by John Irving
Some technical difficulties with the harness spared Harold Crosby his first sensation of angelic elevation; we noticed that Harold’s anxiety concerning heights had caused him to forget the lines of his all-important announcement—or else Harold had not properly studied his part, for he couldn’t get past “Be not afraid; for behold, I bring you good news …” without flubbing.
The kings and shepherds could not possibly move slowly enough, following the “pillar of light” in front of the altar toward the arrangement of animals and Mary and Joseph surrounding the commanding presence of the Christ Child enthroned on his mountain of hay; no matter how slowly they moved, they arrived at the touching scene in the stable before the end of the fifth verse of “We Three Kings of Orient Are.” There they had to wait for the end of the carol, and appear to be unsurprised by the choir charging immediately into “Away in a Manger.”
The solution, the Rev. Dudley Wiggin proposed, was to omit the fifth verse of “We Three Kings,” but Owen denounced this as unorthodox. To conclude with the fourth verse was a far cry from ending with the hallelujahs of the fifth; Owen begged us to pay special attention to the words of the fourth verse—surely we did not wish to arrive in the presence of the Christ Child on such a note.
He sang for us, with emphasis—“‘SOR-ROWING, SIGH-ING, BLEED-ING, DY-ING, SEALED IN A STONE-COLD TOMB.’”
“But then there’s the refrain!” Barb Wiggin cried. “‘O star of won-der, star of night,’” she sang, but Owen was unmoved.
The rector assured Owen that the church had a long tradition of not singing every verse of each hymn or carol, but somehow Owen made us feel that the tradition of the church—however long—was on less sure footing than the written word. Five verses in print meant we were to sing all five.
“‘SORROWING, SIGHING, BLEEDING, DYING,’” he repeated. “SOUNDS VERY CHRISTMASY.”
Mary Beth Baird let everyone know that the matter could be resolved if she were allowed to shower some affection upon the Christ Child, but it seemed that the only agreements that existed between Barb Wiggin and Owen were that Mary Beth should not be permitted to maul the Baby Jesus, and that the cows not move.
When the crèche was properly formed, which was finally timed upon the conclusion of the fourth verse of “We Three Kings,” the choir then sang “Away in a Manger” while we shamelessly worshiped and adored Owen Meany.
Perhaps the “swaddling clothes” should have been reconsidered. Owen had objected to being wrapped in them up to his chin; he wanted to have his arms free—possibly, in order to ward off a stumbling cow or donkey. And so they had swaddled the length of his body, up to his armpits, and then crisscrossed his chest with more “swaddling,” and even covered his shoulders and neck—Barb Wiggin made a special point of concealing Owen’s neck, because she said his Adam’s apple looked “rather grown-up.” It did; it stuck out, especially when he was lying down; but then, Owen’s eyes looked “rather grown-up,” too, in that they bulged, or appeared a trifle haunted in their sockets. His facial features were tiny but sharp, not in the least babylike—certainly not in the “pillar of light,” which was harsh. There were dark circles under his eyes, his nose was too pointed for a baby’s nose, his cheekbones too prominent. Why we didn’t just wrap him up in a blanket, I don’t know. The “swaddling clothes” resembled nothing so much as layers upon layers of gauze bandages, so that Owen resembled some terrifying burn victim who’d been shriveled to abnormal size in a fire that had left only his face and arms uncharred—and the “pillar of light,” and the worshipful postures of all of us, surrounding him, made it appear that Owen was about to undergo some ritual unwrapping in an operating room, and we were his surgeons and nurses.
Upon the conclusion of “Away in a Manger,” Mr. Wiggin read again from Luke: “‘When the angel went away from them into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let us go over to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has made known to us.” And they went with haste, and found Mary and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger. And when they saw it they made known the saying which had been told them concerning this child; and all who heard it wondered at what the shepherds told them. But Mary kept all these things, pondering them in her heart.’”
While the rector read, the kings bowed to the Baby Jesus and presented him with the usual gifts—ornate boxes and tins, and shiny trinkets, difficult to distinguish from the distance of the congregation but somehow regal in appearance. A few of the shepherds offered more humble, rustic presents; one of the shepherds gave the Christ Child a bird’s nest.
“WHAT WOULD I DO WITH A BIRD’S NEST?” Owen complained.
