by John Irving
"YOU THINK VIETNAM IS DANGEROUS," he said. "YOU OUGHT TO TRY LIVING WITH HESTERl"
But he was so exasperating! How could anyone live with Owen Meany and, knowing what he thought he knew, not be moved to beat the shit out of him? We sat on the breakwater until it grew dark and the mosquitoes began to bother us.
"Are you hungry?" I asked him. He pointed to his lower lip, which was still bleeding. "I
DON'T THINK I CAN EAT ANYTHING," he said, "BUT I'LL GO WITH YOU."
We went to one of those clam-shack restaurants on "the strip." I ate a lot of fried clams and Owen sipped a beer- through a straw. The waitress knew us-she was a University of New Hampshire girl.
"You better get some stitches in that lip before it falls off," she told Owen. We drove-Owen in the tomato-red pickup, and I followed him in my Volkswagen-to the emergency room of the Gravesend Hospital. It was a slow night-not the summer, and not a weekend-so we didn't have to wait long. There was a hassle concerning how he intended to pay for his treatment.
"SUPPOSE I CAN'T PAY?" he asked. "DOES THAT MEAN YOU DON'T TREAT ME?"
I was surprised that he had no health insurance; apparently, there was no policy for coverage in his family and he hadn't even paid the small premium asked of students at the university for group benefits. Finally, I said that the hospital could send the bill to my grandmother; everyone knew who Harriet Wheelwright was-even the emergency-room receptionist- and, after a phone call to Grandmother, this method of payment was accepted.
"WHAT A COUNTRY!" said Owen Meany, while a nervous-looking young doctor-who was not an American- put four stitches in his lower lip. "AT LEAST WHEN I GET IN THE ARMY, I'LL HAVE SOME HEALTH INSURANCE!"
Owen said he was ashamed to take money from my grandmother-"SHE'S ALREADY GIVEN ME MORE THAN I DESERVED!" But when we arrived at Front Street, a different problem presented itself.
"Merciful Heavens, Owen!" my grandmother said. "You've been in afightl"
"I JUST FELL DOWNSTAIRS," he said.
"Don't you lie to me, Owen Meany!" Grandmother said.
"I WAS ATTACKED BY JUVENILE DELINQUENTS AT HAMPTON BEACH," Owen said.
"Don't you lie to me!" Grandmother repeated. I could see that Owen was struggling to ascertain the effect upon my grandmother of telling her that her granddaughter had beaten the shit out of him; Hester-except for her vomiting- was always relatively subdued around Grandmother. Owen pointed to me. "HE DID IT," Owen said.
"Merciful Heavens!" my grandmother said. "You should be ashamed of yourself!" she said to me.
"I didn't mean to," I said. "We weren't having a reed fight-we were just roughhousing."
"IT WAS DARK," said Owen Meany. "HE COULDN'T SEE ME VERY CLEARLY."
"You should still be ashamed of yourself!'' my grandmother said to me.
"Yes," I said. This little misunderstanding seemed to cheer up Owen. My grandmother commenced to wait on him, hand and foot-and Ethel was summoned and directed to concoct something nourishing for him in the blender: a fresh pineapple, a banana, some ice cream, some brewer's yeast. "Something the poor boy can drink through a straw!" my grandmother said.
"YOU CAN LEAVE OUT THE BREWER'S YEAST," said Owen Meany. After my grandmother went to bed, we sat up watching The Late Show and he teased me about my new reputation-as a bully. The movie on The Late Show was at least twenty years old-Betty Grable in Moon over Miami, The music, and the setting, made me think of the place called The Orange Grove and my mother performing as "The Lady in Red." I would probably never know any more about that, I thought.
"You remember the play you were going to write?" I asked Owen. "About the supper club-about 'The Lady in Red'?"
"SURE, I REMEMBER. YOU DIDN'T WANT ME TO DO FT," he said.
"I thought you might have done it, anyway," I said.
"I STARTED IT-A COUPLE OF TIMES," he said. "IT WAS HARDER THAN I THOUGHT-TO MAKE UP A STORY."
