A Prayer for Owen Meany

up at that instant and saw Owen, too. She screamed.

"I didn't think he was human," she told me later. And from that moment of his introduction to my cousins, I would frequently consider the issue of exactly how human Owen Meany was; there is no doubt that, in the dazzling configurations of the sun that poured through the attic skylight, he looked like a descending angel--a tiny but fiery god, sent to adjudicate the errors of our ways.

When Hester screamed, she frightened Owen so much that he screamed back at her--and when Owen screamed, my cousins were not only introduced to his rare voice; their movements were suddenly arrested. Except for the hairs on the backs of their necks, they froze--as they would if they'd heard a cat being slowly run over by a car. And from deep in a distant part of the great house, my grandmother spoke out: "Merciful Heavens, it's that boy again!"

I was trying to catch my breath, to say, "This is my best friend, the one I told you about," because I had never seen my cousins gape at anyone with such open mouths--and, in Hester's case, a mouth from which spilled much purple thread--but Owen was quicker.

"WELL, IT SEEMS I HAVE INTERRUPTED WHATEVER GAME THAT WAS YOU WERE PLAYING," Owen said. "MY NAME IS OWEN MEANY AND I'M YOUR COUSIN'S BEST FRIEND. PERHAPS HE'S TOLD YOU ALL ABOUT ME. I'VE CERTAINLY HEARD ALL ABOUT YOU. YOU MUST BE NOAH, THE OLDEST," Owen said; he held out his hand to Noah, who shook it mutely. "AND OF COURSE YOU'RE SIMON, THE NEXT OLDEST--BUT YOU'RE JUST AS BIG AND EVEN A LITTLE WILDER THAN YOUR BROTHER. HELLO, SIMON," Owen said, holding out his hand to Simon, who was panting and sweating from his furious journey on the sewing machine, but who quickly took Owen's hand and shook it. "AND OF COURSE YOU'RE HESTER," Owen said, his eyes averted. "I'VE HEARD A LOT ABOUT YOU, AND YOU'RE JUST AS PRETTY AS I EXPECTED."

"Thank you," Hester mumbled, pulling thread out of her mouth, tucking her T-shirt into her blue jeans.

My cousins stared at him, and I feared the worst; but I suddenly realized what small towns are. They are places where you grow up with the peculiar--you live next to the strange and the unlikely for so long that everything and everyone become commonplace. My cousins were both small-towners and outsiders; they had not grown up with Owen Meany, who was so strange to them that he inspired awe--yet they were no more likely to fall upon him, or to devise ways to torture him, than it was likely for a herd of cattle to attack a cat. And in addition to the brightness of the sun that shone upon him, Owen's face was blood-red--throbbing, I presumed, from his riding his bike into town; for a late November bike ride down Maiden Hill, given the prevailing wind off the Squamscott, was bitter cold. And even before Thanksgiving, the weather had been cold enough to freeze the freshwater part of the river; there was black ice all the way from Gravesend to Kensington Corners.

"WELL, I'VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT WHAT WE COULD DO," Owen announced, and my unruly cousins gave him their complete attention. "THE RIVER IS FROZEN, SO THE SKATING IS VERY GOOD, AND I KNOW YOU ENJOY VERY ACTIVE THINGS LIKE THAT--THAT YOU ENJOY THINGS LIKE SPEED AND DANGER AND COLD WEATHER. SO SKATING IS ONE IDEA," he said, "AND EVEN THOUGH THE RIVER IS FROZEN, I'M SURE THERE ARE CRACKS SOMEWHERE, AND EVEN PLACES WHERE THERE ARE HOLES OF OPEN WATER--I FELL IN ONE LAST YEAR. I'M NOT SUCH A GOOD SKATER, BUT I'D BE HAPPY TO GO WITH YOU, EVEN THOUGH I'M GETTING OVER A COLD, SO I SUPPOSE I SHOULDN'T BE OUTSIDE FOR LONG PERIODS OF TIME IN THIS WEATHER."

"No!" Hester said. "If you're getting over a cold, you should stay inside. We should play indoors. We don't have to go skating. We go skating all the time."

"Yes!" Noah agreed. "We should do something indoors, if Owen's got a cold."

"Indoors is best!" Simon said. "Owen should get over his cold." Perhaps my cousins were all relieved to hear that Owen was "getting over a cold" because they thought this might partially explain the hypnotic awfulness of Owen's voice; I could have told them that Owen's voice was uninfluenced by his having a cold--and his "getting over a cold" was news to me--but I was so relieved to see my cousins behaving respectfully that I had no desire to undermine Owen's effect on them.

