A prayer for Owen Meany (25 page)

"We usually pick Mary first," Barb Wiggin said.
"Then we let Mary pick her Joseph."

"Oh," the Rev. Dudley Wiggin said. "Well, this
year we can let Joseph pick his Mary! We musn't be afraid to change!" he
added cordially, but his wife ignored him.

"We usually begin with the angel," Barb Wiggin said.
"We still don't have an angel. Here we are with a Joseph before a Mary,
and no angel," she said. (Stewardesses are orderly people, much comforted
by following a familiar routine.)

"Well, who would like to hang in the air this year?"
the rector asked. "Tell them about the view from up there, Owen."

"SOMETIMES THE CONTRAPTION THAT HOLDS YOU IN THE AIR HAS
YOU FACING THE WRONG WAY," he warned the would-be angels. "SOMETIMES
THE HARNESS CUTS INTO YOUR SKIN."

"I'm sure we can remedy that, Owen," the rector said.

"WHEN YOU GO UP OUT OF THE 'PILLAR OF LIGHT,' IT'S VERY
DARK UP THERE," Owen said. No would-be angel raised his or her hand.

"AND IT'S QUITE A LONG SPEECH THAT YOU HAVE TO
MEMORIZE," Owen added. "YOU KNOW, 'BE NOT AFRAID; FOR BEHOLD, I BRING
YOU GOOD NEWS OF A GREAT JOY . . . FOR TO YOU IS BORN ... IN THE CITY OF DAVID
A SAVIOR, WHO IS CHRIST THE LORD' . . ."

"We know, Owen, we know," Barb Wiggin said.

"IT'S NOT EASY," Owen said.

"Perhaps we should pick our Mary, and come back to the
angel?" the Rev. Mr. Wiggin asked. Barb Wiggin wrung her hands. But if
they thought I was enough of a fool to choose my Mary, they had another think
coming; what a no-win situation that was-choosing Mary. For what would everyone
say about me and the girl I chose? And what would the girls I didn't choose
think of me?

"MARY BETH BAIRD HAS NEVER BEEN MARY," Owen said.
"THAT WAY, MARY WOULD BE MARY."

"Joseph chooses Mary!" Barb Wiggin said.

"IT WAS JUST A SUGGESTION," Owen said. But how could
the role be denied Mary Beth Baird now that it had been offered? Mary Beth Baird
was a wholesome lump of a girl, shy and clumsy and plain.

"I've been a turtledove three times," she mumbled.

"THAT'S ANOTHER THING," Owen said, "NOBODY KNOWS
WHAT THE TURTLEDOVES ARE."

"Now, now-one thing at a time," Dudley Wiggin said.

"First, Joseph-choose Mary!" Barb Wiggin said.

"Mary Beth Baird would be fine," I said.

"Well, so Mary is Mary!" Mr. Wiggin said. Mary Beth
Baird covered her face in her hands. Barb Wiggin also covered her face.

"Now, what's this about the turtledoves, Owen?" the
rector asked.

"Hold the turtledoves!" Barb Wiggin snapped. "I
want an angel."

Former kings and shepherds sat in silence; former donkeys did
not come forth-and donkeys came in two parts; the hind part of the donkey never
got to see the pageant. Even the former hind parts of donkeys did not volunteer
to be the angel. Even former turtledoves were not stirred to grab the part.

"is so important," the rector said. "There's a
special apparatus just to raise and lower you, and-for a while-you occupy the
'pillar of light' all by yourself. All eyes are on you!"

