would appear at our commencement, when he threatened to withhold our diplomas if we didn't stop our uproar; he must have known then that he had lost ... because Dan Needham and Mr. Early, and a solid one third or one half of the faculty stood up to applaud our riotous support of Owen; and we were joined by several informed members of the Board of Trustees as well, not to mention all those parents who had written angry letters to the headmaster regarding that illiberal business of confiscating our wallets. I wish Owen could have been there to see the headmaster then; but, of course, Owen wasn't there--he wasn't graduating.
And he was not at morning meeting on that February day, just before spring vacation; but the surrogate he had left onstage was grotesquely capable of holding our attention. It was a packed house--so many of the faculty had turned out for the occasion. And Mary Magdalene was there to greet us: armless, but reaching out to us; headless, but eloquent--with the clean-cut stump of her neck, which was slashed at her Adam's apple, expressing so dramatically that she had much to say to us. We sat in a hush in The Great Hall, waiting for the headmaster.
What a horrible man Randy White was! There is a tradition among "good" schools: when you throw out a senior--only months before he's scheduled to graduate--you make as little trouble for that student's college admission as you have to. Yes, you tell the colleges what they need to know; but you have already done your damage--you've fired the kid, you don't try to keep him out of college, too! But not Randy White; the headmaster would do his damnedest to put an end to Owen Meany's university life before it began!
Owen was accepted at Harvard; he was accepted at Yale--and he was offered full scholarships by both. But in addition to what Owen's record said: that he was expelled from Gravesend Academy for printing fake draft cards, and selling them to other students ... in addition to that, the headmaster told Harvard and Yale (and the University of New Hampshire) much more. He said that Owen Meany was "so virulently antireligious" that he had "desecrated the statue of a saint at a Roman Catholic school"; that he had launched a "deeply anti-Catholic campaign" on the Gravesend campus, under the demand of not wanting a fish-only menu in the school dining hall on Fridays; and that there were "charges against him for being anti-Semitic, too."
As for the New Hampshire Honor Society, they withdrew their offer of an Honor Society Scholarship; a student of Owen Meany's academic achievements was welcome to attend the University of New Hampshire, but the Honor Society--"in the light of this distressing and distasteful information"--could not favor him with a scholarship; if he attended the University of New Hampshire, he would do so at his own expense.
Harvard and Yale were more forgiving; but they were also more complicated. Yale wanted to interview him again; they quickly saw the anti-Semitic "charges" for what they were--a lie--but Owen was undoubtedly too frank about his feelings for (or, rather, against) the Catholic Church. Yale wanted to delay his acceptance for a year. In that time, their admissions director suggested, Owen should "find some meaningful employment"; and his employer should write to Yale periodically and report on Owen's "character and commitment." Dan Needham told Owen that this was reasonable, fair-minded, and not uncommon behavior--on the part of a university as good as Yale. Owen didn't disagree with Dan; he simply refused to do it.
"IT'S LIKE BEING ON PAROLE," he said.
Harvard was also fair-minded and reasonable--and slightly more demanding and creative than Yale. Harvard said they wanted to delay his acceptance, too; but they were more specific about the kind of "meaningful employment" they wanted him to take. They wanted him to work for the Catholic Church--in some capacity; he could volunteer his time for Catholic Relief Services, he could be a kind of social worker for one of the Catholic charities, or he could even work for the very same parochial school whose statue of Mary Magdalene he had ruined. Father Findley, at St. Michael's, turned out to be a nice man; not only did he not press charges against Owen Meany--after talking to Dan Needham, Father Findley agreed to help Owen's cause (regarding his college admission) in any way he could.
Even some parochial students had spoken up for Owen. Buzzy Thurston--who hit that easy ground ball, the one that should have been the last out, the one that should have kept Owen Meany from ever coming to bat--even Buzzy Thurston spoke up for Owen, saying that Owen had had "a tough time"; Owen "had his reasons" for being upset, Buzzy said. Headmaster White and Chief Ben Pike were all for "throwing the book" at Owen Meany for the theft and mutilation of Mary Magdalene. But St. Michael's School, and Father Findley, were very forgiving.
