by John Irving
And so the stage was set for Owen Meany.
That day after Thanksgiving, my cousins and I were making so much noise up in the attic that we didn’t hear Owen Meany creep up the attic stairs and open the trapdoor. I can imagine what Owen was thinking; he was probably waiting to be noticed so that he wouldn’t have to announce himself—so that the very first thing my cousins would know about him wouldn’t be that voice. On the other hand, the sight of how small and peculiar he was might have been an equal shock to my cousins. Owen must have been weighing these two ways of introducing himself: whether to speak up, which was always startling, or whether to wait until one of them saw him, which might be more than startling. Owen told me later that he just stood by the trapdoor—which he had closed loudly, on purpose, hoping that the door would get our attention. But we didn’t notice the trapdoor.
Simon had been pumping the foot pedals of the sewing machine so vigorously that the needle and bobbin were a blur of activity, and Noah had managed to shove Hester’s arm too close to the plunging needle and thread, so that the sleeve of Hester’s blouse had been stitched to the piece of sample cloth she’d been sewing, and it was necessary for her to take her blouse off—in order to free herself from the machine, which Simon, insanely, refused to stop pedaling. While Owen was watching us, Noah was whacking Simon about his ears, to make him stop with the foot pedals, and Hester was standing in her T-shirt, tensed and flushed, wailing about her only white blouse, from which she was trying to extract a very random pattern of purple thread. And I was saying that if we didn’t stop making such a racket, we could expect a ferocious lecture from Grandmother—regarding the resale value of her antique sewing machine.
All this time, Owen Meany was standing by the trapdoor, observing us—alternately getting up the nerve to introduce himself, and deciding to bolt for home before any of us noticed that he was there. At that moment, my cousins must have seemed even worse than his worst dreams about them. It was shocking how Simon loved to be beaten; I never saw a boy whose best defense against the beating routinely administered by an older brother was to adore being beaten. Just as much as he loved to roll down mountains and to be flung off sawdust piles and to ski so wildly that he struck glancing blows to trees, Simon thrived under a hail of Noah’s punches. It was almost always necessary for Noah to draw blood before Simon would beg for mercy—and if blood was drawn, somehow Simon had won; the shame was Noah’s then. Now Simon appeared committed to pedaling the sewing machine into destruction—both hands gripping the tabletop, his eyes squinted shut against Noah’s pounding fists, his knees pumping as furiously as if he were pedaling a bicycle in too-low a gear down a steep hill. The savagery with which Noah hit his brother could easily have misled any visitor regarding Noah’s truly relaxed disposition and steadily noble character; Noah had learned that striking his brother was a workout requiring patience, deliberation, and strategy—it was no good giving Simon a bloody nose in a hurry; better to hit him where it hurt, but where he didn’t bleed easily; better to wear him down.
But I suspect that Hester must have impressed Owen Meany most of all. In her T-shirt, there was little doubt that she would one day have an impressive bosom; its early blossoming was as apparent as her manly biceps. And the way she tore the thread out of her damaged blouse with her teeth—snarling and cursing in the process, as if she were eating her blouse—must have demonstrated to Owen the full potential of Hester’s dangerous mouth; at that moment, her basic rapaciousness was quite generously displayed.
Naturally, my pleas regarding the inevitable, grandmotherly reprimand were not only unheeded; they went as unnoticed as Owen Meany, who stood with his hands clasped behind his back, the sun from the attic skylight shining through his protrusive ears, which were a glowing pink—the sunlight so bright that the tiny veins and blood vessels in his ears appeared to be illuminated from within. The powerful morning sun struck Owen’s head from above, and from a little behind him, so that the light itself seemed to be presenting him. In exasperation with my unresponsive cousins, I looked up from the sewing machine and saw Owen standing there. With his hands clasped behind his back, he looked as armless as Watahantowet, and in that blaze of sunlight he looked like a gnome plucked fresh from a fire, with his ears still aflame. I drew in my breath, and Hester—with her raging mouth full of purple thread—looked up at that instant and saw Owen, too. She screamed.
“I didn’t think he was human,” she told me later. And from that moment of his introduction to my cousins, I would frequently consider the issue of exactly how human Owen Meany was; there is no doubt that, in the dazzling configurations of the sun that poured through the attic skylight, he looked like a descending angel—a tiny but fiery god, sent to adjudicate the errors of our ways.