Carole Landis was in Moon over Miami, and Don Ameche; remember them? It's a story about husband-hunting in Florida. Just the glow of the television lit Owen's face when he said, "YOU'VE GOT TO LEARN TO FOLLOW THINGS THROUGH-IF YOU CARE ABOUT SOMETHING, YOU'VE GOT TO SEE IT ALL THE WAY TO THE END, YOU'VE GOT TO TRY TO FINISH IT. I'LL BET YOU NEVER EVEN LOOKED IN A BOSTON TELEPHONE DIRECTORY-FOR A BUSTER FREEBODY," he said.
"It's a made-up name," I said.
"IT'S THE ONLY NAME WE KNOW," Owen said.
"No, I didn't look it up," I said.
"YOU SEE?" he said. "THERE ACTUALLY ARE A FEW FREEBODYS-BUT NO 'BUSTER,' " he said.
"Maybe 'Buster' is just a nickname," I said-with more interest now.
"NONE OF THE FREEBODYS I SPOKE WITH HAD EVER HEARD OF A 'BUSTER,' " said Owen Meany. "AND THE OLD PEOPLE'S HOMES WON'T RELEASE A LIST OF NAMES-DO YOU KNOW WHY?" he asked me.
"Why?" I asked him.
"BECAUSE CRIMINALS COULD USE THE NAMES TO FIND OUT WHO'S NO LONGER LIVING AT HOME. IF THE SAME NAME IS STILL IN THE PHONE BOOK- AND IF THE HOUSE OR THE APARTMENT HASN'T BEEN REOCCUPIED-THEN THE CRIMINALS HAVE FOUND AN EASY PLACE TO ROB: NOBODY HOME. THAT'S WHY THE OLD PEOPLE'S HOMES DON'T GIVE OUT ANY NAMES," he said. "INTERESTING, HUH? IF IT'S TRUE," he added.
"You've been busy," I said; he shrugged.
"AND THE LISTINGS IN THE YELLOW PAGES- THOSE PLACES THAT OFFER 'LIVE MUSIC,' " he said. "NOT ONE OF THOSE PLACES IN ALL OF BOSTON HAS EVER HEARD OF A BIG BLACK BUSTER FREEBODY! IT WAS SO LONG AGO, BUSTER FREEBODY MUST BE DEAD."
"I'd hate to see your phone bill," I told him.
"I USED HESTER'S PHONE," he said.
"I'm surprised she didn't beat the shit out of you for that," I said.
"SHE DID," Owen said; he turned his face away from the glowing light of the TV. "I WOULDN'T TELL HER WHAT THE PHONE CALLS WERE ABOUT, AND SHE THOUGHT I HAD ANOTHER GIRLFRIEND."
"Why don't you have another girlfriend?" I asked him; he shrugged again.
"SHE DOESN'T BEAT ME UP ALL THE TIME," Owen said. What could I say? I didn't even have a girlfriend.
"We ought to think about our trip," I said to him. "We've got thirty days coming up-where do you want to go?"
"SOMEWHERE WARM," said Owen Meany.
"It's warm everywhere-in June," I reminded him.
"I'D LIKE TO GO WHERE THERE ARE PALM TREES," Owen said. We watched Moon over Miami for a while, in silence.
"We could drive to Florida," I said.
"NOT IN THE PICKUP," he said. "THE PICKUP WOULDN'T MAKE IT TO FLORIDA."
"We could take my Volkswagen," I said. "We could drive to California in the Beetle-no problem."
"BUT WHERE WOULD WE SLEEP?" Owen asked me. "I CAN'T AFFORD MOTELS."
"Grandmother would lend us the money," I said.
"I'VE TAKEN ENOUGH MONEY FROM YOUR GRANDMOTHER," he said.
"Well, / could lend you the money," I said.
"IT'S THE SAME MONEY," said Owen Meany.
"We could take a tent-and sleeping bags," I said. "We could camp out."
