A prayer for Owen Meany (33 page)

        
 
Before she lifted the little Prince of Peace
in her arms, Barb Wiggin bent over him and massaged his cheeks. There was a
curious combination of the perfunctory and the erotic in her attentions to Owen
Meany. Naturally, I saw something so stewardesslike in her performance of these
duties-as if she were dispatching with Owen in the manner that she might have
changed a diaper; while at the same time there was something salacious in how
close she put her face to his, as if she were intent on seducing him.
"You're too pale," she told him, actually pinching color into Owen's
face.

"OW!" he said.

"The Baby Jesus should be apple-cheeked," she told
him. She bent even closer to him and touched the tip of her nose to his nose;
quite unexpectedly, she kissed him on the mouth. It was not a tender,
affectionate kiss; it was a cruel, teasing kiss that startled Owen-he flushed,
he turned the rosy complexion Barb Wiggin had desired; tears sprang to his
eyes.

"I know you don't like to be kissed, Owen," Barb
Wiggin told him flirtatiously, "but that's for good luck-that's all that's
for."

I knew it was the first time Owen had been kissed on the mouth
since my mother had kissed him; that Barb Wiggin might have reminded him of my
mother, I'm sure, outraged him. He clenched his fists at his sides as Barb
Wiggin lifted him, stiffly prone, to her breasts. His legs, too tightly
swaddled to bend at the knees, stuck out straight; he appeared to be a
successful levitation experiment in the arms of a harlot-magician. Mary Beth
Baird, who had once pleaded to be allowed to kiss the Baby Jesus, glared with
jealous loathing at Barb Wiggin, who must have been an exceptionally strong
stewardess-in her time in the sky. She had no difficulty carrying Owen to his
prepared place in the hay. She bore him easily against her breasts with the
stern sense of ceremony of a foxy mortician-bearing a child-pharaoh into the
pyramid's hidden tomb.

"Relax, relax," she whispered to him; she put her
mouth wickedly close to his ear, and he blushed rosier and rosier. And I,
Joseph-forever standing in the wings-saw what the envious Virgin Mary failed to
see. I saw it, and I'm sure Barb Wiggin saw it, too-I'm sure it was why she so
shamelessly continued to torture him. The Baby Jesus had an erection; its
protrusion was visible in spite of the tightly bound layers of his swaddling
clothes. Barb Wiggin laid him in the manger; she smiled knowingly at him, and
gave him one more saucy peck, on his rosy cheek-for good luck, no doubt. This
was not of the nature of a Christlike lesson for Owen Meany: to learn, as he
lay in the manger, that someone you hate can give you a hard-on. Anger and
shame flushed Owen's face; Mary Beth Baird, misunderstanding the Baby Jesus'
expression, wiped his nose. A cow trod on an angel, who nearly toppled the
tripartite, purple screen; the hind part of a donkey was nudged by the
teetering triptych. I stared into the darkness of the mock flying buttresses
for some reassuring glimpse of the Announcing Angel; but Harold Crosby was
invisible-he was hidden, doubtless in fear and trembling, above the
"pillar of light."

"Blow!" Mary Beth Baird whispered to Owen, who looked
ready to explode. It was the choir that saved him. There was a metallic
clicking, like the teeth of a ratchet, as the mechanism for lowering began its
task; this was followed by a brief gasp, the panicked intake of Harold Crosby's
breath-as the choir began. O lit-tle town of Beth-le-hem, How still we see thee
lie! A-bove thy deep and dream-less sleep The si-lent stars go by ... Only
gradually did the Baby Jesus unclench his fists; only slowly did the Christ
Child's erection subside. The glint of anger in Owen's eyes was dulled, as if
by an inspired drowsiness-a trance of peace blessed the little Prince's
expression, which brought tears of adoration to the already moist eyes of the
Holy Mother.

"Blow! Why won't you blow?" she whispered plaintively.
Mary Beth Baird held the handkerchief to his nose, managing to cover his mouth,
too-as if she were administering an anesthetic. With grace, with gentleness,
Owen pushed her hand and the handkerchief aside; his smile forgave her
everything, even her clumsiness, and the Blessed Virgin tottered a trifle on
her knees, as if she were preparing to swoon. Hidden from the congregation's
view, but ominously visible to us, Barb Wiggin seized the controls of the
angel-lowering apparatus like a heavy-equipment operator about to attack the

        
 
terra firma with a backhoe. When Owen caught
her eye, she appeared to lose her confidence and her poise; the look he gave
her was both challenging and lascivious. A shudder coursed through Barb
Wiggin's body; she gave a corresponding jerk of her shoulders, distracting her
from her task. Harold Crosby's meant-to-be-stately descent to earth was
momentarily suspended.