When Hester screamed, she frightened Owen so much that he screamed back at her—and when Owen screamed, my cousins were not only introduced to his rare voice; their movements were suddenly arrested. Except for the hairs on the backs of their necks, they froze—as they would if they’d heard a cat being slowly run over by a car. And from deep in a distant part of the great house, my grandmother spoke out: “Merciful Heavens, it’s that boy again!”
I was trying to catch my breath, to say, “This is my best friend, the one I told you about,” because I had never seen my cousins gape at anyone with such open mouths—and, in Hester’s case, a mouth from which spilled much purple thread—but Owen was quicker.
“WELL, IT SEEMS I HAVE INTERRUPTED WHATEVER GAME THAT WAS YOU WERE PLAYING,” Owen said. “MY NAME IS OWEN MEANY AND I’M YOUR COUSIN’S BEST FRIEND. PERHAPS HE’S TOLD YOU ALL ABOUT ME. I’VE CERTAINLY HEARD ALL ABOUT YOU. YOU MUST BE NOAH, THE OLDEST,” Owen said; he held out his hand to Noah, who shook it mutely. “AND OF COURSE YOU’RE SIMON, THE NEXT OLDEST—BUT YOU’RE JUST AS BIG AND EVEN A LITTLE WILDER THAN YOUR BROTHER. HELLO, SIMON,” Owen said, holding out his hand to Simon, who was panting and sweating from his furious journey on the sewing machine, but who quickly took Owen’s hand and shook it. “AND OF COURSE YOU’RE HESTER,” Owen said, his eyes averted. “I’VE HEARD A LOT ABOUT YOU, AND YOU’RE JUST AS PRETTY AS I EXPECTED.”
“Thank you,” Hester mumbled, pulling thread out of her mouth, tucking her T-shirt into her blue jeans.
My cousins stared at him, and I feared the worst; but I suddenly realized what small towns are. They are places where you grow up with the peculiar—you live next to the strange and the unlikely for so long that everything and everyone become commonplace. My cousins were both small-towners and outsiders; they had not grown up with Owen Meany, who was so strange to them that he inspired awe—yet they were no more likely to fall upon him, or to devise ways to torture him, than it was likely for a herd of cattle to attack a cat. And in addition to the brightness of the sun that shone upon him, Owen’s face was blood-red—throbbing, I presumed, from his riding his bike into town; for a late November bike ride down Maiden Hill, given the prevailing wind off the Squamscott, was bitter cold. And even before Thanksgiving, the weather had been cold enough to freeze the freshwater part of the river; there was black ice all the way from Gravesend to Kensington Corners.
“WELL, I’VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT WHAT WE COULD DO,” Owen announced, and my unruly cousins gave him their complete attention. “THE RIVER IS FROZEN, SO THE SKATING IS VERY GOOD, AND I KNOW YOU ENJOY VERY ACTIVE THINGS LIKE THAT—THAT YOU ENJOY THINGS LIKE SPEED AND DANGER AND COLD WEATHER. SO SKATING IS ONE IDEA,” he said, “AND EVEN THOUGH THE RIVER IS FROZEN, I’M SURE THERE ARE CRACKS SOMEWHERE, AND EVEN PLACES WHERE THERE ARE HOLES OF OPEN WATER—I FELL IN ONE LAST YEAR. I’M NOT SUCH A GOOD SKATER, BUT I’D BE HAPPY TO GO WITH YOU, EVEN THOUGH I’M GETTING OVER A COLD, SO I SUPPOSE I SHOULDN’T BE OUTSIDE FOR LONG PERIODS OF TIME IN THIS WEATHER.”
“No!” Hester said. “If you’re getting over a cold, you should stay inside. We should play indoors. We don’t have to go skating. We go skating all the time.”
“Yes!” Noah agreed. “We should do something indoors, if Ow
en’s got a cold.”
“Indoors is best!” Simon said. “Owen should get over his cold.” Perhaps my cousins were all relieved to hear that Owen was “getting over a cold” because they thought this might partially explain the hypnotic awfulness of Owen’s voice; I could have told them that Owen’s voice was uninfluenced by his having a cold—and his “getting over a cold” was news to me—but I was so relieved to see my cousins behaving respectfully that I had no desire to undermine Owen’s effect on them.
