audience. There were screams, there were gasps; I knew that Maureen Early's pants were wet again. Just what had the Ghost of the Future actually seen ? Mr. Fish, a veteran at making the best of a mess, found himself sprawled on the stage in a perfect position to 'read' his own name on the papier-mache gravestone-which he had half-crushed, in falling over it. ' 'Ebenezer Scrooge! Am / that man?' ' he asked Owen, but something was wrong with Owen, who appeared to be more frightened of the papier-mlche gravestone than Scrooge was afraid of it; Owen kept backing away. He retreated across the stage, with Mr. Fish imploring him for an answer. Without a word, without so much as pointing again at the gravestone that had the power to frighten even the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, Owen Meany retreated offstage. In the dressing room, he sobbed upon the makeup table, coating his hair with baby powder, the black eyeliner streaking his face. Dan Needham felt his forehead. 'You're burning up, Owen!' Dan said. 'I'm getting you straight home, and straight to bed.'
'What is it? What happened?' I asked Owen, but he shook his head and cried harder.
'He fainted, that's what happened!' Dan said; Owen shook his head.
'Is he all right?' Mr. Fish asked from the door; Dan had called for a curtain before Mr. Fish's last scene. 'Are you all right, Owen?' Mr. Fish asked. 'My God, you looked as if you'd seen a ghost!'
'I've seen everything now,' Dan said. 'I've seen Scrooge upstaged, I've seen the Ghost of the Future scare himself!'
The Rev. Lewis Merrill came to the crowded dressing room to offer his assistance, although Owen appeared more in need of a doctor than a minister.
'Owen?' Pastor Merrill asked. 'Are you all right?' Owen shook his head. 'What did you see?'
Owen stopped crying and looked up at him. That Pastor Merrill seemed so sure that Owen had seen something surprised me. Being a minister, being a man of faith, perhaps he was more familiar with 'visions' than the rest of us; possibly he had the ability to recognize those moments when visions appear to others.
'WHAT DO YOU MEAN?' Owen asked Mr. Merrill.
'You saw something, didn't you?' Pastor Merrill asked Owen. Owen stared at him. 'Didn't you?' Mr. Merrill repeated.
'I SAW MY NAME-ON THE GRAVE,' said Owen Meany. Dan put his arms around Owen and hugged him. 'Owen, Owen-it's part of the story! You're sick, you have a fever! You're too excited. Seeing a name on that grave is just like the story-it's make-believe, Owen,' Dan said.
'rrWASMKNAME,' Owen said. 'NOT SCROOGE'S.'
The Rev. Mr. Merrill knelt beside him. 'It's a natural thing to see that, Owen,' Mr. Merrill told him. 'Your own name on your own grave-it's a vision we all have. It's just a bad dream, Owen.'
But Dan Needham regarded Mr. Merrill strangely, as if such a vision were quite foreign to Dan's experience; he was not at all sure that seeing one's own name on one's own grave was exactly 'natural.' Mr. Fish stared at the Rev. Lewis Merrill as if he expected more 'miracles' on the order of the Nativity he had only recently, and for the first time, experienced. In the baby powder on the makeup table, the name OWEN MEANY-as he himself had written it-was still visible. I pointed to it. 'Owen,' I said, 'look at what you wrote yourself-just tonight. You see, you were already thinking about it-your name, I mean.'
But Owen Meany only stared at me; he stared me down. Then he stared at Dan until Dan said to Mr. Fish, 'Let's get that curtain up, let's get this over with.'
Then Owen stared at the Rev. Mr. Merrill until Mr. Merrill said, 'I'll take you home right now, Owen. You shouldn't be waiting around for your curtain call with a temperature of the-good-Lord-knows-what.'' I rode with them; the last scene of A Christmas Carol was boring to me-after the departure of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, the story turns to syrup. Owen preferred staring at the darkness out the passenger-side window to the lit road ahead.
'You had a vision, Owen,' Pastor Merrill repeated. I thought it was nice of him to be so concerned, and to drive
Owen home-considering that Owen had never been a Con-gregationalist. I noticed that Mr. MenilFs stutter abandoned him when he was being directly helpful to someone, although Owen responded ungenerously to the pastor's help-he appeared to be sullenly embracing his 'vision,' like the typically doubtless prophet he so often seemed to be, to me. He had 'seen' his own name on his own grave; the world, not to mention Pastor Merrill, would have a hard time convincing him otherwise. Mr. Merrill and I sat in the car and watched him hobble over the snow-covered ruts in the driveway; there was an outside light left on for him, and another light was on-in what I knew was Owen's room-but I was shocked to see that, on Christmas Eve, his mother and father had not waited up for him!
'An unusual boy,' said the pastor neutrally, as he drove me home. Without thinking to ask me which of my two 'homes' he should take me to, Mr. Merrill drove me to Front Street. I wanted to attend the cast party Dan was throwing in Waterhouse Hall, but Mr. Merrill had
