under the trestle bridge precisely at noon, but Owen smiled at me with his especially irritating combination of mild pity and mild contempt. Of course, I know now that Owen didn't believe in coincidences. Owen Meany believed that 'coincidence' was a stupid, shallow refuge sought by stupid, shallow people who were unable to accept the fact that their lives were shaped by a terrifying and awesome design-more powerful and unstoppable than The Flying Yankee. The maid who looked after my grandmother, the maid who was Lydia's replacement after Lydia suffered her amputation, was named Ethel, and she was forced to endure the subtle comparisons that both Lydia and my grandmother made of her job-effectiveness. I say 'subtle,' only because my grandmother and Lydia never discussed these comparisons with Ethel directly; but in Ethel's company, Grandmother would say, 'Do you remember, Lydia, how you used to bring up the jams and jellies from those shelves in the secret passageway-where they get so dusty-and line them all up in the kitchen, according to the dates when you'd put them up?'
'Yes, I remember,' Lydia would say.
'That way, I could look them over and say, 'Well, we should throw out that one-it doesn't seem to be a favorite around here, and it's two years old.' Do you remember?' my grandmother would ask.
'Yes. One year we threw out all the quince,' Lydia said.
'It was just pleasant to know what we had down there in the secret passageway,' my grandmother remarked.
'Don't let things get the upper hand on you, I always say,' Lydia said. And the next morning, of course, poor Ethel-properly, albeit indirectly instructed-would haul out all the jams and jellies and dust them off for my grandmother's inspection. Ethel was a short, heavyset woman with an ageless, blocky strength; yet her physical power was undermined by a slow mind and a brutal lack of confidence. Her forward motion, even with something as basic as cleaning the house, was characterized by the strong swipes of her stubby arms-but these confident efforts were followed or preceded by the hesitant, off-balance steps of her short, broad feet upon her thick ankles; she was a stumbler. Owen said she was too slow-witted to frighten properly, and therefore we rarely bothered her-even when we discovered opportunities to surprise her, in the dark, in the secret passageway. In this way, too, Ethel was Lydia's inferior, for Lydia had been great fun to terrorize, when she had two legs. The maid hired to look after Lydia was-as we used to say in Gravesend-'a whole other ball game.' Her name was Germaine, and both Lydia and Ethel bullied her; my grandmother purposefully ignored her. Among these contemptuous women, poor Germaine had the disadvantage of being young- and almost pretty, in a shy, mousy way. She possessed the nonspecific clumsiness of someone who makes such a constant effort to be inconspicuous that she is creatively awkward- without meaning to, Germaine hoarded attention to herself; her almost electric nervousness disturbed the atmosphere surrounding her. Windows, when Germaine was attempting to slip past them, would suddenly shut themselves; doors would open. Precious
vases would totter when Germaine approached them; when she reached to steady them, they would shatter. Lydia's wheelchair would malfunction the instant Germaine took tremulous command of it. The light in the refrigerator would burn out the instant Germaine opened the door. And when the garage light was left on all night, it would be discovered-in my grandmother's early-morning investigation-that Germaine had been the last to bed.
'Last one to bed turns out the lights,' Lydia would say, in her litanic fashion.
'I was not only in bed but I was asleep, when Germaine came to bed,' Ethel would announce. 'I know I was asleep because she woke me up.'
'I'm sorry,' Germaine would whisper. My grandmother would sigh and shake her head, as if several rooms of the great house had been consumed in a fire overnight and there was nothing to salvage-and nothing to say, either. But I know why my grandmother sought to ignore Germaine. Grandmother, in a fit of Yankee frugality, had given Germaine all my mother's clothes. Germaine was a little too small for the clothes, although they were the nicest clothes Germaine had ever owned and she wore them both happily and reverentially-Germaine never realized that my grandmother resented seeing her in such painfully familiar attire. Perhaps my grandmother never knew how much she would resent seeing those clothes on Germaine when she gave them to her; and Grandmother had too much pride to admit her error. She could only look away. That the clothes didn't fit Germaine was referred to as Germaine's fault.
'You should eat more, Germaine,' Grandmother would say, not looking at her-and never noticing what Germaine ate; only that my mother's clothes hung limply on her. But Germaine could have gorged herself and never matched my mother's bosom.
'John?' Germaine would whisper, when she would enter the secret passageway. The one overhead bulb at the bottom of those winding stairs never lit that passageway very brightly. 'Owen?' she would ask. 'Are you in here? Don't frighten me.'
And Owen and I would wait until she had turned the L-shaped corner between the tall, dusty shelves at shoulder level-the odd shadows of the jam and jelly jars zigzagging across the cobwebbed ceiling; the higher, more irregular shadows cast by the bigger jars of tomato and sweet-pepper relish, and the brandied plums, were as looming and contorted as volcanic conformations.
' 'BE NOT AFRAID,' ' Owen would whisper to Ger-maine in the dark; once, over that Christmas vacation, Ger-maine burst into tears.
