between a nest and a hotel room, they were not natural abodes, and what we found there was a random disorder and a depressing sameness. Even the pictures of the sports heroes and movie stars were the same, from room to room; and from boy to boy, there was often a similar scrap of something missed from the life at home: a picture of a car, with the boy proudly at the wheel (Gravesend boarders were not allowed to drive, or even ride in, cars); a picture of a perfectly plain backyard, or even a snapshot of such a deeply private moment-an unrecognizable figure shambling away from the camera, back turned to our view- that the substance of the picture was locked in a personal memory. The effect of these cells, with the terrible sameness of each boy's homesickness, and the chaos of travel, was what Owen had meant when he'd told my mother that dormitories were EVIL. Since her death, Owen had hinted that the strongest force compelling him to attend Gravesend Academy-namely, my mother's insistence-was gone. Those rooms allowed us to imagine what we might become-if not exactly boarders (because I would continue to live with Dan, and with Grandmother, and Owen would live at home), we would still harbor such secrets, such barely restrained messiness, such lusts, even, as these poor residents of Waterhouse Hall. It was our lives in the near future that we were searching for when we searched in those rooms, and therefore it was shrewd of Owen that he made us take our time. It was in a room on the third floor that Owen discovered the prophylactics; everyone called them 'rubbers,' but in Grave-send, New Hampshire, we called them 'beetleskins.' The origin of that word is not known to me; technically, a 'beetleskin' was a used condom-and, even more specifically, one found in a parking lot or washed up on a beach or floating in the urinal at the drive-in movie. I believe that only
those were authentic 'beetleskins': old and very-much-used condoms that popped out at you in public places. It was in the third-floor room of a senior named Potter-an advisee of Dan's-that Owen found a half-dozen or more prophylactics, in their foil wrappers, not very ably concealed in the sock compartment of the dresser drawers.
'BEETLESKINS!' he cried, dropping them on the floor; we stood back from them. We had never seen unused rubbers in their drugstore packaging before.
'Are you sure?' I asked Owen.
'THEY'RE FRESH BEETLESKINS,' Owen told me. 'THE CATHOLICS FORBID THEM,' he added. 'THE CATHOLICS ARE OPPOSED TO BIRTH CONTROL.'
'Why?' I asked.
'NEVER MIND,' Owen said. 'I'VE NOTHING MORE TO DO WITH THE CATHOLICS.'
'Right,' I said. We tried to ascertain if Potter would know exactly how many beetleskins he had in his sock drawer-whether he would notice if we opened one of the foil wrappers and examined one of the beetleskins, which naturally, then, we could not put back; we would have to dispose of it. Would Potter miss it? That was the question. Owen determined that an investigation of how organized a boarder Potter was would tell us. Was his underwear all in one drawer, were his T-shirts folded, were his shoes in a straight line on the closet floor, were his jackets and shirts and trousers separated from each other, did his hangers face the same way, did he keep his pens and pencils together, were his paper clips contained, did he have more than one tube of toothpaste that was open, were his razor blades somewhere safe, did he have a necktie rack or hang his ties willy-nilly? And did he keep the beetleskins because he used them-or were they for show? In Potter's closet, sunk in one of his size- hiking boots, was a fifth of Jack Daniel's Old No. , Black Label; Owen decided that if Potter risked keeping a bottle of whiskey in his room, the beetleskkis were not for show. If Potter used them with any frequency, we imagined, he would not miss one. The examination of the beetleskin was a solemn occasion; it was the nonlubricated kind-I'm not even sure if there were lubricated rubbers when Owen and I were eleven-and with some difficulty, and occasional pain, we took turns putting the thing on our tiny penises. This part of our lives in the near future was especially hard for us to imagine; but I realize now that the ritual we enacted in Potter's daring room also had the significance of religious rebellion for Owen Meany-it was but one more affront to the Catholics whom he had, in his own words, ESCAPED. It was a pity that Owen could not escape the Rev. Dudley Wiggin's Christmas Pageant. The first rehearsal, in the nave of the church, was held on the Second Sunday of Advent and followed a celebration of the Holy Eucharist. We were delayed discussing our roles because the Women's Association Report preceded us; the women wished to say that the Quiet Day they had scheduled for the beginning of Advent had been very successful-that the meditations, and the following period of quiet, for reflection, had been well received. Mrs. Walker, whose own term as a Vestry member was expiring-thus giving her even more energy for her Sunday school tyrannies- complained that attendance at the adult evening Bible study was flagging.
'Well, everyone's so busy at Christmas, you know,' said Barb Wiggin, who was impatient to begin the casting of the pageant-not wanting to keep us potential donkeys and turtledoves waiting. I could sense Owen's irritation with Barb Wiggin, in advance. Quite blind to his animosity, Barb Wiggin began-as, indeed, the holy event itself had begun-with the Announcing Angel. 'Well, we all know who our Descending Angel is,' she told us.
'NOT ME,' Owen said.
'Why, Owen!' Barb Wiggin said.
'PUT SOMEONE ELSE UP IN THE AIR,' Owen said. 'MAYBE THE SHEPHERDS CAN JUST STARE AT THE 'PILLAR OF LIGHT.' THE BIBLE SAYS OF THE LORD APPEARED TO THE SHEPHERDS-NOT TO THE WHOLE CONGREGATION. AND USE SOMEONE WITH A VOICE EVERYONE DOESN'T LAUGH AT,' he said, pausing while everyone laughed.
