'It makes me cold to look at you, Tabby,' Mrs. Merrill said, but Mr. Merrill glanced nervously from face to face, as if he were counting the living of the neighborhood in order to determine which poor soul was at rest in the burlap sack.
'Thank you for coming, Pastor,' said Mr. Fish, who was born to be an amateur actor. 'Perhaps you could say a few words appropriate to the passing away of man's best friend?'
But Mr. MerruTs countenance was both stricken and uncomprehending. He looked at my mother, and at me; he stared at the burlap sack; he gazed into the hole in the rose bed as if it were his own grave-and no coincidence that a short walk with his wife had ended here. My grandmother, seeing her pastor so tense and tongue-tied, took his arm and whispered to him, 'It's just a dog. Just say a little something, for the children.'
But Mr. Merrill began to stutter; the more my mother shivered, the more the Rev. Mr. Merrill shivered in response, the more his mouth trembled and he could not utter the simplest rite-he failed to form the first sentence. Mr. Fish, who was never a frequenter of any of the town churches, hoisted the burlap sack and dropped Sagamore into the underworld. It was Owen Meany who found the words: ' 'I AM THE RESURRECTION AND THE LIFE, SAITH THE LORD: HE THAT BELIEVETH IN ME, THOUGH HE WERE DEAD, YET SHALL HE LIVE; AND WHOSOEVER LIVETH AND BELIEVETH IN ME SHALL NEVER DIE.' '
It seemed a lot to say-for a dog-and the Rev. Mr. Merrill, freed from his stutter, was struck silent.
' '. . . SHALL NEVER DIE,' ' Owen repeated. The wind, gusting, covered my mother's face with her hair as she reached for Owen's hand.
Over all rituals, over all services-over every rite of passage-Owen Meany would preside. That Christmas of ', whether rehearsing the Nativity, or testing Potter's prophylactic on the third floor of Waterhouse Hall, I was only dimly aware of Owen as the conductor of an orchestra of events-and totally unaware that this orchestration would lead to a single sound. Not even in Owen's odd room did I perceive enough, although no one could escape the feeling that-at the very least-an altar-in-progress was under construction there. It was hard to tell if the Meanys celebrated Christmas. A clump of pine boughs had been crudely gathered and stuck to the front farmhouse door by a huge, ugly staple-the kind fired from a heavy-duty, industrial staple gun. The staple looked strong enough to bind granite to granite, or to hold Christ fast to the cross. But there was no particular arrangement to the pine boughs-it certainly did not resemble a wreath; it was as shapeless a mass as an animal's nest, only hastily begun and abandoned in a panic. Inside the sealed house, there was no tree; there were no Christmas decorations, not even candles in the windows, not even a decrepit Santa leaning against a table lamp. On the mantel above the constantly smoldering fire- wherein the logs were either chronically wet, or else the coals had been left unstirred for hours-there was a creche with cheaply painted wooden figures. The cow was three-legged- nearly as precarious as one of Mary Beth Baud's cows; it was propped against a rather menacing chicken that was almost half the cow's size, not unlike the proportions of Barb Wiggin's turtledoves. A gouge through the flesh-toned paint of the Holy Mother's face had rendered her obviously blind and so ghastly to behold that someone in the Meany family had thoughtfully turned her face away from the Christ Child's crib-yes, there was a crib. Joseph had lost a hand- perhaps he had hacked it off himself, in a jealous rage, for there was something darkly smoldering in his expression, as if the smoky fire that left the mantel coated with soot had also colored Joseph's mood. One angel's harp was mangled, and from another angel's O-shaped mouth it was easier to imagine the wail of a mourner than the sweetness of singing. But the creche's most ominous message was that the little Lord Jesus himself was missing; the crib was empty-that was why the Virgin Mary had turned her mutilated face away; why one angel dashed its harp, and another screamed in anguish; why Joseph had lost a hand, and the cow a leg. The Christ Child was gone-kidnapped, or run away. The very object of worship was absent from the conventional assembly. There appeared to be more order, more divine management in evidence in Owen's room; still, there was nothing that represented anything as seasonal as Christmas-except the poinsettia-red dress that my mother's dummy wore; but I knew that dress was all the dummy had to wear, year 'round. The dummy had taken a position at the head of Owen's bed-closer to his bed than my mother had formerly positioned it in relationship to her own bed. From where Owen lay at night, it was instantly clear to me that he could reach out and touch the familiar figure.
'DON'T STARE AT THE DUMMY,' he advised me. 'IT'S NOT GOOD FOR YOU.'
Yet, apparently, it was good for him-for there she was, standing over him. The baseball cards, at one time so very much on display in Owen's room, were not-I was sure-gone; but they were out of sight. There was no baseball in evidence, either-although I was certain that the murderous ball was in the room. The foreclaws of my armadillo were surely there, but they were also not on display. And the Christ Child snatched from the crib ... I was convinced that the Baby Jesus was somewhere in Owen's room, perhaps in company with Potter's prophylactic, which Owen had taken home with him but which was no more visible than the armadillo's claws, the abducted Prince of Peace, and the so-called instrument of my mother's death. It was not a room that invited a long visit; our appearances at the Meanys' house were brief, sometimes only for Owen to change his clothes, because-during that Christmas vacation, especially-he stayed overnight with me more than he stayed at home. Mrs. Meany never spoke to me, or took any notice of me at all, when I came to the house; I could not remember the last time Owen had bothered to announce my presence-or, for that matter, his own presence-to his mother. But Mr. Meany was usually pleasant; I wouldn't say he was cheerful, or even enthusiastic, and he was not a fellow for small talk, but he
offered me his cautious version of humor. 'Why, it's Johnny Wheelwright!' he'd say, as if he were surprised I
