"YOU DON'T SEND SHOES TO THE CLEANERS, OR FAMILY PORTRAITS," Owen said. "A REAL MYSTERY."
We learned where to look for the sex magazines, or the dirty pictures: between the mattress and bedspring. Some of these gave Owen THE SHIVERS. In those days, such pictures were disturbingly unclear--or else they were disappointingly wholesome; in the latter category were the swimsuit calendars. The pictures of the more disturbing variety were of the quality of snapshots taken by children from moving cars; the women themselves appeared arrested in motion, rather than posed--as if they'd been in the act of something hasty when they'd been caught by the camera. The acts themselves were unclear--for example, a woman bent over a man for some undetermined purpose, as if she were about to do some violence on an utterly helpless cadaver. And the women's sex parts were often blurred by pubic hair--some of them had astonishingly more pubic hair than either Owen or I thought was possible--and their nipples were blocked from view by the censor's black slashes. At first, we thought the slashes were actual instruments of torture--they struck us as even more menacing than real nudity. The nudity was menacing--to a large extent, because the women weren't pretty; or else their troubled, serious expressions judged their own nakedness severely.
Many of the pictures and magazines were partially destroyed by the effects of the boys' weight grinding them into the metal bedsprings, which were flaked with rust; the bodies of the women themselves were occasionally imprinted with a spiral tattoo, as if the old springs had etched upon the women's flesh a grimy version of lust's own descending spiral.
Naturally, the presence of pornography darkened Owen's opinion of each room's occupant; when he lay on the bed with his eyes closed and, at last, expelled his long-held breath, he would say, "NOT HAPPY. WHO DRAWS A MOUSTACHE ON HIS MOTHER'S FACE AND THROWS DARTS AT HIS FATHER'S PICTURE? WHO GOES TO BED THINKING ABOUT DOING IT WITH GERMAN SHEPHERDS? AND WHAT'S THE DOG LEASH IN THE CLOSET FOR? AND THE FLEA COLLAR IN THE DESK DRAWER? IT'S NOT LEGAL TO KEEP A PET IN THE DORM, RIGHT?"
"Perhaps his dog was killed over the summer," I said. "He kept the leash and the flea collar."
"SURE," Owen said. "AND I SUPPOSE HIS FATHER RAN OVER THE DOG? I SUPPOSE HIS MOTHER DID IT WITH THE DOG?"
"They're just things," I said. "What can we tell about the guy who lives here, really?"
"NOT HAPPY," Owen said.
We were a whole afternoon investigating the rooms on just the fourth floor, Owen was so systematic in his methods of search, so deliberate about putting everything back exactly where it had been, as if these Gravesend boys were anything at all like him; as if their rooms were as intentional as the museum Owen had made of his room. His behavior in the rooms was remindful of a holy man's search of a cathedral of antiquity--as if he could divine some ancient and also holy intention there.
He pronounced few boarders happy. These few, in Owen's opinion, were the ones whose dresser mirrors were ringed with family pictures, and with pictures of real girlfriends (they could have been sisters). A keeper of swimsuit calendars could conceivably be happy, or borderline-happy, but the boys who had cut out the pictures of the lingerie and girdle models from the Sears catalog were at least partially unhappy--and there was no saving anyone who harbored pictures of thoroughly naked women. The bushier the women were, the unhappier the boy; the more the women's nipples were struck with the censor's slash, the more miserable the boarder.
"HOW CAN YOU BE HAPPY IF YOU SPEND ALL YOUR TIME THINKING ABOUT DOING IT?" Owen asked.
I preferred to think that the rooms we searched were more haphazard and less revealing than Owen imagined--after all, they were supposed to be the monastic cells of transient scholars; they were something between a nest and a hotel room, they were not natural abodes, and what we found there was a random disorder and a depressing sameness. Even the pictures of the sports heroes and movie stars were the same, from room to room; and from boy to boy, there was often a similar scrap of something missed from the life at home: a picture of a car, with the boy proudly at the wheel (Gravesend boarders were not allowed to drive, or even ride in, cars); a picture of a perfectly plain backyard, or even a snapshot of such a deeply private moment--an unrecognizable figure shambling away from the camera, back turned to our view--that the substance of the picture was locked in a personal memory. The effect of these cells, with the terrible sameness of each boy's homesickness, and the chaos of travel, was what Owen had meant when he'd told my mother that dormitories were EVIL.
Since her death, Owen had hinted that the strongest force compelling him to attend Gravesend Academy--namely, my mother's insistence--was gone. Those rooms allowed us to imagine what we might become--if not exactly boarders (because I would continue to live with Dan, and with Grandmother, and Owen would live at home), we would still harbor such secrets, such barely restrained messiness, such lusts, even, as these poor residents of Waterhouse Hall. It was our lives in the near future that we were searching for when we searched in those rooms, and therefore it was shrewd of Owen that he made us take our time.
It was in a room on the third floor that Owen discovered the prophylactics; everyone called them "rubbers," but in Gravesend, New Hampshire, we called them "beetleskins." The origin of that word is not known to me; technically, a "beetleskin" was a used condom--and, even more specifically, one found in a parking lot or washed up on a beach or floating in the urinal at the drive-in movie. I believe that only those were authentic "beetleskins": old and very-much-used condoms that popped out at you in public places.
