by John Irving
“I CAN’T BELIEVE THAT YOUR UPBRINGING AND YOUR EDUCATION HAVE BEEN WASTED ON YOU,” he said. “WHY STUDY HISTORY OR LITERATURE—NOT TO MENTION RELIGIOUS KNOWLEDGE AND SCRIPTURE AND ETHICS? WHY NOT DO ANYTHING—IF THE ONLY REASON NOT TO IS NOT TO GET CAUGHT?” he asked. “DO YOU CALL THAT MORALITY? DO YOU CALL THAT RESPONSIBLE? THE PRESIDENT IS ELECTED TO UPHOLD THE CONSTITUTION; TO PUT THAT MORE BROADLY, HE’S CHOSEN TO UPHOLD THE LAW— HE’S NOT GIVEN A LICENSE TO OPERATE ABOVE THE LAW, HE’S SUPPOSED TO BE OUR EXAMPLE!”
Remember that? Remember then?
I remember what Owen said about “Project 100,000,” too—remember that? That was a draft program outlined by the secretary of defense, Robert McNamara, in 1966. Of the first 240,000 taken into the military between 1966 and 1968, 40 percent read below sixth-grade level, 41 percent were black, 75 percent came from low-income families, 80 percent had dropped out of high school. “The poor of America have not had the opportunity to earn their fair share of this nation’s abundance,” Secretary McNamara said, “but they can be given an opportunity to serve in their country’s defense.”
That made Owen Meany hopping mad.
“DOES HE THINK HE’S DOING ‘THE POOR OF AMERICA’ SOME FAVOR?” Owen cried. “WHAT HE’S SAYING IS, YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE WHITE—OR A GOOD READER—TO DIE! THAT’S SOME ‘OPPORTUNITY’! I’LL BET ‘THE POOR OF AMERICA’ ARE REALLY GOING TO BE GRATEFUL FOR THIS!”
Toronto: July 11, 1987—it’s been so hot, I wish Katherine would invite me up to her family’s island in Georgian Bay; but she has such a large family, I’m sure she’s suffered her share of houseguests. I have fallen into a bad habit here: I buy The New York Times almost every day. I don’t exactly know why I want or need to know anything more.
According to The New York Times, a new poll has revealed that most Americans believe that President Reagan is lying; what they should be asked is, Do they care?
I wrote Katherine and asked her when she was going to invite me to Georgian Bay. “When are you going to rescue me from my own bad habits?” I asked her. I wonder if you can buy The New York Times in Pointe au Baril Station; I hope not.
Larry’s mother, Mitzy Lish, had honey-colored, slightly sticky-looking hair—it was coiffed in a bouffant style—and her complexion was much improved by a suntan; in the winter months, when she’d not just returned from her annual pilgrimage to Round Hill, Jamaica, her skin turned a shade sallow. Because her complexion was further wrecked by blotchiness in the extreme cold, and because her excessive smoking had ill-influenced her circulation, a weekend of winter skiing in New England—even to forward the cause of her competition for her son’s affection—did not favor either Mrs. Lish’s appearance or her disposition. Yet it was impossible not to see her as an attractive “older” woman; she was not quite up to President Kennedy’s standards, but Mitzy Lish was a beauty by any standard Owen and I had to compare her to.
Hester’s early-blooming eroticism, for example, had not been improved by her carelessness or by alcohol; even though Mrs. Lish smoked up a storm, and her amber hair was dyed (because she was graying at her roots), Mrs. Lish looked sexier than Hester.
She wore too much gold and silver for New Hampshire; in New York, I’m sure, she was certainly in vogue—but her clothes and her jewelry, and her bouffant, were more suited to the kind of hotels and cities where “evening” or formal clothes are standard. In Gravesend, she stood out; and it is hard to imagine that there was a small skiers’ lodge in New Hampshire, or in Vermont, that ever could have pleased her. She had ambitions beyond the simple luxury of a private bath; she was a woman who needed room service—who wanted her first cigarette and her coffee and her New York Times before she got out of bed. And then she would need sufficient light and a proper makeup mirror, in front of which she would require a decent amount of time; she would be snappish if ever she was rushed.
Her days in New York, before lunch, consisted only of cigarettes and coffee and The New York Times—and the patient, loving task of making herself up. She was an impatient woman, but never when applying her makeup. Lunch with a fellow gossip, then; or, these days, following her divorce, with her lawyer or a potential lover. In the afternoon, she’d have her hair done or she’d do a little shopping; at the very least, she’d buy a few new magazines or see a movie. She might meet someone for a drink, later. She possessed all the up-to-date information that often passes for intelligence among people who make a daily and extensive habit of The New York Times—and the available, softer gossip—and she had oodles of time to consume all this contemporary news. She had never worked.
