“ZO! ZE VOOMIN YOU KILT MIT ZE BASEBALL—SHE MADE YOU VANT TO PROP-O-SI-TION PEOPLE’S MUDDERS, YES?”
“Come on,” I said to Owen. “He’s not that stupid!”
“ZO! VITCH FACULTY VIFE HAF YOU GOT YOUR EYES ON?”
“Come on!” I said. “What kind of stuff does he ask you, really?”
“ZO! YOU BELIEF IN GOT—DAT’S FERRY IN-TER-EST-INK!”
Owen would never tell me what really went on in those sessions. I knew Dr. Dolder was a moron; but I also knew that even a moron would have discovered some disturbing things about Owen Meany. For example, Dr. Dolder—dolt though he was—would have heard at least a little of the GOD’S INSTRUMENT theme; even Dr. Dolder would have uncovered Owen’s perplexing and troubling anti-Catholicism. And Owen’s particular brand of fatalism would have been challenging for a good psychiatrist; I’m sure Dr. Dolder was scared to death about it. And would Owen have gone so far as to tell Dr. Dolder about Scrooge’s grave? Would Owen have suggested that he KNEW how much time he had left on our earth?
“What do you tell him?” I asked Owen.
“THE TRUTH,” said Owen Meany. “I ANSWER EVERY QUESTION HE ASKS TRUTHFULLY, AND WITHOUT HUMOR,” he added.
“My God!” I said. “You could really get yourself in trouble!”
“VERY FUNNY,” he said.
“But, Owen,” I said. “You tell him everything you think about, and everything you believe? Not everything you believe, right?” I said.
“EVERYTHING,” said Owen Meany. “EVERYTHING HE ASKS.”
“Jesus Christ!” I said. “And what has he got to say? What’s he told you?”
“HE TOLD ME TO TALK WITH PASTOR MERRILL—SO I HAVE TO SEE HIM TWICE A WEEK, TOO,” Owen said. “AND WITH EACH OF THEM, I SIT THERE AND TALK ABOUT WHAT I TALKED ABOUT TO THE OTHER ONE. I GUESS THEY’RE FINDING OUT A LOT ABOUT EACH OTHER.”
“I see,” I said; but I didn’t.
Owen had taken all the Rev. Lewis Merrill’s courses at the academy; he had consumed all the Religion and Scripture courses so voraciously that there weren’t any left for him in his senior year, and Mr. Merrill had permitted him to pursue some independent study in the field. Owen was particularly interested in the miracle of the resurrection; he was interested in miracles in general, and life after death in particular, and he was writing an interminable term paper that related these subjects to that old theme from Isaiah 5:20, which he loved. “Woe unto them that call evil good and good evil.” Owen’s opinion of Pastor Merrill had improved considerably from those earlier years when the issue of the minister’s doubt had bothered Owen’s dogmatic side; Mr. Merrill had to be aware—awkwardly so—of the role The Voice had played in securing his appointment as school minister. When they sat together in Pastor Merrill’s vestry office, I couldn’t imagine them—not either of them—as being quite at ease; yet there appeared to be much respect between them.
Owen did not have a relaxing effect on anyone, and no one I knew was ever less relaxed than the Rev. Lewis Merrill; and so I imagined that Hurd’s Church would be creaking excessively during their interviews—or whatever they called them. They would both be fidgeting away in the vestry office, Mr. Merrill opening and closing the old desk drawers, and sliding that old chair on the casters from one end of the desk to the other—while Owen Meany cracked his knuckles, crossed and uncrossed his little legs, and shrugged and sighed and reached out his hands to the Rev. Mr. Merrill’s desk, if only to pick up a paperweight or a prayer book and put it down again.
“What do you talk about with Mister Merrill?” I asked him.
“I TALK ABOUT DOCTOR DOLDER WITH PASTOR MERRILL, AND I TALK ABOUT PASTOR MERRILL WITH DOCTOR DOLDER,” Owen said.
“No, but I know you like Pastor Merrill—I mean, sort of. Don’t you?” I asked him.
“WE TALK ABOUT LIFE AFTER DEATH,” said Owen Meany.
“I see,” I said; but I didn’t. I didn’t realize the degree to which Owen Meany never got tired of talking about that.
Toronto: July 21, 1987—it is a scorcher in town today. I was getting my hair cut in my usual place, near the corner of Bathurst and St. Clair, and the girl-barber (something I’ll never get used to!) asked me the usual: “How short?”
“As short as Oliver North’s,” I said.
“Who?” she said. O Canada! But I’m sure there are young girls cutting hair in the United States who don’t know who Colonel North is, either; and in a few years, almost no one will remember him. How many people remember Melvin Laird? How many people remember Gen. Creighton Abrams or Gen. William Westmoreland—not to mention, which one replaced the other? And who replaced Gen. Maxwell Taylor? Who replaced Gen. Curtis LeMay? And whom did Ellsworth Bunker replace? Remember that? Of course you don’t!
There was a terrible din of construction going on outside the barbershop at the corner of Bathurst and St. Clair, but I was sure that my girl-barber had heard me.
“Oliver North,” I repeated. “Lieutenant Colonel Oliver North, United States Marine Corps,” I said.
“I guess you want it really short,” she said.
“Yes, please,” I said; I’ve simply got to stop reading The New York Times! There’s nothing in the news that’s worth remembering. Why, then, do I have such a hard time forgetting it?
No one had a memory like Owen Meany. By the end of the winter term of ’62, I’ll bet he never once confused what he’d said to Dr. Dolder with what he’d said to the Rev. Lewis Merrill—but I’ll bet they were confused! By the end of the winter term, I’ll bet they thought that either he should have been thrown out of school or he should have been made the new headmaster. By the end of every winter term at Gravesend Academy, the New Hampshire weather had driven everyone half crazy.