Dan said that Father Findley "knew the family" and was most sympathetic when he realized who Owen's parents were--he'd had dealings with the Meanys; and although he wouldn't go into any detail regarding what those "dealings" had been, Father Findley said he would do anything he could to help Owen. "I certainly won't lift a finger to hurt him!" Father Findley said.
Dan Needham told Owen that Harvard had a good idea. "Lots of Catholics do lots of good things, Owen," Dan said. "Why not see what some of the good things are?"
For a while, I thought Owen was going to accept the Harvard proposal--"THE CATHOLIC DEAL," he called it. He even went to see Father Findley; but it seemed to confuse him--how genuinely concerned for Owen's welfare Father Findley was. Maybe Owen liked Father Findley; that might have confused him, too.
In the end, he would turn THE CATHOLIC DEAL down.
"MY PARENTS WOULD NEVER UNDERSTAND IT," he said. "BESIDES, I WANT TO GO TO THE UNIVERSITY OF NEW HAMPSHIRE--I WANT TO STICK WITH YOU, I WANT TO GO WHERE YOU GO," he told me.
"But they're not offering you a scholarship," I reminded him.
"DON'T WORRY ABOUT THAT," he said. He wouldn't tell me, at first, how he'd already got a "scholarship" there.
He went to the U.S. Army recruiting offices in Gravesend; it was arranged "in the family," as we used to say in New Hampshire. They already knew who he was--he was the best of his class at Gravesend Academy, even if he ended up just barely getting his diploma from Gravesend High School. He was admitted to the University of New Hampshire--they also knew that; they had read about it in The Gravesend News-Letter. What's more, he was a kind of local hero; even though he had been absent, he had disrupted the academy's commencement exercises. As for making and selling the fake draft cards, the U.S. Army recruiters knew what that was about: that was about drinking--no disrespect for the draft had been intended, they certainly knew that. And what red-blooded American young man didn't indulge in a little vandalism, from time to time?
And that was how Owen Meany got his "scholarship" to the University of New Hampshire; he signed up for the Reserve Officers Training Corps--ROTC, we called it "rot-see"; remember that? You went to college at the expense of the U.S. Army, and while you were in college, you took a few courses that the U.S. Army offered--Military History and Small Unit Tactics; stuff like that, not terribly taxing. The summer following your junior year, you would be required to take a little Basic Training--the standard, six-week course. And upon your graduation you would receive your commission; you would graduate a second lieutenant in the United States Army--and you would owe your country four years of active duty, plus two years in the Army Reserve.
"WHAT COULD POSSIBLY BE THE MATTER WITH THAT?" Owen Meany asked Dan and me. When he announced his plans to us, it was only 1962; a total of 11,300 U.S. military personnel were in Vietnam, but not a single one of them was in combat.
Even so, Dan Needham was uncomfortable with Owen's decision. "I liked the Harvard deal better, Owen," Dan said.
"THIS WAY, I DON'T HAVE TO WAIT A YEAR," he said. "AND I GET TO BE WITH YOU--ISN'T THAT GREAT?" he asked me.
"Yeah, that's great," I said. "I'm just a little surprised, that's all," I told him.
I was more than "a little surprised"--that the U.S. Army had accepted him was astonishing to me!
"Isn't there a height requirement?" Dan Needham whispered to me.
"I thought there was a weight requirement, too," I said.
"IF YOU'RE THINKING ABOUT THE HEIGHT AND WEIGHT REQUIREMENTS," Owen said, "IT'S FIVE FEET--EVEN--AND ONE HUNDRED POUNDS."
"Are you five feet tall, Owen?" Dan asked him.
"Since when do you weigh a hundred pounds?" I said.
"I'VE BEEN EATING A LOT OF BANANAS, AND ICE CREAM," said Owen Meany, "AND WHEN THEY MEASURED ME, I TOOK A DEEP BREATH AND STOOD ON MY TOES!"
Well, it was only proper to congratulate him; he was quite pleased with arranging his college "scholarship" in his own way. And, at the time, it appeared that he had defeated Randy White completely. Back then, neither Dan nor I knew about his "dream"; I think we might have been a little worried about his involvement with the U.S. Army if we'd had that dream described to us.