"I'VE THOUGHT OF THAT," he said. "IF WE CARRY A LOT OF CAMPING STUFF, WE'D BE BETTER OFF IN THE PICKUP-BUT THE PICKUP WOULD DIE ON US, ON A TRIP OF THAT DISTANCE."
Was there anything Owen Meany hadn't thought of before I'd thought of it? I wondered.
"WE DON'T HAVE TO GO WHERE THERE ARE PALM TREES-IT WAS JUST AN IDEA," Owen said. We weren't in the mood for Moon over Miami; a story about husband-hunting requires a special mood. Owen went out to the pickup and got his flashlight; then we walked up Front Street to Linden Street-past the Gravesend High School to the cemetery. The night was still warm, and not especially dark. As graves go, my mother's grave looked pretty nice. Grandmother had planted a border of crocuses and daffodils and tulips, so that even in the spring there was color; and Grandmother's touch with-roses was evident by the well-pruned rose bush that took very firm grasp of the trellis that stood like a comfortable headboard directly behind my mother's grave. Owen played the flashlight over the beveled edges of the gravestone; I'd seen better work with the diamond wheel-Owen's work was much, much better. But I
never supposed that Owen had been old enough to fashion my mother's stone.
"MY FATHER WAS NEVER AN EXPERT WITH THE DIAMOND WHEEL," Owen observed.
Dan Needham had recently placed a fresh bouquet of spring flowers in front of the gravestone, but Owen and I could still manage to see the lettering of my mother's name-and the appropriate dates.
"If she were alive, she'd be forty-three!'' I said. "Imagine that."
"SHE'D STILL BE BEAUTIFUL!" said Owen Meany. When we were walking back along Linden Street, I was thinking that we could take a trip "Down East," as people in New Hampshire say-by which they mean, along the coast of Maine, all the way to Nova Scotia.
"Could the pickup make it to Nova Scotia?" I asked Owen. "Suppose we just took it easy, and drove along the coast of Maine-not in any hurry, not caring about when we arrived in Nova Scotia, not even caring if we ever arrived there-do you think the pickup could handle that?"
"I'VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT THAT," he said. "YES, I THINK WE COULD DO THAT-IF WE DIDN'T TRY TO DRIVE TOO MANY MILES IN ONE DAY. WITH THE PICKUP WE COULD CERTAINLY CARRY ALL THE CAMPING GEAR WE'D EVER NEED-WE COULD EVEN PITCH THE TENT IN THE BACK OF THE PICKUP, IF WE EVER HAD A PROBLEM FINDING DRY OR LEVEL GROUND. ..."
"That would be fun!" I said. "I've never been to Nova Scotia-I've never been very far into Maine."
On Front Street, we stopped to pet someone's cat.
"I'VE ALSO BEEN THINKING ABOUT SAWYER DEPOT," said Owen Meany.
"What about it?" I asked him.
"I'VE NEVER BEEN THERE, YOU KNOW," he said.
"It's not really very interesting in Sawyer Depot," I said cautiously. I didn't think my Aunt Martha and Uncle Alfred would welcome Owen Meany into their home with open arms; and considering what had just happened with Hester, I wondered what attraction Sawyer Depot still had for Owen.
"I'D JUST LIKE TO SEE IT," he said. "I'VE HEARD SO MUCH ABOUT IT. EVEN IF THE EASTMANS WOULDN'T WANT ME IN THE HOUSE, PERHAPS YOU COULD SHOW ME LOVELESS LAKE-AND THE BOAT-HOUSE, AND MAYBE THE MOUNTAIN WHERE ALL OF YOU WENT SKIING. AND FIREWATER!" he said.
"Firewater's been dead for years!" I told him.
"OH," he said. My grandmother's driveway looked like a parking lot. There was Grandmother's old Cadillac, and my Volkswagen Beetle, and the dusty tomato-red pickup; and parked at the rear of the line was Hester's hand-me-down ' Chevy. She must have been out looking for Owen; and when she'd seen the pickup in Grandmother's driveway, she must have gone into Front Street to find him. We found her asleep on the couch; the only light that flashed over her was the ghastly, bone-colored glow from the TV, which she had turned to another channel-apparently, Hester hadn't been in the mood for Moon over Miami, either. She had fallen asleep watching Duchess of Idaho.
