A prayer for Owen Meany (92 page)

"WHERE ARE ALL THE PEOPLE?" Owen asked the bartender.

"We don't do a lot of business this time of year," the
bartender said. "What business are you in?" he asked Owen.

"I'M IN THE DYING BUSINESS," said Owen Meany. Then we
sat in the pool, laughing about how the dying business was not a seasonal
thing. About the middle of the afternoon, Owen started playing what he called
"THE REMEMBER GAME."

Owen asked me: "DO YOU REMEMBER THE FIRST TIME YOU MET
MISTER FISH?"

I said I couldn't remember-it seemed to me that Mr. Fish had
always been there.

"I KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN," Owen said. "DO YOU
REMEMBER WHAT YOUR MOTHER WAS WEARING WHEN WE BURIED SAGAMORE?"

I couldn't remember. "IT WAS THAT BLACK V-NECK SWEATER, AND
THOSE GRAY FLANNEL SLACKS-OR MAYBE IT WAS A LONG, GRAY SKIRT," he said.

"I don't think she had a long, gray skirt," I said.

"I THINK YOU'RE RIGHT," he said. "DO YOU REMEMBER
DAN'S OLD SPORTS JACKET-THE ONE THAT LOOKED LIKE IT WAS MADE OF CARROTS!"

"It was the color of his hair!" I said.

"THAT'S THE ONE!" said Owen Meany.

"Do you remember Mary Beth Baud's cow costumes?" I
asked him.

"THEY WERE AN IMPROVEMENT ON THE TURTLEDOVES," he
said. "DO YOU REMEMBER THOSESTUPID TURTLEDOVES?"

"Do you remember when Barb Wiggin gave you a hard-on?"
I asked him.

"I REMEMBER WHEN GERMAINE GAVE YOU A HARD-ON!" he
said.

"Do you remember your first hard-on?" I asked him. We
were both silent. I imagined that Hester had given me my first hard-on, and I
didn't want to tell Owen that; and I imagined that my mother might have given
Owen his first hard-on, which was probably why he wasn't answering. Finally, he
said: "IT'S LIKE WHAT YOU SAY ABOUT MISTER FISH-I THINK I ALWAYS HAD A
HARD-ON."

"Do you remember Amanda Dowling?" I asked him.

"DON'T GIVE ME THE SHIVERS!" he said. "DO YOU
REMEMBER THE GAME WITH THE ARMADILLO?"

"Of course!" I said. "Do you remember when
Maureen Early wet her pants?"

"SHE WET THEM TWICEl" he said. "DO YOU REMEMBER
YOUR GRANDMOTHER WAILING LIKE A BANSHEE?"

"I'll never forget it," I said. "Do you remember
when you

        
 
untied the rope in the quarry-when you hid
yourself, when we were swimming?"

"YOU LET ME DROWN-YOU LET ME DIE," he said. We ate
dinner by the pool; we drank beer in the pool until long after midnight-when
the bartender informed us that he was not permitted to serve us anymore.

"You're not supposed to be drinking while you're actually
in the pool, anyway," he said. "You might drown. And I'm supposed to
go home," he said.

"EVERYTHING'S LIKE IN THE ARMY," Owen said.
"RULES, RULES, RULES."

So we took a six-pack of beer and a bucket of ice back to our
room; we watched The Late Show, and then The Late, Late Show-while we tried to
remember all the movies we'd ever seen. I was so drunk I don't remember what
movies we saw in Phoenix that night. Owen Meany was so drunk that he fell
asleep in the bathtub; he'd gotten into the bathtub because he said he missed
sitting in the swimming pool. But then he couldn't watch the movie-not from the
bathtub-and so he'd insisted that I describe the movie to him.

"Now she's kissing his photograph!" I called out to
him.

"WHICH ONE IS KISSING HIS PHOTOGRAPH-THE BLOND ONE?"
he asked. "WHICH PHOTOGRAPH?"

I went on describing the movie until I heard him snoring. Then I
let the water out of the bath, and I lifted him up and out of the tub-he was so
light, he was nothing to lift. I dried him off with a towel; he didn't wake up.
He was mumbling hi his drunken sleep.

"I KNOW YOU'RE HERE FOR A REASON," he said. When I
tucked him into his bed, he blinked open his eyes and said: "O GOD-WHY
HASN'T MY VOICE CHANGED, WHY DID YOU GIVE ME SUCH A VOICE? THERE MUST BE A
REASON." Then he shut his eyes and said: "WATA-HANTOWET."

When I got into my bed and turned out the light, I said good
night to him.

"Good night, Owen," I said.

