tall windows at the branches of the towering trees. By comparison, the Episcopal services were conducted in a gloomy, basement atmosphere. It was a stone church, and there was a ground-floor or even underground mustiness to the place, which was overcrowded with dark wood bric-a-brac, somber with dull gold organ pipes, garish with confused configurations of stained glass-through which not a single branch of a tree was visible. When I complained about church, I complained about the usual things a kid complains about: the claustrophobia, the boredom. But Owen complained religiously. 'A PERSON'S FAITH GOES AT ITS OWN PACE,' Owen Meany said. 'THE TROUBLE WITH CHURCH IS THE SERVICE. A SERVICE IS CONDUCTED FOR A MASS AUDIENCE. JUST WHEN I START TO LIKE THE HYMN, EVERYONE PLOPS DOWN TO PRAY. JUST WHEN I START TO HEAR THE PRAYER, EVERYONE POPS UP TO SING. AND WHAT DOES THE STUPID SERMON HAVE TO DO WITH GOD? WHO KNOWS WHAT GOD THINKS OF CURRENT EVENTS? WHO CARES?'
To these complaints, and others like them, I could respond only by picking up Owen Meany and holding him above my head.
'You tease Owen too much,' my mother used to say to me. But I don't remember much teasing, not beyond the usual lifting him up-unless Mother meant that I failed to realize
how serious Owen was; he was insulted by jokes of any kind. After all, he did read Wall's History of Gravesend before he was ten; this was not lighthearted work, this was never reading that merely skipped along. And he also read the Bible-not by the time he was ten, of course; but he actually read the whole thing. And then there was the question of Gravesend Academy; that was the question for every boy born in Gravesend-the academy did not admit girls in those days. I was a poor student; and even though my grandmother could well have afforded the tuition, I was destined to stay at Gravesend High School-until my mother married someone on the academy faculty and he legally adopted me. Faculty children-faculty brats, we were called-could automatically attend the academy. What a relief this must have been to my grandmother; she'd always resented that her own children couldn't go to Gravesend Academy-she'd had daughters. My mother and my Aunt Martha were high-school girls-what they saw of Gravesend Academy was only at the dating end, although my Aunt Martha put this to good use: she married a Gravesend Academy boy (one of the few who didn't prefer my mother), which made my cousins sons of alumni, which favored their admittance, too. (My only female cousin would not benefit from this alumni connection-as you shall see.) But Owen Meany was a legitimate Gravesend Academy candidate; he was a brilliant student; he was the kind of student who was supposed to go to Gravesend. He could have applied and got in-and got a full scholarship, too, since the Meany Granite Company was never flourishing and his parents could not have afforded the tuition. But one day when my mother was driving Owen and me to the beach-Owen and I were ten-my mother said, 'I hope you never stop helping Johnny with his homework, Owen, because when you're both at the academy, the homework's going to be much harder-especially for Johnny.'
'BUT I'M NOT GOING TO THE ACADEMY,' Owen said.
'Of course you are!' my mother said. 'You're the best student in New Hampshire-maybe, in the whole country!'
'THE ACADEMY'S NOT FOR SOMEONE LIKE ME,' Owen said. 'THE PUBLIC SCHOOL IS FOR PEOPLE LIKE ME.'
I wondered for a moment if he meant, or small people-that public high schools were for people who were exceptionally small-but my mother was thinking far ahead of me, and she said, 'You'll get a full scholarship, Owen. I hope your parents know that. You'll go to the academy absolutely free.'
'YOU HAVE TO WEAR A COAT AND TIE EVERY DAY,' Owen said. 'THE SCHOLARSHIP DOESN'T BUY THE COATS AND TIES.'
'That can be arranged, Owen,' my mother said, and I could tell that she meant she'd arrange it-if no one else would, she'd buy him every coat and tie he could possibly have use for.
'THERE'S ALSO DRESS SHIRTS, AND SHOES,' Owen said. 'IF YOU GO TO SCHOOL WITH RICH PEOPLE, YOU DON'T WANT TO LOOK LIKE THEIR SERVANTS.' I now suppose that my mother could hear Mr. Meany's prickly, working-class politics behind this observation.
'Everything you need, Owen,' my mother said. 'It will be taken care of.'
We were in Rye, passing the First Church, and the breeze from the ocean was already strong. A man with a great stack of roofing shingles in a wheelbarrow was having difficulty keeping the shingles from blowing away; the ladder, leaning against the vestry roof, was also in danger of being blown over. The man seemed in need of a co-worker-or, at least, of another pair of hands.
'WE SHOULD STOP AND HELP THAT MAN,' Owen observed, but my mother was pursuing a theme and, therefore, she'd noticed nothing unusual out the window.
'Would it help if I talked to your parents about it, Owen?' my mother asked.
'THERE'S ALSO THE MATTER OF THE BUS,' Owen said. 'TO GO TO HIGH SCHOOL, YOU CAN TAKE A BUS. I DON'T LIVE RIGHT IN TOWN, YOU KNOW. HOW WOULD I GET TO THE ACADEMY? IF I WAS A DAY STUDENT, I MEAN-HOW WOULD I GET THERE? HOW WOULD I GET BACK HOME? BECAUSE MY PARENTS WOULD NEVER LET ME LIVE IN A DORMITORY. THEY NEED ME AT HOME. ALSO, DORMITORIES ARE EVIL. SO HOW DO THE DAY STUDENTS GET TO SCHOOL AND GET HOME?' he asked.
'Someone drives them,' my mother said. '/ could
