'THE IDEA IS TO BE FAST ENOUGH,' he said. 'THE TRICK IS, CAN WE DO IT IN UNDER THREE SECONDS EVERY TIME! THAT'S THE IDEA.'
So we kept practicing. When there were students in the
Gravesend Academy gym, we went to the playground at St. Michael's. We had no one to time us-we had nothing resembling the official scorer's clock in the gym, and Hester was unwilling to participate in our practices; she was no substitute for the retarded janitor. And the rusty hoop of the basket was a little crooked, and the net long gone-and the macadam of the playground was so broken up, we couldn't even dribble the ball; but we could still practice. Owen said he could FEEL when we were dunking the shot in under three seconds. And although there was no retarded janitor to cheer us on, the nuns in the saltbox at the far end of the playground often noticed us; sometimes, they even waved, and Owen Meany would wave back-although he said that nuns still gave him the shivers. And always Mary Magdalene watched over us; we could feel her silent encouragement. When it snowed, Owen would brush her off. It snowed early that fall-long before Thanksgiving. I remember practicing the shot with my ski hat and my gloves on; but Owen Meany would always do it bare-handed. And in the afternoons, when it grew dark early, the lights in the nuns' house would be lit before we finished practicing. Mary Magdalene would turn a darker shade of gray; she would almost disappear in the shadows. Once, when it was almost too dark to see the basket, I caught just a glimpse of her-standing at the edge of total darkness. I imagined that she resembled mat Owen thought he had seen at my mother's bed. I said this to him, and he looked at Mary Magdalene; blowing on his cold, bare hands, he looked at her very intently.
'NO, THERE'S NOT REALLY ANY RESEMBLANCE,' he said. 'THAT ANGEL WAS VERY BUSY-SHE WAS MOVING, ALWAYS MOVING. ESPECIALLY, HER HANDS -SHE KEPT REACHING OUT WITH HER HANDS.'
It was the first I'd heard that had been moving- about what a busy angel he thought he'd seen.
'You never said it was moving,' I said.
'IT WAS MOVING, ALL RIGHT,' said Owen Meany. 'THAT'S WHY I NEVER HAD ANY DOUBT. IT COULDN'T HAVE BEEN THE DUMMY BECAUSE IT WAS MOVING,' he said. 'AND DSf ALL THESE YEARS THAT I'VE HAD THE DUMMY, THE DUMMY HAS NEVER MOVED.'
Since when, I wondered, did Owen Meany ever have ANY DOUBT? And how often had he stared at my mother's dressmaker's dummy? He expected it to move, I thought. When it was so dark at the St. Michael's playground that we couldn't see the basket, we couldn't see Mary Magdalene, either. What Owen liked best was to practice the shot until we lost Mary Magdalene in the darkness. Then he would stand under the basket with me and say, 'CAN YOU SEE HER?'
'Not anymore,' I'd say.
'YOU CAN'T SEE HER, BUT YOU KNOW SHE'S STILL THERE-RIGHT?' he would say.
'Of course she's still there!' I'd say.
'YOU'RE SURE?' he'd ask me.
'Of course I'm sure!' I'd say.
'BUT YOU CANT SEE HER,' he'd say-very teasingly. 'HOW DO YOU KNOW SHE'S STILL THERE IF YOU CAN'T ACTUALLY SEE HER?'
'Because I know she's still there-because I know she couldn't have gone anywhere-because I just knowl' I would say. And one cold, late-fall day-it was November or even early December, Johnson had defeated Goldwater for the presidency; Khrushchev had been replaced by Brezhnev and Kosygin; five Americans had been killed in a Viet Cong attack on the air base at Bien Hoa-I was especially exasperated by this game he played about not seeing Mary Magdalene but still knowing she was there.
'YOU HAVE NO DOUBT SHE'S THERE?' he nagged at me.
'Of course I have no doubt!' I said.
'BUT YOU CAN'T SEE HER-YOU COULD BE WRONG,' he said.
'No, I'm not wrong-she's there, I know she's there!' I yelled at him.
'YOU ABSOLUTELY KNOW SHE'S THERE-EVEN THOUGH YOU CAN'T SEE HER?' he asked me.
'Yes!' I screamed.
'WELL, NOW YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL ABOUT GOD,' said Owen Meany. 'I CAN'T SEE HIM-BUT I ABSOLUTELY KNOW HE IS THERE!'
Georgian Bay: My , -Katherine told me today that I should make an effort to not read any newspapers. She saw how The Globe and Mail ruined my day-and it is so
gorgeous, so peaceful on this island, on all this water; it's such a shame to not relax here, to not take the opportunity to think more tranquilly, more reflectively. Katharine wants only the best for me; I know she's right-I should give up the news, just give it up. You can't
