A prayer for Owen Meany (70 page)

"WHERE'S ALBERTA?" Owen Meany had asked her.

"In Canada, you asshole," Hester had said.

"THERE'S NO NEED TO BE CRUDE," Owen had told her.
"IT'S A PRETTY SONG. IT MUST BE SAD TO GO TO CANADA."

It was . He was about to become a second lieutenant in the U.S.
Army.

"You think it's 'sad' to go to Canada!" Hester
screamed at him. "Where they're going to send you is a lot sadder."

"I DON'T WANT TO DIE WHERE IT'S COLD," said Owen
Meany. What he meant was, he believed he knew that he would die where it was
warm-very warm. On Christmas Eve, , two American servicemen were killed in
Saigon when Viet Cong terrorists bombed the U.S. billets; one week later, on
New Year's Eve, Hester threw up-perhaps she upchucked with special verve,
because Owen Meany was prompted to take the power of Hester's puking as a sign.

"IT LOOKS LIKE IT'S GOING TO BE A BAD YEAR," Owen
observed, while we watched Hester's spasms in the rose garden. Indeed, it was
the year the war began in earnest; at least, it was the year when the average
unobservant American began to notice that we had a problem in Vietnam. In
February, the U.S. Air Force conducted Operation Flaming Dart-a "tactical
air reprisal."

"What does that mean?" I asked Owen, who was doing so
well in his studies of Military Science.

"THAT MEANS WE'RE BOMBING THE SHIT OUT OF TARGETS IN NORTH
VIETNAM," he said. In March, the U.S. Air Force began Operation Rolling
Thunder-"to interdict the flow of supplies to the south."

"What does that mean?" I asked Owen.

"THAT MEANS WE'RE BOMBING THE SHIT OUT OF TARGETS IN NORTH
VIETNAM," said Owen Meany. That was the month when the first American
combat troops landed in Vietnam; in April, President Johnson authorized the use
of U.S. ground troops-"for offensive operations in South Vietnam."

"THAT MEANS, 'SEARCH AND DESTROY, SEARCH AND DESTROY,'
" Owen said. In May, the U.S. Navy began Operation Market Time-"to
detect and intercept surface traffic in South Vietnam coastal waters."
Harry Hoyt was there; Harry was very happy in the Navy, his mother said.

"But what are they doing there?" I asked Owen.

"THEY'RE SEIZING AND DESTROYING ENEMY CRAFT," said
Owen Meany. It was out of conversations he had been having with one of his
professors of Military Science that he was prompted to observe: "THERE'S
NO END TO THIS. WHAT WE'RE DEALING WITH IS GUERRILLA WARFARE. ARE WE PREPARED
TO OBLITERATE THE WHOLE COUNTRY? YOU CAN CALL IT 'SEARCH AND DESTROY' OR 'SEIZE
AND DESTROY'-EITHER WAY, IT'S DESTROY AND DESTROY. THERE'S NO GOOD WAY TO END
IT."

I could not get over the idea of Harry Hoyt "seizing and
destroying enemy craft"; he was such an idiot! He didn't even know how to play
Little League baseball! I simply couldn't forgive him for the base on balls
that led to Buzzy Thurston's easy grounder . . . that led to Owen Meany coming
to the plate. If Harry had only struck out or hit the ball, everything might
have turned out differently. But he was a walker.

"How could Harry Hoyt possibly be involved in 'seizing and
destroying' anything!'" I asked Owen. "Harry isn't smart

        
 
enough to recognize an 'enemy craft' if one
sailed right over his head!"

"HAS IT OCCURRED TO YOU THAT VIETNAM IS FULL OF HARRY
HOYTS?" Owen asked. The professor of Military Science who had impressed
Owen, and given him a sense of catastrophe about the tactical and strategic
management of the war, was some crusty and critical old colonel of infantry-a
physical-fitness nut who thought Owen was too small for the combat branches of
the Army. I believe that Owen excelled in his Military Science courses in an
effort to persuade this old thug that he could more than compensate for his
size; Owen spent much after-class time chatting up the old buzzard-it was
Owen's intention to be the honor graduate, the number-one graduate from his
ROTC unit. With a number-one rating, Owen was sure, he would be assigned a
"combat arms designator"-Infantry, Armor, or Artillery.

"I don't understand why you want a combat branch," I
said to him.

"IF THERE'S A WAR AND I'M IN THE ARMY, I WANT TO BE IN THE
WAR," he said. "I DON'T WANT TO SPEND THE WAR AT A DESK. LOOK AT IT
THIS WAY: WE AGREE THAT HARRY HOYT IS AN IDIOT. WHO'S GOING TO KEEP THE HARRY
HOYTS FROM GETTING THEIR HEADS BLOWN OFF?"

"Oh, so you want to be a herol" I told him. "If
you were any smarter than Harry Hoyt, you'd be smart enough to spend the war at
a deskl"

I began to think more highly of the colonel who thought Owen was
too small for a combat branch. His name was Eiger, and I tried to talk to him
once; in my view, I was doing Owen a favor.

