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“THE WAY YOU KNOW SOME THINGS—YOUR OBLIGATIONS, YOUR DESTINY OR YOUR FATE,” he said. “THE WAY YOU KNOW WHAT GOD WANTS YOU TO DO.”

“God wants you to go to Vietnam?” I asked him.

Hester ran out of the kitchen and shut herself in the bathroom; she started running the water in the bathtub. “I’m not listening to this shit, Owen—not one more time, I told you!” she cried.

When Owen got up from the kitchen table to turn the flame down under the tomato sauce, we could hear Hester being sick in the bathroom.

“It’s this dream, isn’t it?” I asked him. He stirred the tomato sauce as if he knew what he was doing. “Does Pastor Merrill tell you that God wants you to go to Vietnam?” I asked him. “Does Father Findley tell you that?”

“THEY SAY IT’S JUST A DREAM,” said Owen Meany.

“That’s what I say—I don’t even know what it is, but I say it’s just a dream,” I said.

“BUT YOU HAVE NO FAITH,” he said. “THAT’S YOUR PROBLEM.”

In the bathroom, Hester was sounding like New Year’s Eve; the tomato sauce just simmered.

Owen Meany could manifest a certain calmness that I had never quite liked; when he got like that when we were practicing the shot, I didn’t want to touch him—when I passed him the ball, I felt uneasy; and when I had to put my hands on him, when I actually lifted him up, I always felt I was handling a creature that was not exactly human, or not quite real. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had twisted in the air, in my hands, and bitten me; or if—after I’d lifted him—he’d just kept on flying.

“It’s only a dream,” I repeated.

“IT’S NOT YOUR DREAM,” said Owen Meany.

“Don’t be coy, don’t play around with me,” I told him.

“I’M NOT PLAYING AROUND,” he said. “WOULD I REQUEST A COMBAT ASSIGNMENT IF I WERE PLAYING AROUND?”

I began again. “In this dream, you’re a hero?” I asked him.

“I SAVE THE CHILDREN,” said Owen Meany. “I SAVE LOTS OF CHILDREN.”

“Children?” I said.

“IN THE DREAM,” he said—“THEY’RE NOT SOLDIERS, THEY’RE CHILDREN.”

“Vietnamese children?” I asked.

“THAT’S HOW I KNOW WHERE I AM—THEY’RE DEFINITELY VIETNAMESE CHILDREN, AND I SAVE THEM. I WOULDN’T GO TO ALL THIS TROUBLE IF I WAS SUPPOSED TO SAVE SOLDIERS!” he added.

“Owen, this is so childish,” I said. “You can’t believe that everything that pops into your head means something! You can’t have a dream and believe that you ‘know’ what you’re supposed to do!”

“THAT ISN’T EXACTLY WHAT FAITH IS,” he said, turning his attention to the tomato sauce. “I DON’T BELIEVE EVERYTHING THAT POPS INTO MY HEAD—FAITH IS A LITTLE MORE SELECTIVE THAN THAT.”

Some dreams, I suppose, are MORE SELECTIVE, too. Under the big pot of water for the pasta, Owen turned the flame on—as if the sounds of Hester’s dry heaves in the bathroom were an indication to him that her appetite would be returning soon. Then he went into Hester’s bedroom and fetched his diary. He didn’t show it to me; he simply found the part he was looking for, and he began to read to me. I didn’t know I was hearing an edited version. The word “dream” was never mentioned in his writing, as if it were not a dream he was describing but rather something he had seen with much more certainty and authority than anything appearing to him in his sleep—as if he were describing an order of events he had absolutely witnessed. Yet he remained removed from what he saw, like someone watching through a window, and the tone of the writing was not at all as urgent as the tone so often employed by The Voice; rather, the certainty and authority that I heard reminded me of the plain, less-than-enthusiastic report of a documentary, which is the tone of voice of those undoubting parts of the Bible.

