A prayer for Owen Meany (76 page)

"YOU OUGHT TO THINK ABOUT JOINING THE 'PEACE MOVEMENT,' OLD
BOY," he told me. I guess he had picked up the OLD BOY at Fort Huachuca.
"AS I UNDERSTAND IT, IT'S A GOOD WAY TO GET LAID. YOU JUST MAKE YOURSELF
LOOK A LITTLE DISTRACTED-LOOKING ANGRY ALSO HELPS-AND YOU KEEP SAYING YOU'RE
'AGAINST THE WAR.' OF COURSE, I DON'T ACTUALLY KNOW ANYONE WHO'S FOR IT-BUT
JUST KEEP SAYING YOU'RE 'AGAINST THE WAR,' AND LOOK AS IF THE WHOLE THING
CAUSES YOU A LOT OF PERSONAL ANGUISH. NEXT THING YOU KNOW, YOU'LL GET LAID-YOU
CAN COUNT ON IT!"

We just kept sinking the shot; it still takes my breath away to
remember how good we were at it. I mean-zip!-he would pass me the ball.
"READY?" he would ask, and-zip!-I would pass it back to him and get
ready to lift him. It was automatic; almost as soon as I passed him the ball,
he was there-in my arms, and soaring. He didn't bother to yell "TIME"-not
anymore. We didn't bother to time ourselves; we were consistently under three
seconds-we had no doubt about that-and sometimes I think we were faster.

"How many bodies a week are there?" I asked him.

"IN ARIZONA? I WOULD GUESS THAT WE AVERAGE TWO-AT THE MOST,
THREE-CASUALTIES A WEEK. SOME WEEKS THERE AREN'T ANY, OR ONLY ONE. AND I WOULD
ESTIMATE THAT ONLY HALF OF OUR CASUALTIES HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH
VIETNAM-THERE ARE A LOT OF CAR ACCIDENTS, YOU KNOW, AND SOME SUICIDES."

"What percentage of the bodies is not-how did you put
it?-'suitable for viewing'?" I asked him.

"FORGET ABOUT THE BODIES," Owen said. "THEY'RE
NOT YOUR PROBLEM-YOUR PROBLEM IS YOU'RE RUNNING OUT OF TIME. WHAT ARE YOU GOING
TO DO WHEN YOU LOSE YOUR STUDENT DEFERMENT? DO YOU HAVE A PLAN? DO YOU EVEN
KNOW WHAT YOU WANT TO DO-PROVIDED THERE'S A WAY TO DO IT? I DON'T SEE YOU BEING
HAPPY IN THE ARMY. I KNOW YOU DON'T WANT TO GO TO VIETNAM. BUT I DON'T SEE YOU
IN THE PEACE CORPS, EITHER. ARE YOU PREPARED TO GO TO CANADA? YOU DON'T LOOK
PREPARED-NOT TO ME. YOU DON'T EVEN LOOK LIKE MUCH OF A PROTESTER. YOU'RE
PROBABLY THE ONE PERSON I KNOW WHO COULD JOIN WHAT HESTER CALLS THE 'PEACE
MOVEMENT' AND MANAGE NOT TO GET LAID. I DON'T SEE YOU HANGING OUT WITH THOSE
ASSHOLES-I DON'T SEE YOU HANGING OUT WITH ANYBODY. WHAT I'M TELLING YOU IS, IF
YOU WANT TO DO THINGS YOUR OWN WAY, YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO MAKE A
DECISION-YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO FIND A LITTLE COURAGE."

"I want to go on being a student," I told him. "I
want to be a teacher. I'm just a reader," I said.

"DON'T SOUND SO ASHAMED," he said. "READING IS A
GIFT."

"I learned it from you," I told him.

"IT DOESN'T MATTER WHERE YOU LEARNED IT-IT'S A GIFT. IF YOU
CARE ABOUT SOMETHING, YOU HAVE TO PROTECT IT-IF YOU'RE LUCKY ENOUGH TO FIND A
WAY OF LIFE YOU LOVE, YOU HAVE TO FIND THE COURAGE TO LIVE IT."

"What do / need courage for?" I asked him.

