
NEVER CHANGES, I WISH I KNEW HOW I WAS GOING TO DIE; BUT GOD HAS ALLOWED ME TO
KNOW MORE THAN MOST PEOPLE KNOW-SO I'M NOT COMPLAINING. THE THIRD THING I KNOW
IS THAT I AM GOD'S INSTRUMENT; I HAVE FAITH THAT GOD WILL LET ME KNOW WHAT I'M
SUPPOSED TO DO, AND WHEN I'M SUPPOSED TO DO IT. HAPPY NEW YEAR! That was the
January of our senior year at Gravesend Academy; if I had understood then that
this was his fatalistic acceptance of what he' 'knew,'' I could have better
understood why he behaved as he did-when the world appeared to turn against
him, and he hardly raised a hand in his own defense. We were hanging around the
editorial offices of The Grave-that year was also editor-in-chief-when a
totally unlikable senior named Larry Lish told Owen and me that President
Kennedy was "diddling" Marilyn Monroe. Larry Lish-Herbert Lawrence
Lish, Jr. (his father was the movie producer Herb Lish)-was arguably Gravesend's
most cynical and decadent student. In his junior year, he'd gotten a town girl
pregnant, and his mother-only recently divorced from his father-had so
skillfully and swiftly arranged for the girl's abortion that not even Owen and
I knew who the girl was; Larry Lish had spoiled a lot of girls' good times. His
mother was said to be ready to fly his girlfriends to Sweden at the drop of a
hat; it was rumored that she accompanied the girls, too-just to make sure they
went through with it. And after these return trips from Sweden, the girls never
wanted to see Larry again. He was a charming sociopath, the kind of creep who
makes a good first impression on those poor, sad people who are dazzled by
top-drawer accents and custom-made dress shirts. He was witty-even Owen was impressed
by Lish's editorial cleverness for The Grave-and he was cordially loathed by
students and faculty alike; I say "cordially," in the case of the
students, because no one would have refused an invitation to one of his
father's or his mother's parties. In the case of the faculty, they exercised a
"cordial" hatred of Lish because his father was so famous that many
faculty members were afraid of him-and Lish's mother, the divorcee, was a
beauty and a whorish flirt. I'm sure that some of the faculty lived for the
glimpse they might get of her on Parents' Day; many of the students felt that
way about Larry Lish's mother, too. Owen and I had never been invited to one of
Mr. or Mrs. Lish's parties; New Hampshire natives are not regularly within
striking distance of New York City-not to mention Beverly Hills. Herb Lish
lived in Beverly Hills; those were Hollywood parties, and Larry Lish's
Gravesend acquaintances who were fortunate enough to come from the Los Angeles
area claimed to have met actual "starlets" at those lavish affairs.
Mrs. Lish's Fifth Avenue parties were no less provocative; the seduction and
intimidation of young people was an activity both Lishes enjoyed. And the New
York girls-although they weren't always aspiring actresses-were reputed to "do
it" with even less resistance than the marginal protestations offered by
the California variety. Mr. and Mrs. Lish, following their divorce, were in
competition for young Larry's doubtful affection; they had chosen a route to
his heart that was strewn with excessive partying and expensive sex. Larry
divided his vacations between New York City and Beverly Hills. On both coasts,
the segment of society that Mr. and Mrs. Lish "knew" was comprised of
the kind of people who struck many Gravesend Academy seniors as the most
fascinating people alive; Owen and I, however, had never heard of most of these
people. But we had certainly heard of President John F. Kennedy; and we had
certainly seen every movie that starred Marilyn Monroe.