by John Irving
“Kiss her!” Noah cried to me.
“Let him kiss you, Hester!” Simon said.
It occurs to me now that this suggestion was even less compelling to Hester than it was to me, and I could think only that Hester’s snarling mouth was about as inviting as Firewater’s; yet I think we both realized that the potential embarrassment of being mated to this conjugal position for any duration of time, while Noah and Simon observed our breathing and minor movements, would perhaps lead to even greater suffering than indulging in a single kiss. What fools we were to think that Noah and Simon were dull enough fellows to be satisfied with one kiss! We tried a tiny one, but Noah said, “That wasn’t on the lips!” We tried a small, close-lipped one, on the lips—so brief that it was unnecessary to breathe—but this failed to satisfy Simon, who said, “Open your mouths!” We opened our mouths. There was the problem of arranging the noses before we could enjoy the nervous exchange of saliva—the slithery contact of tongues, the surprising click of teeth. We were joined so long we had to breathe, and I was astonished at how sweet my cousin’s breath was; to this day, I hope mine wasn’t too bad.
As abruptly as they had conceived of this game, my cousins announced that the game was over. They never marshaled as much enthusiasm for the many repeats of the game called “Last One Through the House Has to Kiss Hester”; maybe they realized, later, that I began to intentionally lose the game. And what did they make of the time they untied us and Hester said to me, “I felt your hard-on”?
“You did not!” I said.
“I did. It wasn’t much of a hard-on,” she said. “It was no big deal. But I felt it.”
“You didn’t!” I said.
“I did,” she said.
And it’s true—it was no big deal, to be sure; it wasn’t much of a hard-on, maybe; but I had one.
Did Noah and Simon ever consider the danger of the game? The way they skied, on water and on snow—and, later, the way they drove their cars—suggested to me that they thought nothing was dangerous. But Hester and I were dangerous. And they started it: Noah and Simon started it.
Owen Meany rescued me. As you shall see, Owen was always rescuing me; but he began the lifelong process of rescuing me by rescuing me from Hester.
Owen was extremely irritable regarding the time I spent with my cousins. He would be grouchy for several days before I left for Sawyer Depot, and he would be peevish and aloof for several days after I got back. Although I made a point of describing how physically damaging and psychologically upsetting the time spent with my cousins was, Owen was crabby; I thought he was jealous.
“YOU KNOW, I WAS THINKING,” he said to me. “YOU KNOW HOW WHEN YOU ASK ME TO SPEND THE NIGHT, I ALMOST ALWAYS DO IT—AND WE HAVE A GOOD TIME, DON’T WE?”
“Sure we do, Owen,” I said.
“WELL, IF YOU ASKED ME TO COME WITH YOU AND YOUR MOTHER TO SAWYER DEPOT, I PROBABLY WOULD COME—YOU KNOW,” he said. “OR DO YOU THINK YOUR COUSINS WOULDN’T LIKE ME?”
“Of course they’d like you,” I said, “but I don’t know if you’d like them.” I didn’t know how to tell him that I thought he’d have a terrible time with my cousins—that if we picked him up and passed him over our heads in Sunday school, it was frightening to imagine what games my cousins might devise to play with Owen Meany. “You don’t know how to ski,” I told him. “Or water-ski,” I added. “And I don’t think you’d like the log-rolling—or the sawdust piles.” I could have added, “Or kissing Hester,” but I couldn’t imagine Owen doing that. My God, I thought: my cousins would kill him!
“WELL, MAYBE YOUR MOTHER COULD TEACH ME HOW TO SKI. AND YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO THE LOG-ROLLING IF YOU DON’T WANT TO, DO YOU?” he asked.
“Well, my cousins kind of make everything happen so fast,” I said. “You don’t always have time to say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ to something.”
“WELL, MAYBE IF YOU ASKED THEM NOT TO BE SO ROUGH WITH ME—UNTIL I GOT USED TO IT,” he said. “THEY’D LISTEN TO YOU, WOULDN’T THEY?”
I could not imagine it—Owen together with my cousins! It seemed to me that they would be driven insane by the sight of him, and when he spoke—when they first encountered that voice—I could visualize their reaction only in terms of their inventing ways for Owen to be a projectile: they would make him the birdie for a badminton game; they would bind him to a single ski, launch him off the mountaintop, and race him to the bottom. They would make him sit in a salad bowl, and tow him—at high speeds—across Loveless Lake. They would bury him in sawdust and lose him; they’d never find him. Firewater would eat him.