The children of Christ Church did not appear enticed to play by
the thought of all eyes being on them. In the rear of the nave, rendered even
more insignificant than usual by his proximity to the giant painting of "The
Call of the Twelve,"

        
 
pudgy Harold Crosby sat diminished by the
depiction of Jesus appointing his disciples; all eyes rarely feasted on fat
Harold Crosby, who was not grotesque enough to be teased-or even noticed-but
who was enough of a slob to be rejected whenever he caused the slightest
attention to be drawn to himself. Therefore, Harold Crosby abstained. He sat in
the back; he stood at the rear of the line; he spoke only when spoken to; he
desked to be left alone, and-for the most part-he was. For several years, he
had played a perfect hind part of a donkey; I'm sure it was the only role he
wanted. I could see he was nervous about the silence that greeted the Rev. Mr.
Wiggin's request for an angel; possibly the towering portraits of the disciples
in his immediate vicinity made Harold Crosby feel inadequate, or else he feared
that-in the absence of volunteers-the rector would select an angel from among
the cowardly children, and (God forbid) what if Mr. Wiggin chose him ? Harold
Crosby tipped back in his chair and shut his eyes; it was either a method of
concealment borrowed from the ostrich, or else Harold imagined that if he
appeared to be asleep, no one would ask him to be more than the hind part of a
donkey.

"Someone has to be the angel," Barb Wiggin said
menacingly. Then Harold Crosby fell over backward in his chair; he made it
worse by attempting to catch his balance-by grabbing the frame of the huge
painting of "The Call of the Twelve"; then he thought better of
crushing himself under Christ's disciples and he allowed himself to fall
freely. Like most things that happened to Harold Crosby, his fall was more
astonishing for its awkwardness than for anything intrinsically spectacular.
Regardless, only the rector was insensitive enough to mistake Harold Crosby's
clumsiness for volunteering.

"Good for you, Harold!" the rector said. "There's
a brave boy!"

"What?" Harold Crosby said.

"Now we have our angel," Mr. Wiggin said cheerfully.
"What's next?"

"I'm afraid of heights," said Harold Crosby.

"All the braver of you!" the rector replied.
"There's no time like the present for facing our fears."

"But the crane," Barb Wiggin said to her husband.
"The apparatus-"she started to say, but the rector silenced her with
an admonishing wave of his hand. Surely you're not going to The Little Lard
Jesus
 
make the poor boy feel
self-conscious about his weight, the rector's glance toward his wife implied;
surely the wires and the harness are strong enough. Barb Wiggin glowered back
at her husband.

"ABOUT THE TURTLEDOVES," Owen said, and Barb Wiggin
shut her eyes; she did not lean back in her chair, but she gripped the seat
with both hands.

"Ah, yes, Owen, what was it about the turtledoves?"
the Rev. Mr. Wiggin asked.

"THEY LOOK LIKE THEY'RE FROM OUTER SPACE," Owen said.
"NO ONE KNOWS WHAT THEY'RE SUPPOSED TO BE."

"They're dovesl" Barb Wiggin said. "Everyone
knows what doves are!"

"THEY'RE GIANT DOVES," Owen said. "THEY'RE AS BIG
AS HALF A DONKEY. WHAT KIND OF BIRD IS THAT? A BIRD FROM MARS? THEY'RE ACTUALLY
KIND OF FRIGHTENING."

"Not everyone can be a king or a shepherd or a donkey,
Owen," the rector said.

"BUT NOBODY'S SMALL ENOUGH TO BE A DOVE," Owen said.
"AND NOBODY KNOWS WHAT ALL THOSE PAPER STREAMERS ARE SUPPOSED TO BE."

"They're feathersl" Barb Wiggin shouted.

"THE TURTLEDOVES LOOK LIKE CREATURES," Owen said.
"LIKE THEY'VE BEEN ELECTROCUTED."

"Well, I suppose there were other animals in the
manger," the rector said.

"Areyo" going to make the costumes?" Barb Wiggin
asked him.

"Now now," Mr. Wiggin said.

"COWS GO WELL WITH DONKEYS," Owen suggested.

"Cows?" the rector said. "Well well."

"Who's going to make the cow costumes?" Barb Wiggin
asked.

"/ will!" Mary Beth Baird said. She had never
volunteered for anything before; clearly her election as the Virgin Mary had
energized her-had made her believe she was capable of miracles, or at least cow
costumes.

