armed force.' According to Major Rawls, the Sol-
dier's Medal rates above the Bronze Star but below the Legion of Merit. Naturally, it didn't matter very much to me-exactly where the medal was rated-but I think Rawls was right in assuming that the medal mattered to Owen Meany. Major Rawls did not attend Owen's funeral. When I spoke on the telephone with him, Rawls was apologetic about not making the trip to New Hampshire; but I assured him that I completely understood his feelings. Major Rawls had seen his share of flag-draped caskets; he had seen his share of heroes, too. Major Rawls never knew everything that Owen had known; the major knew only that Owen had been a hero-he didn't know that Owen Meany had been a miracle, too. There's a prayer I say most often for Owen. It's one of the little prayers he said for my mother, the night Hester and I found him in the cemetery-where he'd brought the flashlight, because he knew how my mother had hated the darkness.
' 'INTO PARADISE MAY THE ANGELS LEAD YOU,' ' he'd said over my mother's grave; and so I say that one for him-I know it was one of his favorites. I am always saying prayers for Owen Meany. And I often try to imagine how I might have answered Mary Beth Baird, when she spoke to me-at Owen's burial. If I could have spoken, if I hadn't lost my voice-what would I have said to her, how could I have answered her? Poor Mary Beth Baird! I left her standing in the cemetery without an answer.
'Do you remember how we used to lift him up?' she'd asked me. 'He was so easy to lift up!' Mary Beth Baird had said to me. 'He was so light-he weighed nothing at all! How could he have been so light?' the former Virgin Mother had asked me. I could have told her that it was only our illusion that Owen Meany weighed 'nothing at all.' We were only children-we are only children-I could have told her. What did we ever know about Owen? What did we truly know? We had the impression that everything was a game-we thought we made everything up as we went along. When we were children, we had the impression that almost everything was just for fun-no harm intended, no damage done. When we held Owen Meany above our heads, when we passed him back and forth-so effortlessly-we believed that Owen weighed nothing at all. We did not realize that there were forces beyond our play. Now I know they were the forces that contributed to our illusion of Owen's weightlessness; they were the forces we didn't have the faith to feel, they were the forces we failed to believe in-and they were also lifting up Owen Meany, taking him out of our hands. O God-please give him back! I shall keep asking You. ABOUT THE AUTHOR John Winslow Irving was born in Exeter, New Hampshire, in ; he was graduated from Phillips Exeter Academy, where he was captain of the wrestling team. He is the author of six previous novels, including THE WORLD ACCORDING TO GARP, THE HOTEL NEW HAMPSHIRE, and THE CIDER 'HOUSE RULES. Mr. Irving lives in Toronto and eastern Long Island.