She took quite a lot of time for her evening bath, too, and then there was the evening makeup to apply; it irritated her to make any dinner plans that required her presence before eight o’clock—but it irritated her more to have no dinner plans. She didn’t cook—not even eggs. She was too lazy to make real coffee; the instant stuff went well enough with her cigarettes and her newspaper. She would have been an early supporter of those sugar-free, diet soft drinks—because she was obsessed with losing weight (and opposed to exercise).
She blamed her troublesome complexion on her ex-husband, who had been stressful to live with; and their divorce had cut her out of California—where she preferred to spend the winter months, where it was better for her skin. She swore her pores were actually larger in New York. But she maintained the Fifth Avenue apartment with a vengeance; and included in her alimony was the expense of her annual pilgrimage to Round Hill, Jamaica—always at a time in the winter when her complexion had become intolerable to her—and a summer rental in the Hamptons (because not even Fifth Avenue was any fun in July and August). A woman of her sophistication—and used to the standard of living she’d grown accustomed to, as Herb Lish’s wife and the mother of his only child—simply needed the sun and the salt air.
She would be a popular divorcée for quite a number of years; she would appear in no hurry to remarry—in fact, she’d turn down a few proposals. But, one year, she would either anticipate that her looks were going, or she would notice that her looks had gone; it would take her more and more time in front of the makeup mirror—simply to salvage what used to be there. Then she would change; she would become quite aggressive on the subject of her second marriage; she realized it was time. Pity whatever boyfriend was with her at this time; he would be blamed for leading her on—and worse, for never allowing her to develop a proper career. There was no honorable course left to him but to marry the woman he had made so dependent on him—whoever he was. She would say he was the reason she’d never stopped smoking, too; by not marrying her, he had made her too nervous to stop smoking. And her oily complexion, formerly the responsibility of her ex-husband, was now the present boyfriend’s fault, too; if she was sallow, she was sallow because of him.
He was also the cause of her announced depression. Were he to leave her—were he to abandon her, to not marry her—he could at the very least assume the financial burden of maintaining her psychiatrist. Without his aggravation, after all, she would never have needed a psychiatrist.
How—you may ask—do I, or did I, “know” so much about my classmate’s unfortunate mother, Mitzy Lish? I told you that Gravesend Academy students were—many of them—very sophisticated; and none of them was more “sophisticated” than Larry Lish. Larry told everyone everything he knew about his mother; imagine that! Larry thought his mother was a joke.
But in January of 1962, Owen Meany and I were terrified of Mrs. Lish. She wore a fur coat that was responsible for the death of countless small mammals, she wore sunglasses that completely concealed her opinion of Owen and me—although we were sure, somehow, that Mrs. Lish thought we were rusticated to a degree that defied our eventual education; we were sure that Mrs. Lish would rather suffer the agonies of giving up smoking than suffer such boredom as an evening in our company.
“HELLO, MISSUS LISH,” said Owen Meany. “IT’S NICE TO SEE YOU AGAIN.”
“Hello!” I said. “How are you?”
/> She was the kind of woman who drank nothing but vodka-tonics, because she cared about her breath; because of her smoking, she was extremely self-conscious about her breath. Nowadays, she’d be the kind of woman who’d carry one of those breath-freshening atomizers in her purse—gassing herself with the atomizer, all day long, just in case someone might be moved to spontaneously kiss her.
“Go on, tell him,” Larry Lish said to his mother.
“My son says you doubt that the president fools around,” Mrs. Lish said to Owen. When she said “fools around,” she opened her fur—her perfume rushed out at us, and we breathed her in. “Well, let me tell you,” said Mitzy Lish, “he fools around—plenty.”
“WITH MARILYN MONROE?” Owen asked Mrs. Lish.
“With her—and with countless others,” Mrs. Lish said; she wore a little too much lipstick—even for 1962—and when she smiled at Owen Meany, we could see a smear of lipstick on one of her big, upper-front teeth.
“DOES JACKIE KNOW?” Owen asked Mrs. Lish.
“She must be used to it,” Mrs. Lish said; she appeared to relish Owen’s distress. “What do you think of that?” she asked Owen; Mitzy Lish was the kind of woman who bullied young men, too.
“I THINK IT’S WRONG,” said Owen Meany.
“Is he for real?” Mrs. Lish asked her son. Remember that? Remember when people used to ask if you were “for real”?