" 'Be not afraid,' " Harold Crosby began, his voice
quaking. But I, Joseph-I saw someone who was afraid. Barb Wiggin, frozen at the
controls of the ' 'pillar of light,'' arrested in her duties with the
angel-lowering apparatus, was afraid of Owen Meany; the Prince of Peace had regained
his control. He had made a small but important discovery: a hard-on comes and
goes. The "pillar of light," which was supposed to follow Harold
Crosby's now-interrupted, risky descent, appeared to have a will of its own; it
illuminated Owen on the mountain of hay, as if the light had wrested control of
itself from Barb Wiggin. The light that was supposed to reveal bathed the
manger instead. From the congregation-as the janitor tiptoed out of sight with
the tripartite screen-there arose a single murmur; but the Christ Child quieted
them with the slightest movement of his hand. He directed a most unbabylike,
sardonic look at Barb Wiggin, who only then regained her control; she moved the
"pillar of light" back to the Descending Angel, where it belonged.

" 'Be not afraid,' " Harold Crosby repeated; Barb
Wiggin, a tad eager at the controls of the angel-lowering apparatus, dropped
him suddenly-it was about a ten-foot free fall, before she abruptly halted his
descent; his head was jerked and snapped all around, with his mouth open, and
he swung back and forth above the frightened shepherds, like a giant gull
toying with the wind. " 'Be not afraid'!" Harold cried loudly. There
he paused, swinging; he was stalling; he had forgotten the rest of his lines.
Barb Wiggin, trying to prevent from swinging, turned Harold Crosby away from
the shepherds and the congregation-so that he continued to swing, but with his
back toward everyone, as if he had decided to spurn the world, or retract his
message.

" 'Be not afraid,' " he mumbled indistinctly. From the
hay in the dark came the cracked falsetto, the ruined voice of an unlikely
prompter-but who else would III

know, by heart, the lines that Harold Crosby had forgotten? Who
else but the former Announcing Angel?

" 'FOR BEHOLD, I BRING YOU GOOD NEWS OF A GREAT JOY WHICH
WILL COME TO ALL THE PEOPLE,' " Owen whispered; but Owen Meany couldn't
really whisper-his voice had too much sand and gravel in it. Not only Harold
Crosby heard the Christ Child's prompting; every member of the congregation
heard it, too-the strained, holy voice speaking from the darkened manger,
telling what to say. Dutifully, Harold repeated the lines he was given. Thus,
when the "pillar of light" finally followed the shepherds and kings
to their proper place of worship at the creche, the congregation was also
prepared to adore him- whatever special Christ this was who not only knew his
role but also knew all the other, vital parts of the story. Mary Beth Baird was
overcome. Her face flopped first on the hay, then her cheek bumped the Baby
Jesus' hip; then she lunged further into prostration, actually putting her
heavy head in Owen's lap. The' 'pillar of light'' trembled at this shameless,
unmotherly behavior. Barb Wiggin's fury, and her keen anticipation of worse to
come, suggested the intensity of someone in command of a machine-gun nest; she
struggled to hold the light steady. I was aware that Barb Wiggin had cranked
Harold Crosby up so high that he was completely gone from view; up in the dark
dust, up in the gloom inspired by the mock flying buttresses, Harold Crosby,
who was still probably facing the wrong way, was flapping like a stranded
bat-but I couldn't see him. I had only a vague impression of his panic and his
helplessness.

" 'I love thee, Lord Je-sus, look down from the sky, And
stay by my cradle till morn-ing is nigh,' " sang the choir, thus wrapping
up "Away in a Manger." The Rev. Dudley Wiggin was a little slow
starting with Luke. Perhaps it had occurred to him that the Virgin Mary was
supposed to wait until after the reading before "bowing" to the Baby
Jesus; now that Mary Beth's head was already stationed in Owen's lap, the
rector might have feared what Mary Beth would think was an appropriate
substitute for "bowing."