"Colonel Eiger, sir," I said to him. Despite the liver
spots on the backs of his hands and the roll of sun-wrecked skin that only slightly
overlapped his tight, brown collar, he looked capable of about seventy-five
fast push-ups on command. "I know that you know Owen Meany, sir," I
said to him; he didn't speak-he waited for me to continue, chewing his gum so
conservatively that you weren't sure he had any gum in his mouth at all; he
might have been engaged in some highly disciplined pattern of exercises for his
tongue. "I want you to know that I agree with you, sir," I said.
"I don't think Owen Meany is suitable for combat." The colonel-although
this was barely detectable-stopped chewing. "It's not just his size,"
I ventured. "I am his best friend, and even I have to question his
stability-his emotional stability," I said.

"Thank you. That will be all," the colonel said.

"Thank you, sir," I said. It was May, ; I watched Owen
closely-to see if he'd received any further discouragement from Colonel Eiger.
Something must have happened-the colonel must have said something to
him-because that was the spring when Owen Meany stopped smoking; he just gave
it up, cold. He took up running! In two weeks, he was running five miles a day;
he said his goal-by the end of the month-was to average six minutes per mile.
And he took up beer.

"Why the beer?" I asked him.

"WHOEVER HEARD OF SOMEONE IN THE ARMY NOT DRINKING
BEER?" he asked me. It sounded like something Colonel Eiger would have
said to him; probably the colonel thought it was a further indication that Owen
was a wimp-that he didn't drink. And so, by the time he left for Basic
Training, he was in pretty good shape-all that running, even with the beer, was
a favorable exchange for a pack a day. He admitted that he didn't like the
running; but he'd developed a taste for beer. He never drank very much of it-I
never saw him get drunk, not before Basic Training-but Hester remarked that the
beer vastly improved his disposition.

"Nothing would make Owen exactly mellow," she said,
"but believe me: the beer helps."

I felt funny working for Meany Granite when Owen wasn't there.

"I'M ONLY GONE FOR SIX WEEKS," he pointed out.
"AND BESIDES: I FEEL BETTER KNOWING YOU'RE IN CHARGE OF THE MONUMENT SHOP.
IF SOMEONE DIES, YOU'VE GOT THE PROPER MANNERS TO HANDLE THE ORDER FOR THE
GRAVESTONE. I TRUST YOU TO HAVE THE RIGHT TOUCH."

"Good luck!" I said to him.

"DON'T EXPECT ME TO HAVE TIME TO WRITE- IT'S GOING TO BE
PRETTY INTENSE," he said. "BASICALLY, I'VE GOT TO EXCEL IN THREE
AREAS-ACADEMICS, LEADERSHIP, PHYSICAL FITNESS. FRANKLY, IN THE LATTER CATEGORY,
I'M WORRIED ABOUT THE OBSTACLE COURSE-I HEAR THERE'S A

        
 
WALL, ABOUT TWELVE FEET. THAT MIGHT BE A
LITTLE HIGH FOR ME."

Hester was singing; she refused to participate in a conversation
about Basic Training; she said that if she heard Owen recite his preferred
COMBAT BRANCHES one more time, she would throw up. I'll never forget what
Hester was singing; it's a Canadian song, and-over the years-I've heard this
song a hundred times. I guess it will always give me the shivers. If you were
even just barely alive in the sixties, I'm sure you've heard the song that
Hester sang, the song I remember so vividly. Four strong winds that blow
lonely, Seven seas that run high, All those things that don't change come what
may. But our good times are all gone, And I'm bound for movin' on, I'll look
for you if I'm ever back this way. They sent him to Fort Knox, or maybe it was
Fort Bragg; I forget-once I asked Hester if she remembered which place it was
where Owen was sent for Basic Training.

"All I know is, he shouldn't have gone-he should have gone
to Canada," Hester said. How often I have thought that! There are times
when I catch myself looking for him-even expecting to see him. Once, in Winston
Churchill Park, when there were children rough-housing-at least, moving
quickly-I saw someone about his size, standing slightly to the side of whatever
activity was consuming the others, looking a trifle tentative but very alert,
certainly eager to try what the others were doing, but restraining himself, or
else picking the exactly perfect moment to take charge. But Owen didn't come to
Canada; he went to Fort Knox or Fort Bragg, where he failed the obstacle
course. He was the best academically; he had the highest marks in leadership-
whatever that is, and however the U.S. Army determines what it is. But he had
been right about the wall; it was a little high for him-he simply couldn't get
over it. He "failed to negotiate the wall"-that was how the Army put
it. And since class rank in ROTC is composed of excellence in Academics, in
Leadership, and in Physical Fitness, Owen Meany--just that simply-failed to get
a number-one ranking; his choice of a "combat arms designator" was,
therefore, not assured.

"But you're such a good jumper!" I told him.
"Couldn't you just jump it-couldn't you grab hold of the top of the wall
and haul yourself over it?"

"I COULDN'T REACH THE TOP OF THE WALL!" he said.
"I AM A GOOD JUMPER, BUT I'M FUCKING FIVE FEET TALL! IT'S NOT LIKE
PRACTICING THE SHOT, YOU KNOW-I'M NOT ALLOWED TO HAVE ANYONE BOOST ME UP!"