“Isn’t he a classic?” Larry Lish asked his mother.
“This is the editor-in-chief of your school newspaper?” Mrs. Lish asked her son; he was laughing.
“That’s right,” Larry Lish said; his mother really cracked him up.
“This is the valedictorian of your class?” Mitzy Lish asked Larry.
“Yes!” Larry said; he couldn’t stop laughing. Owen was so serious about being the valedictorian of our class that he was already writing his commencement speech—and it was only January. In many schools, they don’t even know who the class valedictorian is until the spring term; but Owen Meany’s grade-point average was perfect—no other student was even close.
“Let me ask you something,” Mrs. Lish said to Owen. “If Marilyn Monroe wanted to sleep with you, would you let her?” I thought that Larry Lish was going to fall down—he was laughing so hard. Owen looked fairly calm. He offered Mrs. Lish a cigarette, but she preferred her own brand; he lit her cigarette for her, and then he lit one for himself. He appeared to be thinking over the question very carefully.
“Well? Come on,” Mrs. Lish said seductively. “We’re talking Marilyn Monroe—we’re talking the most perfect piece of ass you can imagine! Or don’t you like Marilyn Monroe?” She took off her sunglasses; she had very pretty eyes, and she knew it. “Would you or wouldn’t you?” she asked Owen Meany. She winked at him; and then, with the painted nail of her long index finger, she touched him on the tip of his nose.
“NOT IF I WERE THE PRESIDENT,” Owen said. “AND CERTATNLY NOT IF I WERE MARRIED!”
Mrs. Lish laughed; it was something between a hyena and the sounds Hester made in her sleep when she’d been drinking.
“This is the future?” Mitzy Lish asked. “This is the head of the class of the country’s most prestigious fucking school—and this is what we can expect of our future leaders?”
No, Mrs. Lish—I can answer you now. This was not what we could expect of our future leaders. This was not where our future would lead us; our future would lead us elsewhere—and to leaders who bear little resemblance to Owen Meany.
But, at the time, I was not bold enough to answer her. Owen, however, was no one anyone could bully—Owen Meany accepted what he thought was his fate, but he would not tolerate being treated lightly.
“OF COURSE, I’M NOT THE PRESIDENT,” Owen said shyly. “AND I’M NOT MARRIED, EITHER. I DON’T EVEN KNOW MARILYN MONROE, OF COURSE,” he said. “AND SHE PROBABLY WOULDN’T EVER WANT TO SLEEP WITH ME. BUT—YOU KNOW WHAT?” he asked Mrs. Lish, who was—with her son—overcome with laughter. “IF YOU WANTED TO SLEEP WITH ME—I MEAN NOW, WHEN I’M NOT THE PRESIDENT, AND I’M NOT MARRIED—WHAT THE HELL,” Owen said to Mitzy Lish, “I SUPPOSE I’D TRY IT.”
Have you ever seen dogs choke on their food? Dogs inhale their food—they’re quite dramatic chokers. I never saw anyone stop laughing as quickly as Mrs. Lish and her son—they stopped cold.
“What did you say to me?” Mrs. Lish asked Owen.
“WELL? COME ON,” said Owen Meany. “WOULD YOU OR WOULDN’T YOU?” He didn’t wait for an answer; he shrugged. We were standing in the dry, dusty stink of cigarettes that was the commonplace air in the editorial offices of The Grave, and Owen simply walked over to the coat tree and removed his red-and-black-checkered hunter’s cap and his jacket of the same well-worn material; then he walked out in the cold, which so ill-affected Mrs. Lish’s troublesome complexion. Larry Lish was such a coward, he never said a word to Owen—nor did he jump on Owen’s back and pound Owen’s head into the nearest snowbank. Either Larry was a coward or he knew that his mother’s “honor” was not worth such a robust defense; in my opinion, Mitzy Lish was not worth a defense of any kind.
But our headmaster, Randy White, was a chivalrous man—he was a gallant of the old school, when it came to defending the weaker sex. Naturally, he was outraged to hear of Owen’s insulting remarks to Mrs. Lish; naturally, he was grateful for the Lishes’ support of the Capital Fund Drive, too. “Naturally,” Randy White assured Mrs. Lish, he would “do something” about the indignity she had suffered.
When Owen and I were summoned to the headmaster’s office, we did not know everything that Mitzy Lish had said about the “incident”—that was how Randy White referred to it.
“I intend to get to the bottom of this disgraceful incident,” the headmaster told Owen and me. “Did you or did you not proposition Missus Lish in the editorial offices of The Grave?” Randy White asked Owen.
