A prayer for Owen Meany: a novel

by John Irving

  "The gravestone said, 'Paul O. Meany, Junior'-is that right?" I asked him.

  "IT SAID THE WHOLE THING," Owen repeated. He hung up. He was so crazy, he drove me crazy! I stayed up drinking orange juice and eating cookies; I put some fresh bacon in the mousetrap and turned out the light. Like my mother, I hate darkness; in the dark, it came to me-what he meant by THE WHOLE THING. I turned on the light; I called him back.

  "MERRY CHRISTMAS," he said.

  ' 'Was there a date on the gravestone?'' I asked him. He gave himself away by hesitating.

  "NO," he said.

  "What was the date, Owen?" I asked him. He hesitated again.

  "THERE WAS NO DATE," Owen said. I wanted to cry-not because I believed a single thing about his stupid "vision," but because it was the first time he had lied to me.

  "Merry Christmas," I said; I hung up. When I turned the light out a second time, there was more darkness in the darkness. What was the date? How much time had he given himself? The only question that I wanted to ask the darkness was the one question Scrooge had also wanted an answer to: " 'Are these the shadows of the things that Will be or are they shadows of the things that May be, only?' " But the Ghost of the Future was not answering.

  THE VOICE

  ABOVE ALL THINGS that she despised, what my grandmother loathed most was lack of effort; this struck Dan Needham as a peculiar hatred, because Harriet Wheelwright had never worked a day in her life-nor had she ever expected my mother to work; and she never once assigned me a single chore. Nevertheless, in my grandmother's view, it required nearly constant effort to keep track of the world-both our own world and the world outside the sphere of Gravesend-and it required effort and intelligence to make nearly constant comment on one's observations; in these efforts, Grandmother was rigorous and unswerving. It was her belief in the value of effort itself that prevented her from buying a television set. She was a passionate reader, and she thought that reading was one of the noblest efforts of all; in contrast, she found writing to be a great waste of time-a childish self-indulgence, even messier than finger painting-but she admired reading, which she believed was an unselfish activity that provided information and inspiration. She must have thought it a pity that some poor fools had to waste their lives writing in order for us to have sufficient reading material. Reading also gave one confidence in and familiarity with language, which was a necessary tool for forming those nearly constant Comments on what one had observed. Grandmother had her doubts about the radio, although she conceded that the modem world moved at such a pace that keeping up with it defied the written word; listening, after all, required some effort, and the language one heard on the radio was not much worse than the language one increasingly stumbled over in newspapers and magazines. But she drew the line at television. It took no effort to watch-it was infinitely more beneficial to the soul, and to the intelligence, to read or to listen-and what she imagined there was to watch on TV appalled her; she had, of course, only read about it. She had protested to the Soldiers' Home, and to the Gravesend Retreat for the Elderly-both of which she served as a trustee-that making television sets available to old people would surely hasten their deaths. She was unmoved by the claim made by both these homes for the aged: that the inmates were often too feeble or inattentive to read, and that the radio put them to sleep. My grandmother visited both homes, and what she observed only confirmed her opinions; what Harriet Wheelwright always observed always confirmed her opinions: she saw the process of death hastened. She saw very old, infirm people with their mouths agape; although they were, at best, only partially alert, they gave their stuporous attention to images that my grandmother described as "too surpassing in banality to recall." It was the first time she had actually seen television sets that were turned on, and she was hooked. My grandmother observed that television was draining what scant life remained in the old people "clean out of them"; yet she instantly craved a TV of her own! My mother's death, which was followed in less than a year by Lydia's death, had much to do with Grandmother's decision to have a television installed at Front Street. My mother had been a big fan of the old Victrola; in the evenings, we'd listened to Sinatra singing with the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra- my mother liked to sing along with Sinatra. "That Frank," she used to say. "He's got a voice that's meant for a woman-but no woman was ever that lucky." I remember a few of her favorites; when I hear them, I'm still tempted to sing along- although I don't have my mother's voice. I don't have Sinatra's voice, either-nor his bullying patriotism. I don't think my mother would have been fond of Sinatra's politics, but she liked what she called his "early" voice, in particular those songs from Sinatra's first sessions with Tommy Dorsey. Because she liked to sing along with Sinatra, she preferred his voice before the war-when he was more subdued and less of a star, when Tommy Dorsey kept him in balance with the band. Her favorite recordings were from -"I'll Be Seeing You," "Fools Rush In," "I Haven't Time to Be a Millionaire," "It's a Lovely Day Tomorrow," "All This and Heaven, Too," "Where Do You Keep Your Heart?," "Trade Winds," "The Call of the Canyon"; and, most of all, "Too Romantic."

