'THE LINEN-SERVICE ENTRANCE?' said Owen Meany.
'You know what I mean,' I said. 'If you could fuck absolutely any woman you wanted to fuck, would you-or wouldn't you?'
'I CAN'T BELIEVE THAT YOUR UPBRINGING AND YOUR EDUCATION HAVE BEEN WASTED ON YOU,' he said. 'WHY STUDY HISTORY OR LITERATURE-NOT TO MENTION RELIGIOUS KNOWLEDGE AND SCRIPTURE AND ETHICS? WHY NOT DO ANYTHING-IF THE ONLY REASON NOT TO IS NOT TO GET CAUGHT?' he asked. 'DO YOU CALL THAT MORALITY? DO YOU CALL THAT RESPONSIBLE! THE PRESIDENT IS ELECTED TO UPHOLD THE CONSTITUTION; TO PUT THAT MORE BROADLY, HE'S CHOSEN TO UPHOLD THE LAW-HE'S NOT GIVEN A LICENSE TO OPERATE ABOVE THE LAW, HE'S SUPPOSED TO BE OUR EXAMPLE]'
Remember that? Remember then! I remember what Owen said about 'Project ,,' too-remember that? That was a draft program outlined by the secretary of defense, Robert McNamara, in . Of the first , taken into the military between and , percent read below sixth-grade level, percent were black, percent came from low-income families, percent had dropped out of high school. 'The poor of America have not had the opportunity to earn their fair share of this nation's abundance,' Secretary McNamara said, 'but they can be given an opportunity to serve in their country's defense.'
That made Owen Meany hopping mad.
'DOES HE THINK HE'S DOING 'THE POOR OF AMERICA' SOME FAVOR?' Owen cried. 'WHAT HE'S SAYING IS, YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE WHITE-OR A GOOD READER-TO DIE I THAT'S SOME 'OPPORTUNITY'! I'LL BET 'THE POOR OF AMERICA' ARE REALLY GOING TO BE GRATEFUL FOR THIS!'
Toronto: July , -it's been so hot, I wish Katherine would invite me up to her family's island in Georgian Bay; but she has such a large family, I'm sure she's suffered her share of houseguests. I have fallen into a bad habit here: I buy The New York Times almost every day. I don't exactly know why I want or need to know anything more. According to The New York Times, a new poll has revealed that most Americans believe that President Reagan is lying; what they should be asked is, Do they care? I wrote Katherine and asked her when she was going to invite me to Georgian Bay. 'When are you going to rescue me from my own bad habits?' I asked her. I wonder if you can buy The New York Times in Pointe au Baril Station; I hope not. Larry's mother, Mitzy Lish, had honey-colored, slightly sticky-looking hair-it was coiffed in a bouffant style-and her complexion was much improved by a suntan; in the winter months, when she'd not just returned from her annual pilgrimage to Round Hill, Jamaica, her skin turned a shade sallow. Because her complexion was further wrecked by blotchiness in the extreme cold, and because her excessive smoking had ill-influenced her circulation, a weekend of winter skiing in New England-even to forward the cause of her competition for her son's affection-did not favor either Mrs. Lish's appearance or her disposition. Yet it was impossible not to see her as an attractive 'older' woman; she was not quite up to President Kennedy's standards, but Mitzy Lish was a beauty by any standard Owen and I had to compare her to. Hester's early-blooming eroticism, for example, had not been improved by her carelessness or by alcohol; even though Mrs. Lish smoked up a storm, and her amber hair was dyed (because she was graying at her roots), Mrs. Lish looked sexier than Hester. She wore too much gold and silver for New Hampshire; in New York, I'm sure, she was certainly in vogue-but her clothes and her jewelry, and her bouffant, were more suited to the kind of hotels and cities where ' 'evening' or formal clothes are standard. In Gravesend, she stood out; and it is hard to imagine that there was a small skiers' lodge in New Hampshire, or in Vermont, that ever could have pleased her. She had ambitions beyond the simple luxury of a private bath; she was a woman who needed room service-who wanted her first
cigarette and her coffee and her New York Times before she got out of bed. And then she would need sufficient light and a proper makeup mirror, in front of which she would require a decent amount of time; she would be snappish if ever she was rushed. Her days in New York, before lunch, consisted only of cigarettes and coffee and The New York Times-and the patient, loving task of making herself up. She was an impatient woman, but never when applying her makeup. Lunch with a fellow gossip, then; or, these days, following her divorce, with her lawyer or a potential lover. In the afternoon, she'd have her hair done or she'd do a little shopping; at the very least, she'd buy a few new magazines or see a movie. She might meet someone for a drink, later. She possessed all the up-to-date information that often passes for intelligence among people who make a daily and extensive habit of The New York Times-and the available, softer gossip-and she had oodles of time to consume all this contemporary news. She had never worked. She took quite a lot of time for her evening bath, too, and then there was the evening makeup to apply; it irritated her to make any dinner plans that required her presence before eight o'clock-but it irritated her more to have no dinner plans. She didn't cook-not even eggs. She was too lazy to make real coffee; the instant stuff went well enough with her cigarettes and her newspaper. She would have been an early supporter of those sugar-free, diet soft drinks-because she was obsessed with losing weight (and opposed to exercise). She blamed her troublesome complexion on her ex-husband, who had been stressful to live with; and their divorce had cut her out of California-where she preferred to spend the winter months, where it was better for her skin. She swore her pores were actually larger in New York. But she maintained the Fifth Avenue apartment with a vengeance; and included in her alimony was the expense of her annual pilgrimage to Round Hill, Jamaica-always at a time in the winter when her complexion had become intolerable to her-and a summer rental in the Hamptons (because not even Fifth Avenue was any fun in July and August). A woman of her sophistication- and used to the standard of living she'd grown accustomed to, as Herb Lish's wife and the mother of his only child-simply needed the sun and the salt air. She would be a popular divorcee for quite a number of years; she would appear in no hurry to remarry-in fact, she'd turn down a few proposals. But, one year, she would either anticipate that her looks were going, or she would notice that her looks had gone; it would take her more and more time in front of the makeup mirror-simply to salvage what used to be there. Then she