“IT WAS A JOKE,” said Owen Meany. “SHE WAS LAUGHING AT ME, AT THE TIME—SHE MADE IT CLEAR THAT SHE THOUGHT I WAS A JOKE,” he said, “AND SO I SAID SOMETHING THAT I THOUGHT WAS APPROPRIATE.”
“How could you ever think it was ‘appropriate’ to proposition a fellow student’s mother?” Randy White asked him. “On school property!” the headmaster added.
Owen and I found out, later, that the business about the proposition occurring “on school property” had especially incensed Mrs. Lish; she’d told the headmaster that this was surely “grounds for dismissal.” It was Larry Lish who told us that; he didn’t like us, but Larry was a trifle ashamed that his mother was so intent on having Owen Meany thrown out of school.
“How could you think it ‘appropriate’ to proposition a fellow student’s mother?” Randy White repeated to Owen.
“I MEANT THAT MY REMARKS WERE ‘APPROPRIATE’ TO HER BEHAVIOR,” Owen said.
“She was rude to him,” I pointed out to the headmaster.
“SHE MADE FUN OF ME BEING THE CLASS VALEDICTORIAN,” said Owen Meany.
“She laughed out loud at Owen,” I said to Randy White. “She laughed in his face—she bullied him,” I added.
“SHE WAS SEXY WITH ME!” Owen said.
At the time, neither Owen nor I were capable of putting into words the correct description of the kind of sexual bully Mrs. Lish was; maybe even Randy White would have understood our animosity toward a woman who lorded her sexual sophistication over us so cruelly—over Owen, in particular. She had flirted with him, she had taunted him, she had humiliated him—or she had tried to. What right did she have to be insulted by his rudeness to her, in return?
But I couldn’t articulate this when I was nineteen and fidgeting in the headmaster’s office.
“You asked another student’s mother if she would sleep with you—in the presence of her own son!” said Randy White.
“YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND THE CONTEXT,” said Owen Meany.
“Tell me the ‘context,’” said Randy White.
Owen looked stricken.
“MISSUS LISH REVEALED TO US SOME
PARTICULARLY DAMNING AND UNPLEASANT GOSSIP,” Owen said. “SHE SEEMED PLEASED AT HOW THE NATURE OF THE GOSSIP UPSET ME.”
“That’s true, sir,” I said.
“What was the gossip?” asked Randy White. Owen was silent.
“Owen—in your own defense, for God’s sake!” I said.
“SHUT UP!” he told me.
“Tell me what she said to you, Owen,” the headmaster said.
“IT WAS VERY UGLY,” said Owen Meany, who actually thought he was protecting the president of the United States! Owen Meany was protecting the reputation of his commander-in-chief!
“Tell him, Owen!” I said.
“IT IS CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION,” Owen said. “YOU’LL JUST HAVE TO BELIEVE ME—SHE WAS UGLY. SHE DESERVED A JOKE—AT HER OWN EXPENSE,” Owen said.
“Missus Lish says that you crudely propositioned her in front of her son—I repeat, ‘crudely,’” said Randy White. “She says you were insulting, you were lewd, you were obscene—and you were anti-Semitic,” the headmaster said.
“IS MISSUS LISH JEWISH?” Owen asked me. “I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW SHE WAS JEWISH!”
“She says you were anti-Semitic,” the headmaster said.
“BECAUSE I PROPOSITIONED HER?” Owen asked.
“Then you admit that you ‘propositioned’ her?” Randy White asked him. “Suppose she’d said ‘Yes’?”
Owen Meany shrugged. “I DON’T KNOW,” he said thoughtfully. “I SUPPOSE I WOULD HAVE—WOULDN’T YOU?” he asked me. I nodded. “I KNOW YOU WOULDN’T!” Owen said to the headmaster—“BECAUSE YOU’RE MARRIED,” he added. “THAT WAS SORT OF THE POINT I WAS MAKING—WHEN SHE BEGAN TO MAKE FUN OF ME,” he told Randy White. “SHE ASKED ME IF I’D ‘DO IT’ WITH MARILYN MONROE,” Owen explained, “AND I SAID, ‘NOT IF I WERE MARRIED,’ AND SHE STARTED LAUGHING AT ME.”
“Marilyn Monroe?” the headmaster said. “How did Marilyn Monroe get involved in this?”
But Owen would say no more. Later, he told me, “THINK OF THE SCANDAL! THINK OF SUCH A RUMOR LEAKING TO THE NEWSPAPERS!”
