A prayer for Owen Meany (56 page)

"You know what my mother told me over the vacation?"
Larry Lish asked Owen and me.

"Let me guess," I said. "She's going to buy you
an airplane."

"AND WHEN YOUR FATHER HEARD ABOUT IT," said Owen
Meany, "HE SAID HE'D BUY YOU A VILLA IN FRANCE-ON THE RIVIERA!"

"Not this year," Larry Lish said slyly. "My
mother told me that JFK was diddling Marilyn Monroe-and countless others,"
he added.

"THAT IS A TRULY TASTELESS LIE!" said Owen Meany.

"It's the truth," Larry Lish said, smirking.

"SOMEONE WHO SPREADS THAT KIND OF RUMOR OUGHT TO BE IN
JA/L!" Owen said.

"Can you see my mother in jail?" Lish asked.
"This is no rumor. The truth is, the prez makes Ladies' Man Meany look
like a virgin-the prez gets any woman he wants."

"HOW DOES YOUR MOTHER KNOW THIS?" Owen asked Lish.

"She knows all the Kennedys," Lish said, after a
moderately tense silence. "And my dad knows Marilyn Monroe," he said.

"I SUPPOSE THEY 'DO IT' IN THE WHITE HOUSE?" Owen
asked.

"I know they've done it in New York," Lish said.
"I don't know where else they've done it-all I know is, they've been doing
it for years. And when the prez isn't interested in her anymore, I hear that
Bobby's going to get her."

"YOU'RE DISGUSTING!" said Owen Meany.

"The world's disgusting!" Larry Lish said cheerfully.
"Do you think I'm lying?"

"YES, I DO," Owen said.

"My mother's going to pick me up and take me skiing- next
weekend," Lish said. "You can ask her yourself."

Owen shrugged.

"Do you think she's lying?" Lish asked; Owen shrugged
again. He hated Lish-and Lish's mother; or, at least, he hated the kind of
woman he imagined Larry Lish's mother was. But Owen Meany wouldn't have called
anyone's mother a liar.

"Let me tell you, Sarcasm Master," Larry Lish said,
"My mother's a gossip, and she's a bitch, but she's not a liar; she
doesn't have enough imagination to make anything up!"

It was one of the more painful things about our peers at
Gravesend Academy; it hurt Owen and me to hear how many of our schoolmates
commonly put their parents down. They took their parents' money, and they
abused their parents' summer houses and weekend retreats-when their parents
weren't even aware that the kids had their own keys! And they frequently spoke
of their parents as if they thought their parents were trash-or, at least,
ignorant beyond saving.

"DOES JACKIE KNOW ABOUT MARILYN MONROE?" Owen asked
Larry Lish.

"You can ask my mother," Lish said. The prospect of
conversation with Larry Lish's mother was not relaxing to Owen Meany. He
brooded all week. He avoided the editorial offices of The Grave, a hangout in
which Owen was regularly king. Owen, after all, had been inspired by JFK;
although the subject of the president's personal (or sexual) morality would not
have dampened everyone's enthusiasm for his political ideals and his political
goals, Owen Meany was not "everyone"-nor was he sophisticated enough
to separate public and private morality. I doubt that Owen ever would have
become "sophisticated" enough to make that separation-not even today,
when it seems that the only people who are adamant in their claim that public
and private morality are inseparable are those creep-evangelists who profess to
"know" that God prefers capitalists to communists, and nuclear power
to long hair. Where would Owen fit in today? He was shocked that JFK-a married
man!-could have been "diddling" Marilyn Monroe; not to mention
"countless others." But Owen would never have claimed that he
"knew" what God wanted; he always hated the sermon part of the service-of
any service. He hated anyone who claimed to "know" God's opinion of
current events. Today, the fact that President Kennedy enjoyed carnal knowledge
of Marilyn Monroe and "countless others"-even during his
presidency-seems only moderately improper, and even stylish, in comparison to
the willful secrecy and deception, and the unlawful policies, so broadly
practiced by the entire Reagan administration. The idea of President Reagan
getting laid, at all-by anyone!-comes only as welcome and comic relief
alongside all his other mischief! But  was not today; and Owen Meany's
expectations for the Kennedy administration were ripe with the hopefulness and
optimism of a nineteen-year-old who desired to serve his country-to be of use.
In the previous spring, the Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba had upset Owen; but
although that was a disturbing error, it was not adultery.