"WELL, I'VE BEEN THINKING THAT INDOORS WOULD BE BEST, TOO," Owen said. "AND UNFORTUNATELY I REALLY CAN'T INVITE YOU TO MY HOUSE, BECAUSE THERE'S REALLY NOTHING TO DO IN THE HOUSE, AND BECAUSE MY FATHER RUNS A GRANITE QUARRY, HE'S RATHER STRICT ABOUT THE EQUIPMENT AND THE QUARRIES THEMSELVES, WHICH ARE OUTDOORS, ANYWAY. INDOORS, AT MY HOUSE, WOULD NOT BE A LOT OF FUN BECAUSE MY PARENTS ARE RATHER STRANGE ABOUT CHILDREN."

"That's no problem!" Noah blurted.

"Don't worry!" Simon said. "There's lots to do here, in this house."

"Everyone's parents are strange!" Hester told Owen reassuringly, but I couldn't think of anything to say. In the years I'd known Owen, the issue of how strange his parents were--not only "about children"--had never been discussed between us. It seemed, rather, the accepted knowledge of the town, not to be mentioned--except in passing, or in parentheses, or as an aside among intimates.

"WELL, I'VE BEEN THINKING THAT WE COULD PUT ON YOUR GRANDFATHER'S CLOTHES--YOU'VE TOLD YOUR COUSINS ABOUT THE CLOTHES?" Owen asked me; but I hadn't. I thought they would think that dressing up in Grandfather's clothes was either baby play, or morbid, or both; or that they would surely destroy the clothes, discovering that merely dressing up in them was insufficiently violent--therefore leading them to a game, the object of which was to rip the clothes off each other; whoever was naked last won.

"Grandfather's clothes?" Noah said with unaccustomed reverence.

Simon shivered; Hester nervously plucked purple thread from here and there.

And Owen Meany--at the moment, our leader--said, "WELL, THERE'S ALSO THE CLOSET WHERE THE CLOTHES ARE KEPT. IT CAN BE SCARY IN THERE, IN THE DARK, AND WE COULD PLAY SOME KIND OF GAME WHERE ONE OF US HIDES AND ONE OF US HAS TO FIND WHOEVER IT IS--IN THE DARK. WELL," Owen said, "THAT COULD BE INTERESTING."

"Yes! Hiding in the dark!" Simon said.

"I didn't know those were Grandfather's clothes in there," Hester said.

"Do you think the clothes are haunted, Hester?" Noah asked.

"Shut up," Hester said.

"Let Hester hide in there, in the dark," Simon said, "and we'll take turns trying to find her."

"I don't want you pawing around in the dark for me," Hester said.

"Hester, we just have to find you before you find us," Noah said.

"No, it's who touches who first!" Simon said.

"You touch me, I'll pull your doink, Simon," Hester said.

"Whoa!" Noah said. "That's it! That's the game! We got to find Hester before she pulls our doinks."

"Hester the Molester!" Simon said predictably.

"Only if I'm allowed to get used to the dark!" Hester said. "I get to have an advantage! I'm allowed to get used to the dark--and whoever's looking for me comes into the closet with no chance to get used to how dark it is."

"THERE'S A FLASHLIGHT," Owen Meany said nervously. "MAYBE WE COULD USE A FLASHLIGHT, BECAUSE IT WOULD STILL BE PRETTY DARK."

"No flashlight!" Hester said.

"No!" Simon said. "Whoever goes into the closet after Hester gets the flashlight shined in his face before he goes in--so he's blind, so he's the opposite of being used to the dark!"

"Good idea!" Noah said.

"I get as long as I need to get myself hidden," Hester said. "And to get used to the dark."

"No!" Simon said. "We'll count to twenty."

"A hundred!" Hester said.

"Fifty," Noah said; so it was fifty. Simon started counting, but Hester hit him.

"You've got to wait till I'm completely inside the closet," she said.

As she moved toward the closet, she had to brush past Owen Meany, and a curious thing happened to her when she was next to him. Hester stood still and put her hand out to Owen--her big paw, uncharacteristically tentative and gentle, reached out and touched his face, as if there were a force in Owen's immediate vicinity that compelled the passerby to touch him. Hester touched him, and she smiled--Owen's little face was level with those nubbins of Hester's early bosom, which appeared to be implanted under her T-shirt. Owen was quite accustomed to people feeling compelled to touch him, but in Hester's case he retreated a trifle anxiously from her touch--though not so much that she was offended.

Then Hester went clomping into the closet, stumbling over the shoes, and we heard her rustling among the clothes, and the hangers squeaking on the metal rods, and what sounded like the hatboxes sliding over the overhead shelves--once she said, "Shit!" And another time, "What's that?" By the time the noises quieted down, we had Simon completely dazed under the flashlight's close-up glare; Simon was eager to be first, and by the time we shoved him into the closet, he was certifiably blind--even if he'd been trying to walk around in the daylight. No sooner was Simon inside the closet, and we'd closed the door behind him, than we heard Hester attack him; she must have grabbed his "doink" harder than she'd meant to, because he howled with more pain than surprise, and there were tears in his eyes, and he was still doubled over and holding fast to his private parts when he tumbled out of the closet and rolled upon the attic floor.