“It’s for good luck,” the rector said.
“DOES IT SAY SO IN THE BIBLE?” Owen asked.
Someone said that from the audience the bird’s nest looked like old, dead grass; someone said it looked like “dung.”
“Now now,” Dudley Wiggin said.
“It doesn’t matter what it looks like!” Barb Wiggin said, with considerable pitch in her voice. “The gifts are symbolic.”
Mary Beth Baird foresaw a larger problem. Since the reading from Luke concluded by observing that “Mary kept all these things, pondering them in her heart”—and surely the “things” that Mary so kept and pondered were far more matterful than these trivial gifts—shouldn’t she do something to demonstrate to the audience what a strain on her poor heart it was to do such monumental keeping and pondering?
“What?” Barb Wiggin said.
“WHAT SHE MEANS IS, SHOULDN’T SHE ACT OUT HOW A PERSON PONDERS SOMETHING,” Owen said. Mary Beth Baird was so pleased that Owen had clarified her concerns that she appeared on the verge of hugging or kissing him, but Barb Wiggin moved quickly between them, leaving the controls of the “pillar of light” unattended; eerily, the light scanned our little assembly with a will of its own—appearing to settle on the Holy Mother.
There was a respectful silence while we pondered what possible thing Mary Beth Baird could do to demonstrate how hard her heart was working; it was clear to most of us that Mary Beth would be satisfied only if she could express her adoration of the Christ Child physically.
“I could kiss him,” Mary Beth said softly. “I could just bow down and kiss him—on the forehead, I mean.”
“Well, yes, you could try that, Mary Beth,” the rector said cautiously.
“Let’s see how it looks,” Barb Wiggin said doubtfully.
“NO,” Owen said. “NO KISSING.”
“Why not, Owen?” Barb Wiggin asked playfully. She thought an opportunity to tease him was presenting itself, and she was quick to pounce on it.
“THIS IS A VERY HOLY MOMENT,” Owen said slowly.
“Indeed, it is,” the rector said.
“VERY HOLY,” Owen said. “SACRED,” he added.
“Just on the forehead,” Mary Beth said.
“Let’s see how it looks. Let’s just try it, Owen,” Barb Wiggin said.
“NO,” Owen said. “IF MARY IS SUPPOSED TO BE PONDERING—‘IN HER HEART’—THAT I AM CHRIST THE LORD, THE ACTUAL SON OF GOD … A SAVIOR, REMEMBER THAT … DO YOU THINK SHE’D JUST KISS ME LIKE SOME ORDINARY MOTHER KISSING HER ORDINARY BABY? THIS IS NOT THE ONLY TIME THAT MARY KEEPS THINGS IN HER HEART. DON’T YOU REMEMBER WHEN THEY GO TO JERUSALEM FOR PASSOVER AND JESUS GOES TO THE TEMPLE AND TALKS TO THE TEACHERS, AND JOSEPH AND MARY ARE WORRIED ABOUT HIM BECAUSE THEY CAN’T FIND HIM—THEY’RE LOOKING ALL OVER FOR HIM—AND HE TELLS THEM, WHAT ARE YOU WORRIED ABOUT, WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING FOR ME FOR, ‘DID YOU NOT KNOW THAT I MUST BE IN MY FATHER’S HOUSE?’ HE MEANS THE TEMPLE. REMEMBER THAT? WELL, MARY KEEPS THAT IN HER HEART, TOO.”
“But shouldn’t I do something, Owen?” Mary Beth asked. “What should I do?”
“YOU KEEP THINGS IN YOUR HEART!” Owen told her.
“She should do nothing?” the Rev. Mr. Wiggin asked Owen. The rector, like one of the teachers in the temple, appeared “amazed.” That is how the teachers in the temple are descri
bed—in their response to the Boy Jesus: “All who heard him were amazed at his understanding and his answers.”
“Do you mean she should do nothing, Owen?” the rector repeated. “Or that she should do something less, or more, than kissing?”
“MORE,” Owen said. Mary Beth Baird trembled; she would do anything that he required. “TRY BOWING,” Owen suggested.
“Bowing?” Barb Wiggin said, with distaste.