“They’re sort of hard to control—my cousins,” I said. “That’s the problem.”
“YOU MAKE THEM SOUND LIKE WILD ANIMALS,” Owen said.
“They are—kind of,” I said.
“BUT YOU HAVE FUN WITH THEM,” Owen said. “WOULDN’T I HAVE FUN, TOO?”
“I have fun, and I don’t have fun,” I told him. “I just think my cousins might be too much for you.”
“YOU THINK I MIGHT BE TOO MUCH OF A WIMP FOR THEM,” he said.
“I don’t think you’re a wimp, Owen,” I said.
“BUT YOU THINK YOUR COUSINS WOULD THINK SO?” he said.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“MAYBE I COULD MEET THEM AT YOUR HOUSE, WHEN THEY COME FOR THANKSGIVING,” he suggested. “IT’S FUNNY HOW YOU DON’T INVITE ME OVER WHEN THEY’RE STAYING HERE.”
“My grandmother thinks there’re too many kids in the house already—when they’re here,” I explained, but Owen sulked about it so moodily that I invited him to spend the night, which he always enjoyed. He went through this ritual of calling his father to ask if it was all right, but it was always all right with Mr. Meany; Owen stayed at 80 Front Street so frequently that he kept a toothbrush in my bathroom, and a pair of pajamas in my closet.
And after Dan Needham gave me the armadillo, Owen grew almost as attached to the little animal—and to Dan—as I was. When Owen would sleep in the other twin bed in my room, with the night table between us, we would carefully arrange the armadillo under the bedside lamp; in exact profile to both of us, the creature stared at the feet of our beds. The night-light, which was attached to one of the legs of the night table, shone upward, illuminating the armadillo’s chin and the exposed nostrils of its thin snout. Owen and I would talk until we were drowsy; but in the morning, I always noticed that the armadillo had been moved—its face was turned more toward Owen than to me; its profile was no longer perfect. And once when I woke up, I saw that Owen was already awake; he was staring back at the armadillo, and he was smiling. After Dan Needham’s armadillo came into my life, and the first occasion for me to travel to Sawyer Depot arose, I was not surprised that Owen took this opportunity to express his concern for the armadillo’s well-being.
“FROM WHAT YOU TELL ME ABOUT YOUR COUSINS,” Owen said, “I DON’T THINK YOU SHOULD TAKE THE ARMADILLO TO SAWYER DEPOT.” It had never occurred to me to take the armadillo with me, but Owen had clearly given some thought to the potential tragedy of such a journey. “YOU MIGHT FORGET IT ON THE TRAIN,” he said, “OR THAT DOG OF THEIRS MIGHT CHEW ON IT. WHAT’S THE DOG’S NAME?”
“Firewater,” I said.
“YES, FIREWATER—HE SOUNDS DANGEROUS TO THE ARMADILLO TO ME,” Owen said. “AND IF YOUR COUSINS ARE THESE RUFFIANS, LIKE YOU SAY, THERE’S NO TELLING WHAT KIND OF GAME THEY MIGHT THINK UP—THEY MIGHT RIP THE ARMADILLO TO PIECES. OR LOSE IT IN THE SNOW.”
“Yes, you’re right,” I said.
“IF THEY WANTED TO TAKE THE ARMADILLO WATERSKIING, COULD YOU STOP THEM?” he asked.
“Probably not,” I said.
“THAT’S JUST WHAT I THOUGHT,” he said. “YOU BETTER NOT TAKE THE ARMADILLO WITH YOU.”
“Right,” I said.
“YOU BETTER LET ME TAKE IT HOME. I CAN LOOK AFTER IT WHILE YOU’RE AWAY. IF IT’S ALL ALONE HERE, ONE OF THE MAIDS MIGHT DO SOMETHING STUPID—OR THERE COULD BE A FIRE,” he said.
“I never thought of that,” I said.
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br /> “WELL, IT WOULD BE VERY SAFE WITH ME,” Owen said. Of course, I agreed. “AND I’VE BEEN THINKING,” he added. “OVER NEXT THANKSGIVING, WHEN YOUR COUSINS ARE HERE, YOU BETTER LET ME TAKE THE ARMADILLO HOME WITH ME THEN, TOO. IT SOUNDS TO ME LIKE THEY’D BE TOO VIOLENT WITH IT. IT HAS A VERY DELICATE NOSE—AND THE TAIL CAN BREAK, TOO. AND I DON’T THINK IT’S A GOOD IDEA TO SHOW YOUR COUSINS THAT GAME WE PLAY WITH THE ARMADILLO IN THE CLOSET WITH YOUR GRANDFATHER’S CLOTHES,” he said. “IT SOUNDS TO ME LIKE THEY’D TRAMPLE ON THE ARMADILLO IN THE DARK.” Or else they’d throw it out the window, I thought.
