“NEVER MIND,” Owen said. “I’VE NOTHING MORE TO DO WITH THE CATHOLICS.”
“Right,” I said.
We tried to ascertain if Potter would know exactly how many beetleskins he had in his sock drawer—whether he would notice if we opened one of the foil wrappers and examined one of the beetleskins, which naturally, then, we could not put back; we would have to dispose of it. Would Potter miss it? That was the question. Owen determined that an investigation of how organized a boarder Potter was would tell us. Was his underwear all in one drawer, were his
T-shirts folded, were his shoes in a straight line on the closet floor, were his jackets and shirts and trousers separated from each other, did his hangers face the same way, did he keep his pens and pencils together, were his paper clips contained, did he have more than one tube of toothpaste that was open, were his razor blades somewhere safe, did he have a necktie rack or hang his ties willy-nilly? And did he keep the beetleskins because he used them—or were they for show?
In Potter’s closet, sunk in one of his size-11 hiking boots, was a fifth of Jack Daniel’s Old No. 7, Black Label; Owen decided that if Potter risked keeping a bottle of whiskey in his room, the beetleskins were not for show. If Potter used them with any frequency, we imagined, he would not miss one.
The examination of the beetleskin was a solemn occasion; it was the nonlubricated kind—I’m not even sure if there were lubricated rubbers when Owen and I were eleven—and with some difficulty, and occasional pain, we took turns putting the thing on our tiny penises. This part of our lives in the near future was especially hard for us to imagine; but I realize now that the ritual we enacted in Potter’s daring room also had the significance of religious rebellion for Owen Meany—it was but one more affront to the Catholics whom he had, in his own words, ESCAPED.
It was a pity that Owen could not escape the Rev. Dudley Wiggin’s Christmas Pageant. The first rehearsal, in the nave of the church, was held on the Second Sunday of Advent and followed a celebration of the Holy Eucharist. We were delayed discussing our roles because the Women’s Association Report preceded us; the women wished to say that the Quiet Day they had scheduled for the beginning of Advent had been very successful—that the meditations, and the following period of quiet, for reflection, had been well received. Mrs. Walker, whose own term as a Vestry member was expiring—thus giving her even more energy for her Sunday school tyrannies—complained that attendance at the adult evening Bible study was flagging.
“Well, everyone’s so busy at Christmas, you know,” said Barb Wiggin, who was impatient to begin the casting of the pageant—not wanting to keep us potential donkeys and turtledoves waiting. I could sense Owen’s irritation with Barb Wiggin, in advance.
Quite blind to his animosity, Barb Wiggin began—as, indeed, the holy event itself had begun—with the Announcing Angel. “Well, we all know who our Descending Angel is,” she told us.
“NOT ME,” Owen said.
“Why, Owen!” Barb Wiggin said.
“PUT SOMEONE ELSE UP IN THE AIR,” Owen said. “MAYBE THE SHEPHERDS CAN JUST STARE AT THE ‘PILLAR OF LIGHT.’ THE BIBLE SAYS THE ANGEL OF THE LORD APPEARED TO THE SHEPHERDS—NOT TO THE WHOLE CONGREGATION. AND USE SOMEONE WITH A VOICE EVERYONE DOESN’T LAUGH AT,” he said, pausing while everyone laughed.
“But Owen—” Barb Wiggin said.
“No, no, Barbara,” Mr. Wiggin said. “If Owen’s tired of being the angel, we should respect his wishes—this is a democracy,” he added un-convincingly. The former stewardess glared at her ex-pilot husband as if he had been speaking, and thinking, in the absence of sufficient oxygen.
“AND ANOTHER THING,” Owen said. “JOSEPH SHOULD NOT SMIRK.”
“Indeed not!” the rector said heartily. “I had no idea we’d suffered a smirking Joseph all these years.”
“And who do you think would be a good Joseph, Owen?” Barb Wiggin asked, without the conventional friendliness of the stewardess.
Owen pointed to me; to be singled out so silently, with Owen’s customary authority, made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck—in later years, I would think I had been chosen by the Chosen One. But that Second Sunday of Advent, in the nave of Christ Church, I felt angry with Owen—once the hairs on the back of my neck relaxed. For what an uninspiring role it is; to be Joseph—that hapless follower, that stand-in, that guy along for the ride.
“We usually pick Mary first,” Barb Wiggin said. “Then we let Mary pick her Joseph.”
“Oh,” the Rev. Dudley Wiggin said. “Well, this year we can let Joseph pick his Mary! We mustn’t be afraid to change!” he added cordially, but his wife ignored him.
“We usually begin with the angel,” Barb Wiggin said. “We still don’t have an angel. Here we are with a Joseph before a Mary, and no angel,” she said. (Stewardesses are orderly people, much comforted by following a familiar routine.)
“Well, who would like to hang in the air this year?” the rector asked. “Tell them about the view from up there, Owen.”
“SOMETIMES THE CONTRAPTION THAT HOLDS YOU IN THE AIR HAS YOU FACING THE WRONG WAY,” he warned the would-be angels. “SOMETIMES THE HARNESS CUTS INTO YOUR SKIN.”
“I’m sure we can remedy that, Owen,” the rector said.
“WHEN YOU GO UP OUT OF THE ‘PILLAR OF LIGHT,’ IT’S VERY DARK UP THERE,” Owen said.
No would-be angel raised his or her hand.
“AND IT’S QUITE A LONG SPEECH THAT YOU HAVE TO MEMORIZE,” Owen added. “YOU KNOW, ‘BE NOT AFRAID; FOR BEHOLD, I BRING YOU GOOD NEWS OF A GREAT JOY … FOR TO YOU IS BORN … IN THE CITY OF DAVID A SAVIOR, WHO IS CHRIST THE LORD’…”
“We know, Owen, we know,” Barb Wiggin said.
“IT’S NOT EASY,” Owen said.
“Perhaps we should pick our Mary, and come back to the angel?” the Rev. Mr. Wiggin asked.