"YOU WILL NEED IT," he told me. "WHEN YOU'RE
NOTIFIED TO REPORT FOR YOUR PREINDUCTION PHYSICAL, YOU'RE GOING TO NEED SOME
COURAGE THEN. AFTER YOUR PHYSICAL-WHEN THEY PRONOUNCE YOU 'FULLY ACCEPTABLE FOR
INDUCTION'-IT WILL BE A LITTLE LATE TO MAKE A DECISION THEN. ONCE THEY CLASSIFY
YOU ONE-A, A LOT OF GOOD A LITTLE COURAGE WILL DO YOU. BETTER THINK ABOUT IT,
OLD BOY," said Owen Meany. He reported back to Fort Huachuca before New
Year's Eve; Hester stayed away, wherever she was, and I spent New Year's Eve
alone-Grandmother said she was too old to stay up to welcome in the New Year. I
didn't drink too much, but I drank a little. Hester's damage to the rose garden
was surely of the stature of a tradition; her absence, and Owen's, seemed
ominous to me. There were more than , Americans in Vietnam, and almost ,
Americans had been killed there; it seemed only proper to drink something for
them. When Hester returned from SOMEWHERE SUNNY, I refrained from commenting on
her lack of a tan. There were more protests, more demonstrations; she didn't
ask me to accompany her when she went off to them.Yet no one was allowed to
spend the night with her in our apartment; when we talked about Owen, we talked
about how much we loved him.

"Between how much you love him and whatever it is that you
think of me, I sometimes wonder if you'll ever get laid," Hester told me.

"I could always join the 'Peace Movement,' " I told
her. "You know, I could simply make myself look a little
distracted-looking angry also helps-and I could keep saying I am 'against the
war.' Personal anguish-that's the key! I could convey a lot of personal anguish
in regard to my anger 'against the war'-next thing you know, I'll get laid!"
Hester didn't even crack a smile.

"I've heard that one," she said. I wrote Owen that I
had selected Thomas Hardy as the subject for my Master's thesis; I doubt he was
surprised. I also told him that I had given much thought to his advice to me:
that I should gather the courage to make a decision about what to do when faced
with the loss of my draft deferment. I was trying to determine what sort of
decision I might make-I couldn't imagine a very satisfying solution; and I was
puzzled about what sort of COURAGE he'd imagined would be required of

 
 
me. Short of my
deciding to go to Vietnam, the other available decisions didn't strike me as
requiring a great deal in the way of courage.

"You're always telling me I don't have any faith," I
wrote to Owen. "Well-don't you see?-that's a part of what makes me so
indecisive. I wait to see what will happen next-because I don't believe that
anything I might decide to do would matter. You know Hardy's poem
"Hap"-I know you do. You remember . . . 'How arrives it joy lies
slain,/And why un-blooms the best hope ever sown?/-Crass Casualty obstructs the
sun and rain,/And dicing Time for gladness casts a moan. . . . /These purblind
Doomsters had as readily strown/ Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain.' I know
you know what that means: you believe in God but I believe in 'Crass
Casualty'-in chance, in luck. That's what I mean. You see? What good does it do
to make whatever decision you're talking about? What good does courage do-when
what happens next is up for grabs?'' Owen Meany wrote to me: "DON'T BE SO
CYNICAL- NOT EVERYTHING IS 'UP FOR GRABS.' YOU THINK THAT ANYTHING YOU DECIDE
TO DO DOESN'T MATTER? LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT THE BODIES. SAY YOU'RE LUCKY-SAY
YOU NEVER GO TO VIETNAM, SAY YOU NEVER HAVE A WORSE JOB THAN MY JOB. YOU HAVE
TO TELL THEM HOW TO LOAD THE BODY ON THE AIRPLANE, AND HOW TO UNLOAD IT_YOU
HAVE TO BE SURE THEY KEEP THE HEAD HELD HIGHER THAN THE FEET. IT'S PRETTY AWFUL
IF ANY FLUID ESCAPES THROUGH THE ORIFICES-PROVIDED THERE ARE ANY ORIFICES.

"THEN THERE'S THE LOCAL MORTICIAN. PROBABLY HE NEVER KNEW
THE DECEASED. EVEN SUPPOSING THAT THERE'S A WHOLE BODY-EVEN SUPPOSING THAT THE
BODY ISN'T BURNED, AND THAT IT HAS A WHOLE NOSE, AND SO FORTH- NEITHER OF YOU
KNOWS WHAT THE BODY USED TO LOOK LIKE. THE MORTUARY SECTIONS BACK AT THE
COMMAND POSTS IN VIETNAM ARE NOT KNOWN FOR THEIR ATTENTION TO VERISIMILITUDE.
IS THAT FAMILY GOING TO BELIEVE IT'S EVEN HIM! BUT IF YOU TELL THE FAMILY THAT
THE BODY ISN'T 'SUITABLE FOR VIEWING,' HOW MUCH WORSE IS IT GOING TO BE FOR
THEM?-JUST IMAGINING WHAT A HOR- RIBLE THING IS UNDER THE LID OF THAT CASKET.
SO IF YOU SAY, 'NO, YOU SHOULDN'T VIEW THE BODY,' YOU FEEL YOU SHOULD ALSO SAY,
'LISTEN, IT ISN'T REALLY THAT BAD.' AND IF YOU LET THEM LOOK, YOU DON'T WANT TO
BE THERE. SO IT'S A TOUGH DECISION. YOU'VE GOT A TOUGH DECISION, TOO- BUT IT'S
NOT THAT TOUGH, AND YOU BETTER MAKE IT SOON."