“I agree,” I said.
“GOOD,” Owen said. “THEN IT’S ALL SETTLED: I’LL LOOK AFTER THE ARMADILLO WHEN YOU’RE AWAY, AND WHEN YOUR COUSINS ARE HERE, I’LL LOOK AFTER IT, TOO—OVER NEXT THANKSGIVING, WHEN YOU’RE GOING TO INVITE ME OVER TO MEET YOUR COUSINS, OKAY?”
“Okay, Owen,” I said.
“GOOD,” he said; he was very pleased about it, if a trifle nervous. The first time he took the armadillo home with him, he brought a box stuffed with cotton—it was such an elaborately conceived and strongly built carrying case that the armadillo could have been mailed safely overseas in it. The box, Owen explained, had been used to ship some granite-carving tools—some grave-marking equipment—so it was very sturdy. Mr. Meany, in an effort to bolster the disappointing business at the quarry, was expanding his involvement in monument sales. Owen said his father resented selling some of his best pieces of granite to other granite companies that made gravestones, and charged an arm and a leg for them—according to Mr. Meany. He had opened a gruesome monument shop downtown—Meany Monuments, the store was called—and the sample gravestones in the storefront window looked not so much like samples as like actual graves that someone had built a store around.
“It’s absolutely frightful,” my grandmother said. “It’s a cemetery in a store,” she remarked indignantly, but Mr. Meany was new to monument sales; it was possible he needed just a little more time to make the store look right.
Anyway, the armadillo was packed in a box designed for transporting chisels—for something Owen called WEDGES AND FEATHERS—and Owen solemnly promised that no harm would come to the diminutive beast. Apparently, Mrs. Meany was frightened by it—Owen gave his parents no forewarning that the armadillo was visiting; but Owen maintained that this small shock served his mother right for going into his room uninvited. Owen’s room (what little I ever saw of it) was as orderly and as untouchable as a museum. I think that is why it was so easy for me to imagine, for years, that the baseball that killed my mother was surely a resident souvenir in Owen’s odd room.
I will never forget the Thanksgiving vacation when I introduced Owen Meany to my reckless cousins. The day before my cousins were to arrive in Gravesend, Owen came over to 80 Front Street to pick up the armadillo.
“They’re not getting here until late tomorrow,” I told him.
“WHAT IF THEY COME EARLY?” he asked. “SOMETHING COULD HAPPEN. IT’S BETTER NOT TO TAKE A CHANCE.”
Owen wanted to come over to meet my cousins immediately following Thanksgiving dinner, but I thought the day after Thanksgiving would be better; I suggested that everyone always felt so stuffed after Thanksgiving dinner that it was never a very lively time.
“BUT I WAS THINKING THAT THEY MIGHT BE CALMER, RIGHT AFTER THEY HAD EATEN,” Owen said. I admit, I enjoyed his nervousness. I was worried that my cousins might be in some rare, mellow condition when Owen met them, and therefore he’d think I’d just been making up stories about how wild they were—and that there was, therefore, no excuse for my never inviting him to Sawyer Depot. I wanted my cousins to like Owen, because I liked him—he was my best friend—but, at the same time, I didn’t want everything to be so enjoyable that I’d have to invite Owen to Sawyer Depot the next time I went. I was sure that would be disastrous. And I was nervous that my cousins would make fun of Owen; and I confess I was nervous that Owen would embarrass me—I am ashamed of feeling that, to this day.
Anyway, both Owen and I were nervous. We talked on the phone in whispers Thanksgiving night.
“ARE THEY ESPECIALLY WILD?” he asked me.
“Not especially,” I said.
“WHAT TIME DO THEY GET UP? WHAT TIME TOMORROW SHOULD I COME OVER?” he asked.
“The boys get up early,” I said, “but Hester sleeps a little later—or at least she stays in her room longer.”
“NOAH IS THE OLDEST?” Owen said, although he had checked these statistics with me a hundred times.
“Yes,” I said.