"IF KENNEDY CAN RATIONALIZE ADULTERY, WHAT ELSE CAN HE
RATIONALIZE?" Owen asked me. Then he got angry and said: "I'M
FORGETTING HE'S A MACKEREL-SNAPPER! IF CATHOLICS CAN CONFESS ANYTHING, THEY CAN
FORGIVE THEMSELVES ANYTHING, TOO! CATHOLICS CAN'T EVEN GET DIVORCED; MAYBE
THAT'S THE PROBLEM. IT'S SICK NOT TO LET PEOPLE GET DIVORCED!"

"Look at it this way," I told him. "You're
president of the

        
 
United States; you're very good-looking.
Countless women want to sleep with you-countless and beautiful women will do
anything you ask. They'll even come to the linen-service entrance of the White
House after midnight!"

"THE LINEN-SERVICE ENTRANCE?" said Owen Meany.

"You know what I mean," I said. "If you could
fuck absolutely any woman you wanted to fuck, would you-or wouldn't you?"

"I CAN'T BELIEVE THAT YOUR UPBRINGING AND YOUR EDUCATION
HAVE BEEN WASTED ON YOU," he said. "WHY STUDY HISTORY OR
LITERATURE-NOT TO MENTION RELIGIOUS KNOWLEDGE AND SCRIPTURE AND ETHICS? WHY NOT
DO ANYTHING-IF THE ONLY REASON NOT TO IS NOT TO GET CAUGHT?" he asked.
"DO YOU CALL THAT MORALITY? DO YOU CALL THAT RESPONSIBLE! THE PRESIDENT IS
ELECTED TO UPHOLD THE CONSTITUTION; TO PUT THAT MORE BROADLY, HE'S CHOSEN TO
UPHOLD THE LAW-HE'S NOT GIVEN A LICENSE TO OPERATE ABOVE THE LAW, HE'S SUPPOSED
TO BE OUR EXAMPLE]"

Remember that? Remember then! I remember what Owen said about
"Project ,," too-remember that? That was a draft program outlined by
the secretary of defense, Robert McNamara, in . Of the first , taken into the
military between  and ,  percent read below sixth-grade level, 
percent were black,  percent came from low-income families,  percent
had dropped out of high school. "The poor of America have not had the
opportunity to earn their fair share of this nation's abundance,"
Secretary McNamara said, "but they can be given an opportunity to serve in
their country's defense."

That made Owen Meany hopping mad.

"DOES HE THINK HE'S DOING 'THE POOR OF AMERICA' SOME
FAVOR?" Owen cried. "WHAT HE'S SAYING IS, YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE
WHITE-OR A GOOD READER-TO DIE I THAT'S SOME 'OPPORTUNITY'! I'LL BET 'THE POOR
OF AMERICA' ARE REALLY GOING TO BE GRATEFUL FOR THIS!"

Toronto: July , -it's been so hot, I wish Katherine would invite
me up to her family's island in Georgian Bay; but she has such a large family,
I'm sure she's suffered her share of houseguests. I have fallen into a bad
habit here: I buy The New York Times almost every day. I don't exactly know why
I want or need to know anything more. According to The New York Times, a new
poll has revealed that most Americans believe that President Reagan is lying;
what they should be asked is, Do they care? I wrote Katherine and asked her
when she was going to invite me to Georgian Bay. "When are you going to
rescue me from my own bad habits?" I asked her. I wonder if you can buy
The New York Times in Pointe au Baril Station; I hope not. Larry's mother,
Mitzy Lish, had honey-colored, slightly sticky-looking hair-it was coiffed in a
bouffant style-and her complexion was much improved by a suntan; in the winter
months, when she'd not just returned from her annual pilgrimage to Round Hill,
Jamaica, her skin turned a shade sallow. Because her complexion was further
wrecked by blotchiness in the extreme cold, and because her excessive smoking
had ill-influenced her circulation, a weekend of winter skiing in New
England-even to forward the cause of her competition for her son's
affection-did not favor either Mrs. Lish's appearance or her disposition. Yet
it was impossible not to see her as an attractive "older" woman; she
was not quite up to President Kennedy's standards, but Mitzy Lish was a beauty
by any standard Owen and I had to compare her to. Hester's early-blooming eroticism,
for example, had not been improved by her carelessness or by alcohol; even
though Mrs. Lish smoked up a storm, and her amber hair was dyed (because she
was graying at her roots), Mrs. Lish looked sexier than Hester. She wore too
much gold and silver for New Hampshire; in New York, I'm sure, she was
certainly in vogue-but her clothes and her jewelry, and her bouffant, were more
suited to the kind of hotels and cities where ' 'evening" or formal
clothes are standard. In Gravesend, she stood out; and it is hard to imagine
that there was a small skiers' lodge in New Hampshire, or in Vermont, that ever
could have pleased her. She had ambitions beyond the simple luxury of a private
bath; she was a woman who needed room service-who wanted her first

