We went to one of those clam-shack restaurants on “the strip.” I ate a lot of fried clams and Owen sipped a beer—through a straw. The waitress knew us—she was a University of New Hampshire girl.
“You better get some stitches in that lip before it falls off,” she told Owen.
We drove—Owen in the tomato-red pickup, and I followed him in my Volkswagen—to the emergency room of the Gravesend Hospital. It was a slow night—not the summer, and not a weekend—so we didn’t have to wait long. There was a hassle concerning how he intended to pay for his treatment.
“SUPPOSE I CAN’T PAY?” he asked. “DOES THAT MEAN YOU DON’T TREAT ME?”
I was surprised that he had no health insurance; apparently, there was no policy for coverage in his family and he hadn’t even paid the small premium asked of students at the university for group benefits. Finally, I said that the hospital could send the bill to my grandmother; everyone knew who Harriet Wheelwright was—even the emergency-room receptionist—and, after a phone call to Grandmother, this method of payment was accepted.
“WHAT A COUNTRY!” said Owen Meany, while a nervous-looking young doctor—who was not an American—put four stitches in his lower lip. “AT LEAST WHEN I GET IN THE ARMY, I’LL HAVE SOME HEALTH INSURANCE!”
Owen said he was ashamed to take money from my grandmother—“SHE’S ALREADY GIVEN ME MORE THAN I DESERVED!” But when we arrived at 80 Front Street, a different problem presented itself.
“Merciful Heavens, Owen!” my grandmother said. “You’ve been in a fight!”
“I JUST FELL DOWNSTAIRS,” he said.
“Don’t you lie to me, Owen Meany!” Grandmother said.
“I WAS ATTACKED BY JUVENILE DELINQUENTS AT HAMPTON BEACH,” Owen said.
“Don’t you lie to me!” Grandmother repeated.
I co
uld see that Owen was struggling to ascertain the effect upon my grandmother of telling her that her granddaughter had beaten the shit out of him; Hester—except for her vomiting—was always relatively subdued around Grandmother.
Owen pointed to me. “HE DID IT,” Owen said.
“Merciful Heavens!” my grandmother said. “You should be ashamed of yourself!” she said to me.
“I didn’t mean to,” I said. “We weren’t having a real fight—we were just roughhousing.”
“IT WAS DARK,” said Owen Meany. “HE COULDN’T SEE ME VERY CLEARLY.”
“You should still be ashamed of yourself!” my grandmother said to me.
“Yes,” I said.
This little misunderstanding seemed to cheer up Owen. My grandmother commenced to wait on him, hand and foot—and Ethel was summoned and directed to concoct something nourishing for him in the blender: a fresh pineapple, a banana, some ice cream, some brewer’s yeast. “Something the poor boy can drink through a straw!” my grandmother said.
“YOU CAN LEAVE OUT THE BREWER’S YEAST,” said Owen Meany.
After my grandmother went to bed, we sat up watching The Late Show and he teased me about my new reputation—as a bully. The movie on The Late Show was at least twenty years old—Betty Grable in Moon over Miami. The music, and the setting, made me think of the place called The Orange Grove and my mother performing as “The Lady in Red.” I would probably never know any more about that, I thought.
“You remember the play you were going to write?” I asked Owen. “About the supper club—about ‘The Lady in Red’?”
“SURE, I REMEMBER. YOU DIDN’T WANT ME TO DO IT,” he said.
“I thought you might have done it, anyway,” I said.
“I STARTED IT—A COUPLE OF TIMES,” he said. “IT WAS HARDER THAN I THOUGHT—TO MAKE UP A STORY.”
Carole Landis was in Moon over Miami, and Don Ameche; remember them? It’s a story about husband-hunting in Florida. Just the glow of the television lit Owen’s face when he said, “YOU’VE GOT TO LEARN TO FOLLOW THINGS THROUGH—IF YOU CARE ABOUT SOMETHING, YOU’VE GOT TO SEE IT ALL THE WAY TO THE END, YOU’VE GOT TO TRY TO FINISH IT. I’LL BET YOU NEVER EVEN LOOKED IN A BOSTON TELEPHONE DIRECTORY—FOR A BUSTER FREEBODY,” he said.
“It’s a made-up name,” I said.
“IT’S THE ONLY NAME WE KNOW,” Owen said.