kneeling pad, and Mrs. Meany covered her face with both hands.
'YOU SHOULDN'T BE HERE!' Owen shouted at them; but Mr. Fish, and surely half the congregation, felt that they stood accused. I saw the faces of the Rev. Lewis Merrill and his California wife; it was apparent that they also thought Owen meant them.
'IT IS A SACRILEGE FOR YOU TO BE HERE!' Owen hollered. At least a dozen members of the congregation guiltily got up from the pews at the rear of the church-to leave. Mr. Meany helped his dizzy wife to her feet. She was crossing herself, repeatedly-a helpless, unthinking, Catholic gesture; it must have infuriated Owen. The Meanys conducted an awkward departure; they were big, broad people and their exit out of the crowded pew, their entrance into the aisle-where they stood out, so alone-their every movement was neither easy nor graceful.
'We only wanted to see you!' Owen's father told him apologetically. But Owen Meany pointed to the door at the end of the nave, where several of the faithful had already departed; Owen's parents, like that other couple who were banished from the garden, left Christ Church as they were told. Not even the gusto with which the choir-following frantic signals from the rector-sang 'Hark! The Herald Angels Sing' could spare the congregation the indelible image of how the Meanys had obeyed their only son. Rector Wiggin, wringing the Bible in both hands, was trying to catch the eye of his wife; but Barb Wiggin was struck as immovable as stone. What the rector wanted was for his wife to darken the 'pillar of light,' which continued to shine on the wrathful Lord Jesus.
'GET ME OUT OF HERE!' the Prince of Peace said to Joseph. And what is Joseph if not a man who does what he's told? I lifted him. Mary Beth Baird wanted to hold a part of him, too; whether his goosing her had deepened her infatuation, or had put her in her place without trampling an iota of her ardor, is uncertain-regardless, she was his slave, at his command. And so together we raised him out of the hay. He was so stiffly wrapped, it was like carrying an unmanageable icon-he simply wouldn't bend, no matter how we held him. Where to go with him was not instantly clear. The back way, behind the altar area-the unobserved route we'd all taken to the manger-was blocked by Barb Wiggin. As in other moments of indecision, the Christ Child directed us; he pointed down the center aisle, in the direction his parents had taken. I doubt that anyone directed the cows and donkeys to follow us; they just needed the air. Our procession gathered the force and numbers of a marching band. The third verse of what was supposed to be the Rev. Mr. Wiggin's recessional carol heralded our exit. Mild he lays his glo-ry by, Born that man no more may die, Bom to raise the sons of earth, Born to give them sec-ond birth.
All the way down the center aisle, Barb Wiggin kept the 'pillar of light' on us; what possible force could have compelled her to do that? There was nowhere to go but out, into the snow and cold. The cows and the donkeys tore off their heads so that they could get a better look at him; for the most part, these were the younger children-some of them, a very few of them, were actually smaller than Owen. They stared at him, in awe. The wind whipped through his swaddling clothes and his bare arms grew rosy; he hugged them to his birdlike chest. The Meanys, sitting scared in the cab of the granite truck, were waiting for him. The Virgin Mother and I hoisted him into the cab; because of how he was swaddled, he had to be extended full-length across the seat-his legs lay in his father's lap, not quite interfering with Mr. Meany's control of the steering wheel, and his head and upper body rested upon his mother, who had reverted to her custom of looking not quite out the window, and not quite at anything at all.
'MY CLOTHES,' the Lord Jesus told me. 'YOU GET THEM AND KEEP THEM FOR ME.'
'Of course,' I said.
'IT'S A GOOD THING I WORE MY LUCKY SCARF,' he told me. 'TAKE ME HOME!' he ordered his parents, and Mr. Meany lurched the truck into gear. A snowplow was turning off Front Street onto Elliot; it was customary in Gravesend to make way for snowplows, but even the snowplow made way for Owen. Toronto: February , -there was almost no one at the Wednesday morning communion service. Holy Eucharist is
better when you don't have to shuffle up the aisle in a herd and stand in line at the communion railing, like an animal awaiting space at the feeding-trough-just like another consumer at a fast-food service. I don't like to take communion with a mob. I prefer the way the Rev. Mr. Foster serves the bread to the mischievous style of Canon Mackie; the canon delights in giving me the tiniest wafer he has in his hand-a veritable crumb!-or else he gives me an inedible hunk of bread, almost too big to fit in my mouth and impossible to swallow without prolonged chewing. The canon likes to tease me. He says, 'Well, I figure that you take communion so often, it's probably bad for your diet- someone's got to look after your diet, John!' And he chuckles about that; or else he says, ' 'Well, I figure that you take communion so often, you must be starving-someone's got to give you a decent meal!' And he chuckles some more. The Rev. Mr. Foster, our priest associate, at least dispenses the bread with a uniform sense of sacredness; that's all I ask. I have no quarrel with the wine; it is ably served by our honorary assistants, the Rev. Mr. Larkin and the Rev. Mrs. Keeling-Mrs. Katherine Keeling; she's the headmistress at The Bishop Strachan School, and my only qualm with her is when she's pregnant. The Rev. Katherine Keeling is often pregnant, and I don't think she should serve the wine when she's so pregnant that bending forward to put the cup to our lips is a strain; that makes me nervous; also, when she's very pregnant, and you're kneeling at the railing waiting for the wine, it's distracting to see her belly approach you at eye level. Then there's the Rev. Mr. Larkin; he sometimes pulls the cup back before the wine has touched your lips-you have to be quick with him; and he's a little careless how he wipes the rim of the cup each time. Of them all, the Rev. Mrs. Keeling is the best to talk to-now that Canon Campbell is gone. I truly like and admire Katherine Keeling. I regretted I couldn't talk to her today, when I