"I'm sorry," I said. "You've still got your whole
senior year. Can't you work on Colonel Eiger? I'll bet you can convince him to
give you what you want."

"I'VE GOT A NUMBER-TWO RANKING-DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND? IT'S
BY THE BOOK. COLONEL EIGER LIKES ME-HE JUST DOESN'T THINK I'M FITl" He was
so distracted by his failure, I didn't press him about giving me a dynamite
lesson. I felt guilty for ever speaking to Colonel Eiger-Owen was so upset.
But, at the same time, I didn't want him to get a combat-branch assignment. In
the fall of ', when we returned to Durham for our senior year, there were
already protests against U.S. policy in Vietnam; that October, there were
protests in thirty or forty American cities-I think Hester attended about half
of them. Typical of me, I felt unsure: I thought the protesters made more sense
than anyone who remotely subscribed to "U.S. policy"; but I also
thought that Hester and most of her friends were losers and jerks. Hester was
already beginning to call herself a "socialist."

"OH, EXCUSE ME, I THOUGHT YOU WERE A WAITRESS'." Owen
Meany said. "ARE YOU SHARING ALL YOUR TIPS WITH THE OTHER
WAITRESSES?"

"Fuck you, Owen," Hester said. "I could call
myself a Republican, and I'd still make more sense than you\"

I had to agree. At the very least, it was inconsistent of Owen Meany
to want a combat-branch assignment; with the keen eye he had always had for
spotting bullshit, why would he want to go to Vietnam? And the war, and the
protests-they were just beginning; anyone could see that. On Christmas Day,
President Johnson suspended Operation Rolling Thunder-no more bombing of North
Vietnam, "to induce negotiations for peace." Was anyone fooled by
that?

"MADE FOR TELEVISION!" said Owen Meany. So why

        
 
did he want to go there? Did he want to be a
hero so badly that he would have gone anywhere! That fall he was told he was
Adjutant General's Corps "material"; that was not what he wanted to
hear-the Adjutant General's Corps was not a combat branch. He was appealing the
decision; mistakes of this kind-regarding one's orders- were almost common, he
claimed.

"I THINK COLONEL EIGER IS IN MY CORNER," Owen said.
"AS FAR AS I'M CONCERNED, I'M STILL WAITING TO HEAR ABOUT A COMBAT
BRANCH."

By New Year's Eve, -when Hester was making her usual statement
in the rose garden at  Front Street-only  U.S. military personnel had
been killed in action; it was just the beginning. I guess that figure did not
include the death of Harry Hoyt; "in action" was not exactly how poor
Harry was killed. It had been just like another base on balls for Harry Hoyt, I
thought-snake-bit while waiting his turn with a whore, snake-bit while peeing
under a tree.

"JUST LIKE DRAWING A WALK," said Owen Meany.
"POOR HARRY."

"His poor mother," my grandmother said; she was moved
to expand upon her thesis on dying. "I would rather be murdered by a
maniac than bitten by a snake," she said. And so, in Gravesend, our first
vision of death in Vietnam was not of that standard Viet Cong soldier in his
sandals and black pajamas, with something that looked like a lampshade for a hat-and
with the Soviet AK- assault rifle, using a .mm bullet, fired either single-shot
or on full automatic. Rather, we turned to my grandmother's Wharton
Encyclopedia of Venomous Snakes-which had already provided Owen and me with
several nightmares, when we were children-and there we found our vision of the
enemy in Southeast Asia: Russell's viper. Oh, it was so tempting to reduce the
United States' misadventure in Vietnam to an enemy one could see\ Harry Hoyt's
mother made up her mind that we were our enemy. Less than a month after the New
Year-after we had resumed our bombing of North Vietnam and Operation Rolling
Thunder was back on target-Mrs. Hoyt created her disturbance in the office of
the Gravesend local draft board, choosing to use their bulletin board to
advertise that she would give free draft-counseling advice in her home-sessions
in how to evade the draft. She managed to advertise herself all around the
university, in Durham, too-Hester told me that Mrs. Hoyt drew more of a crowd
from the university community than she was able to summon among the locals in
Gravesend. The university students were closer to being drafted than those
Gravesend High School students who could manage to be accepted by even the
lowliest college or university. In , two million Americans had so-called
student deferments that protected them from the draft. In a year, this would be
modified-to exclude graduate students; but those graduate students in their
second year, or further along in their studies, would keep their exemptions. I
would fall perfectly into the crack. When draft deferments for graduate
students got the ax, I would be in my first year of graduate school; my draft
deferment would get the ax, too. I would be summoned for a preinduction
physical at my local Gravesend draft board, where I had every reason to expect
I would be found fully acceptable for induction-what was called -A-fit to
serve, and standing at the head of the line. That was the kind of thing that
Mrs. Hoyt was attempting to prepare us for-as early as February, , she started
warning the young people who would listen to her; she made contact with all of
Harry's contemporaries in Gravesend.