“WELL, I’VE BEEN THINKING THAT INDOORS WOULD BE BEST, TOO,” Owen said. “AND UNFORTUNATELY I REALLY CAN’T INVITE YOU TO MY HOUSE, BECAUSE THERE’S REALLY NOTHING TO DO IN THE HOUSE, AND BECAUSE MY FATHER RUNS A GRANITE QUARRY, HE’S RATHER STRICT ABOUT THE EQUIPMENT AND THE QUARRIES THEMSELVES, WHICH ARE OUTDOORS, ANYWAY. INDOORS, AT MY HOUSE, WOULD NOT BE A LOT OF FUN BECAUSE MY PARENTS ARE RATHER STRANGE ABOUT CHILDREN.”
“That’s no problem!” Noah blurted.
“Don’t worry!” Simon said. “There’s lots to do here, in this house.”
“Everyone’s parents are strange!” Hester told Owen reassuringly, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. In the years I’d known Owen, the issue of how strange his parents were—not only “about children”—had never been discussed between us. It seemed, rather, the accepted knowledge of the town, not to be mentioned—except in passing, or in parentheses, or as an aside among intimates.
“WELL, I’VE BEEN THINKING THAT WE COULD PUT ON YOUR GRANDFATHER’S CLOTHES—YOU’VE TOLD YOUR COUSINS ABOUT THE CLOTHES?” Owen asked me; but I hadn’t. I thought they would think that dressing up in Grandfather’s clothes was either baby play, or morbid, or both; or that they would surely destroy the clothes, discovering that merely dressing up in them was insufficiently violent—therefore leading them to a game, the object of which was to rip the clothes off each other; whoever was naked last won.
“Grandfather’s clothes?” Noah said with unaccustomed reverence.
Simon shivered; Hester nervously plucked purple thread from here and there.
And Owen Meany—at the moment, our leader—said, “WELL, THERE’S ALSO THE CLOSET WHERE THE CLOTHES ARE KEPT. IT CAN BE SCARY IN THERE, IN THE DARK, AND WE COULD PLAY SOME KIND OF GAME WHERE ONE OF US HIDES AND ONE OF US HAS TO FIND WHOEVER IT IS—IN THE DARK. WELL,” Owen said, “THAT COULD BE INTERESTING.”
“Yes! Hiding in the dark!” Simon said.
“I didn’t know those were Grandfather’s clothes in there,” Hester said.
“Do you think the clothes are haunted, Hester?” Noah asked.
“Shut up,” Hester said.
“Let Hester hide in there, in the dark,” Simon said, “and we’ll take turns trying to find her.”
“I don’t want you pawing around in the dark for me,” Hester said.
“Hester, we just have to find you before you find us,” Noah said.
“No, it’s who touches who first!” Simon said.
“You touch me, I’ll pull your doink, Simon,” Hester said.
“Whoa!” Noah said. “That’s it! That’s the game! We got to find Hester before she pulls our doinks.”
“Hester the Molester!” Simon said predictably.
“Only if I’m allowed to get used to the dark!” Hester said. “I get to have an advantage! I’m allowed to get used to the dark—and whoever’s looking for me comes into the closet with no chance to get used to how dark it is.”
“THERE’S A FLASHLIGHT,” Owen Meany said nervously. “MAYBE WE COULD USE A FLASHLIGHT, BECAUSE IT WOULD STILL BE PRETTY DARK.”
“No flashlight!” Hester said.
“No!” Simon said. “Whoever goes into the closet after Hester gets the flashlight shined in his face before he goes in—so he’s blind, so he’s the opposite of being used to the dark!”
“Good idea!” Noah said.
“I get as long as I need to get myself hidden,” Hester said. “And to get used to the dark.”
“No!” Simon said. “We’ll count to twenty.”
“A hundred!” Hester said.
“Fifty,” Noah said; so it was fifty. Simon started counting, but Hester hit him.
“You’ve got to wait till I’m completely inside the closet,” she said.
As she moved toward the closet, she had to brush past Owen Meany, and a curious thing happened to her when she was next to him. Hester stood still and put her hand out to Owen—her big paw, uncharacteristically tentative and gentle, reached out and touched his face, as if there were a force in Owen’s immediate vicinity that compelled the passerby to touch him. Hester touched him, and she smiled—Owen’s little face was level with those nubbins of Hester’s early bosom, which appeared to be implanted under her T-shirt. Owen was quite accustomed to people feeling compelled to touch him, but in Hester’s case he retreated a trifle anxiously from her touch—though not so much that she was offended.