In the spring of , when I received the notice from the local
Gravesend draft board to report for my preinduction physical, I still wasn't
sure what Owen Meany meant. "You better call him," Hester said to me;
we kept reading the notice, over and over. "You better find out what he
means-in a hurry," she said.

"DON'T BE AFRAID," he told me. "DON'T REPORT FOR
YOUR PHYSICAL-DON'T DO ANYTHING," he said. "YOU'VE GOT A LITTLE TIME.
I'M TAKING A LEAVE. I'LL BE THERE AS SOON AS I CAN MAKE IT. ALL YOU'VE GOT TO
KNOW IS WHAT YOU WANT. DO YOU WANT TO GO TO VIETNAM?"

"No," I said.

"DO YOU WANT TO SPEND THE REST OF YOUR LIFE IN
CANADA-THINKING ABOUT WHAT YOUR COUNTRY DID TO YOU?" he asked me.

"Now that you put it that way-no," I told him.

"FINE. I'LL BE RIGHT THERE-DON'T BE AFRAID. THIS TAKES JUST
A LITTLE COURAGE," said Owen Meany.

'''What takes 'just a little courage'?" Hester asked me. It
was a Sunday in May when he called me from the monument shop; U.S. planes had
just bombed a power plant in Hanoi, and Hester had only recently returned from
a huge antiwar protest rally in New York.

"What are you doing at the monument shop?" I asked
him; he said he'd been helping his father, who had fallen behind on a few
crucial orders. Why didn't I meet him there?

"Why don't we meet somewhere nicer-for a beer?" I
asked him.

"I'VE GOT PLENTY OF BEER HERE," he said. It was odd to
meet him in the monument shop on a Sunday. He was alone in that terrible place.
He wore a surprisingly clean apron-and the safety goggles, loosely, around his
neck. There was an unfamiliar smell in the shop-he had already

 
 
opened a beer for
me, and he was drinking one himself; maybe the beer was the unfamiliar smell.

"DON'T BE AFRAID," Owen said.

"I'm not really afraid," I said. "I just don't
know what to do."

"I KNOW, I KNOW," he said; he put his hand on my
shoulder. Something was different about the diamond wheel.

"Is that a new saw?" I asked him.

"JUST THE BLADE IS NEW," he said. "JUST THE
DIAMOND WHEEL ITSELF."

I had never seen it gleam so; the diamond segments truly
sparkled.

"IT'S NOT JUST NEW-I BOILED IT," he said. "AND
THEN I WIPED IT WITH ALCOHOL." That was the unfamiliar smell! I
thought-alcohol. The block of wood on the saw table looked new-the cutting
block, we called it; it didn't have a nick in it. "I SOAKED THE WOOD IN
ALCOHOL AFTER I BOILED IT, TOO," Owen said. I've always been pretty slow;
I'm the perfect reader! It wasn't until I caught the whiff of a hospital in the
monument shop that I realized what he meant by JUST A LITTLE COURAGE. Behind
the diamond wheel was a workbench for the lettering and edging tools; it was
upon this bench that Owen had laid out the sterile bandages, and the makings
for a tourniquet.

"NATURALLY, THIS IS YOUR DECISION," he told me.

"Naturally," I said.

"THE ARMY REGULATION IN QUESTION STATES THAT A PERSON WOULD
NOT BE PHYSICALLY QUALIFIED TO SERVE IN THE CASE OF THE ABSENCE OF THE FIRST
JOINT OF EITHER THUMB, OR THE ABSENCE OF THE FIRST TWO JOINTS ON EITHER THE
INDEX, MIDDLE, OR RING FINGER. I KNOW TWO JOINTS WILL BE TOUGH," said Owen
Meany, "BUT YOU DON'T WANT TO BE WITHOUT A THUMB."

"No, I don't," I said.

