'Owen b-b-b-believed that there was a purpose to everything that h-h-h-happened to him-that G-G-G-God meant for the story of his life to have some m-m-m-meaning. God had p-p-p-picked Owen,' Pastor Merrill said.
'Do you believe that?' I asked him.
'My faith . . .' he started to say; then he stopped. 'I believe . . .'he started again; then he stopped again. 'It is obvious that Owen Meany was g-g-g-gifted with certain precognitive p-p-p-powers-visions of the f-f-f-future are not unheard of, you know,' he said. I was angry with the Rev. Mr. Merrill for making of Owen Meany what Mr. Merrill so often made of Jesus Christ, or of God-a subject for 'metaphysical speculation.' He turned Owen Meany into an intellectual problem, and I told him so.
'You want to call Owen, and everything that happened to him, a m-m-m-miracle-don't you?' Mr. Merrill asked me.
'Well, it is 'miraculous,' isn't it?' I asked him. 'You must agree it is at least extraordinary V
'You sound positively converted,' Mr. Merrill said condescendingly. 'I would be careful not to confuse your g-g-g-grief with genuine, religious belief . . .'
'You don't sound to me as if you believe very much!' I said angrily.
'About Owen?' he asked me.
'Not just about Owen,' I said. 'You don't seem to me to believe very much in God-or in any of those so-called miracles. You're always talking about 'doubt as the essence and not the opposite of faith'-but it seems to me that your doubt has taken control of you. I think that's what Owen thought about you, too.'
'Yes, that's true-that's what he thought about m-m-m-me,' the Rev. Lewis Merrill said. We sat together in the vestry office, not talking, for almost an hour, or maybe two hours; it grew dark while we sat there, but Mr. Merrill didn't move to turn on the desk lamp.
'What are you going to say about him-at his funeral?' I finally asked Pastor Merrill. In the darkness, his expression was hidden from me; but Mr. Merrill sat so stiffly at his old desk that the unnatural rigidity of his posture gave me the impression he had no confidence in his ability to do his job. 'I WANT YOU TO SAY A PRAYER FOR ME,'' Owen Meany had said to him. Why had that prayer been so difficult for the Rev. Mr. Merrill? 'IT'S YOUR BUSINESS, ISN'T IT?' Owen had asked. Why had Mr. Merrill appeared almost stricken to agree? For wasn't it, indeed, his BUSINESS, not only to pray for Owen Meany, then and now and forever, but here in Kurd's Church-at Owen's funeral-to bear witness to how Owen had lived his life, as if he were on divine assignment, as if he were following God's holy orders; and whether or not the Rev. Lewis Merrill believed in everything that Owen had believed, wasn't it also
the Rev. Mr. Merrill's BUSINESS to give testimony to how faithful a servant of God Owen Meany had been? I sat in the dark of the vestry office, thinking that religion was only a career for Pastor Merrill. He taught the same old stories, with the same old cast of characters; he preached the same old virtues and values; and he theologized on the same old 'miracles'-yet he appeared not to believe in any of it. His mind was closed to the possibility of a new story; there was no room in his heart for a new character of God's holy choosing, or for a new 'miracle.' Owen Meany had believed that his death was necessary if others were to be saved from a stupidity and hatred that was destroying him. In that belief, surely he was not so unfamiliar a hero. In the darkness of the vestry office, I suddenly felt that Owen Meany was very near. The Rev. Lewis Merrill turned on the lamp; he looked as if I'd awakened him, and that he'd been dreaming-he looked as if he'd suffered a nightmare. When he tried to speak, his stutter gripped his throat so tightly that he needed to raise both his hands to his mouth-almost to pull the words out. But no words came. He looked as if he might be choking. Then his mouth opened-still he found no words. His hands grasped the top of his desk; his hands wandered to the handles of his old desk drawers. When the Rev. Mr. Merrill spoke, he spoke not with his own voice-he spoke in. the exact falsetto, the 'permanent scream,' of Owen Meany. It was Mr. Merrill's mouth that formed the words, but it was Owen Meany's voice that spoke to me: 'LOOK IN THE THIRD DRAWER, RIGHT-HAND SIDE.' Then the Rev. Mr. Merrill's right hand flew down to the third desk drawer on the right-hand side; he pulled the drawer out so far that it came free of the desk-and the baseball rolled across the cool, stone floor of the vestry office. When I looked into Pastor Merrill's face, I had no doubt about which baseball it was.
'Father?' I said.
'Forgive me, my s-s-s-'vz!' said the Rev. Lewis Merrill. That was the first time that Owen Meany let me hear from him-after he was gone. The second time was this August, when-as if to remind me that he would never allow anything bad to happen to me-he kept me from falling down the cellar stairs in the secret passageway. And I know: I will hear from him-from time to time-again. It is typical of Owen, who was always guilty of overkill; he should understand that I don't need to hear from him to know if he is there. Like his rough, gray replacement of Mary Magdalene, the statue that Owen said was like the God he knew was there-even in the dark, even though invisible-I have no doubt that Owen is there. Owen promised me that God would tell me who my father was. I always suspected that Owen would tell me-he was always so much more interested in the story than / was. It's no surprise to me that when God decided it was time to tell me who my father was, God chose to speak to me in
