me?' Grandmother said. 'I'd rather be murdered by a maniac than have to leave my home-and that's what will happen to me,' she said. 'Maybe Dan, maybe Martha-maybe you,'
she said accusingly to me. 'One of you, or all of you-either way, you're going to force me to leave this house. You're going to put me in a place with a bunch of old people who are crazy,' Grandmother said. 'And I'd rather be murdered by a maniac instead-that's all I mean. One day, Ethel won't be able to manage-one day, it will take a hundred Ethels just to clean up the mess I make!' my grandmother said. 'One day, not even you will want to watch television with me,' she said to Owen. 'One day,' she said to me, 'you'll come to visit me and I won't even know who you are. Why doesn't someone train the maniacs to murder old people and leave the young people alone? What a waster' she cried. A lot of people were saying this about the death of President Kennedy-with a slightly different meaning, of course. 'I'm going to be an incontinent idiot,' my grandmother said; she looked directly at Owen Meany. 'Wouldn't you rather be murdered by a maniac?' she asked him.
'IF IT WOULD DO ANY GOOD-YES, I WOULD,' said Owen Meany.
'I think we've been watching too much television,' I said.
'There's no remedy for that,' my grandmother said. But after the murder of President Kennedy, it seemed to me that there was 'no remedy' for Owen Meany, either; he succumbed to a state of mind that he would not discuss with me-he went into a visible decline in communication. I would often see the tomato-red pickup parked behind the vestry of Kurd's Church; Owen had kept in touch with the Rev. Lewis Merrill, whose silent and extended prayer for Owen had gained him much respect among the faculty and students at Graves-end. Pastor Merrill had always been 'liked'; but before his prayer he had lacked respect. I'm sure that Owen, too, was grateful for Mr. MerriH's gesture-even if the gesture had been a struggle, and not of the minister's own initiative. But after JFK's death, Owen appeared to see more of the Rev. Mr. Merrill; and Owen wouldn't tell me what they talked about. Maybe they talked about Marilyn Monroe and the Kennedys. They talked about 'the dream,' I suppose; but I had not yet been successful in coaxing that dream out of Owen Meany.
'What's this I hear about a dream you keep having?' I asked him once.
'I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'VE HEARD,' he said. And shortly before that New Year's Eve, I asked Hester if she knew anything about any dream. Hester had had a few
drinks; she was getting into her throwing-up mood, but she was rarely caught off-guard. She eyed me suspiciously.
'What do you know about it?' she asked me.
'I just know that he has a dream-and that it bothers him,' I added.
'I know that it bothers me,' she said. 'It wakes me up-when he has it. And I don't like to look at him when he's having it, or after it's over. Don't ask me what it's about!' she said. 'I can tell you one thing: you don't want to know.'
And occasionally I saw the tomato-red pickup parked at St. Michael's-not at the school, but by the curb at the rectory for St. Michael's Catholic ChurcM I figured he was talking to Father Findley; maybe because Kennedy had been a Catholic, maybe because some kind of ongoing dialogue with Father Findley had actually been required of Owen-in lieu of his being obliged to compensate the Catholic Church for the damage done to Mary Magdalene.
'How's it going with Father Findley?' I asked him once.
'I BELIEVE HE MEANS WELL,' Owen said cautiously. 'BUT THERE'S A FUNDAMENTAL LEAP OF FAITH THAT ALL HIS TRAINING-ALL THAT CATHOLIC BACKGROUND-SIMPLY CANNOT ALLOW HIM TO MAKE. I DON'T THINK HE'LL EVER UNDERSTAND THE MAGNITUDE . . . THE UNSPEAKABLE OUTRAGE ...' Then he stopped talking.
'Yes?' I said. 'You were saying . . . 'the unspeakable outrage' . . . was that to your parents, do you mean?'
'FATHER FINDLEY SIMPLY CANNOT GRASP HOW THEY HAVE BEEN MADE TO SUFFER,' said Owen Meany.
'Oh,' I said. 'I see.' I was joking, of course! But either my humor eluded him, or else Owen Meany had no intention of making himself any clearer on this point.
'But you like Father Findley?' I asked. 'I mean, sort of ... 'he means well,' you say. You enjoy talking to him- I guess.'
'IT TURNS OUT IT'S IMPOSSIBLE TO RESTORE MARY MAGDALENE EXACTLY AS SHE WAS-I MEAN, THE STATUE,' he said. 'MY FATHER KNOWS A COMPANY THAT MAKES SAINTS, AND OTHER HOLY FIGURES-I MEAN, GRANITE, YOU KNOW,' he said. 'BUT THEIR PRICES ARE RIDICULOUS. FATHER FIND-LEY'S BEEN VERY PATIENT. I'M GETTING HIM GOOD GRANITE-AND SOMEONE WHO SCULPTS THESE SAINTS A LITTLE CHEAPER, AND MAKES THEM A LITTLE MORE PERSONALLY . . . YOU KNOW, NOT ALWAYS EXACTLY THE SAME GESTURE OF SUPPLICATION, SO THAT THEY DON'T ALWAYS LOOK LIKE BEGGARS. I'VE TOLD FATHER FINDLEY THAT I CAN MAKE HIM A MUCH BETTER PEDESTAL THAN THE ONE HE'S GOT, AND I'VE BEEN TRYING TO CONVINCE HIM TO
