teacher, Mrs. Walker. She looked especially severe in black, and without her sharp criticisms of Owen Meany-to get back to his seat, to get down from up there!-I did not instantly remember her as the Sunday school tyrant who was stupid enough to think that Owen Meany had put himself up in the air. The Dowlings were there, not seizing the opportunity to use this occasion to flaunt their much-embattled, sexual role reversals; they had-and probably this was for the best- never had a child. Larry O'Day, the Chevy dealer, was also
there; he'd played Bob Cratchit in A Christmas Carol-in that notable year when Owen Meany had played the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. He was with his racy daughter, Caroline O'Day, who sat with her lifelong friend Maureen Early, who'd twice wet her pants while watching Owen Meany show Scrooge his future-it was Caroline who had many times rejected my advances, both while wearing and not wearing her St. Michael's uniform. Even Mr. Kenmore, the A&P butcher, was there-with Mrs. Kenmore and their son Donny, such faithful fans that they had never missed a Little League game. Yes, they were all there-even Mr. Morrison, the cowardly mailman; even he was there! And the new headmaster of Gravesend Academy; he'd never met Owen Meany-yet he was there, perhaps acknowledging that he wouldn't have been made the new headmaster if Owen Meany hadn't lost the battle but won the war with Randy White. And if old Archie Thorndike had been alive, I know that he would have been there, too. The Brinker-Smiths were not in attendance; I'm sure they would have come, had they not moved back to England-so firm was their opposition to the war in Vietnam that they hadn't wanted their twins to be Americans. Wherever the Brinker-Smiths were, I hoped that they still loved each other as passionately as they once loved each other-on all the floors, in all the beds-in Waterhouse Hall. And our old friend the retarded janitor from the Gravesend gym-the man who'd so faithfully timed the shot, who'd been our witness the first time we sank the shot in under three seconds!-had also come to pay his respects to the little Slam-Dunk Master! Then a cloud passed over the hole the baseball had made in the stained-glass window of the chancel; Owen's gold medal glowed a little less insistently. My grandmother, who was trembling, held my hand as we rose to join in the processional hymn-not meaning to, Grandmother squeezed the stump of my amputated finger. As Colonel Eiger and the young first lieutenant approached the casket from the center aisle, the honor guard came stiffly to attention. We sang the hymn we'd sung at morning meeting, the morning Owen had bolted the headless and armless Mary Magdalene to the podium on the stage of The Great Hall. The Son of God goes forth to war, A king-ly crown to gain; His blood-red ban-ner streams a-far; Who fol-lows in his train? Who best can drink his cup of woe, Tri-um-phant o-ver pain, Who pa-tient bears his cross be-low, He fol-lows in his train.
There is a note following 'An Order for Burial' in The Book of Common Prayer-according to the use of the Episcopal Church. This note is very sensible. 'The liturgy for the dead is an Easter liturgy,' the note says. 'It finds all its meaning in the resurrection. Because Jesus was raised from the dead, we, too, shall be raised. The liturgy, therefore, is characterized by joy . . .' the note goes on. 'This joy, however, does not make human grief unchristian . . .' the note concludes. And so we sang our hearts out for Owen Meany-aware that while the liturgy for the dead might be characterized by joy, our so-called 'human grief did not make us 'unchristian.' When we managed to get through the hymn, we sat down and looked up-and there was the Rev. Lewis Merrill, already standing in the pulpit.
' 'I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord . . .' ' my father began. There was something newly powerful and confident in his voice, and the mourners heard it; the congregation gave him their complete attention. Of course, I knew what it was that had changed in him; he had found his lost faith-he spoke with absolute belief in every word he uttered; therefore, he never stuttered. When he would look up from The Book of Common Prayer, he would gesture with his arms, like a swimmer exercising for the breaststroke, and the fingers of his right hand extended into the shaft of sunlight that plunged through the hole the baseball had made in the stained-glass window; Mr. MerriU's fingers moving in and out of the beam of light caused Owen Meany's medal to twinkle.
' 'The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me to bring good tidings to the afflicted Pastor Merrill read to us. ''... he has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,' ' cried Mr. Merrill, who had no doubt-his doubt was gone; it had vanished, forever! He scarely paused
for breath. ' '. . . to comfort all who mourn,' ' he proclaimed. But Mr. Merrill was not satisfied; he must have felt that we could not be comforted enough by only Isaiah. My father thought we should also be comforted by Lamentations, from which he read:'' 'The Lord is good to those who wait for him, to the soul that seeks him.' ' And if that morsel could not satisfy our hunger to be comforted, Pastor Merrill led us further into Lamentations: ' 'For the Lord will not cast off for ever, but, though he cause grief, he will have compassion according to the abundance of his steadfast love; for he does not willingly afflict or grieve the sons of men.' '' The fingers of my father's pale hand moved in and out of the shaft of sunlight, like minnows, and Owen's medal blinked at us as rhythmically as a beacon from a lighthouse. Then Pastor Merrill exhorted us through that familiar psalm: ' 'The Lord shall preserve thy going out, and thy coming in, from this time forth for evermore.' '
Thus he led us into the New Testament Lesson, beginning with that little bit of bravery from Romans: ' 'I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing to the glory that is to be revealed to us.' ' But Lewis Merrill would not rest; for we missed Owen Meany so much that we ached for him, and Pastor Merrill would not rest until he'd assured us that Owen had left us for a better world. My father flung himself full-tilt into First Corinthians.
' 'But in fact Christ has been raised from the dead . . .' ' Pastor Merrill assured us. ' 'For as by a man came death, by a man has come also the resurrection of the dead,' '' my father said. My grandmother
