“SHE WET THEM TWICE!” he said. “DO YOU REMEMBER YOUR GRANDMOTHER WAILING LIKE A BANSHEE?”
“I’ll never forget it,” I said. “Do you remember when you untied the rope in the quarry—when you hid yourself, when we were swimming?”
“YOU LET ME DROWN—YOU LET ME DIE,” he said.
We ate dinner by the pool; we drank beer in the pool until long after midnight—when the bartender informed us that he was not permitted to serve us anymore.
“You’re not supposed to be drinking while you’re actually in the pool, anyway,” he said. “You might drown. And I’m supposed to go home,” he said.
“EVERYTHING’S LIKE IN THE ARMY,” Owen said. “RULES, RULES, RULES.”
So we took a six-pack of beer and a bucket of ice back to our room; we watched The Late Show, and then The Late, Late Show—while we tried to remember all the movies we’d ever seen. I was so drunk I don’t remember what movies we saw in Phoenix that night. Owen Meany was so drunk that he fell asleep in the bathtub; he’d gotten into the bathtub because he said he missed sitting in the swimming pool. But then he couldn’t watch the movie—not from the bathtub—and so he’d insisted that I describe the movie to him.
“Now she’s kissing his photograph!” I called out to him.
“WHICH ONE IS KISSING HIS PHOTOGRAPH—THE BLOND ONE?” he asked. “WHICH PHOTOGRAPH?”
I went on describing the movie until I heard him snoring. Then I let the water out of the bath, and I lifted him up and out of the tub—he was so light, he was nothing to lift. I dried him off with a towel; he didn’t wake up. He was mumbling in his drunken sleep.
“I KNOW YOU’RE HERE FOR A REASON,” he said.
When I tucked him into his bed, he blinked open his eyes and said: “O GOD—WHY HASN’T MY VOICE CHANGED, WHY DID YOU GIVE ME SUCH A VOICE? THERE MUST BE A REASON.” Then he shut his eyes and said: “WATAHANTOWET.”
When I got into my bed and turned out the light, I said good night to him.
“Good night, Owen,” I said.
“DON’T BE AFRAID. NOTHING BAD IS GOING TO HAPPEN TO YOU,” said Owen Meany. “YOUR FATHER’S NOT THAT BAD A GUY,” he said.
When I woke up in the morning, I had a terrible hangover; Owen was already awake—he was writing in the diary. That was his last entry—that was when he wrote: “TODAY’S THE DAY! ‘… HE THAT BELIEVETH IN ME, THOUGH HE WERE DEAD, YET SHALL HE LIVE; AND WHOSOEVER LIVETH AND BELIEVETH IN ME SHALL NEVER DIE.’”
It was Monday, July 8, 1968—the date he had seen on Scrooge’s grave.
Major Rawls picked us up at our motel and drove us to the airport—to the so-called Sky Harbor. I thought that Rawls behaved oddly out of character—he wasn’t at all talkative, he just mumbled something about having had a “bad date”—but Owen had told me that the major was very moody.
“HE’S NOT A BAD GUY—HE JUST KNOWS HIS SHIP ISN’T EVER GOING TO COME IN,” Owen had said about Rawls. “HE’S OLD-FASHIONED, BROWN-SHOE ARMY—HE LIKES TO PRETEND HE’S HAD NO EDUCATION, BUT ALL HE DOES IS READ; HE WON’T EVEN GO TO THE MOVIES. AND HE NEVER TALKS ABOUT VIETNAM—JUST SOME CRYPTIC SHIT ABOUT HOW THE ARMY DIDN’T PREPARE HIM TO KILL WOMEN AND CHILDREN, OR TO BE KILLED BY THEM. FOR WHATEVER REASON, HE DIDN’T MAKE LIEUTENANT COLONEL; HIS TWENTY YEARS IN THE ARMY ARE ALMOST UP, AND HE’S BITTER ABOUT IT—HE’S JUST A MAJOR. HE’S NOT EVEN FORTY AND HE’S ABOUT TO BE RETIRED.”
Major Rawls complained that we were going to the airport too early; my flight to Boston didn’t leave for another two hours. Owen had booked no special flight to Tucson—apparently, there were frequent flights from Phoenix to Tucson, and Owen was going to wait until I left; then he’d take the next available plane.
“There are better places to hang around than this fucking airport,” Major Rawls complained.
“YOU DON’T HAVE TO HANG AROUND WITH US—SIR,” said Owen Meany.
But Rawls didn’t want to be alone; he didn’t feel like talking, but he wanted company—or else he didn’t know what he wanted. He wandered into the game room and hustled a few young recruits into playing pinball with him. When they found out he’d been in Vietnam, they pestered him for stories; all he would tell them was: “It’s an asshole war—and you’re assholes if you want to be there.”
Major Rawls pointed Owen out to the recruits. “You want to go to Vietnam?” he said. “Go talk to him—go see that little lieutenant. He’s another asshole who wants to go there.”
Most of the new recruits were on their way to Fort Huachuca; their hair was cut so short, you could see scabs from the razor nicks—most of them who were assigned to Fort Huachuca would probably be on orders to Vietnam soon.
“They look like babies,” I said to Owen.
“BABIES FIGHT THE WARS,” said Owen Meany; he told the young recruits that he thought they’d like Fort Huachuca. “THE SUN SHINES ALL THE TIME,” he told them, “AND IT’S NOT AS HOT AS IT IS HERE.” He kept looking at his watch.
“We have plenty of time,” I told him, and he smiled at me—that old smile with the mild pity and the mild contempt in it.
Some planes landed; other planes took off. Some of the recruits left for Fort Huachuca. “Aren’t you coming, sir?” they asked Owen Meany.
“LATER,” he told them. “I’LL SEE YOU LATER.”