"Good for you, Mary!" the rector said. But Barb Wiggin
and Harold Crosby closed their eyes; Harold did not look well-he seemed to be
suppressing vomit,

        
 
and his face took on the lime-green shade of
the grass at the feet of Christ's disciples, who loomed over him.

"THERE'S ONE MORE THING," said Owen Meany. We gave him
our attention. "THE CHRIST CHILD," he said, and we children nodded
our approval.

"What's wrong with the Christ Child?" Barb Wiggin
asked.

"ALL THOSE BABIES," Owen said. "JUST TO GET ONE
TO LIE IN THE MANGER WITHOUT CRYING-DO WE HAVE TO HAVE ALL THOSE BABIES?"

"But it's like the song says, Owen," the rector told
him. " 'Little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes.' "

"OKAY, OKAY," Owen said. "BUT ALL THOSE
BABIES-YOU CAN HEAR THEM CRYING. EVEN OFFSTAGE, YOU CAN HEAR THEM. AND ALL
THOSE GROWN-UPS!" he said. "ALL THOSE BIG MEN PASSING THE BABIES IN
AND OUT. THEY'RE SO B/G^-THEY LOOK RIDICULOUS. THEY MAKE US LOOK
RIDICULOUS."

"You know a baby who won't cry, Owen?" Barb Wiggin
asked him-and, of course, she knew as soon as she spoke . . . how he had
trapped her.

"I KNOW SOMEONE WHO CAN FIT IN THE CRIB," Owen said.
"SOMEONE SMALL ENOUGH TO LOOK LIKE A BABY," he said. "SOMEONE
OLD ENOUGH NOT TO CRY."

Mary Beth Baird could not contain herself! "Owen can be the
Baby Jesus!" she yelled. Owen Meany smiled and shrugged.

"I CAN FIT IN THE CRIB," he said modestly. Harold
Crosby could no longer contain himself, either; he vomited. He vomited often
enough for it to pass almost unnoticed, especially now that Owen had our
undivided attention.

"And what's more, we can lift him!" Mary Beth Baird
said excitedly.

"There was never any lifting of the Christ Child
before!" Barb Wiggin said.

"Well, I mean, if we have to, if we feel like it,"
Mary Beth said.

"WELL, IF EVERYONE WANTS ME TO DO IT, I SUPPOSE I
COULD," Owen said.

"Yes!" cried the kings and shepherds.

"Let Owen do it!" said the donkeys and the cows-the
former turtledoves. The Littie Lord Jesus
 
It was quite a popular decision, but Barb Wiggin looked at Owen as if
she were revising her opinion of how "cute" he was, and the rector
observed Owen with a detachment that was wholly out of character for an
ex-pilot. The Rev. Mr. Wiggin, such a veteran of Christmas pageants, looked at
Owen Meany with profound respect-as if he'd seen the Christ Child come and go,
but never before had he encountered a little Lord Jesus who was so perfect for
the part. It was only our second rehearsal of the Christmas Pageant when Owen
decided that the crib, in which he could fit-but tightly-was unnecessary and
even incorrect. Dudley Wiggin based his entire view of the behavior of the
Christ Child on the Christmas carol "Away in a Manger," of which
there are only two verses. It was this carol that convinced the Rev. Mr. Wiggin
that the Baby Jesus mustn't cry. The cat-tie are low-ing, the ba-by a-wakes,
But lit-tle Lord Je-sus, no cry-ing he makes. If Mr. Wiggin put such stock in
the second verse of "Away in a Manger," Owen argued that we should
also be instructed by the very first verse. A-way in a man-ger, no crib for his
bed, The lit-tle Lord Je-sus laid down his sweet head.