“AND SIMON IS THE NEXT OLDEST, ALTHOUGH HE’S JUST AS BIG AS NOAH—AND EVEN A LITTLE WILDER?” Owen said.
“Yes, yes,” I said.
“AND HESTER’S THE YOUNGEST BUT SHE’S BIGGER THAN YOU,” he said. “AND SHE’S PRETTY, BUT NOT THAT PRETTY, RIGHT?”
“Right,” I said.
Hester just missed the Eastman good looks. It was an especially masculine good looks that Noah and Simon got from my Uncle Alfred—broad shoulders, big bones, a heavy jaw—and from my Aunt Martha the boys got their blondness, and their aristocracy. But the broad shoulders, the big bones, and the heavy jaw—these were less attractive on Hester, who did not receive either my aunt’s blondness or her aristocracy. Hester was as dark and hairy as Uncle Alfred—even including his bushy eyebrows, which were actually one solid eyebrow without a gap above the bridge of the nose—and she had Uncle Alfred’s big hands. Hester’s hands looked like paws.
Yet Hester had sex appeal, in the manner—in those days—that tough girls were also sexy girls. She had a large, athletic body, and as a teenager she would have to struggle with her weight; but she had clear skin, she had solid curves; her mouth was aggressive, flashing lots of healthy teeth, and her eyes were taunting, with a dangerous-looking intelligence. Her hair was wild and thick.
“I have this friend,” I told Hester that evening. I thought I would begin with her, and try to win her over—and then tell Noah and Simon about Owen; but even though I was speaking quietly to Hester and I thought that Noah and Simon were engaged in finding a lost station on the radio, the boys heard me and were instantly curious.
“What friend?” Noah said.
“Well, he’s my best friend,” I said cautiously, “and he wants to meet all of you.”
“Fine, great—so where is he, and what’s his name?” Simon said.
“Owen Meany,” I said as straightforwardly as possible.
“Who?” Noah said; the three of them laughed.
“What a wimp name!” Simon said.
“What’s wrong with him?” Hester asked me.
“Nothing’s wrong with him,” I said, a little too defensively. “He’s rather small.”
“Rather small,” Noah repeated, sounding very British.
“Rather a wimp, is he?” said Simon, imitating his brother.
“No, he’s not a wimp,” I said. “He’s just small. And he has a funny voice,” I blurted out.
“A funny voice!” Noah said in a funny voice.
“A funny voice?” said Simon in a different funny voice.
“So he’s a little guy with a funny voice,” Hester said. “So what? So what’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing!” I repeated.
“Why should anything be wrong with him, Hester?” Noah asked her.
“Hester probably wants to molest him,” Simon said.
“Shut up, Simon,” Hester said.
“Both of you shut up,” Noah said. “I want to know why Hester thinks there’s something wrong with everybody.”
“There’s something wrong with all of your friends, Noah,” Hester said. “And every friend of Simon’s,” she added. “I’ll just bet there’s something wrong with Johnny’s friends, too.”
“I suppose there’s nothing wrong with your friends,” Noah said to his sister.
“Hester doesn’t have any friends!” Simon said.
“Shut up!” Hester said.
“I wonder why?” Noah said.
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“Shut up!” Hester said.
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with Owen,” I said. “Except he’s small, and his voice is a little different.”
“He sounds like fun,” Noah said pleasantly.
“Hey,” Simon said, patting me on the back. “If he’s your friend, don’t worry—we’ll be nice to him.”
“Hey,” Noah said, patting me on the back, too. “Don’t worry. We’ll all have fun.”
Hester shrugged. “We’ll see,” she said. I had not kissed her since Easter. In my summer visit to Sawyer Depot, we had been outdoors every waking minute and there’d been no suggestion to play “Last One Through the House Has to Kiss Hester.” I doubted we’d get to play that game over Thanksgiving, either, because my grandmother did not allow racing all over the house at 80 Front Street. So maybe I’ll have to wait until Christmas, I thought.
“Maybe your friend would like to kiss Hester,” Simon said.
“I decide who kisses me,” Hester said.
“Whoa!” Noah said.
“I think Owen will be a little timid around all of you,” I ventured.
“You’re saying he wouldn’t like to kiss me?” Hester asked.
“I’m just saying he might be a little shy—around all of you,” I said.
“You like kissing me,” Hester said.
“I don’t,” I lied.
“You do,” she said.
“Whoa!” said Noah.
“There’s no stopping Hester the Molester!” Simon said.
“Shut up!” Hester said.