It was in the third-floor room of a senior named Potter--an advisee of Dan's--that Owen found a half-dozen or more prophylactics, in their foil wrappers, not very ably concealed in the sock compartment of the dresser drawers.
"BEETLESKINS!" he cried, dropping them on the floor; we stood back from them. We had never seen unused rubbers in their drugstore packaging before.
"Are you sure?" I asked Owen.
"THEY'RE FRESH BEETLESKINS," Owen told me. "THE CATHOLICS FORBID THEM," he added. "THE CATHOLICS ARE OPPOSED TO BIRTH CONTROL."
"Why?" I asked.
"NEVER MIND," Owen said. "I'VE NOTHING MORE TO DO WITH THE CATHOLICS."
"Right," I said.
We tried to ascertain if Potter would know exactly how many beetleskins he had in his sock drawer--whether he would notice if we opened one of the foil wrappers and examined one of the beetleskins, which naturally, then, we could not put back; we would have to dispose of it. Would Potter miss it? That was the question. Owen determined that an investigation of how organized a boarder Potter was would tell us. Was his underwear all in one drawer, were his T-shirts folded, were his shoes in a straight line on the closet floor, were his jackets and shirts and trousers separated from each other, did his hangers face the same way, did he keep his pens and pencils together, were his paper clips contained, did he have more than one tube of toothpaste that was open, were his razor blades somewhere safe, did he have a necktie rack or hang his ties willy-nilly? And did he keep the beetleskins because he used them--or were they for show?
In Potter's closet, sunk in one of his size-11 hiking boots, was a fifth of Jack Daniel's Old No. 7, Black Label; Owen decided that if Potter risked keeping a bottle of whiskey in his room, the beetleskins were not for show. If Potter used them with any frequency, we imagined, he would not miss one.
The examination of the beetleskin was a solemn occasion; it was the nonlubricated kind--I'm not even sure if there were lubricated rubbers when Owen and I were eleven--and with some difficulty, and occasional pain, we took turns putting the thing on our tiny penises. This part of our lives in the near future was especially hard for us to imagine; but I realize now that the ritual we enacted in Potter's daring room also had the significance of religious rebellion for Owen Meany--it was but one more affront to the Catholics whom he had, in his own words, ESCAPED.
It was a pity that Owen could not escape the Rev. Dudley Wiggin's Christmas Pageant. The first rehearsal, in the nave of the church, was held on the Second
Sunday of Advent and followed a celebration of the Holy Eucharist. We were delayed discussing our roles because the Women's Association Report preceded us; the women wished to say that the Quiet Day they had scheduled for the beginning of Advent had been very successful--that the meditations, and the following period of quiet, for reflection, had been well received. Mrs. Walker, whose own term as a Vestry member was expiring--thus giving her even more energy for her Sunday school tyrannies--complained that attendance at the adult evening Bible study was flagging.
"Well, everyone's so busy at Christmas, you know," said Barb Wiggin, who was impatient to begin the casting of the pageant--not wanting to keep us potential donkeys and turtledoves waiting. I could sense Owen's irritation with Barb Wiggin, in advance.
Quite blind to his animosity, Barb Wiggin began--as, indeed, the holy event itself had begun--with the Announcing Angel. "Well, we all know who our Descending Angel is," she told us.
"NOT ME," Owen said.
"Why, Owen!" Barb Wiggin said.
"PUT SOMEONE ELSE UP IN THE AIR," Owen said. "MAYBE THE SHEPHERDS CAN JUST STARE AT THE 'PILLAR OF LIGHT.' THE BIBLE SAYS THE ANGEL OF THE LORD APPEARED TO THE SHEPHERDS--NOT TO THE WHOLE CONGREGATION. AND USE SOMEONE WITH A VOICE EVERYONE DOESN'T LAUGH AT," he said, pausing while everyone laughed.
"But Owen--" Barb Wiggin said.
"No, no, Barbara," Mr. Wiggin said. "If Owen's tired of being the angel, we should respect his wishes--this is a democracy," he added un-convincingly. The former stewardess glared at her ex-pilot husband as if he had been speaking, and thinking, in the absence of sufficient oxygen.
"AND ANOTHER THING," Owen said. "JOSEPH SHOULD NOT SMIRK."
"Indeed not!" the rector said heartily. "I had no idea we'd suffered a smirking Joseph all these years."
"And who do you think would be a good Joseph, Owen?" Barb Wiggin asked, without the conventional friendliness of the stewardess.
Owen pointed to me; to be singled out so silently, with Owen's customary authority, made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck--in later years, I would think I had been chosen by the Chosen One. But that Second Sunday of Advent, in the nave of Christ Church, I felt angry with Owen--once the hairs on the back of my neck relaxed. For what an uninspiring role it is; to be Joseph--that hapless follower, that standin, that guy along for the ride.
"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 mustn'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.
"The angel 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 the angel 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 desired 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 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 doves!" 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 feathers!" 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.
"Are you 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.
"I 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 BIG-- THEY LOOK RIDICULOUS. THEY MAKE US LOOK RIDICULOUS."