smart man, too. Of course, that's what Owen expected of me: he gave me his baseball cards to show me how sorry he was about the accident, and how much he was hurting, too-because Owen had loved my mother almost as much as I did, I was sure, and to give me all his cards was his way of saying that he loved me enough to trust me with his famous collection. But, naturally, he wanted all the cards back! Dan Needham said, 'Let's look at a few of them. I'll bet they're all in some kind of order-even in these boxes.' And, yes, they were-Dan and I couldn't figure out the exact rules under which they were ordered, but the cards were organized
under an extreme system; they were alphabetized by the names of players, but the hitters, I mean the big hitters, were alphabetized in a group of their own; and your golden-glove-type fielders, they had a category all to themselves, too; and the pitchers were all together. There even seemed to be some subindexing related to the age of the players; but Dan and I found it difficult to look at the cards for very long-so many of the players faced the camera with their lethal bats resting confidently on their shoulders. I know many people, today, who instinctively cringe at any noise even faintly resembling a gunshot or an exploding bomb-a car backfires, the handle of a broom or a shovel whacks flat against a cement or a linoleum floor, a kid detonates a firecracker in an empty trash can, and my friends cover their heads, primed (as we all are, today) for the terrorist attack or the random assassin. But not me; and never Owen Meany. All because of one badly played baseball game, one unlucky swing-and the most unlikely contact-all because of one lousy foul ball, among millions, Owen Meany and I were permanently conditioned to flinch at the sound of a different kind of gunshot: that much-loved and most American sound of summer, the good old crack of the bat! And so, as I often would, I took Dan Needham's advice. We loaded the cartons of Owen's baseball cards into the car, and we tried to think of the least conspicuous time of day when we could drive out to the Meany Granite Quarry-when we would not necessarily need to greet Mr. Meany, or disturb Mrs. Meany's grim profile in any of several windows, or actually need to talk with Owen. Dan understood that I loved Owen, and that I wanted to talk with him-most of all-but that it was a conversation, for both Owen's sake and mine, that was best to delay. But before we finished loading the baseball cards in the car, Dan Needham asked me, 'What are you giving Mm?'
'What?' I said.
'To show him that you love him,' Dan Needham said. 'That's what he was showing you. What have you got to give him?'
Of course I knew what I had that would show Owen that I loved him; I knew what my armadillo meant to him, but it was a little awkward to 'give' Owen in front of Dan Needham, who'd given it to me-and what if Owen didn't give it back? I'd needed Dan's help to understand that I was supposed to return the damn baseball cards. What if Owen decided he was supposed to keep the armadillo?
'The main thing is, Johnny,' Dan Needham said, 'you have to show Owen that you love him enough to trust anything with him-to not care if you do or don't get it back. It's got to be something he knows you want back. That's what makes it special.'
'Suppose I give him the armadillo?' I said. 'Suppose he keeps it?'
Dan Needham sat down on the front bumper of the car. It was a Buick station wagon, forest green with real wooden panels on the sides and on the tailgate, and a chrome grille that looked like the gaping mouth of a voracious fish; from where Dan was sitting, the Buick appeared ready to eat him-and Dan looked tired enough to be eaten without much of a struggle. I'm sure he'd been up crying all night, like me-and, unlike me, he'd probably been up drinking, too. He looked awful. But he said very patiently and very carefully, 'Johnny, I would be honored if anything I gave you could actually be used for something important-if it were to have any special purpose, I'd be very proud.'
That was when I first began to think about certain events or specific things being 'important' and having 'special purpose.' Until then, the notion that anything had a designated, much less a special purpose would have been cuckoo to me. I was not what was commonly called a believer then, and I am a believer now; I believe in God, and I believe in the 'special purpose' of certain events or specific things. I observe all holy days, which only the most old-fashioned Anglicans call red-letter days. It was a red-letter day, fairly recently, when I had reason to think of Owen Meany-it was January , , when the lessons proper for the conversion of St. Paul reminded me of Owen. The Lord says to Jeremiah, Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet to the nations.
But Jeremiah says he doesn't know how to speak; he's 'only a youth,' Jeremiah says. Then the Lord straightens him out about that; the Lord says,
Do not say, 'I am only a youth'; for to all to whom I send you you shall go, and whatever I command you you shall speak. Be not afraid of them, for I am with you to deliver you, says the Lord. Then the Lord touches Jeremiah's mouth, and says, Behold, I have put my words in your mouth. See, have set you this day over nations and over kingdoms, to pluck up and to break down, to destroy and to overthrow, to build and to plant. It is on red-letter days, especially, that I think about Owen; sometimes I think about him too intensely, and that's usually when I skip a Sunday service, or two-and I try not to pick up my prayer book for a while. I suppose the conversion of St. Paul has a special effect on a convert like me. And how can I not think of Owen-when I read Paul's letter to the Galatians, that part where Paul says, 'And I was still not known by sight to the churches of Christ in Judea; they only heard it said, 'He who once persecuted us is now preaching the faith he once tried to destroy.' And they