"Jesus, Hester!" Noah said. "What did you do to him?"

"I didn't mean to," came her voice from the dark closet.

"No fair pulling the doink and the balls!" Simon cried, still doubled up on the floor.

"I didn't mean to," she repeated sweetly.

"You bitch!" Simon said.

"You're always rough with me, Simon," Hester said.

"You can't be rough with balls and doinks!" Noah said.

But Hester was not talking; we could hear her positioning herself for her next attack, and Noah whispered to Owen and me that since there were two doors to the closet, we should surprise Hester by entering from the other door.

"WHO IS WE?" Owen whispered.

Noah pointed to him, silently, and I shone the flashlight into Owen's wide and darting eyes, which gave his face the sudden anxiety of a cornered mouse.

"No fair grabbing so hard, Hester!" Noah called, but Hester didn't answer.

"SHE'S JUST TRYING TO CONCEAL HER HIDING PLACE," Owen whispered--to reassure himself.

Then Noah and I flung Owen into the closet through the other door: the closet was L-shaped, and by Owen's entering on the short arm of the L, Noah and I figured that he would not encounter Hester before the first corner--and only then if Hester managed to move, because her hiding place would surely be nearer the top of the L.

"No fair using the other door!" Hester promptly called, which Noah and I felt was further to Owen's advantage, since she must have given away her position in the closet--at least, to some general degree. Then there was silence. I knew what Owen was doing: he was hoping that his eyes would grow used to the dark before Hester found him, and he wasn't going to begin to move--to try to find her--until he could see a little.

"What in hell's going on in there?" Simon asked, but there was no sound.

Then we detected the occasional bumping of one of Grandfather's hundreds of shoes. Then silence. Then another slight movement of shoes. As I learned later, Owen was crawling on all fours, because he most feared--and expected--an attack from one of the large, overhead shelves. He had no way of knowing that Hester had stretched herself out on the floor of the closet, and that she had covered herself with one of Grandfather's topcoats, over which she'd positioned the usual number of shoes. She lay motionless, and--except for her head and her hands--invisible. But her head was pointed the wrong way; that is, she had to roll her eyes up into the top of her head and watch Owen Meany approaching her by staring at him upside down, looking over her own forehead and her considerable head of hair. What Owen touched first, as he approached her on all fours, was that live and kinky tangle of Hester's hair, which suddenly moved under his little hand--and Hester's arms reached up over her head, seizing Owen around his waist.

To her credit, Hester never had any intention of grabbing Owen's "doink"; but finding it so easy to hold Owen around the waist, Hester decided to run her hands up his ribs and tickle him. Owen looked extremely susceptible to tickling, which he was, and Hester's gesture was of the friendliest of intentions--especially for Hester--but the combination of putting his hand on live hair, in the dark, coupled with being tickled by a girl who, Owen thought, was merely tickling him en route to grabbing his doink, was too much for him; he wet his pants.

The instant recognition of Owen's accident surprised Hester so much that she dropped him. He fell on top of her--and he wriggled free of her, and out of the closet, and through the trapdoor and down the stairs. Owen ran through the house so fast and noiselessly that even my grandmother failed to notice him; and if my mother hadn't happened to be looking out the kitchen window, she would not have seen him--with his jacket unzipped, and his boots unlaced, and his hat on crooked--mounting his bicycle with some difficulty in the icy wind.

"Jesus, Hester!" Noah said. "What did you do to him?"

"I know what she did to him!" Simon said.

"It wasn't that," Hester said simply. "I just tickled him, and he wet his pants." She did not report this to mock Owen, and--as a testimony to my cousins' basically decent natures--the news was not greeted with their usual rowdiness, which I associated with Sawyer Depot as firmly as various forms of skiing and collision.

"The poor little guy!" Simon said.

"I didn't mean to," Hester said.

My mother called to me and I had to go tell her what had happened to Owen, whereupon she made me put on my outdoor clothes while she started the car. I thought I knew the route Owen would take home, but he must have been pedaling very hard because we did not overtake him by the Gas Works on Water Street, and when we passed Dewey Street without sighting him--and there was no sign of him at Salem Street, either--I began to think he had taken the Swasey Parkway out of town. And so we doubled back, along the Squamscott, but he wasn't there.