"IF IT SAYS THERE WAS NO CRIB, WHY DO WE HAVE A CRIB?"
Owen asked. Clearly, he found the crib restraining. " 'THE STARS IN THE
SKY LOOKED DOWN WHERE HE LAY, THE LIT-TLE LORD JE-SUS, A-SLEEP ON THE HAY,'
" Owen sang. Thus did Owen get his way, again; "on the hay" was
where he would lie, and he proceeded to arrange all the hay within the creche
in such a fashion that his comfort would be assured, and he would be
sufficiently elevated and tilted toward the audience-so that no one could
possibly miss seeing him.

"THERE'S ANOTHER THING," Owen advised us. "YOU
NOTICE HOW THE SONG SAYS, 'THE CATTLE ARE LOWING'? WELL, IT'S A GOOD THING
WE'VE GOT COWS. THE TURTLEDOVES COULDN'T DO MUCH 'LOWING.' "

        
 
If cows were what we had, they were the sort
of cows that required as much imagination to identify as the former turtledoves
had required. Mary Bern Baird's cow costumes may have been inspired by Mary
Beth's elevated status to the role of the Virgin Mary, but the Holy Mother had
not offered divine assistance, or even divine workmanship, toward the making of
the costumes themselves. Mary Beth appeared to have been confused mightily by
all the images of Christmas; her cows had not only horns but antlers-veritable
racks, more suitable to reindeer, which Mary Beth may have been thinking of.
Worse, the antlers were soft; that is, they were constructed of a floppy
material, and therefore these astonishing "horns" were always
collapsing upon the faces of the cows themselves-obliterating entirely their
already impaired vision, and causing more than usual confusion in the creche:
cows stepping on each other, cows colliding with donkeys, cows knocking down
kings and shepherds.

' "The cows, if that's what they are, "Barb Wiggin
observed, "should maintain their positions and not move around-not at all.
We wouldn't want them to trample the Baby Jesus, would we?" A deeply
crazed glint in Barb Wiggin's eye made it appear that she thought trampling the
Baby Jesus would register in the neighborhood of a divine occurrence, but Owen,
who was always anxious about being stepped on-and excessively so, now that he
was prone and helpless on the hay- echoed Barb Wiggin's concern for the cows.

"YOU COWS, JUST REMEMBER. YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE 'LOWING,'
NOT MILLING AROUND."

"I don't want the cows 'lowing' or milling around,"
Barb Wiggin said. "I want to be able to hear the singing, and the reading
from the Bible. I want no 'lowing.' "

"LAST YEAR, YOU HAD THE TURTLEDOVES COOING," Owen
reminded her.

"Clearly, this isn't last year," Barb Wiggin said.

"Now now," the rector'said.

"THE SONG SAYS 'THE CATTLE ARE LOWING,' " Owen said.

"I suppose you want the donkeys hee-hawing I" Barb
Wiggin shouted.

"THE SONG SAYS NOTHING ABOUT DONKEYS," Owen said.

"Perhaps we're being too literal about this song," Mr.
The Little. Lord Jesus
 
Wiggin
interjected, but I knew there was no such thing as "too literal" for
Owen Meany, who grasped orthodoxy from wherever it could be found. Yet Owen
relented on the issue of whether or not the cattle should "low"; he
saw there was more to be gained in rearranging the order of music, which he had
always found improper. It made no sense, he claimed, to begin with "We
Three Kings of Orient Are" while we watched the Announcing Angel descend
in the ' 'pillar of light''; those were shepherds to whom appeared, not kings.
Better to begin with "O Little Town of Bethlehem" while made good his
descent; the angel's announcement would be perfectly balanced if delivered
between verses two and three. Then, as the "pillar of light" leaves
the angel-or, rather, as the quickly ascending angel departs the "pillar
of light"-we see the kings. Suddenly, they have joined the astonished
shepherds. Now hit "We Three Kings," and hit it hard! Harold Crosby,
who had not yet attempted a first flight in the apparatus that enhanced his
credibility as an angel, wanted to know where "Ory and R" were. No
one understood his question.