  I had my own radio, and after Mother died, I listened to it more and more; I thought it would upset my grandmother to play-on the Victrola-those old Sinatra songs. When Lydia was alive, my grandmother seemed content with her reading; either she and Lydia took turns reading to each other, or they forced Germaine to read aloud to them-while they rested their eyes and exercised their acute interest in educating Germaine. But after Lydia died, Germaine refused to read aloud to my grandmother; Germaine was convinced that her reading aloud to Lydia had either killed Lydia or had hastened her death, and Germaine was resolute in not wanting to murder Grandmother in a similar fashion. For a while, my grandmother read aloud to Germaine; but this afforded no opportunity for Grandmother to rest her eyes, and she would often interrupt her reading to make sure that Germaine was paying proper attention. Germaine could not possibly pay attention to the subject-she was so intent on keeping herself alive for the duration of the reading. You can see that this was a home already vulnerable to invasion by television. Ethel, for example, would never be the companion to my grandmother that Lydia had been. Lydia had been an alert and appreciative audience to my grandmother's nearly constant comments, but Ethel was entirely unresponsive-efficient but uninspired, dutiful but passive. Dan Needham sensed that it was Ethel's lack of spark that made my grandmother feel old; yet whenever Dan suggested to Grandmother that she might replace Ethel with someone livelier, my grandmother defended Ethel with bulldog loyalty. Wheelwrights were snobs but they were fair-minded; Wheelwrights did not fire their servants because they were stodgy and dull. And so Ethel stayed, and my grandmother grew old-old and restless to be entertained; she was vulnerable to invasion by television, too. Germaine, who was terrified when my grandmother read to her-and too terrified to read aloud to Grandmother at all-had too little to do; she resigned. Wheelwrights accept resignations graciously, although I was sorry to see Germaine go. The desire she had provoked in me-as distasteful as it was to me at the time-was a clue to my father; moreover, the lustful fantasies that Germaine provided were, although evil, more entertaining to me than anything I could hear on my radio. With Lydia gone, and with me spending half my days and nights with Dan, Grandmother didn't need two maids; there was no reason to replace Germaine-Ethel would suffice. And with Germaine gone, / was vulnerable to invasion by television, too.

  "YOUR GRANDMOTHER IS GETTING A TELEVISION!" said Owen Meany. The Meanys did not have a television. Dan didn't have one, either; he'd voted against Eisenhower in ', and he'd promised himself that he wouldn't buy a TV as long as Ike was president. Even the Eastmans didn't have a television. Uncle Alfred wanted one, and Noah and Simon and Hester begged to have one; but TV reception was still rather primitive in the north country, Sawyer Depot received mostly snow, and Aunt Martha refused to build a tower for the necessary antenna-it would be too "unsightly," she said, although Uncle Alfred wanted a television so badly that he claimed he
would construct an antenna tower capable of interfering with low-flying planes if it could get him adequate reception.

  "You're getting a televisionT" Hester said to me on the phone from Sawyer Depot. "You lucky little prick!" Her jealousy was thrilling to hear. Owen and I had no idea what would be on television. We were used to the Saturday matinees at the decrepit Gravesend movie house, inexplicably called The Idaho-after the faraway western state or the potato of that name, we never knew. The Idaho was partial to Tarzan films, and-increasingly-to biblical epics. Owen and I hated the latter: in his view, they were SACRILEGIOUS; in my opinion, they were boring. Owen was also critical of Tarzan movies.

