I knew it was the first time Owen had been kissed on the mouth since my mother had kissed him; that Barb Wiggin might have reminded him of my mother, I'm sure, outraged him. He clenched his fists at his sides as Barb Wiggin lifted him, stiffly prone, to her breasts. His legs, too tightly swaddled to bend at the knees, stuck out straight; he appeared to be a successful levitation experiment in the arms of a harlot-magician. Mary Beth Baird, who had once pleaded to be allowed to kiss the Baby Jesus, glared with jealous loathing at Barb Wiggin, who must have been an exceptionally strong stewardess-in her time in the sky. She had no difficulty carrying Owen to his prepared place in the hay. She bore him easily against her breasts with the stern sense of ceremony of a foxy mortician-bearing a child-pharaoh into the pyramid's hidden tomb.
'Relax, relax,' she whispered to him; she put her mouth wickedly close to his ear, and he blushed rosier and rosier. And I, Joseph-forever standing in the wings-saw what the envious Virgin Mary failed to see. I saw it, and I'm sure Barb Wiggin saw it, too-I'm sure it was why she so shamelessly continued to torture him. The Baby Jesus had an erection; its protrusion was visible in spite of the tightly bound layers of his swaddling clothes. Barb Wiggin laid him in the manger; she smiled knowingly at him, and gave him one more saucy peck, on his rosy cheek-for good luck, no doubt. This was not of the nature of a Christlike lesson for Owen Meany: to learn, as he lay in the manger, that someone you hate can give you a hard-on. Anger and shame flushed Owen's face; Mary Beth Baird, misunderstanding the Baby Jesus' expression, wiped his nose. A cow trod on an angel, who nearly toppled the tripartite, purple screen; the hind part of a donkey was nudged by the teetering triptych. I stared into the darkness of the mock flying buttresses for some reassuring glimpse of the Announcing Angel; but Harold Crosby was invisible-he was hidden, doubtless in fear and trembling, above the 'pillar of light.'
'Blow!' Mary Beth Baird whispered to Owen, who looked ready to explode. It was the choir that saved him. There was a metallic clicking, like the teeth of a ratchet, as the mechanism for lowering began its task; this was followed by a brief gasp, the panicked intake of Harold Crosby's breath-as the choir began. O lit-tle town of Beth-le-hem, How still we see thee lie! A-bove thy deep and dream-less sleep The si-lent stars go by ... Only gradually did the Baby Jesus unclench his fists; only slowly did the Christ Child's erection subside. The glint of anger in Owen's eyes was dulled, as if by an inspired drowsiness-a trance of peace blessed the little Prince's expression, which brought tears of adoration to the already moist eyes of the Holy Mother.
'Blow! Why won't you blow?' she whispered plaintively. Mary Beth Baird held the handkerchief to his nose, managing to cover his mouth, too-as if she were administering an anesthetic. With grace, with gentleness, Owen pushed her hand and the handkerchief aside; his smile forgave her everything, even her clumsiness, and the Blessed Virgin tottered a trifle on her knees, as if she were preparing to swoon. Hidden from the congregation's view, but ominously visible to us, Barb Wiggin seized the controls of the angel-lowering apparatus like a heavy-equipment operator about to attack the
terra firma with a backhoe. When Owen caught her eye, she appeared to lose her confidence and her poise; the look he gave her was both challenging and lascivious. A shudder coursed through Barb Wiggin's body; she gave a corresponding jerk of her shoulders, distracting her from her task. Harold Crosby's meant-to-be-stately descent to earth was momentarily suspended.
' 'Be not afraid,' ' Harold Crosby began, his voice quaking. But I, Joseph-I saw someone who was afraid. Barb Wiggin, frozen at the controls of the ' 'pillar of light,'' arrested in her duties with the angel-lowering apparatus, was afraid of Owen Meany; the Prince of Peace had regained his control. He had made a small but important discovery: a hard-on comes and goes. The 'pillar of light,' which was supposed to follow Harold Crosby's now-interrupted, risky descent, appeared to have a will of its own; it illuminated Owen on the mountain of hay, as if the light had wrested control of itself from Barb Wiggin. The light that was supposed to reveal bathed the manger instead. From the congregation-as the janitor tiptoed out of sight with the tripartite screen-there arose a single murmur; but the Christ Child quieted them with the slightest movement of his hand. He directed a most unbabylike, sardonic look at Barb Wiggin, who only then regained her control; she moved the 'pillar of light' back to the Descending Angel, where it belonged.
' 'Be not afraid,' ' Harold Crosby repeated; Barb Wiggin, a tad eager at the controls of the angel-lowering apparatus, dropped him suddenly-it was about a ten-foot free fall, before she abruptly halted his descent; his head was jerked and snapped all around, with his mouth open, and he swung back and forth above the frightened shepherds, like a giant gull toying with the wind. ' 'Be not afraid'!' Harold cried loudly. There he paused, swinging; he was stalling; he had forgotten the rest of his lines. Barb Wiggin, trying to prevent from swinging, turned Harold Crosby away from the shepherds and the congregation-so that he continued to swing, but with his back toward everyone, as if he had decided to spurn the world, or retract his message.
' 'Be not afraid,' ' he mumbled indistinctly. From the hay in the dark came the cracked falsetto, the ruined voice of an unlikely prompter-but who else would III
know, by heart, the lines that Harold Crosby had forgotten? Who else but the former Announcing Angel?
' 'FOR BEHOLD, I BRING YOU GOOD NEWS OF A GREAT JOY WHICH WILL COME TO ALL THE PEOPLE,' ' Owen whispered; but Owen Meany couldn't really whisper-his voice had too much sand and gravel in it. Not only Harold Crosby heard the Christ Child's prompting; every member of the congregation heard it, too-the strained, holy voice speaking from the darkened manger, telling what to say. Dutifully, Harold repeated the lines he was given. Thus,