Mary Beth Baird dropped to her knees and lowered her head; she was an awkward girl, and this sudden movement caused her to lose her balance. She assumed a three-point position, finally—on her knees, with her forehead resting on the mountain of hay, the top of her head pressing against Owen’s hip.
Owen raised his hand over her, to bless her; in a most detached manner, he lightly touched her hair—then his hand hovered above her head, as if he meant to shield her eyes from the intensity of the “pillar of light.” Perhaps, if only for this gesture, Owen had wanted his arms free.
The shepherds and kings were riveted to this demonstration of what Mary pondered in her heart; the cows did not move. Even the hind parts of the donkeys, who could not see the Holy Mother bowing to the Baby Jesus—or anything at all—appeared to sense that the moment was reverential; they ceased their swaying, and the donkeys’ tails hung straight and still. Barb Wiggin had stopped breathing, with her mouth open, and the rector wore the numbed expression of one struck silly with awe. And I, Joseph—I did nothing, I was just the witness. God knows how long Mary Beth Baird would have buried her head in the hay, for no doubt she was ecstatic to have the top of her head in contact with the Christ Child’s hip. We might have maintained our positions in this tableau for eternity—we might have made crèche history, a pageant frozen in rehearsal, each of us injected with the very magic we sought to represent: Nativity forever.
But the choirmaster, whose eyesight was failing, assumed he had missed the cue for the final carol, which the choir sang with special gusto.
Hark! the her-ald an-gels sing, “Glory to the new-born King;
Peace on earth, and mer-cy mild, God and sin-ners rec-on-ciled!”
Joy-ful, all ye na-tions, rise, Join the tri-umph of the skies;
With the an-gel-ic host pro-claim, “Christ is born in Beth-le-hem!”
Hark! the her-ald an-gels sing, “Glo-ry to the new-born King!”
Mary Beth Baird’s head shot up at the first “Hark!” Her hair was wild and flecked with hay; she jumped to her feet as if the little Prince of Peace had ordered her out of his nest. The donkeys swayed again, the cows—their horns falling about their heads—moved a little, and the kings and shepherds regained their usual lack of composure. The rector, whose appearance suggested that of a former immortal rudely returned to the rules of the earth, found that he could speak again. “That was perfect, I thought,” he said. “That was marvelous, really.”
“Shouldn’t we run through it one more time?” Barb Wiggin asked, while the choir continued to herald the birth of “the ever-lasting Lord.”
“NO,” said the Prince of Peace. “I THINK WE’VE GOT IT RIGHT.”
Weekdays in Toronto: 8:00 A.M., Morning Prayer; 5:15 P.M., Evening Prayer; Holy Eucharist every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday. I prefer these weekday services to Sunday worship; there are fewer distractions when I have Grace Church on-the-Hill almost to myself—and there are no sermons. Owen never liked sermons—although I think he would have enjoyed delivering a few sermons himself.
The other thing preferable about the weekday services is that no one is there against his will. That’s another distraction on Sundays. Who hasn’t suffered the experience of having an entire family seated in the pew in front of you, the children at war with each other and sandwiched between the mother and father who are forcing them to go to church? An aura of stale arguments almost visibly clings to the hasty clothing of the children. “This is the one morning I can sleep in!” the daughter’s linty sweater says. “I get so bored!” says the upturned collar of the son’s suit jacket. Indeed, the children imprisoned between their parents move constantly and restlessly in the pew; they are so crazy with self-pity, they seem ready to scream.
The stern-looking father who occupies the aisle seat has his attention interrupted by fits of vacancy—an expression so perfectly empty accompanies his sternness and his concentration that I think I glimpse an underlying truth to the man’s churchgoing: that he is doing it only for the children, in the manner that some men with much vacancy of expression are committed to a marriage. When the children are old enough to decide about church for themselves, this man will stay home on Sundays.
The frazzled mother, who is the lesser piece of bread to this family sandwich—and who is holding down that part of the pew from which the most unflattering view of the preacher in the pulpit is possible (directly under the preacher’s jowls)—is trying to keep her hand off her daughter’s lap. If she smooths out her daughter’s skirt only one more time, both of them know that the daughter will start to cry.
The son takes from his suit jacket pocket a tiny, purple truck; the father snatches this away—with considerable bending and crushing of the boy’s fingers in the process. “Just one more obnoxious bit of behavior from you,” the father whispers harshly, “and you will be grounded—for the rest of the day.”
