A prayer for Owen Meany (34 page)

"YOU SHOULDN'T BE HERE!" Owen shouted at them; but Mr.
Fish, and surely half the congregation, felt that they stood accused. I saw the
faces of the Rev. Lewis Merrill and his California wife; it was apparent that
they also thought Owen meant them.

"IT IS A SACRILEGE FOR YOU TO BE HERE!" Owen hollered.
At least a dozen members of the congregation guiltily got up from the pews at
the rear of the church-to leave. Mr. Meany helped his dizzy wife to her feet.
She was crossing herself, repeatedly-a helpless, unthinking, Catholic gesture;
it must have infuriated Owen. The Meanys conducted an awkward departure; they
were big, broad people and their exit out of the crowded pew, their entrance
into the aisle-where they stood out, so alone-their every movement was neither
easy nor graceful.

"We only wanted to see you!" Owen's father told him
apologetically. But Owen Meany pointed to the door at the end of the nave,
where several of the faithful had already departed; Owen's parents, like that
other couple who were banished from the garden, left Christ Church as they were
told. Not even the gusto with which the choir-following frantic signals from
the rector-sang "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing" could spare the
congregation the indelible image of how the Meanys had obeyed their only son.
Rector Wiggin, wringing the Bible in both hands, was trying to catch the eye of
his wife; but Barb Wiggin was struck as immovable as stone. What the rector
wanted was for his wife to darken the "pillar of light," which
continued to shine on the wrathful Lord Jesus.

"GET ME OUT OF HERE!" the Prince of Peace said to
Joseph. And what is Joseph if not a man who does what he's told? I lifted him.
Mary Beth Baird wanted to hold a part of him, too; whether his goosing her had
deepened her infatuation, or had put her in her place without trampling an iota
of her ardor, is uncertain-regardless, she was his slave, at his command. And
so together we raised him out of the hay. He was so stiffly wrapped, it was
like carrying an unmanageable icon-he simply wouldn't bend, no matter how we
held him. Where to go with him was not instantly clear. The back way, behind
the altar area-the unobserved route we'd all taken to the manger-was blocked by
Barb Wiggin. As in other moments of indecision, the Christ Child directed us;
he pointed down the center aisle, in the direction his parents had taken. I
doubt that anyone directed the cows and donkeys to follow us; they just needed
the air. Our procession gathered the force and numbers of a marching band. The
third verse of what was supposed to be the Rev. Mr. Wiggin's recessional carol
heralded our exit. Mild he lays his glo-ry by, Born that man no more may die,
Bom to raise the sons of earth, Born to give them sec-ond birth.

All the way down the center aisle, Barb Wiggin kept the
"pillar of light" on us; what possible force could have compelled her
to do that? There was nowhere to go but out, into the snow and cold. The cows
and the donkeys tore off their heads so that they could get a better look at
him; for the most part, these were the younger children-some of them, a very
few of them, were actually smaller than Owen. They stared at him, in awe. The
wind whipped through his swaddling clothes and his bare arms grew rosy; he
hugged them to his birdlike chest. The Meanys, sitting scared in the cab of the
granite truck, were waiting for him. The Virgin Mother and I hoisted him into
the cab; because of how he was swaddled, he had to be extended full-length
across the seat-his legs lay in his father's lap, not quite interfering with
Mr. Meany's control of the steering wheel, and his head and upper body rested
upon his mother, who had reverted to her custom of looking not quite out the
window, and not quite at anything at all.

"MY CLOTHES," the Lord Jesus told me. "YOU GET
THEM AND KEEP THEM FOR ME."

"Of course," I said.

"IT'S A GOOD THING I WORE MY LUCKY SCARF," he told me.
"TAKE ME HOME!" he ordered his parents, and Mr. Meany lurched the
truck into gear. A snowplow was turning off Front Street onto Elliot; it was
customary in Gravesend to make way for snowplows, but even the snowplow made way
for Owen. Toronto: February , -there was almost no one at the Wednesday morning
communion service. Holy Eucharist is

