“THERE DOESN’T APPEAR TO BE A GOVERNMENT IN SAIGON THAT CAN DO VERY WELL WITHOUT US. DO THE SOUTH VIETNAMESE PEOPLE EVEN LIKE THE MILITARY JUNTA OF MARSHAL KY? NATURALLY, HANOI AND THE VIET CONG WILL NOT NEGOTIATE FOR A PEACEFUL SETTLEMENT IF THEY THINK THEY CAN WIN THE WAR! THERE’S EVER
Y REASON FOR THE UNITED STATES TO KEEP ENOUGH OF OUR GROUND FORCES IN SOUTH VIETNAM TO PERSUADE HANOI AND THE VIET CONG THAT THEY COULD NEVER ACHIEVE A MILITARY VICTORY. BUT WHAT DOES IT ACCOMPLISH FOR US TO BOMB THE NORTH?
“SUPPOSING THAT WE MEAN WHAT WE SAY—THAT WE WANT SOUTH VIETNAM TO BE FREE TO GOVERN ITSELF—WE SHOULD BE PROTECTING SOUTH VIETNAM FROM ATTACK. BUT IT APPEARS THAT WE ARE ATTACKING THE WHOLE COUNTRY—FROM THE AIR! IF WE BOMB THE WHOLE COUNTRY TO BITS—TO PROTECT IT FROM COMMUNISM—WHAT KIND OF PROTECTION IS THAT?
“I THINK THAT’S THE PROBLEM,” said Owen Meany, “BUT I’D LIKE TO SEE THE SITUATION FOR MYSELF.”
My Uncle Alfred was speechless. My Aunt Martha said: “Yes, I see!” Both of them were impressed. I realized that a part of the reason why Owen had wanted to come to Sawyer Depot was to give himself an opportunity to impress Hester’s parents. I’d heard Owen’s Vietnam thesis before; it was not very original—I think it was borrowed from something Arthur Schlesinger, Jr., had written or said—but Owen’s delivery was impressive. I thought it was sad that Hester made so little effort to impress Uncle Alfred and Aunt Martha, and that she was so unimpressed by them.
At bedtime, I could hear Owen babbling away to Aunt Martha—she had put him in Hester’s room. Owen was inquiring about the specific teddy bears and dolls and figurines.
“AND HOW OLD WAS SHE WHEN SHE LIKED THIS ONE?” he would ask Aunt Martha. “AND I SUPPOSE THAT THIS ONE DATES BACK TO THE FIREWATER ERA,” he would say.
Before I went to bed, Simon said to me appreciatively: “Owen’s just as weird as ever! Isn’t he great?”
I fell asleep remembering how Owen had first appeared to my cousins—that day in the attic at 80 Front Street when we were contending over the sewing machine and Owen stood in the sun from the skylight that blazed through his ears. I remembered how he had appeared to all of us: like a descending angel—a tiny but fiery god, sent to adjudicate the errors of our ways.
In the morning, Owen suggested that we move on to Loveless Lake. Simon advised us to use the boathouse as a base camp. When he got off work at the sawmill, Simon said, he would come take us waterskiing; we could sleep in the boathouse at night. There were a couple of comfortable couches that unfolded to make beds, and the boathouse had new screens on the windows. There were some kerosene lamps; there was an outhouse nearby, and a hand pump drew the lake water into a sink by the bar; there was a propane-gas stove, and some kettles for boiling water—for drinking. In those days, we were allowed to bathe (with soap!) in the lake.
Owen and I agreed that it was cozier than camping in our tent; also, for me it was relaxing to get away from Uncle Alfred and Aunt Martha—and the effort that Owen made to impress them. At the lake, we were left alone; Simon appeared only at the end of the day to take us waterskiing—he had a steady girlfriend, so we rarely saw him at night. We cooked hamburgers on a charcoal grill on the boatslip; we caught sunfish and perch off the dock—and smallmouth bass when we went out in the canoe. At night, Owen and I sat on the dock until the mosquitoes bothered us. Then we went into the boathouse and turned on the kerosene lamps and talked for a while, or read our books.
I was trying to read Parade’s End; I was just beginning it. Graduate students have serious reading ambitions, but they don’t finish a lot of books they start; I wouldn’t finish Parade’s End until I was in my forties—when I tried it again. Owen was reading a Department of the Army field manual called Survival, Evasion, and Escape.
“I’LL READ YOU SOME OF MINE IF YOU READ ME SOME OF YOURS,” Owen said.
“Okay,” I said.
“‘SURVIVAL IS LARGELY A MATTER OF MENTAL OUTLOOK,’” he read.
“Sounds reasonable,” I said.
“BUT LISTEN TO THIS,” he said. “THIS IS ABOUT HOW TO GET ALONG WITH THE NATIVES.” I couldn’t help but imagine that the only “natives” Owen was going to have to get along with were the residents of Indiana and Arizona. “‘RESPECT PERSONAL PROPERTY, ESPECIALLY THEIR WOMEN,’” he read.
“It doesn’t say that!” I said.
“LISTEN TO THIS!” he said. “‘AVOID PHYSICAL CONTACT WITHOUT SEEMING TO DO SO.’”
We both thought that was a scream—although I didn’t tell him that I was laughing, in part, because I was thinking about the “natives” of Indiana and Arizona.
“WANT TO HEAR HOW TO TAKE CARE OF YOUR FEET?” Owen asked me.
“Not really,” I said.
“HOW ABOUT ‘PRECAUTION AGAINST MOSQUITO BITES’?” he asked. “‘SMEAR MUD ON YOUR FACE, ESPECIALLY BEFORE GOING TO BED,’” he read. We laughed hysterically for a while.
“HERE’S A PART ABOUT FOOD AND WATER,” he said. “‘DO NOT DRINK URINE.’”
“This sounds like a field manual for children!” I said.
“THAT’S WHO MOST OF THE PEOPLE IN THE ARMY ARE,” said Owen Meany.
“What a world!” I said.
“HERE’S SOME GOOD ADVICE ABOUT ESCAPING FROM A MOVING TRAIN,” Owen said. “‘BEFORE JUMPING, MAKE SURE YOUR EXIT WILL BE MADE FROM THE APPROPRIATE SIDE, OR YOU MAY JUMP INTO THE PATH OF AN ONCOMING TRAIN.’”
“No shit!” I cried.
“LISTEN TO THIS,” he said. “‘STRYCHNINE PLANTS GROW WILD THROUGHOUT THE TROPICS. THE LUSCIOUS-LOOKING WHITE OR YELLOW FRUIT IS ABUNDANT IN SOUTHEAST ASIA. THE FRUIT HAS AN EXCEEDINGLY BITTER PULP, AND THE SEEDS CONTAIN A POWERFUL POISON.’”