adviser to The Grave was an Owen Meany supporter; Mr. Early-that deeply flawed thespian who brought to every role he was given in The Gravesend Players an overblown and befuddled sense of Learlike doom-cried that he would defend the 'unsullied genius' of The Voice, if necessary, 'to the death.' That would not be necessary, Dan Needham was sure; but that
Owen was supported by such a boob as Mr. Early was conceivably worse than no defense at all. Several applicants for the headmaster position admitted that their interviews with The Voice had been ' 'daunting'; I'm sure that they were unprepared for his size, and when they heard him speak, I'm sure they got the shivers and were troubled by the absurdity of that voice communicating strictly in uppercase letters. One of the favored candidates withdrew his application; although there was no direct evidence that Owen had contributed to the candidate's retreat, the man admitted there was a certain quality of 'accepted cynicism' among the students that had 'depressed' him. The man added that these students demonstrated an 'attitude of superiority''-and' 'such a degree of freedom of speech as to make their liberal education too liberal.'
'Nonsense!' Dan Needham had cried in the faculty meeting. 'Owen Meany isn't cynical! If this guy was referring to Owen, he was referring to him incorrectly. Good riddance!'
But not all the faculty felt that way. The Search Committee would need another year to satisfy their search; the present headmaster cheerfully agreed-for the good of the school-to stall his retirement. He was all 'for the good of the school,' the old headmaster; and it was his support of Owen Meany that-for a while-kept Owen's enemies from his throat.
'He's a delightful little fella!' the headmaster said. 'I wouldn't miss reading The Voice-not for all the world!'
His name was Archibald Thorndike, and he'd been headmaster forever; he'd married the daughter of the headmaster before him, and he was about as 'old school' as a headmaster could get. Although the newer, more progressive-minded faculty complained about Archie Thomdike's reluctance to change a single course requirement-not to mention his views of 'the whole boy'-the headmaster had no enemies. Old 'Thorny,' as he was called-and he encouraged even the boys to address him as 'Thorny'-was so headmasterly in every pleasing, comfortable, superficial way that no one could feel unfriendly toward him. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, white-haired man with a face as serviceable as an oar; in fact, he was an oarsman, and an outdoorsman-a man who preferred soft, unironed trousers, maybe khakis or corduroys, and a tweed jacket with the elbow patches in need of a thread here or there. He went hatless in our New Hampshire winters, and was such a supporter of our teams-in the rawest weather-that he wore a scar from an errant hockey puck as proudly as a merit badge; the puck had struck him above the eye while he'd tended the goal during the annual Alumni-Varsity game. Thorny was an honorary member of several of Gravesend's graduating classes. He played every alumni game in the goal.
'Ice hockey's not a sissy sport!' he liked to say. In another vein, in defense of Owen Meany, he maintained: 'It is the well educated who will improve society-and they will improve it, at first, by criticizing it, and we are giving them the tools to criticize it. Naturally, as students, the brighter of them will begin their improvements upon society by criticizing us.' To Owen, old Archie Thorndike would sing a slightly different song: 'It is your responsibility to find fault with me, it is mine to hear you out. But don't expect me to change. I'm not going to change; I'm going to retire I Get the new headmaster to make the changes; that's when / made changes-when I was new.'
'WHAT CHANGES DID YOU MAKE?' Owen Meany asked.
'That's another reason I'm retiring!' old Thorny told Owen amiably. 'My memory's shot!'
Owen thought that Archibald Thorndike was a blithering, glad-handing fool; but everyone, even The Voice, thought that old Thorny was a nice guy. 'NICE GUYS ARE THE TOUGHEST TO GET RID OF,' Owen wrote for The Grave; but even Mr. Early was smart enough to censor that. Then it was summer; The Voice went back to work in the quarries-I don't think he said much down in the pits-and I had my first job. I was a guide for the Gravesend Academy Admissions Office; I showed the school to prospective students and their parents-it was boring, but it certainly wasn't hard. I had a ring of master keys, which amounted to the greatest responsibility anyone had given me, and I had freedom of choice regarding which typical classroom I would show, and which 'typical' dormitory room. I chose rooms at random in Waterhouse Hall, in the vague hope that I might surprise Mr. and Mrs. Brinker-Smith at their game of musical beds; but the twins were older now, and maybe the Brinker-Smiths didn't 'do it' with their former gusto. In the evenings, at Hampton Beach, Owen looked tired to me; I reported to the Admissions Office for my first guided tour at ten, but Owen was stepping into the grout bucket by seven every morning. His fingernails were cracked; his hands were cut and swollen; his arms were tanned and thin and hard. He
didn't talk about Hester. The summer of ' was the first summer that we met with any success in picking up girls; or, rather, Owen met with this success, and he introduced the girls he met to me. We didn't' 'do it'' that summer; at least, / didn't, and-to my knowledge-Owen never had a date alone.
'IT'S A DOUBLE DATE OR IT'S NOTHING,' he'd tell one surprised girl after another. 'ASK YOUR FRIEND OR FORGET IT.'
And we were BO longer afraid to cruise the pinball arcades around the casino on foot; delinquent thugs would still pick on Owen, but he quickly established a reputation as an untouchable.