"HESTER HATES ESTHER WILLIAMS, UNLESS ESTHER IS UNDERWATER," said Owen Meany. He went and sat beside Hester on the couch; he touched her hair, then her cheek. I switched the channel; there was never just one Late Show-not anymore. Moon over Miami was over; something called The Late, Late Show had begun in its place-John Wayne, in Operation Pacific.
"HESTER HATES JOHN WAYNE," Owen said, and Hester woke up. John Wayne was in a submarine in World War Two; he was battling the Japanese.
"I'm not watching a war movie," Hester said; she turned on the lamp on the end table next to the couch-she examined the stitches in Owen's lip closely. "How many?" she asked him.
"FOUR," he told her. She kissed him very softly on his upper lip and on the tip of his nose, and on the corners of his mouth-being very careful not to kiss the stitches. "I'm sorry! I love you!" she whispered to him.
"I'M OKAY," said Owen Meany. I flicked through the channels until I found something interesting- Sherlock Holmes in Terror by Night, with Basil Rathbone.
"I can't remember if I've seen this one," Hester said.
"I know I've seen it, but I can't remember it," I said.
"IT'S THE ONE WITH THE JEWEL ON THE TRAIN-IT'S A PRETTY GOOD ONE," said Owen Meany. He curled up next to Hester on the couch; he laid his head against her bosom, and she cradled him in her arms. In a few minutes, he was fast asleep.
"Better turn the volume down," Hester whispered to me. When I looked at her-to see if I'd lowered the volume enough-she was crying.
"I think I'll go to bed," I told her quietly. "I've seen Sherlock Holmes a hundred times."
"We'll stay a while," Hester said. "Good night."
"He wants to go to Sawyer Depot," I told her.
"I know," she said. I lay in bed awake a long time. When I heard their voices in the driveway, I got up and went into my mother's empty bedroom; from the window there, I could see them. The curtains were never drawn in my mother's bedroom, in memory of how she had hated the darkness. It was almost dawn, and Hester and Owen were discussing how they would drive back to Durham.
"I'll follow you," Hester said.
"NO, I'LL FOLLOW YOU," he told her. Then I graduated from the University of New Hampshire-a B.A. in English, cum laude. Owen just plain graduated- Second Lieutenant Paul O. Meany, Jr., with a B.S. in Geology. He was not reassigned to a combat branch; he was ordered to report to Fort Benjamin Harrison in Indiana, where he would undertake an eight- to ten-week course in Basic Administration for the Adjutant General's Corps. After that, the Army wanted him to report to a communications command in Arizona. Although the Army might later send him anywhere in the country-or even to Saigon-they were assigning him to a desk job.
"SECOND LIEUTENANTS ARE SUPPOSED TO BE PLATOON LEADERS'!" said Owen Meany. Naturally, Hester and I had to conceal how pleased we were. Even in Vietnam, the Adjutant General's Corps was not a branch with a high rate of casualties. We knew he wouldn't give up; every few months he would fill out another Personnel Action Form, requesting a new assignment-and he claimed that Colonel Eiger had provided him with the name and telephone number of someone in the Pentagon, a certain major who allegedly supervised the personnel files and assignments of the junior officers. Hester and I knew better than to ever underestimate Owen's powers of manipulation. But, for the moment, we thought he was safe; and the U.S. Army, I believed, was not as easy to manipulate as a children's Christmas pageant.
"What exactly does the Adjutant General's Corps doT' I asked him cautiously. But he wouldn't discuss it.