"DON'T BE AFRAID. NOTHING BAD IS GOING TO HAPPEN TO
YOU," said Owen Meany. "YOUR FATHER'S NOT THAT BAD A GUY," he
said. When I woke up in the morning, I had a terrible hangover; Owen was already
awake-he was writing in the diary. That was his last entry-that was when he
wrote: "TODAY'S THE DAY!'. . . HE THAT BELIEVETH IN ME, THOUGH HE WERE
DEAD, YET SHALL HE LIVE; AND WHOSOEVER LIVETH AND BELIEVETH IN ME SHALL NEVER
DIE.' "

It was Monday, July , -die date he had seen on Scrooge's grave.
Major Rawls picked us up at our motel and drove us to die airport-to die
so-called Sky Harbor. I thought that Rawls behaved oddly out of character-he
wasn't at all talkative, he just mumbled something about having had a "bad
date"-but Owen had told me that die major was very moody.

"HE'S NOT A BAD GUY-HE JUST KNOWS HIS SHIP ISN'T EVER GOING
TO COME IN," Owen had said about Rawls. "HE'S OLD-FASHIONED,
BROWN-SHOE ARMY --HE LIKES TO PRETEND HE'S HAD NO EDUCATION, BUT ALL HE DOES IS
READ; HE WON'T EVEN GO TO THE MOVIES. AND HE NEVER TALKS ABOUT VIETNAM-JUST
SOME CRYPTIC SHIT ABOUT HOW THE ARMY DIDN'T PREPARE HIM TO KILL WOMEN AND
CHILDREN, OR TO BE KILLED BY THEM. FOR WHATEVER REASON, HE DIDN'T MAKE
LIEUTENANT COLONEL; HIS TWENTY YEARS IN THE ARMY ARE ALMOST UP, AND HE'S BITTER
ABOUT IT--HE'S JUST A MAJOR. HE'S NOT EVEN FORTY AND HE'S ABOUT TO BE
RETIRED."

Major Rawls complained that we were going to die airport too
early; my flight to Boston didn't leave for another two hours. Owen had booked
no special flight to Tucson- apparently, mere were frequent flights from
Phoenix to Tucson, and Owen was going to wait until I left; then he'd take die
next available plane.

"There are better places to hang around than this fucking
airport," Major Rawls complained.

"YOU DON'T HAVE TO HANG AROUND WITH US-SIR," said Owen
Meany. But Rawls didn't want to be alone; he didn't feel like talking, but he
wanted company-or else he didn't know what he wanted. He wandered into the game
room and hustled a few young recruits into playing pinball widi him. When they
found out he'd been in Vietnam, diey pestered him for stories; all he would
tell diem was: "It's an asshole war-and you're assholes if you want to be
diere."

        
 
Major Rawls pointed Owen out to the recruits.
"You want to go to Vietnam?'' he said. "Go talk to him-go see that
little lieutenant. He's another asshole who wants to go there."

Most of the new recruits were on their way to Fort Huachuca;
their hair was cut so short, you could see scabs from the razor nicks-most of
them who were assigned to Fort Huachuca would probably be on orders to Vietnam
soon.

"They look like babies," I said to Owen.

"BABIES FIGHT THE WARS," said Owen Meany; he told the
young recruits that he thought they'd like Fort Huachuca. "THE SUN SHINES
ALL THE TIME," he told them, "AND IT'S NOT AS HOT AS IT IS
HERE." He kept looking at his watch.

"We have plenty of time," I told him, and he smiled at
me-that old smile with the mild pity and the mild contempt in it. Some planes
landed; other planes took off. Some of the recruits left for Fort Huachuca.
"Aren't you coming, sir?" they asked Owen Meany.

"LATER," he told them. "I'LL SEE YOU LATER."

Fresh recruits arrived, and Major Rawls went on making a
killing-he was a pro at pinball. I complained about the extent of my hangover;
Owen must have had a worse hangover-or one at least as bad as mine-but I
imagine, now, that he was savoring it; he knew it was his last hangover. Then
the confusion would return to him, and he must have felt that he knew
absolutely nothing. He sat beside me and I could see him changing-from
nervousness to depression, from fear to elation. I thought it was his hangover;
but one minute he must have been thinking, "MAYBE IT HAPPENS ON THE AIRPLANE."
Then in another minute, he must have said to himself: "THERE ARE NO
CHILDREN. I DON'T EVEN HAVE TO GO TO VIETNAM-I CAN STILL GET OUT OF IT."

In the airport, he said to me-out of the blue: "YOU DON'T
HAVE TO BE A GENIUS TO OUTSMART THE ARMY."

I didn't know what he was talking about, but I said: "I
suppose not."

In another minute, he must have been thinking: "IT WAS JUST
A CRAZY DREAM! WHO THE FUCK KNOWS WHAT GOD KNOWS? I OUGHT TO SEE A
PSYCHIATRIST!"

Then he would stand up and pace; he would look around for the
children; he was looking for his killer. He kept glancing at his watch. When
they announced my flight to Boston-it was scheduled to depart in half an
hour-Owen was grinning ear-to-ear. "THIS MAY BE THE HAPPIEST DAY OF MY
LIFE!" he said. "MAYBE NOTHING'S GOING TO HAPPEN!"

"I think you're still drunk," I told him. "Wait
till you get to the hangover."

A plane had just landed; it had arrived from somewhere on the
West Coast, and it taxied into view. I heard Owen Meany gasp beside me, and I
turned to look where he was looking.