  "ALL THAT STUPID SWINGING ON VINES-AND THE VINES NEVER BREAK. AND EVERY TIME HE GOES SWIMMING, THEY SEND IN THE ALLIGATORS OR THE CROCODILES-ACTUALLY, I THINK IT'S ALWAYS THE SAME ALLIGATOR OR CROCODILE; THE POOR CREATURE IS TRAINED TO WRESTLE WITH TARZAN. IT PROBABLY LOVES TARZAN! AND IT'S ALWAYS THE SAME OLD ELEPHANT STAMPEDING- AND THE SAME LION, THE SAME LEOPARD, THE

  SAME STUPID WARTHOG! AND HOW CAN JANE STAND HIM? HE'S SO STUPID; ALL THESE YEARS HE'S BEEN MARRIED TO JANE, AND HE STILL CAN'T SPEAK ENGLISH. THE STUPID CHIMPANZEE IS SMARTER," Owen said. But what really made him cross were the Pygmies; they gave him THE SHIVERS. He wondered if the Pygmies got jobs in other movies; he worried that their blowguns with their poison darts would soon be popular with JUVENILE GANGS.

  "Where?" I asked. "What juvenile gangs?"

  "MAYBE THEY'RE IN BOSTON," he said. We had no idea what to expect from Grandmother's television. There may have been Pygmy movies on The Late Show in , but Owen and I were not allowed to watch The Late Show for several years; my grandmother-for all her love of effort and regulation-imposed no other rules about television upon us. For all I know, there may not have been a Late Show as long ago as ; it doesn't matter. The point is, my grandmother was never a censor; she simply believed that Owen and I should go to bed at a "decent" hour. She watched television all day, and every evening; at dinner, she would recount the day's inanities to me-or to Owen, or Dan, or even Ethel-and she would offer a hasty preview of the absurdities available for nighttime viewing. On the one hand, she became a slave to television; on the other hand, she expressed her contempt for nearly everything she saw and the energy of her outrage may have added years to her life. She detested TV with such passion and wit that watching television and commenting on it-sometimes, commenting directly to it-became her job. There was no manifestation of contemporary culture that did not indicate to my grandmother how steadfast was the nation's decline, how merciless our mental and moral deterioration, how swiftly all-embracing our final decadence. I never saw her read a book again; but she referred to books often-as if they were shrines and cathedrals of learning that television had plundered and then abandoned. There was much on television that Owen and I were unprepared for; but what we were most unprepared for was my grandmother's active participation in almost everything we saw. On those rare occasions when we watched television without my grandmother, we were disappointed; without Grandmother's running, scathing commentary, there were few programs that could sustain our interest. When we watched TV alone, Owen would always say, "I CAN JUST HEAR WHAT YOUR GRANDMOTHER WOULD MAKE OF THIS."

  Of course, there is no heart-however serious-that finds the death of culture entirely lacking in entertainment; even my grandmother enjoyed one particular television show. To my surprise, Grandmother and Owen were devoted viewers of the same show-in my grandmother's case, it was the only show for which she felt uncritical love; in Owen's case, it was his favorite among the few shows he at first adored. The unlikely figure who captured the rarely uncritical hearts of my grandmother and Owen Meany was a shameless crowd pleaser, a musical panderer who chopped up Chopin and Mozart and Debussy into two- and three-minute exaggerated flourishes on a piano he played with diamond-studded hands. He at times played a see-through, glass-topped piano, and he was proud of mentioning the hundreds of thousands of dollars that his pianos cost; one of his diamond rings was piano-shaped, and he never played any piano that was not adorned with an ornate candelabrum. In the childhood of television, he was an idol-largely to women older than my grandmother, and of less than half her education; yet my grandmother and Owen Meany loved him. He'd once appeared as a soloist for the Chicago Symphony, when he was only fourteen, but now-in his wavy-haired thirties-he was a man who was more dedicated to the visual than to the acoustic. He wore floor-length furs and sequined suits; he crammed sixty thousand dollars' worth of chinchilla onto one coat; he had a jacket of twenty-four-karat gold braid; he wore a tuxedo with diamond buttons that spelled out his name.