"YOU UNDERSTAND THAT THE MIDDLE OR RING FINGER IS A LITTLE
HARDER FOR ME: I SHOULD SAY IT'S HARDER FOR THE DIAMOND WHEEL TO BE AS PRECISE
AS I WOULD LIKE TO BE-IN THE CASE OF EITHER A MIDDLE OR A RING FINGER. I WANT
TO PROMISE YOU THERE'LL BE NO MISTAKE. THAT'S AN EASIER PROMISE FOR ME TO MAKE
IF IT'S AN INDEX FINGER," he said.

"I understand you," I said.

"THE ARMY REGULATION DOESN'T STATE THAT BEING RIGHT-HANDED
OR LEFT-HANDED MATTERS -BUT YOU'RE RIGHT-HANDED, AREN'T YOU?" he asked me.

"Yes," I said.

"THEN I THINK IT OUGHT TO BE THE RIGHT INDEX FINGER-JUST TO
BE SAFE," he said. "I MEAN, OFFICIALLY, WE'RE TALKING ABOUT YOUR
TRIGGER FINGER."

I froze. He walked to the table under the diamond wheel and
demonstrated how I should put my hand on the block of wood-but he didn't touch
the wood; if he'd touched it, that would have spoiled his opinion that it was
sterile. He made a fist, pinning his other fingers under his thumb, and he
spread his index finger flat on its side. "LIKE THIS," he said.
"IT'S THE KNUCKLE OF YOUR MIDDLE FINGER YOU'VE GOT TO KEEP OUT OF MY
WAY." I couldn't speak, or move, and Owen Meany looked at me. "BETTER
HAVE ANOTHER BEER," he said. "YOU CAN BE A READER WITH ALL YOUR OTHER
FINGERS-YOU CAN TURN THE PAGES WITH ANY OLD FINGER," he said. He could see
I didn't have the nerve for it.

"IT'S LIKE ANYTHING ELSE-IT'S LIKE LOOKING FOR YOUR FATHER.
IT TAKES GUTS. AND FAITH," he added. "FAITH WOULD HELP. BUT, IN YOUR
CASE, YOU SHOULD CONCENTRATE ON THE GUTS. YOU KNOW, I'VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT
YOUR FATHER-YOU REMEMBER THE SO-CALLED LUST CONNECTION? WHOEVER HE WAS, YOUR
FATHER MUST HAVE HAD THAT PROBLEM-IT'S SOMETHING YOU DON'T LIKE IN YOURSELF.
WELL, WHOEVER HE WAS-I'M TELLING YOU-HE WAS PROBABLY AFRAID. THAT'S SOMETHING
YOU DON'T LIKE IN YOURSELF, TOO. WHOEVER YOUR MOTHER WAS, I'LL BET SHE WAS
NEVER AFRAID," said Owen Meany. I not only couldn't speak, or move; I
couldn't swallow. "IF YOU'RE NOT GOING TO HAVE ANOTHER BEER," he
said, "AT LEAST TRY TO FINISH THAT ONE!"

I finished it. He pointed to the sink.

"BETTER WASH YOUR HAND-SCRUB IT GOOD," he said.
"AND THEN RUB ON THE ALCOHOL."

I did as I was told.

"YOU'RE GOING TO BE FINE," he said. "I'LL HAVE
YOU AT THE HOSPITAL IN FIVE MINUTES-UNDER TEN MINUTES, TOPS! WHAT'S YOUR BLOOD
TYPE?" he asked me; I shook my head-I didn't know my blood type. Owen
laughed. "/ KNOW WHAT IT IS-YOU DON'T REMEMBER ANYTHING} YOU'RE THE SAME
TYPE AS ME! IF YOU NEED ANY, YOU CAN HAVE SOME OF MINE." I couldn't move
away from the sink.

"I WASN'T GOING TO TELL YOU THIS-I DIDN'T WANT TO WORRY
YOU-BUT YOU'RE IN THE DREAM. I DON'T UNDERSTAND HOW YOU COULD BE IN IT, BUT YOU
ARE-EVERY TIME, YOU'RE IN IT," he said.

"In your dream?" I asked him.

"I KNOW YOU THINK IT'S 'JUST A DREAM'-I KNOW, I KNOW-BUT IT
BOTHERS ME THAT YOU'RE IN IT. I FIGURE," said Owen Meany, "THAT IF
YOU DON'T GO TO VIETNAM, YOU CAN'T BE IN THAT DREAM."

"You're absolutely crazy, Owen," I told him; he
shrugged-then he smiled at me.

"IT'S YOUR DECISION," he told me. I got myself from
the sink to the saw table; the diamond wheel was so bright, I couldn't look at
it. I put my finger on the block of wood. Owen started the saw.