"THIS IS JUST AN INTERIM ASSIGNMENT," said Owen Meany. Dan and I had to laugh; it was funny to think of him suffering through a Basic Administration course in Indiana when what he had imagined for himself was jumping out of a helicopter and hacking his way through a jungle with his machete and his M-. Owen was angry, but he wasn't depressed; he was irritable, but he was determined. Then one evening I was walking through the Gravesend Academy campus and I saw the tomato-red pickup parked in the circular driveway from which poor Dr. Dolder's Volkswagen Beetle had been elevated to its moment in history. The headlights of the pickup were shining across the vast lawn in front of the Main Academy Building; the lawn was full of chairs. Rows upon rows of chairs, and the benches from The Great Hall, were spread out across the lawn-I would estimate that there was seating for five hundred people. It was that time of the year when Gravesend Academy hoped it wouldn't rain; the chairs and benches were assembled for the annual commencement. If it rained-to everyone's sorrow-there was no place large enough to hold the commencement, except the gym; not even The Great Hall would hold the crowd. Commencement had been outdoors the year I graduated- the year Owen should have graduated, the year he should have been our class valedictorian. Hester was sitting by herself in the cab of the pickup; she motioned to me to get in and sit beside her.
' 'Where is he?'' I asked her. She pointed into the path of the pickup truck's headlights. Beyond the rows upon rows of chairs and benches was a makeshift stage, draped with the Gravesend Academy banner and dotted with chairs for the dignitaries and the speakers; at the center of this stage was the podium, and at the podium was Owen Meany. He was looking out over the hundreds of empty seats-he appeared to be a little blinded by the pickup truck's headlights, but he needed the
light in order to see his valedictory speech, which he was reading.
"He doesn't want anyone to hear it-he just wants to say it," Hester said. When he joined Hester and me in the cab of the pickup, I
said to him: "I would have liked to hear that. Won't you read it to us?"
"IT'S OVER," said Owen Meany. "IT'S JUST SOME OLD HISTORY."
And so we departed for the north country-for Sawyer Depot, and Loveless Lake. We took the pickup; we did not take Hester. I'm not sure if she wanted to come. She had made the effort to speak to her parents; Uncle Alfred and Aunt Martha were always happy to see me, and they were polite-if not exactly warm-to Owen Meany. We spent the first night of our trip in the Eastmans' house in Sawyer Depot. I slept in Noah's bed; Noah was in the Peace Corps-I believe he was teaching Forestry, or "Forest Management," to Nigerians. Uncle Alfred referred to what Noah was doing as a' 'ticket''- Africa, or the Peace Corps, was Noah's "ticket out of Vietnam," Uncle Alfred said. That summer, Simon was running the sawmill; over the years, Simon had injured his knees so often-skiing-that Simon's knees were his ticket out of Vietnam.- Simon had a -F deferment; he was judged physically unfit for service. "Unless the country is invaded by aliens," Simon said, "good old Uncle Sam won't take me!"
Owen referred to his course in Basic Administration for the Adjutant General's Corps as TEMPORARY. Arizona would also be TEMPORARY, Owen said. Uncle Alfred was very respectful of Owen's desire to go to Vietnam, but Aunt Martha-over our elegant dinner-questioned the war's "morality."
"YES, I QUESTION THAT, TOO," said Owen Meany. "BUT I FEEL ONE HAS TO SEE SOMETHING FIRSTHAND TO BE SURE. I'M CERTAINLY INCLINED TO AGREE WITH KENNEDY'S ASSESSMENT OF THE VIETNAMESE PROBLEM-WAY BACK IN NINETEEN SIXTY-THREE. YOU MAY RECALL THAT THE PRESIDENT SAID: 'WE CAN HELP THEM, WE CAN GIVE THEM EQUIPMENT, WE CAN SEND OUR MEN OUT THERE AS ADVISERS, BUT THEY HAVE TO WIN IT, THE PEOPLE OF VIETNAM.' I THINK THAT POINT IS STILL VALID-AND IT'S CLEAR TO ALL OF US THAT THE 'PEOPLE OF VIETNAM' ARE NOT WINNING THE WAR. WE APPEAR TO BE TRYING TO WIN IT FOR THEM.
