'IT'S NOT FOR A GAME,' said Owen Meany, who had his own reasons for everything. That Christmas vacation of ', we were in the Gravesend gym for hours every day; we were alone, and undisturbed-all the boarders had gone home-and we were full of contempt for the Eastmans, who appeared to be making a point of not
inviting us to Sawyer Depot. Noah and Simon had brought a friend home from California; Hester was 'in and out'; and some old friend of my Aunt Martha, from her university days, 'might' be visiting. The real reason we were not invited, Owen and I were sure, was that Aunt Martha wanted to discourage the relationship between Owen and Hester. Hester had told Owen that her mother referred to him as 'the boy who hit that ball,' and as 'that strange little friend of John's'- and 'that boy my mother is dressing up like a little doll.' But Hester thought so ill of her mother, and she was such a troublemaker, she might have made up all that and told Owen-chiefly so that Owen would dislike Aunt Martha, too. Owen didn't seem to care. I had been granted an extension to make up two late term papers over the vacation-so it wasn't much of a vacation, anyway; Owen helped me with the history paper and he wrote the English paper for me. 'I PURPOSELY DIDN'T SPELL EVERYTHING CORRECTLY. I MADE A FEW GRAMMATICAL ERRORS-OF THE KIND YOU USUALLY MAKE,' he told me. 'I REPEATED MYSELF OCCASIONALLY, AND THERE'S NO MENTION OF THE MIDDLE OF THE BOOK-AS IF YOU SKIPPED THAT PART. THAT'S THE PART YOU SKIPPED, RIGHT?'
It was a problem: how my in-class writing, my quizzes and examinations, were not at all as good as the work Owen helped me with. But we studied for all announced tests together, and I was-gradually-improving as a student. Because of my weak spelling I was enrolled in an extra, remedial course, which was marginally insulting, and-also because of my spelling, and my often erratic performance when I was called upon in the classroom-I was asked to see the school psychiatrist once a week. Gravesend Academy was used to good students; when someone struggled, academically-even when one simply couldn't spell properly!-it was assumed to be a matter for a shrink. The Voice had something to say about that, too. 'IT SEEMS TO ME THAT PEOPLE WHO DON'T LEARN AS EASILY AS OTHERS SUFFER FROM A KIND OF LEARNING DISABILITY-THERE IS SOMETHING THAT INTERFERES WITH THE WAY THEY PERCEIVE NUMBERS AND LETTERS, THERE IS SOMETHING DIFFERENT ABOUT THE WAY THEY COMPREHEND UNFAMILIAR MATERIAL-BUT I FAIL TO SEE HOW THIS DISABILITY IS IMPROVED BY PSYCHIATRIC CONSULTATION. WHAT SEEMS TO BE LACKING IS A TECHNICAL ABILITY THAT THOSE OF US CALLED 'GOOD STUDENTS' ARE BORN WITH. SOMEONE SHOULD CONCRETELY STUDY THESE SKILLS AND TEACH THEM. WHAT DOES A SHRINK HAVE TO DO WITH THE PROCESS?'
These were the days before we'd heard about dyslexia and other 'learning disabilities'; students like me were simply thought to be stupid, or slow. It was Owen who isolated my problem. 'YOU'RE MAINLY SLOW,' he said. 'YOU'RE ALMOST AS SMART AS I AM, BUT YOU NEED TWICE THE TIME.' The school psychiatrist-a retired Swiss gentleman who returned, every summer, to Zurich-was convinced that my difficulties as a student were the result of my best friend's 'murder' of my mother, and the 'tensions and conflicts' that he saw as the 'inevitable result' of my dividing my life between my grandmother and my stepfather.
'At times, you must hate him-yes?' Dr. Dolder mused.
'Hate who?' I asked. 'My stepfather? No-I love Dan!'
'Your best friend-at times, you hate him. Yes?' Dr. Dolder asked.
'No!' I said. 'I love Owen-it was an accident.'
'Yes, I know,' Dr. Dolder said. 'But nonetheless . . . your grandmother, perhaps, she is a most difficult reminder- yes?'
'A 'reminder'?' I said. 'I love my grandmother!'
'Yes, I know,' Dr. Dolder said. 'But this baseball business-it's most difficult, I imagine ...'
'Yes!' I said. 'I hate baseball.'
'Yes, for sure,' Dr. Dolder said. 'I've never seen a game, so it's hard for me to imagine exactly . . . perhaps we should take in a game together?'
'No,' I said. 'I don't play baseball, I don't even watch it!'
'Yes, I see,' Dr. Dolder said. 'You hate it that much-I see!'
'I can't spell,' I said. 'I'm a slow reader, I get tired-I have to keep my finger on the particular sentence, or I'll lose my place . . .'
'It must be rather hard-a baseball,' Dr. Dolder said 'Yes?'
'Yes, it's very hard,' I said; I sighed.
'Yes, I see,' Dr. Dolder said. 'Are you tired now? Are you getting tired?'
'It's the spelling,' I told him. 'The spelling and the reading.'
There were photographs on the wall of his office in the Hubbard