        
 
better when you don't have to shuffle up the
aisle in a herd and stand in line at the communion railing, like an animal
awaiting space at the feeding-trough-just like another consumer at a fast-food
service. I don't like to take communion with a mob. I prefer the way the Rev.
Mr. Foster serves the bread to the mischievous style of Canon Mackie; the canon
delights in giving me the tiniest wafer he has in his hand-a veritable
crumb!-or else he gives me an inedible hunk of bread, almost too big to fit in
my mouth and impossible to swallow without prolonged chewing. The canon likes
to tease me. He says, "Well, I figure that you take communion so often,
it's probably bad for your diet- someone's got to look after your diet,
John!" And he chuckles about that; or else he says, ' 'Well, I figure that
you take communion so often, you must be starving-someone's got to give you a
decent meal!" And he chuckles some more. The Rev. Mr. Foster, our priest
associate, at least dispenses the bread with a uniform sense of sacredness;
that's all I ask. I have no quarrel with the wine; it is ably served by our
honorary assistants, the Rev. Mr. Larkin and the Rev. Mrs. Keeling-Mrs.
Katherine Keeling; she's the headmistress at The Bishop Strachan School, and my
only qualm with her is when she's pregnant. The Rev. Katherine Keeling is often
pregnant, and I don't think she should serve the wine when she's so pregnant
that bending forward to put the cup to our lips is a strain; that makes me
nervous; also, when she's very pregnant, and you're kneeling at the railing
waiting for the wine, it's distracting to see her belly approach you at eye
level. Then there's the Rev. Mr. Larkin; he sometimes pulls the cup back before
the wine has touched your lips-you have to be quick with him; and he's a little
careless how he wipes the rim of the cup each time. Of them all, the Rev. Mrs.
Keeling is the best to talk to-now that Canon Campbell is gone. I truly like
and admire Katherine Keeling. I regretted I couldn't talk to her today, when I
really needed to talk to someone; but Mrs. Keeling is on temporary leave-she's
off having another baby. The Rev. Mr. Larkin is as quick to be gone from a
conversation as he is quick with the communion cup; and our priest associate,
the Rev. Mr. Foster-although he burns with missionary zeal-is impatient with
the fretting of a middle-aged man like myself, who lives in such comfort in the
Forest Hill part of town. The Rev. Mr. Foster is all for opening a mission on
Jarvis Street-and counseling hookers on the subject of sexually transmitted
diseases-and he's up to his neck in volunteer projects for the West Indians on
Bathurst Street, the very same people so verbally abused by Deputy Warden Holt;
but the Rev. Mr. Foster offers scant sympathy for my worries, which, he says,
are only in my mind. I love that "only"! And that left Canon Mackie
to talk to today; Canon Mackie presents a familiar problem. I said, "Did you
read the paper, today's paper-The Globe and Maill It was on the front
page."

"No, I've not had time to read the paper this
morning," Canon Mackie said, "but let me guess. Was it something
about the United States? Something President Reagan said?" He is not
exactly condescending, Canon Mackie; he is inexactly condescending.

"There was a nuclear test yesterday-the first U.S.
explosion of eighty-seven," I said. "It was scheduled for tomorrow,
but they moved it up-it was a way to fool the protesters. Naturally, there were
planned protests-for tomorrow."

"Naturally," said Canon Mackie.

"And the Democrats had scheduled a vote-for today-on a
resolution to persuade Reagan to cancel the test," I told the canon.
"The government even lied about the day the test was going to be. A fine
use of the taxpayers' money, eh?"

' 'You're not a taxpayer in the United States-not anymore,'' the
canon said.

"The Soviets said they wouldn't test any weapons until the
U.S. tested first," I told the canon. "Don't you see how deliberately
provocative this is? How arrogant ! How unconcerned with any arms agreement-of
any kind! Every American should be forced to live outside the United States for
a year or two. Americans should be forced to see how ridiculous they appear to
the rest of the world! They should listen to someone else's version of
themselves-to anyone else's version! Every country knows more about America
than Americans know about themselves! And Americans know absolutely nothing
about any other country!"

Canon Mackie observed me mildly. I could see it coining; I talk
about one thing, and he bends the subject of our conversation back to me.

"I know you were upset about the Vestry elections,
John," he told me. "No one doubts your devotion to the church, you
know."

        
 
Here I am, talking about nuclear war and the
usual, self-righteous, American arrogance, and Canon Mackie wants to talk about
me.

