'IT DOESN'T GO PAST CHRISTMAS!' Owen said, with exasperation. 'IT'S JUST THE BIRTHDAY SCENE!'
'It's not a speaking part,' I reminded Mr. Fish.
'Oh, of course, I forgot about that,' Mr. Fish said. Christ Church was on Elliot Street, at the edge of the Gravesend Academy campus; at the comer of Elliot and Front streets, Dan Needham was waiting for us. Apparently the director intended to pick up a few pointers, too.
'My, my, look who's here!' Dan said to Mr. Fish, who blushed. Owen was cheered to see that Dan was coming.
'IT'S A GOOD THING YOU'RE HERE, DAN,' Owen told him, 'BECAUSE THIS IS MISTER FISH'S FIRST CHRISTMAS PAGEANT, AND HE'S A LITTLE NERVOUS.'
'I'm just not sure when to genuflect, and all that nonsense!' Mr. Fisri said, chuckling.
'NOT ALL EPISCOPALIANS GENUFLECT,' Owen announced.
'I don't,' I said.
'I DO,' said Owen Meany.
'Sometimes I do and sometimes I don't,'' Dan said.' 'When I'm in church, I watch the other people-I do what they do.'
Thus did our eclectic foursome arrive at Christ Church. Despite the cold, the Rev. Dudley Wiggin was standing outdoors on the church steps to greet the early arrivals; he was not wearing a hat, and his scalp glowed a howling red under his thin, gray hair-his ears looked frozen bloodless enough to break off. Barb Wiggin stood in a silver-fur coat beside him, wearing a matching fur hat.
'SHE LOOKS LIKE A STEWARDESS ON THE TRANS-SIBERIAN RAILROAD,' Owen observed. I got quite a shock to see the Rev. Lewis Merrill and his California wife standing next to the Wiggins; Owen was surprised, too.
'HAVE YOU CHANGED CHURCHES?' Owen asked them. The long-suffering Merrills appeared not to possess the imaginative capacity to know what Owen meant; it was a question that raised havoc with Mr. MerrilFs usually slight stutter.
'W-w-w-w-e have Ves-p-p-p-pers today!' Mr. Merrill told Owen, who didn't understand.
'The Congregationalists have a vesper service today,' I told Owen. 'Instead of the regular morning service,' I added. 'Vespers are in the late afternoon.'
'I KNOW WHAT TIME VESPERS ARE!' Owen answered irritably. The Rev. Mr. Wiggin put his arm around his fellow clergyman's shoulder, giving the Rev. Mr. Merrill such a squeeze that the smaller, paler man looked alarmed. I believe that Episcopalians are generally heartier than Congregational-ists.
'Barb and I go to the Vespers, for the caroling-every year,' Rector Wiggin announced. 'And the Merrills come to our pageant!'
'Every year,' Mrs. Merrill added neutrally; she looked miserably envious of Owen's face-concealing scarf. The Rev. Mr. Merrill composed himself, I'd not seen him so tongue-tied since Sagamore's spontaneous funeral, and it occurred to me that it might be Owen who so effectively crippled his speech.
'We really go in for the caroling, we celebrate the songs of Christmas-we've always put great emphasis on our choir,' Pastor Merrill said. He appeared to single me out for a heartfelt look when he said ' 'choir,' as if the mere mention of these trained angels was certain to remind me of my mother's lost voice.
'We go in more for the miracle itself!' said Mr. Wiggin joyfully. 'And this year,' the rector added, suddenly taking a grip of Owen's shoulder with his steady pilot's hand, 'this year we've got a little Lord Jesus who's gonna take your breath away!' The Rev. Dudley Wiggin mauled Owen's head in his big paw, managing to push down the visor of Owen's red-and-black-checkered hunter's cap; at the same time, he effectively blinded Owen by scrunching up my mother's LUCKY scarf.
'Yes, sir!' said Rector Wiggin, who now lifted the hunter's cap off Owen's head, so quickly that static electricity caused Owen's silky-thin, babylike hair to stand up and wave in all directions. 'This year,' Captain Wiggin warned, 'there's not gonna be a dry eye in the house!'
Owen, who appeared to be strangling in his scarf, sneezed.
'Owen, you come with me!' Barb Wiggin said sharply. 'I've got to wrap this poor child in his swaddling clothes- before he catches cold!' she explained to the Merrills; but Mr. Merrill and his shivering wife looked in need of being wrapped in swaddling clothes themselves. They seemed aghast at the notion that Owen Meany was cast as the Prince of Peace. The
Congregationalists are a lot less miracle-oriented than the Episcopalians, I believe. In the chilly vestibule of the parish house, Barb Wiggin proceeded to imprison Owen