" 'When went away from them into heaven,' " the rector
began; the congregation, automatically, searched the ceiling for Harold Crosby.
In the front pews of faces that I

        
 
observed, no one sought the disappearing
angel with as much fervor as Mr. Fish, who was already surprised to hear that
Owen Meany did have a speaking part. Owen looked ready to sneeze, or else the
weight of Mary Beth's head was restricting his breathing; his nose, unwiped and
unblown, had dribbled two shiny rivulets across his upper lip. I could see that
he was sweating; it was such a cold day, the old church furnace was throwing
out the heat full-tilt-the raised altar area was a lot warmer than the wooden
pews, where many of the congregation still wore their outdoor clothes. The heat
in the manger was stifling. I pitied the donkeys and the cows; inside their
costumes, they had to be perspiring. The "pillar of light" felt hot
enough to ignite the hay where the Baby Jesus lay pinned by the Holy Mother. We
were still listening to the reading from Luke when the first donkey fainted;
actually, it was only the hind part of a donkey that fainted, so that the
effect of the collapse was quite startling. Many of the congregation were
unaware that donkeys came in two parts; the way the donkey crumbled must have
been even more alarming to them. It appeared that a donkey's hind legs gave way
under him, while the forelegs struggled to remain standing, and the head and
neck surged this way and that-for balance. The donkey's ass and hind legs
simply dropped to the floor, as if the beast had suifered a selective stroke-or
had been shot; its rump was paralyzed. The front half of the donkey made a game
effort, but was soon dragged down after its disabled parts. A cow, blinded by
its horns-and trying to avoid the falling donkey-butted a shepherd into and
over the low communion railing; the shepherd struck the kneeling cushions a
glancing blow, and rolled into the center aisle by the first row of pews. When
the second donkey dropped, the Rev. Mr. Wiggin read faster.

" 'But Mary kept all these things,' " the rector said,
" 'pondering them in her heart.' "

The Virgin Mary lifted her head from the Christ Child's lap, a
mystical grin upon her flushed face; she thumped both hands to her heart-as if
an arrow, or a lance, had run her through from behind; and her eyes rolled
toward her shining forehead as if, even before she could fall, she were giving
up the ghost. The Baby Jesus, suddenly anxious about the direction and force of
Mother Mary's swoon, reached out his arms to catch her; but Owen was not strong
enough to support Mary Beth Baird-chest to chest, she pressed him into the hay,
where they appeared to be wrestling. And I, Joseph-I saw how the little Lord
Jesus got his mother off him; he goosed her. It was a fast attack, concealed in
a flurry of flying hay; you had to be a Joseph-or Barb Wiggin-to know what
happened. What the congregation saw was the Holy Mother roll out of the hay
pile and across the floor of the manger, where she collected herself at a safe
distance from the unpredictable Prince of Peace; Owen withered Mary Beth with a
look as scornful as the look he'd shown Barb Wiggin. It was the same look he
then delivered to the congregation- oblivious to, if not contemptuous of, the
gifts the wise men and the shepherds laid at his feet. Like a commanding
officer reviewing his troops, the Christ Child surveyed the congregation. The
faces I could see-in the frontmost pews-appeared to be tensing for rejection.
Mr. Fish's face, and Dan's face, too-both of these sophisticates of amateur theater
were mouths-agape in admiration, for here was a stage presence that could
overcome not only amateurism but the common cold; Owen had overcome error and
bad acting and deviation from the script. Then I came to the faces in the
congregation that Owen must have seen about the same time I saw them; they bore
the most rapt expressions of all. They were Mr. and Mrs. Meany's faces. Mr.
Meany's granitic countenance was destroyed by fear, but his attention was
riveted; and Mrs. Meany's lunatic gawking was characterized by a naked
incomprehension. She had her hands clenched together in violent prayer, and her
husband held her around her shaking shoulders because she was racked by sobs as
disturbing as the animal unhappiness of a retarded child. Owen sat up so suddenly
in the mountain of hay that several front-pew members of the congregation were
startled into gasps and cries of alarm. He bent stiffly at the waist, like a
tightly wound spring, and he pointed with ferocity at his mother and father; to
many members of the congregation, he could have been pointing to anyone-or to
them all.

"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING HERE?" the angry Lord
Jesus screamed. Many members of the congregation thought he meant them; I could
tell what a shock the question was for Mr. Fish, but I knew whom Owen was
speaking to. I saw Mr. and Mrs.

        
 
Meany cringe; they slipped off the pew to the
kneeling pad, and Mrs. Meany covered her face with both hands.