And that February morning, when the Rev. Lewis Merrill entered The Great Hall and stared with such horror at the decapitated and amputated Mary Magdalene, Dan Needham and I weren't thinking very far into the future; we were worried only that the Rev. Mr. Merrill might be too terrified to deliver his prayer--that the condition of Mary Magdalene might seize hold of his normally slight stutter and render him incomprehensible. He stood at the foot of the stage, staring up at her--for a long moment, he even forgot to remove his Navy pea jacket and his seaman's watch cap; and since Congregationalists don't always wear the clerical collar, the Rev. Lewis Merrill looked less like our school minister than like a drunken sailor who had finally staggered up against the incentive for his own religious conversion.
The Rev. Mr. Merrill was standing there, thus stricken, when the headmaster arrived in The Great Hall. If Randy White was surprised to see so many faculty faces at morning meeting, it did not alter his usual aggressive stride; he took the stairs up to the stage at his usual two-at-a-time pace. And the headmaster did not flinch--or even appear the slightest surprised--to see someone already standing at the podium. The Rev. Lewis Merrill often announced the opening hymn; Pastor Merrill often followed the opening hymn with his prayer. Then the headmaster would make his remarks--he also told us the page number for the closing hymn; and that would be that.
It took the headmaster a few seconds to recognize Mr. Merrill, who was standing at the foot of the stage in his pea jacket and wearing his watch cap and gawking at the figure who beseeched us from the podium. Our headmaster was a man who was used to taking charge--he was used to making decisions, our Randy White. When he saw the monstrosity at the podium, he did the first and most headmasterly thing that came into his mind; he strode up to the saint and seized her around her modest robes--he grabbed her around her waist and attempted to lift her. I don't think he took any notice of the steel bands girdling her hips, or the four-inch bolts that penetrated her feet and were welded to their respective nuts under the stage. I suppose his back was still a trifle sore from his impressive effort with Dr. Dolder's Volkswagen; but the headmaster didn't pay any attention to his back, either. He simply seized Mary Magdalene around her middle; he gave a grunt--and nothing happened. Mary Magdalene, and all that she represented, was not as easy to throw around as a Volkswagen.
"I suppose you think this is funny!" the headmaster said to the assembled school; but nobody was laughing. "Well, I'll tell you what this is," said Randy White. "This is a crime," he said. "This is vandalism, this is theft--and desecration! This is willful abuse of personal, even sacred property."
One of the students yelled. "What's the hymn?" the student yelled.
"What did you say?" Randy White said.
"Tell us the number of the hymn!" someone shouted.
"What's the hymn?" said a few more students--in unison.
I had not seen the Rev. Mr. Merrill climb--I suppose, shakily--to the stage; when I noticed him, he was standing beside the martyred Mary Magdalene. "The hymn is on page three-eighty-eight," Pastor Merrill said clearly. The headmaster spoke sharply to him, but we couldn't hear what the headmaster said--there was too much creaking of benches and bumping of hymnals as we rose to sing. I don't know what influenced Mr. Merrill's choice of the hymn. If Owen had told me about his dream, I might have found the hymn especially ominous; but as it was, it was simply familiar--a frequent choice, probably because it was victorious in tone, and squarely in that category of "pilgrimage and conflict," which is often so inspiring to young men.
The Son of God goes forth to war, A king-ly crown to gain;
His blood-red ban-ner streams a-far; Who follows in his train?
Who best can drink his cup of woe, Tri-um-phant o-ver pain,
Who patient bears his cross be-low, He follows in his train.
It was a hymn that Owen liked, and we belted it out; we sang much more heartily--much more defiantly--than usual. The headmaster had nowhere to stand; he occupied the center stage--but with nothing to stand behind, he looked exposed and unsure of himself. As we roared out the hymn, the Rev. Lewis Merrill appeared to gain in confidence--and even in stature. Although he didn't look exactly comfortable beside the headless Mary Magdalene, he stood so close to her that the podium light shone on him, too. When we finished the hymn, the Rev. Mr. Merrill said: "Let us pray. Let us pray for Owen Meany," he said.
It was very quiet in The Great Hall, and although our heads were bowed, our eyes were on the headmaster. We waited for Mr. Merrill to begin. Perhaps he was trying to begin, I thought; then I realized that--awkward as ever--he had meant for us to pray for Owen. What he'd meant was that we were to offer our silent prayers for Owen Meany; and as the silence went on, and on, it became clear that the Rev. Lewis Merrill had no intention of hurrying us. He was not a brave man, I thought; but he was trying to be brave. On and on, we prayed and prayed; and if I had known about Owen's dream, I would have prayed much harder.
