porch, so Hester and I kept our voices down, saying good night to Owen and his father; Owen told his father to not turn around in our driveway. Because the dressmaker's dummy wouldn't fit in the cab-because it couldn't bend-Owen stood on the flatbed with his arm around the hips of the red dress as the truck pulled away. With his free hand, he held fast to one of the loading chains-they were the chains for fastening down the curbstones or the monuments. If Mr. Fish had been in his hammock, and if he had woken up, he would have seen something unforgettable passing under the Front Street lamplights. The dark and massive truck, lumbering into the night, and the woman in the red dress-a headless woman with a stunning figure, but with no arms- held around her hips by a child attached to a chain, or a dwarf.
'I hope you know he's crazy,' said Hester tiredly. But I looked at Owen's departing image with wonder: he had managed to orchestrate my mourning on the evening of my mother's funeral. And, like my armadillo's claws, he'd taken what he wanted-in this case, my mother's double, her shy dressmaker's dummy in that unloved dress. Later, I thought that Owen must have known the dummy was important; he must have foreseen that even that unwanted dress would have a use-that it had a purpose. But then, that night, I was inclined to agree with Hester; I thought the red dress was merely Owen's idea of a talisman-an amulet, to ward off the evil powers of that 'angel' Owen thought he'd seen. I didn't believe in angels then. Toronto: February ,-the Fourth Sunday After Epiphany. I believe in angels now. I don't necessarily claim that this is an advantage; for example, it was of no particular help to me during last night's Vestry elections-I wasn't even nominated. I've been a parish officer so many times, for so many years, I shouldn't complain; perhaps my fellow parishioners thought they were being kind to me-to give me a year off. Indeed, had I been nominated for warden or deputy warden, I might have declined to accept the nomination. I admit, I'm tired of it; I've done more than my share for Grace Church on-the-Hill. Still, I was surprised I wasn't nominated for a single office; out of politeness-if not out of recognition of my faithfulness and my devotion-I thought I should have been nominated for something. I shouldn't have let the insult-if it even is an insult- distract me from the Sunday service; that was not good. Once I was rector's warden to Canon Campbell-back when Canon Campbell was our rector; when he was alive, I admit I felt a little better-treated. But since Canon Mackie has been rector, I've been deputy rector's warden once-and people's warden, too. And one year I was chairman of sidesmen; I've also been parish council chairman. It's not the fault of Canon Mackie that he'll never replace Canon Campbell in my heart; Canon Mackie is warm and kind-and his loquaciousness doesn't offend me. It is simply that Canon Campbell was special, and those early days were special, too. I shouldn't brood about such a silly business as the annual installation of parish officers; especially, I shouldn't allow such thoughts to distract me from the choral Eucharist and the sermon. I confess to a certain childishness. The visiting preacher distracted me, too. Canon Mackie is keen on having guest ministers deliver the sermon-which does spare us the canon's loquacity-but whoever the preacher was today, he was some sort of 'reformed' Anglican, and his thesis seemed to be that everything that first appears to be different is actually the same. I couldn't help thinking what Owen Meany would say about that. In the Protestant tradition, we turn to the Bible; when we want an answer, that's where we look. But even the Bible distracted me today. For the Fourth Sunday After Epiphany, Canon Mackie chose Matthew-those troublesome Beatitudes; at least, they always troubled Owen and me. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. It's just so hard to imagine 'the poor in spirit' achieving very much. Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. I was eleven years old when my mother was killed; I mourn her still. I mourn for more than her, too. I don't feel 'comforted'; not yet. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.
'BUT THERE'S NO EVIDENCE FOR THAT,' Owen told Mrs. Walker in Sunday school.
And on and on:
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.
'BUT WILL IT HELP THEM-TO SEE GOD?' Owen Meany asked Mrs. Walker. Did it help Owen-to see God?
'Blessed are you when men revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account,' Jesus says. 'Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for so men persecuted the prophets who were before you.'
That was always something Owen and I found hard to take-a reward in heaven.
'GOODNESS AS BRIBERY,' Owen called it-an argument that eluded Mrs. Walker. And then-after the Beatitudes, and the sermon by the stranger-the Nicene Creed felt forced to me. Canon Campbell used to explain everything to me-the part about believing in 'One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic Church' bothered me; Canon Campbell helped me see beyond the words, he made me see in what sense 'Catholic,' in what way 'Apostolic.' Canon Mackie says I worry about 'mere words' too much. Mere words? And then there was the business about 'all nations,' and-specifically-'our Queen'; I'm not an American anymore, but I still have trouble with the part mat goes 'grant unto thy servant ELIZABETH our Queen'; and to think that it is possible 'to lead all nations in the way of righteousness' is utterly ridiculous! And before I received Holy Communion, I balked at the general Confession.
'We acknowledge and confess our manifold sins and wickedness.' Some Sundays, this is so hard to say; Canon Campbell indulged me when I confessed to him that this confession was difficult for me, but Canon Mackie employs the 'mere words' thesis with me until I am seeing him in a most unforgiving light. And when Canon Mackie proceeded with the Holy Eucharist, to the Thanksgiving and Consecration, which he sang, I even judged him unfairly for his singing voice, which is not and never will be the equal of