        
 
cigarette and her coffee and her New York
Times before she got out of bed. And then she would need sufficient light and a
proper makeup mirror, in front of which she would require a decent amount of
time; she would be snappish if ever she was rushed. Her days in New York,
before lunch, consisted only of cigarettes and coffee and The New York
Times-and the patient, loving task of making herself up. She was an impatient
woman, but never when applying her makeup. Lunch with a fellow gossip, then;
or, these days, following her divorce, with her lawyer or a potential lover. In
the afternoon, she'd have her hair done or she'd do a little shopping; at the
very least, she'd buy a few new magazines or see a movie. She might meet
someone for a drink, later. She possessed all the up-to-date information that
often passes for intelligence among people who make a daily and extensive habit
of The New York Times-and the available, softer gossip-and she had oodles of
time to consume all this contemporary news. She had never worked. She took
quite a lot of time for her evening bath, too, and then there was the evening
makeup to apply; it irritated her to make any dinner plans that required her
presence before eight o'clock-but it irritated her more to have no dinner
plans. She didn't cook-not even eggs. She was too lazy to make real coffee; the
instant stuff went well enough with her cigarettes and her newspaper. She would
have been an early supporter of those sugar-free, diet soft drinks-because she
was obsessed with losing weight (and opposed to exercise). She blamed her
troublesome complexion on her ex-husband, who had been stressful to live with;
and their divorce had cut her out of California-where she preferred to spend
the winter months, where it was better for her skin. She swore her pores were
actually larger in New York. But she maintained the Fifth Avenue apartment with
a vengeance; and included in her alimony was the expense of her annual
pilgrimage to Round Hill, Jamaica-always at a time in the winter when her
complexion had become intolerable to her-and a summer rental in the Hamptons
(because not even Fifth Avenue was any fun in July and August). A woman of her
sophistication- and used to the standard of living she'd grown accustomed to,
as Herb Lish's wife and the mother of his only child-simply needed the sun and
the salt air. She would be a popular divorcee for quite a number of years; she
would appear in no hurry to remarry-in fact, she'd turn down a few proposals.
But, one year, she would either anticipate that her looks were going, or she
would notice that her looks had gone; it would take her more and more time in
front of the makeup mirror-simply to salvage what used to be there. Then she
would change; she would become quite aggressive on the subject of her second marriage;
she realized it was time. Pity whatever boyfriend was with her at this time; he
would be blamed for leading her on-and worse, for never allowing her to develop
a proper career. There was no honorable course left to him but to marry the
woman he had made so dependent on him-whoever he was. She would say he was the
reason she'd never stopped smoking, too; by not marrying her, he had made her
too nervous to stop smoking. And her oily complexion, formerly the
responsibility of her ex-husband, was now the present boyfriend's fault, too;
if she was sallow, she was sallow because of him. ^ He was also the cause of
her announced depression. Were he to leave her-were he to abandon her, to not
marry her-he could at the very least assume the financial burden of maintaining
her psychiatrist. Without his aggravation, after all, she would never have
needed a psychiatrist. How-you may ask-do I, or did I, "know" so much
about my classmate's unfortunate mother, Mitzy Lish? I told you that Gravesend
Academy students were-many of them-very sophisticated; and none of them was
more "sophisticated" than Larry Lish. Larry told everyone everything
he knew about his mother; imagine that! Larry thought his mother was a joke.
But in January of , Owen Meany and I were terrified of Mrs. Lish. She wore a
fur coat that was responsible for the death of countless small mammals, she
wore sunglasses that completely concealed her opinion of Owen and me-although
we were sure, somehow, that Mrs. Lish thought we were rusticated to a degree that
defied our eventual education; we were sure that Mrs. Lish would rather suffer
the agonies of giving up smoking than suffer such boredom as an evening in our
company.

"HELLO, MISSUS LISH," said Owen Meany. "IT'S NICE
TO SEE YOU AGAIN."

"Hello!" I said. "How are you?"

She was the kind of woman who drank nothing but vodka-

        
 
tonics, because she cared about her breath;
because of her smoking, she was extremely self-conscious about her breath.
Nowadays, she'd be the kind of woman who'd carry one of those breath-freshening
atomizers in her purse-gassing herself with the atomizer, all day long, just in
case someone might be moved to spontaneously kiss her.