We finally found him, already out of town, laboring up Maiden Hill; we slowed down when we saw his red-and-black wool hunter's jacket and the matching checkered cap with the earflaps protruding, and by the time we pulled alongside him, he had run out of steam and had gotten off to walk his bicycle. He knew it was us without looking at us but he wouldn't stop walking--so my mother drove slowly beside him, and I rolled down the window.

"IT WAS AN ACCIDENT, I JUST GOT TOO EXCITED, I HAD TOO MUCH ORANGE JUICE FOR BREAKFAST--AND YOU KNOW I CAN'T STAND BEING TICKLED," Owen said. "NOBODY SAID ANYTHING ABOUT TICKLING."

"Please don't go home, Owen," my mother said.

"Everything's all right," I told him. "My cousins are very sorry."

"I PEED ON HESTER!" Owen said. "AND I'M GOING TO GET IN TROUBLE AT HOME," he said--still walking his bike at a good pace. "MY FATHER GETS MAD ABOUT PEEING. HE SAYS I'M NOT A BABY ANYMORE, BUT SOMETIMES I GET EXCITED."

"Owen, I'll wash and dry your clothes at our house," my mother told him. "You can wear something of Johnny's while yours are drying."

"NOTHING OF JOHNNY'S WILL FIT ME," Owen said. "AND I HAVE TO TAKE A BATH."

"You can take a bath at our house, Owen," I told him. "Please come back."

"I have some outgrown things of Johnny's that will fit you, Owen," my mother said.

"BABY CLOTHES, I SUPPOSE," Owen said, but he stopped walking; he leaned his head on his bike's handlebars.

"Please get in the car, Owen," my mother said. I got out and helped him put his bicycle in the back, and then he slid into the front seat, between my mother and me.

"I WANTED TO MAKE A GOOD IMPRESSION BECAUSE I WANTED TO GO TO SAWYER DEPOT," he said. "NOW YOU'LL NEVER TAKE ME."

I found it incredible that he still wanted to go, but my mother said, "Owen, you can come with us to Sawyer Depot, anytime."

"JOHNNY DOESN'T WANT ME TO COME," he told Mother--as if I weren't there in the car with them.

"It's not that, Owen," I said. "It's that I thought my cousins would be too much for you." And on the evidence of him wetting his pants, I did not say, it struck me that my cousins were too much for him. "That was a very mild game for my cousins, Owen," I added.

"DO YOU THINK I CARE WHAT THEY DO TO ME?" he shouted; he stamped his little foot on the drive-shaft hump.

"DO YOU THINK I CARE IF THEY START AN AVALANCHE WITH ME?" he screamed. "WHEN DO I GET TO GO ANYWHERE? IF I DIDN'T GO TO SCHOOL OR TO CHURCH OR TO EIGHTY FRONT STREET, I'D NEVER GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!" he cried. "IF YOUR MOTHER DIDN'T TAKE ME TO THE BEACH, I'D NEVER GET OUT OF TOWN. AND I'VE NEVER BEEN TO THE MOUNTAINS," he said. "I'VE NEVER EVEN BEEN ON A TRAIN! DON'T YOU THINK I MIGHT LIKE GOING ON A TRAIN--TO THE MOUNTAINS?" he yelled.

My mother stopped the car and hugged him, and kissed him, and told him he was always welcome to come with us, anywhere we went; and I rather awkwardly put my arm around him, and we just sat that way in the car, until he had composed himself sufficiently for his return to 80 Front Street, where he marched in the back door, past Lydia's room and the maids fussing in the kitchen, up the back stairs past the maids' rooms, to my room and my bathroom, where he closed himself in and drew a deep bath. He handed me his sodden clothes, and I brought the clothes to the maids, who began their work on them. My mother knocked on the bathroom door, and, looking the other way, she extended her arm into the room, where Owen took a stack of my outgrown clothes from her--they were not baby clothes, as he had feared; they were just extremely small clothes.

"What shall we do with him?" Hester asked while we were waiting for Owen to join us in the upstairs den--or so it had been called, "the den," when my grandfather was alive; it was a children's room whenever my cousins visited.

"We'll do whatever he wants," Noah said.

"That's what we did the last time!" Simon said.

"Not quite," Hester said.

"WELL, I'VE BEEN THINKING," Owen said when he walked into the den--even pinker than usual; he was spanking clean, as they say, with his hair slicked back. In his stocking feet, he was slipping a little on the hardwood floor; and when he reached the old Oriental, he stood with one foot balanced on top of the other, twisting his hips back and forth as he talked--his hands, like butterflies, flitting up and down between his waist and his shoulders. "I APOLOGIZE FOR BECOMING OVEREXCITED. I THINK I KNOW A GAME THAT WOULD NOT BE QUITE AS EXCITING FOR ME, BUT AT THE SAME TIME I THINK IT WOULD NOT BE BORING FOR YOU," he said.