Suddenly, the headmaster said, "That's enough."
"I'm s-s-s-sorry," Mr. Merrill stuttered, "but I'll say when it's 'enough.'"
I think that was when the headmaster realized he had lost; he realized then that he was finished. Because, what could he do? Was he going to tell us to stop praying? We kept our heads bowed; and we kept praying. Even as awkward as he was, the Rev. Mr. Merrill had made it clear to us that there was no end to praying for Owen Meany.
After a while, Randy White left the stage; he had the good sense, if not the decency, to leave quietly--we could hear his careful footsteps on the marble staircase, and the morning ice was still so brittle that we could even hear him crunching his way on the path outside the Main Academy Building. When we could no longer hear his footsteps in our silent prayers for Owen Meany, Pastor Merrill said, "Amen."
Oh God, how often I have wished that I could relive that moment; I didn't know how to pray very well then--I didn't even believe in prayer. If I were given the opportunity to pray for Owen Meany now, I could do a better job of it; knowing what I know now, I might be able to pray hard enough.
It would have helped me, of course, if I could have seen his diary; but he wasn't offering it--he was keeping his diary to himself. So often in its pages he had written his name--his full name--in the big block letters he called MONUMENT STYLE or GRAVESEND LETTERING; so many times he had transcribed, in his diary, his name exactly the way he had seen it on Scrooge's grave. And I mean, before all the ROTC business--even before he was thrown out of school and knew that the U.S. Army would be his ticket through college. I mean, before he knew he was signing up--even then he had written his name in that way you see names inscribed on graves.
1LT PAUL O. MEANY, JR.
That's how he wrote it; that was what the Ghost of the Future had seen on Scrooge's grave; that and the date--the date was written in the diary, too. He wrote the date in the diary many, many times, but he never told me what it was. Maybe I could have helped him, if I'd known that date. Owen believed he knew when he was going to die; he also believed he knew his rank--he would die a first lieutenant.
And after the dream, he believed he knew more. The certainty of his convictions was always a little scary, and his diary entry about the dream is no exception.
Yesterday I was kicked out of school. Last night I had a dream. Now I know four things. I know that my voice doesn't change--but I still don't know why. I know that I am God's instrument. I know when I'm going to die--and now a dream has shown me how I'm going to die. I'm going to be a hero! I trust that God will help me, because what I'm supposed to do looks very hard.
8
The Finger
* * *
Until the summer of 1962, I felt that I couldn't wait to grow up and be treated with the kind of respect I imagined adults were routinely offered and adamantly thought they deserved--I couldn't wait to wallow in the freedom and the privileges I imagined grown-ups enjoyed. Until that summer, my long apprenticeship to maturity struck me as arduous and humiliating; Randy White had confiscated my fake draft card, and I wasn't yet old enough to buy beer--I wasn't independent enough to merit my own place to live, I wasn't earning enough to afford my own car, and I wasn't something enough to persuade a woman to bestow her sexual favors upon me. Not one woman had I ever persuaded! Until the summer of '62, I thought that childhood and adolescence were a purgatory without apparent end; I thought that youth, in a word, "sucked." But Owen Meany, who believed he knew when and how he was going to die, was in no hurry to grow up. And as to my calling the period of our youth a "purgatory," Owen said simply, "THERE IS NO PURGATORY--THAT'S A CATHOLIC INVENTION. THERE'S LIFE ON EARTH, THERE'S HEAVEN--AND THERE'S HELL."
"I think life on earth is hell," I said.
"I HOPE YOU HAVE A NICE SUMMER," Owen said.
It was the first summer we spent apart. I suppose I should be grateful for that summer, because it afforded me my first glimpse of what my life without Owen would be like--you might say, it prepared me. By the end of the summer of 1962, Owen Meany had made me afraid of what the next phase was going to be. I didn't want to grow up anymore; what I wanted was for Owen and me to go on being kids for the rest of our lives--sometimes Canon Mackie tells me, rather ungenerously, that I have succeeded. Canon Campbell, God Rest His Soul, used to tell me that being a kid for the rest of my life was a perfectly honorable aspiration.