"Surely you know how much this community respects you,
John," the canon told me. "But don't you see how your . . . opinions
can be disturbing? It's very American-to have opinions as ... strong as your
opinions. It's very Canadian to distrust strong opinions."

"I'm a Canadian," I said. "I've been a Canadian
for twenty years."

Canon Mackie is a tall, stooped, bland-faced man, so plainly
ugly that his ungainly size is unthreatening-and so plainly decent that even
his stubbornness of mind is not generally offensive.

"John, John," he said to me. "You're a Canadian
citizen, but what are you always talking about? You talk about America more
than any American I know! And you're more anti-American than any Canadian I
know," the canon said. "You're a little . . . well, one-note on the
subject, wouldn't you say?"

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

"John, John," Canon Mackie said. "Your
anger-that's not very Canadian, either." The canon knows how to get to me;
through my anger.

"No, and it's not very Christian, either," I admitted.
"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry!" the canon said cheerfully. "Try
to be a little . . . different!" The man's pauses are almost as irritating
as his advice.

"It's the damn Star Wars thing that gets to me," I
tried to tell him. "The only constraint on the arms race that remains is
the nineteen seventy-two Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty between the United
States and the Soviet Union. Now Reagan has given the Soviets an open
invitation to test nuclear weapons of their own; and if he proceeds with his
missiles-in-space plans, he'll give the Soviets an open invitation to junk the
treaty of nineteen seventy-two, as well!"

"You have such a head for history," the canon said.
"How can you remember the dates?"

"Canon Mackie," I said.

"John, John," the canon said. "I know you're
upset; I'm not mocking you. I'm just trying to help you understand-about the
Vestry elections-"

"I don't care about the Vestry elections!" I said
angrily- indicating, of course, how much I cared. "I'm sorry," I
said. The canon put his warm, moist hand on my arm.

"To our younger parish officers," he said,
"you're something of an eccentric. They don't understand those years that
brought you here; they wonder why-especially, when you defame the United States
as vociferously as you do-why you aren't more Canadian than you are! Because
you're not really a Canadian, you know-and that troubles Some of the older
members of this parish, too; that troubles even those of us who do remember the
circumstances that brought you here. If you made the choice to stay in Canada,
why do you have so little to do with Canada? Why have you learned so little
about us? John: it's something of a joke, you know-how you don't even know your
way around Toronto.'' That is Canon Mackie in a nutshell; I worry about a war,
and the canon agonizes about how I get lost the second I step out of Forest
Hill. I talk about the loss of the most substantive treaty that exists between
the Soviet Union and the United States, and the canon teases me about my memory
for dates'. Yes, I have a good head for dates. How about August , ? Richard Nixon
was finished. How about September , ? Richard Nixon was pardoned. And then
there was April , : the U.S. Navy evacuated all remaining personnel from
Vietnam; they called this Operation Frequent Wind. Canon Mackie is skillfull
with me, I have to admit. He mentions "dates" and what he calls my
"head for history" to set up a familiar thesis: that I live in the
past. Canon Mackie makes me wonder if my devotion to the memory of Canon
Campbell is not also an aspect of how much I live in the past; years ago, when
I felt so close to Canon Campbell, I lived less in the past-or else, what we
now call the past was then the present; it was the actual time that Canon
Campbell and I shared, and we were both caught up in it. If Canon Campbell were
alive, if he were still rector of Grace Church, perhaps he would be no more
sympathetic to me than Canon Mackie is sympathetic today. Canon Campbell was
alive on January , . That was the day President Jimmy Carter issued a pardon to
the "draft-dodgers." What did I care? I was already a Canadian
citizen. Although Canon Campbell cautioned me about my anger, too, he
understood why that "pardon" made me so angry. I

 
 
showed Canon
Campbell the letter I wrote to Jimmy Carter. "Dear Mr. President," I
wrote. "Who will pardon the United States?"

Who can pardon the United States? How can they be pardoned for
Vietnam, for their conduct in Nicaragua, for their steadfast and gross
contribution to the proliferation of nuclear arms?

"John, John," Canon Mackie said. "Your little
speech about Christmas -at the Parish Council meeting? I doubt that even
Scrooge would have chosen a Parish Council meeting as the proper occasion for
such an announcement."