shunning of Catholics. I became quite exercised in relating this scenario to Dan, who sat beside me in a front-row pew and listened sympathetically. Mr. Fish came and told us that was still 'on-high.' He wondered if this was a part of the script-to leave Harold Crosby hanging in the rafters long after the manger and the pews had emptied? Harold Crosby, who thought both his God and Barb Wiggin had abandoned him forever, swung like the victim of a vigilante killing among the mock flying buttresses; Dan, an accomplished mechanic of all theatrical equipment, eventually mastered the angel-lowering apparatus and returned the banished angel to terra firma, where Harold collapsed in relief and gratitude. He had thrown up all over himself, and-in attempting to wipe himself with one of his wings-he'd made quite an unsalvageable mess of his costume. That was when Dan carried out his responsibilities as a stepfather in most concrete, even heroic terms. He carried the sodden Harold Crosby to the parish-house vestibule, where he asked Barb Wiggin if he might have a word with her.
'Can't you see . . .' she asked him, 'that this isn't the best of times?'
'I should not want to bring up the matter-of how you left this boy hanging-with the Vestry members,' Dan said to her. He held Harold Crosby with some difficulty-not only because Harold was heavy and wet, but because the stench of vomit, especially in the close air of the vestibule, was overpowering.
' 'This isn 't the best of times to bring up anything with me,'' Barb Wiggin cautioned, but Dan Needham was not a man to be bullied by a stewardess.
'Nobody cares what sort of mess-up happens at a children's pageant,' Dan said, 'but this boy was left hanging-twenty feet above a concrete floor! A serious accident might have occurred-due to your negligence.' Harold Crosby shut his eyes, as if he feared Barb Wiggin was going to hit him-or strap him back in the angel-raising apparatus.
'I regret-' Barb Wiggin began, but Dan cut her off.
'You will not lay down any laws for Owen Meany,' Dan Needham told her.' 'You are not the rector, you are the rector's wife. You had a job-to return this boy, safely, to the floor-and you forgot all about it. / will forget all about it, too-and you will forget about seeing Owen. Owen is allowed in this church at any time; he doesn't require your permission to be here. If the rector would like to speak with Owen, have the rector call me.' And here Dan Needham released the slippery Harold Crosby, whose manner of groping for his clothes suggested that apparatus had cut off all circulation to his legs; he wobbled unsteadily about the vestibule-the other children getting out of his way because of his smell. Dan Needham put his hand on the back of my neck; he pushed me gently forward until I was standing directly between Barb Wiggin and him. 'This boy is not your messenger, Missus Wiggin,' Dan said. 'I should not want to bring up any of this with the Vestry members,' he repeated. Stewardesses have, at best, marginal authority; Barb Wiggin knew when her authority had slipped. She looked awfully ready-to-please, so ready-to-please that I was embarrassed for her. She turned her attention, eagerly, to the task of getting Harold Crosby into fresher clothes. She was just in time; Harold's mother entered the vestibule as Dan and I were leaving the parish house. 'My, that looked like fun!' Mrs. Crosby said. 'Did you have fun, dear?' she asked him. When Harold nodded, Barb Wiggin spontaneously hugged him against her hip. Mr. Fish had found the rector. The Rev. Dudley Wiggin was occupying himself with the Christmas candles, measuring them to ascertain which were still long enough to be used again next year. The Rev. Dudley Wiggin had a pilot's healthy instinct for looking ahead; he did not dwell on the present-especially not on the disasters. He would never call Dan and ask to speak to Owen; Owen would be 'allowed' at Christ Church without any consultation with the rector.
'I like the way Joseph and Mary carry the Baby Jesus out of the manger,' Mr. Fish was saying.
'Ah, do you? Ah, yes,' the rector said.
'It's a great ending-very dramatic,' Mr. Fish pointed out.
'Yes, it is, isn't it?' the rector said. 'Perhaps we'll work out a similar ending-next year.''
'Of course, the part requires someone with Owen's presence,' Mr. Fish said. 'I'll bet you don't get a Christ Child like him every year.'
'No, not like him,' the rector agreed.
'He's a natural,' Mr. Fish said.
'Yes, isn't he?' Mr. Wiggin said.
'Have you seen A Christmas Carol!' Mr. Fish asked.
'Not this year,' the rector said.
'What are you doing on Christmas Eve?' Mr. Fish asked him. I knew what I wished I was doing on Christmas Eve: I wished I was in Sawyer Depot, waiting with my mother for Dan to arrive on the midnight train. That's how our Christmas Eves had been, since my mother had gotten together with Dan. Mother and I would enjoy the Eastmans' hospitality, and I would exhaust myself with my violent cousins, and Dan would join us after the Christmas Eve performance of The Gravesend Players. He would be tired when he got off the train from Gravesend, at midnight, but everyone in the Eastman house-even my grandmother-would be waiting up for him. Uncle Alfred would fix Dan a 'nightcap,' while my mother and Aunt Martha put Noah and Simon
