A prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving Read Free Book Online Page B

Owen swing and miss
the next three pitches, and then we were free. In addition, we awaited the
potential comedy of his wild, weak swings. The first pitch was way outside and
Owen let it go.
    "Swing!" Mr. Chickering said. "Swing away!"
    "THAT WAS TOO FAR AWAY!" Owen said. He was strictly by
the book, Owen Meany; he did everything by the rules. The second pitch almost
hit him in the head and he had to dive forward-across the dirt surrounding home
plate and into the infield grass. Ball two. Everyone laughed at the explosion
of dust created by Owen whacking his uniform; yet Owen made us all wait while
he cleaned himself off. My mother had her back to home plate; she had caught
someone's eye-someone in the bleacher seats-and she was waving to whoever it
was. She was past the third-base bag-on the third-base line, but still nearer
third base than home plate-when Owen Meany started his swing. He appeared to
start his swing before the ball left the pitcher's hand-it was a fast ball,
such as they are in Little League play, but Owen's swing was well ahead of the
ball, with which he made astonishing contact (a little in front of home plate,
about chest-high). It was the hardest I'd ever seen him hit a ball, and the
force of the contact was such a shock to Owen that he actually stayed on his
feet-for once, he didn't fall down. The crack of the bat was so unusually sharp
and loud for a Little League game that the noise captured even my mother's
wandering attention. She turned her head toward home plate-I guess, to see who
had hit such a shot-and the ball struck her left temple, spinning her so
quickly that one of her high heels broke and she fell forward, facing the
stands, her knees splayed apart, her face hitting the ground first because her
hands never moved from her sides (not even to break her fall), which later gave
rise to the speculation that she was dead before she touched the earth. Whether
she died that quickly, I don't know; but she was dead by the time Mr.
Chickering reached her. He was the first one to her. He lifted her head, then
turned her face to a slightly more comfortable position; someone said later
that he closed her eyes before he let her head rest back on the ground. I
        remember that he
pulled the skirt of her dress down-it was as high as midthigh-and he pinched
her knees together. Then he stood up, removing his warm-up jacket, which he
held in front of him as a bullfighter holds his cape. I was the first of the
players to cross the third-base line, but-for a fat man-Mr. Chickering was
agile. He caught me, and he threw the warm-up jacket over my head. I could see
nothing; it was impossible to struggle effectively.
    "No, Johnny! No, Johnny!" Mr. Chickering said.
"You don't want to see her, Johnny," he said. Your memory is a
monster; you forget-it doesn't. It simply files things away. It keeps things
for you, or hides things from you-and summons them to your recall with a will
of its own. You think you have a memory; but it has you! Later, I would
remember everything. In revisiting the scene of my mother's death, I can
remember everyone who was in the stands that day; I remember who wasn't there,
too-and what everyone said, and didn't say, to me. But the first visit to that
scene was very bare of details. I remember Chief Pike, our Gravesend chief of
police-in later years, I would date his daughter. Chief Pike got my attention
only because of what a ridiculous question he asked-and how much more absurd
was his elaboration on his question!
    "Where's the ball?" the police chief asked-after the
area had been cleared, as they say. My mother's body was gone and I was sitting
on the bench in Mr. Chickering's lap, his warm-up jacket still over my
head-now, because I liked it that way: because / had put it there.
    "The ball?" Mr. Chickering said. "You want the
fucking baUT'
    "Well, it's the murder weapon, kind of," Chief Pike
said. His Christian name was Ben. "The