  "LIBERACE!" Owen cried, every time he saw the man; his TV show appeared ten times a week. He was a ridiculous peacock of a man with a honey-coated, feminine voice and dimples so deep that they might have been the handiwork of a ball peen hammer.

  "Why don't I slip out and get into something more spectacular?" he would coo; each time, my grandmother and Owen would roar with approval, and Liberace would return to his piano, having changed his sequins for feathers. Liberace was an androgynous pioneer, I suppose-preparing the society for freaks like Elton John and Boy George-but I could never understand why Owen and Grandmother liked him. It certainly wasn't his music, for he edited Mozart in such

  a jaunty fashion that you thought he was playing "Mack the Knife"; now and then he played "Mack the Knife," too.

  "He loves his mother," my grandmother would say, in Liberace's defense-and, in truth, it seemed to be true; not only did he ooh and aah about his mother on TV, but it was reported that he actually lived with the old lady until she died-in !

  "HE GAVE HIS BROTHER A JOB," Owen pointed out, "AND I DON'T THINK GEORGE IS ESPECIALLY TALENTED.' ' Indeed, George, the silent brother, played a straight-man's violin until he left the act to become the curator of the Liberace Museum in Las Vegas, where he died-in . But where did Owen get the idea that Liberace was ESPECIALLY TALENTED? To me, his principal gift was how unselfconsciously he amused himself-and he was capable of making fun of himself, too. But my grandmother and Owen Meany twittered over him as hysterically as the blue-haired ladies in Liberace's TV audience did-especially when the famous fool skipped into the audience to dance with them!

  "He actually likes old people!" my grandmother said in wonder.

  "HE WOULD NEVER HURT ANYONE!" said Owen Meany admiringly. At the time, I thought he was a fruitcake, but a London columnist who made a similar slur regarding Liberace's sexual preferences lost a libel judgment to him. (That was in ; on the witness stand, Liberace testified that he was opposed to homosexuality. I remember how Owen and my grandmother cheered!) And so, in , my excitement over the new television at Front Street was tempered by the baffling love of my grandmother and Owen Meany for Liberace. I felt quite excluded from their mindless worship of such a kitschy phenomenon-my mother would never have sung along with Liberace!-and I expressed my criticism, as always, to Dan. Dan Needham took a creative, often a positive view of misfortune; many faculty members in even the better secondary schools are failures-in-hiding-lazy men and women whose marginal authority can be exercised only over adolescents; but Dan was never one of these. Whether he hoped to retire at Gravesend Academy when he first fell in love and married my mother, I'll never know; but her loss, and his reaction to that injustice, caused him to devote himself to the development of the education of "the whole boy" in ways that surpassed even the loftily expressed goals in Gravesend's curriculum-where "the whole boy" was the proposed result of the four-year program of study. Dan became the best of those faculty found at a prep school: he was not only a spirited, good teacher, but he believed that it was a hardship to be young, that it was more difficult to be a teenager than a grown-up-an opinion not widely held among grown-ups, and rarely held among the faculty members at a private school (who more frequently look upon their charges as the privileged louts of the luxury class-spoiled brats in need of discipline). Dan Needham, although he encountered at Gravesend Academy many spoiled brat
s in need of discipline, simply had more sympathy for people under twenty than he had for people his own age, and older-although he increased his sympathy for the elderly, who (he believed) were suffering a second adolescence and (like the boys at Gravesend) required special care.