"What's the matter with you?" I asked him.
"They're just penguins."

The nuns-there were two of them-were meeting someone on the
plane from the West Coast; they stood at the gate to the runway. The first
people off the plane were also nuns-two more. The nuns waved to each other.
When the children emerged from the airplane-they were closely following the
nuns-Owen Meany said: "HERE THEY ARE!"

Even from the runway gate, I could see that they were Asian
children-one of the nuns leaving the plane was an Oriental, too. There were
about a dozen kids; only two of them were small enough to be carried-one of the
nuns carried one of the kids, and one of the older children carried the other
little one. They were both boys and girls-the average age was maybe five or
six, but there were a couple of kids who were twelve or thirteen. They were
Vietnamese orphans; they were refugee children. Many military units sponsored
orphanages in Vietnam; many of the troops donated their time-as well as what
gifts they could solicit from home-to help the kids. There was no official
government-sponsored refugee program to relocate Vietnamese children-not before
the fall of Saigon in April, -but certain churches were active in Vietnam
throughout the course of the war. Catholic Relief Services, for example; the
Catholic Relief groups were responsible for escorting orphans out of Vietnam
and relocating them in the United States-as early as the mid-sixties. Once in
the United States, the orphans would be met by social workers from the
archdiocese or diocese of the particular city of their arrival. The Lutherans
were also involved in sponsoring the relocation of Vietnamese orphans. The
children that Owen Meany and I saw hi Phoenix were

        
 
being escorted by nuns from Catholic Relief
Services; they were being delivered into the charge of nuns from the Phoenix
Archdiocese, who would take them to new homes, and new families, in Arizona.
Owen and I could see that the children were anxious about it. If the heat was
no shock to them-for it was certainly very hot where they'd come from-the
desert and the hugeness of the sky and the moonscape of Phoenix must have
overwhelmed them. They held each other's hands and stayed together, circling
very closely around the nuns. One of the little boys was crying. When they came
into the Sky Harbor terminal, the blast of air conditioning instantly chilled
them; they were cold-they hugged themselves and rubbed their arms. The little
boy who was crying tried to wrap himself up in the habit of one of the nuns.
They all milled around in lost confusion, and-from the game room-the young
recruits with their shaved heads stared out at them. The children stared back
at the soldiers; they were used to soldiers, of course. As the kids and the
recruits stared back and forth at each other, you could sense the mixed
feelings. Owen Meany was as jumpy as a mouse. One of the nuns spoke to him.

"Officer?" she said.

"YES, MA'AM-HOW MAY I HELP YOU?" he said quickly.

"Some of the boys need to find a men's room," the nun
said; one of the younger nuns tittered.' 'We can take the girls," the
first nun said, "but if you'd be so kind-if you'd just go with the
boys."

"YES, MA'AM-I'D BE HAPPY TO HELP THE CHILDREN," said
Owen Meany.

"Wait till you see the so-called men's room," I told
Owen; I led the way. Owen just concentrated on the children. There were seven
boys; the nun who was also Vietnamese accompanied us-she carried the smallest
boy. The boy who was crying had stopped as soon as he saw Owen Meany. All the
children watched Owen closely; they had seen many soldiers-yes-but they had
never seen a soldier who was almost as small as they were! They never took
their eyes off him. On we marched-when we passed by the game room, Major Rawls
had his back to us; he didn't see us. Rawls was humping the pinball machine in
a fury. In the mouth of a corridor I'd walked down before-it led nowhere-we
marched past Dick Jarvits, the tall, lunatic brother of the dead warrant
officer, standing in the shadows. He wore the jungle fatigues; he was strapped
up with an extra cartridge belt or two. Although it was dark in the corridor,
he wore the kind of sunglasses that must have melted on his brother's face when
the helicopter had caught fire. Because he was wearing sunglasses, I couldn't
tell if Dick saw Owen or me or the children; but from the gape of his open
mouth, I concluded that something Dick had just seen had surprised him. The
"Men's Temporary Facilities" were the same as I had left them. The
same mops and pails were there, and the unhung mirror still leaned against the
wall. The vast mystery sink confused the children; one of them tried to pee in
it, but I pointed him in the direction of the crowded urinal. One of the
children considered peeing in a pail, but I showed him the toilet in the
makeshift, plywood stall. Owen Meany, the good soldier, stood under the window;
he watched the door. Occasionally, he would glance above him, sizing up the
deep window ledge below the casement window. Owen looked especially small
standing under that window, because the window ledge was at least ten feet
high-it towered above him. The nun was waiting for her charges, just outside
the door. I helped one of the children unzip his fly; the child seemed
unfamiliar with a zipper. The children all jabbered in Vietnamese; the small,
high-ceilinged room-like a coffin standing upright on one end-echoed with their
voices. I've already said how slow I am; it wasn't until I heard their shrill,
foreign voices that I remembered Owen's dream. I saw him watching the door, his
arms hanging loosely at his sides.