Then Hester went clomping into the closet, stumbling over the shoes, and we heard her rustling among the clothes, and the hangers squeaking on the metal rods, and what sounded like the hatboxes sliding over the overhead shelves—once she said, “Shit!” And another time, “What’s that?” By the time the noises quieted down, we had Simon completely dazed under the flashlight’s close-up glare; Simon was eager to be first, and by the time we shoved him into the closet, he was certifiably blind—even if he’d been trying to walk around in the daylight. No sooner was Simon inside the closet, and we’d closed the door behind him, than we heard Hester attack him; she must have grabbed his “doink” harder than she’d meant to, because he howled with more pain than surprise, and there were tears in his eyes, and he was still doubled over and holding fast to his private parts when he tumbled out of the closet and rolled upon the attic floor.
“Jesus, Hester!” Noah said. “What did you do to him?”
“I didn’t mean to,” came her voice from the dark closet.
“No fair pulling the doink and the balls!” Simon cried, still doubled up on the floor.
“I didn’t mean to,” she repeated sweetly.
“You bitch!” Simon said.
“You’re always rough with me, Simon,” Hester said.
“You can’t be rough with balls and doinks!” Noah said.
But Hester was not talking; we could hear her positioning herself for her next attack, and Noah whispered to Owen and me that since there were two doors to the closet, we should surprise Hester by entering from the other door.
“WHO IS WE?” Owen whispered.
Noah pointed to him, silently, and I shone the flashlight into Owen’s wide and darting eyes, which gave his face the sudden anxiety of a cornered mouse.
“No fair grabbing so hard, Hester!” Noah called, but Hester didn’t answer.
“SHE’S JUST TRYING TO CONCEAL HER HIDING PLACE,” Owen whispered—to reassure himself.
Then Noah and I flung Owen into the closet through the other door: the closet was L-shaped, and by Owen’s entering on the short arm of the L, Noah and I figured that he would not encounter Hester before the first corner—and only then if Hester managed to move, because her hiding place would surely be nearer the top of the L.
“No fair using the other door!” Hester promptly called, which Noah and I felt was further to Owen’s advantage, since she must have given away her position in the closet—at least, to some general degree. Then there was silence. I knew what Owen was doing: he was hoping that his eyes would grow used to the dark before Hester found him, and he wasn’t going to begin to move—to try to find her—until he could see a little.
“What in hell’s going on in there?” Simon asked, but there was no sound.
Then we detected the occasional bumping of one of Grandfather’s hundreds of shoes. Then silence. Then another slight movement of shoes. As I learned later, Owen was crawling on all fours, because he most feared—and expected—an attack from one of the large, overhead shelves. He had no way of knowing that Hester had stretched herself out on the floor of the closet, and
that she had covered herself with one of Grandfather’s topcoats, over which she’d positioned the usual number of shoes. She lay motionless, and—except for her head and her hands—invisible. But her head was pointed the wrong way; that is, she had to roll her eyes up into the top of her head and watch Owen Meany approaching her by staring at him upside down, looking over her own forehead and her considerable head of hair. What Owen touched first, as he approached her on all fours, was that live and kinky tangle of Hester’s hair, which suddenly moved under his little hand—and Hester’s arms reached up over her head, seizing Owen around his waist.
To her credit, Hester never had any intention of grabbing Owen’s “doink”; but finding it so easy to hold Owen around the waist, Hester decided to run her hands up his ribs and tickle him. Owen looked extremely susceptible to tickling, which he was, and Hester’s gesture was of the friendliest of intentions—especially for Hester—but the combination of putting his hand on live hair, in the dark, coupled with being tickled by a girl who, Owen thought, was merely tickling him en route to grabbing his doink, was too much for him; he wet his pants.
The instant recognition of Owen’s accident surprised Hester so much that she dropped him. He fell on top of her—and he wriggled free of her, and out of the closet, and through the trapdoor and down the stairs. Owen ran through the house so fast and noiselessly that even my grandmother failed to notice him; and if my mother hadn’t happened to be looking out the kitchen window, she would not have seen him—with his jacket unzipped, and his boots unlaced, and his hat on crooked—mounting his bicycle with some difficulty in the icy wind.
“Jesus, Hester!” Noah said. “What did you do to him?”
“I know what she did to him!” Simon said.
“It wasn’t that,” Hester said simply. “I just tickled him, and he wet his pants.” She did not report this to mock Owen, and—as a testimony to my cousins’ basically decent natures—the news was not greeted with their usual rowdiness, which I associated with Sawyer Depot as firmly as various forms of skiing and collision.