  "Your grandmother is getting old," Dan told me. "She's suffered losses-her husband, your mother. And Lydia- although neither your grandmother nor Lydia knew it-was possibly your grandmother's closest friend. Ethel is no better company than a fire hydrant. If your grandmother loves Liberace, don't fault her for that. Don't be such a snob! If someone makes her happy, don't complain," Dan said. But if it was tolerable to be Grandmother's age and adore Liberace, it was intolerable that Owen Meany should also love that simpering, piano-key smile.

  "I'm sick of how smart Owen thinks he is," I said to Dan. "If he's so smart, how can he like Liberace-at his age?"

  "Owen is smart," Dan said. "He's smarter than even he knows. But he is not worldly," Dan added. "God knows-in his family-what terrible superstitions he's grown up with! His father is an uneducated mystery, and no one knows the measure of his mother's mental problems-she's in such a lunatic state, we can't even guess how insane she is! Maybe Owen likes Liberace because Liberace couldn't exist in Graves-end. Why does he think he'd be so happy in Sawyer Depot?" Dan asked me. "Because he's never been there."

  I thought Dan was right; but Dan's theories about Owen were always a little too complete. When I told Dan that Owen remained convinced he had seen the exact date of his own death-and that he refused to tell me what the special day was-Dan too neatly put that problem to rest along with the

  superstitions Owen's parents had subjected him to; I couldn't help thinking that Owen was more creative, and more responsible, than that. And if Dan was one of the gifted and tirelessly unselfish faculty members at the academy, his sincere devotion to the goal of "the whole boy" may have blinded him to the faults of the school-and especially to the many flawed members of the faculty and the administration. Dan believed that Gravesend Academy could rescue anyone. All that Owen needed was to survive until he was old enough to enter the academy. Owen's naturally good mind would mature when confronted with the academic challenges; Owen's superstitions would vanish in the company of the academy's more worldly students. Like many dedicated educators, Dan Needham had made education his religion; Owen Meany lacked only the social and intellectual stimulation that a good school could provide. At Gravesend Academy, Dan was sure, the brute-stupid influence of Owen's parents would be washed clean away-as cleanly as the ocean at Little Boar's Head could wash the quarry dust from Owen's body. My Aunt Martha and Uncle Alfred couldn't wait for Noah and Simon to be old enough to attend Gravesend Academy. The Eastmans, like Dan, believed in the powers of a good private-school education-specifically, in the case of Noah and Simon, in the power to rescue those two daredevils from the standard fates of rural, north country boys: the marriage of driving fast on the back roads, and beer; and the trailer-park girls in the back seats of those cars, those girls who successfully conspired to get pregnant before their high-school graduations. Like many boys who are sent off to private schools, my cousins Noah and Simon had a wildness within them that couldn't be safely contained by their homes or their communities; they had dangerous edges in need of blunting. Everyone suspected that the rigors of a good school would have the desired, dulling effect on Noah and Simon-Gravesend Academy would assault them with a host of new demands, of impossible standards. The sheer volume (if not the value) of the homework would tire them out, and everyone knew that tired boys were safer boys; the numbing routine, the strict attentions paid to the dress code, the regulations regarding only the most occasional and highly chaperoned encounters with the female sex ... all this would certainly civilize them. Why my Aunt Martha and Uncle Alfred were less concerned with civilizing Hester remains a mystery to me. That Gravesend Academy did not admit girls, in those days, should not have influenced the Eastmans' decision to send or not to send Hester off to a private school; there were plenty of private schools for girls, and Hester was in as much need of rescuing from the wildness within her-and from the rural, north country rituals of her sex-as Noah and Simon were in need of saving. But in this interim period of time-when Noah and Simon and Owen and I were all waiting to be old enough to attend the academy-Hester began to resent that there were no plans being made for her salvation. The idea that she was not in need of rescuing would surely have insulted her; and the notion that my aunt and uncle might have considered her beyond saving would have hurt her in another way.