“The whole rest of the day?” the boy says, incredulous. The apparent impossibility of sustaining unobnoxious behavior for even part of the day weighs heavily on the lad, and overwhelms him with a claustrophobia as impenetrable as the claustrophobia of church itself.
The daughter has begun to cry.
“Why is she crying?” the boy asks his father, who doesn’t answer. “Are you having your period?” the boy asks his sister, and the mother leans across the daughter’s lap and pinches the son’s thigh—a prolonged, twisting sort of pinch. Now he is crying, too. Time to pray! The kneeling pads flop down, the family flops forward. The son manages the old hymnal trick; he slides a hymnal along the pew, placing it where his sister will sit when she’s through praying.
“Just one more thing,” the father mutters in his prayers.
But how can you pray, thinking about the daughter’s period? She looks old enough to be having her period, and young enough for it to be the first time. Should you move the hymnal before she’s through praying and sits on it? Should you pick up the hymnal and bash the boy with it? But the father is the one you’d like to hit; and you’d like to pinch the mother’s thigh, exactly as she pinched her son. How can you pray?
It is time to be critical of Canon Mackie’s cassock; it is the color of pea soup. It is time to be critical of Warden Harding’s wart. And Deputy Warden Holt is a racist; he is always complaining that “the West Indians have taken over Bathurst Street”; he tells a terrible story about standing in line in the copying-machine store—two young black men are having the entire contents of a pornographic magazine duplicated. For this offense, Deputy Warden Holt wants to have the young men arrested. How can you pray?
The weekday services are almost unattended—quiet, serene. The drumming wing-whir of the slowly moving overhead fan is metronomic, enhancing to the concentration—and from the fourth and fifth rows of pews, you can feel the air moving regularly against your face. In the Canadian climate, the fan is supposed to push the warm, rising air down—back over the chilly congregation. But it is possible to imagine you’re in a missionary church, in the tropics.
Some say that Grace Church is overly lighted. The dark-stained, wooden buttresses against the high, vaulted, white-plaster ceiling accentuate how well lit the church is; despite the edifice’s predominance of stone and stained glass, there are no corners lost to darkness or to gloom. Critics say the light is too artificial, and too contemporary for such an old building; but surely the overhead fan is contemporary, too—and not propelled by Mother Nature—and no one complains about the fan.
The wooden buttresses are quite elaborate—they are wainscoted, and even the lines of the wainscoting
are visible on the buttresses, despite their height; that’s how brightly lit the church is. Harold Crosby, or any other Announcing Angel, could never be concealed in these buttresses. Any angel-lowering or angel-raising apparatus would be most visible. The miracle of the Nativity would seem less of a miracle here—indeed, I have never watched a Christmas pageant at Grace Church. I have already seen that miracle; once was enough. The Nativity of ’53 is all the Nativity I need.
That Christmas, the evenings were long; dinners with Dan, or with my grandmother, were slow and solemn. My enduring perception of those nights is that Lydia’s wheelchair needed to be oiled and that Dan complained, with uncharacteristic bitterness, about what a mess amateurs could make of A Christmas Carol. Dan’s mood was not improved by the frequent presence of our neighbor—and Dan’s most veteran amateur—Mr. Fish.
“I’d so looked forward to being Scrooge,” Mr. Fish would say, pretending to stop by 80 Front Street, after dinner, for some other reason—whenever he saw Dan’s car in the driveway. Sometimes it was to once again agree with my grandmother about Gravesend’s pending leash law; Mr. Fish and my grandmother were in favor of leashing dogs. Mr. Fish gave no indication that he was even slightly troubled by his hypocrisy on this issue—for surely old Sagamore would roll over in his grave to hear his former master espousing canine restraints of any kind; Sagamore had run free, to the end.
But it was not the leash law Mr. Fish really cared about; it was Scrooge—a plum part, ruined (in Mr. Fish’s view) by amateur ghosts.
“The ghosts are only the beginning of what’s wrong,” Dan said. “By the end of the play, the audience is going to be rooting for Tiny Tim to die—someone might even rush the stage and kill that brat with his crutch.” Dan was still disappointed that he could not entice Owen to play the plucky cripple, but the little Lord Jesus was unmoved by Dan’s pleas.