“I NEVER HEAR THE EXPLOSION. WHAT I HEAR IS THE AFTERMATH OF AN EXPLOSION. THERE IS A RINGING IN MY EARS, AND THOSE HIGH-PITCHED POPPING AND TICKING SOUNDS THAT A HOT ENGINE MAKES AFTER YOU SHUT IT OFF; AND PIECES OF THE SKY ARE FALLING, AND BITS OF WHITE—MAYBE PAPER, MAYBE PLASTER—ARE FLOATING DOWN LIKE SNOW. THERE ARE SILVERY SPARKLES IN THE AIR, TOO—MAYBE IT’S SHATTERED GLASS. THERE’S SMOKE, AND THE STINK OF BURNING; THERE’S NO FLAME, BUT EVERYTHING IS SMOLDERING.

“WE’RE ALL LYING ON THE FLOOR. I KNOW THE CHILDREN ARE ALL RIGHT BECAUSE—ONE BY ONE—THEY PICK THEMSELVES UP OFF THE FLOOR. IT MUST HAVE BEEN A LOUD EXPLOSION BECAUSE SOME OF THE CHILDREN ARE STILL HOLDING THEIR EARS; SOME OF THEIR EARS ARE BLEEDING. THE CHILDREN DON’T SPEAK ENGLISH, BUT THEIR VOICES ARE THE FIRST HUMAN SOUNDS TO FOLLOW THE EXPLOSION. THE YOUNGER ONES ARE CRYING; BUT THE OLDER ONES ARE DOING THEIR BEST TO BE COMFORTING—THEY’RE CHATTERING AWAY, THEY’RE REALLY BABBLING, BUT THIS IS REASSURING.

“THE WAY THEY LOOK AT ME, I KNOW TWO THINGS. I KNOW THAT I SAVED THEM—I DON’T KNOW HOW. AND I KNOW THAT THEY’RE AFRAID FOR ME. BUT I DON’T SEE ME—I CAN’T TELL WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME. THE CHILDREN’S FACES TELL ME SOMETHING IS WRONG.

“SUDDENLY, THE NUNS ARE THERE; PENGUINS ARE PEERING DOWN AT ME—ONE OF THEM BENDS OVER ME. I CAN’T HEAR WHAT I SAY TO HER, BUT SHE APPEARS TO UNDERSTAND ME—MAYBE SHE SPEAKS ENGLISH. IT’S NOT UNTIL SHE TAKES ME IN HER ARMS THAT I SEE ALL THE BLOOD—HER WIMPLE IS BLOOD-STAINED. WHILE I’M LOOKING AT THE NUN, HER WIMPLE CONTINUES TO BE SPLASHED WITH BLOOD—THE BLOOD SPATTERS HER FACE, TOO, BUT SHE’S NOT AFRAID. THE FACES OF THE CHILDREN—LOOKING DOWN AT ME—ARE FULL OF FEAR; BUT THE NUN WHO HOLDS ME IN HER ARMS IS VERY PEACEFUL.

“OF COURSE, IT’S MY BLOOD—SHE’S COVERED WITH MY BLOOD—BUT SHE’S VERY CALM. WHEN I SEE SHE’S ABOUT TO MAKE THE SIGN OF THE CROSS OVER ME, I REACH OUT TO TRY TO STOP HER. BUT I CAN’T STOP HER—IT’S AS IF I DON’T HAVE ANY ARMS. THE NUN JUST SMILES AT ME. AFTER SHE’S MADE THE SIGN OF THE CROSS OVER ME, I LEAVE ALL OF THEM—I JUST LEAVE. THEY ARE STILL EXACTLY WHERE THEY WERE, LOOKING DOWN AT ME; BUT I’M NOT REALLY THERE. I’M LOOKING DOWN AT ME, TOO. I LOOK LIKE I DID WHEN I WAS THE BABY JESUS—YOU REMEMBER THOSE STUPID SWADDLING CLOTHES? THAT’S HOW I LOOK WHEN I LEAVE ME.

“BUT NOW ALL THE PEOPLE ARE GROWING SMALLER—NOT JUST ME, BUT THE NUNS AND THE CHILDREN, TOO. I’M QUITE FAR ABOVE THEM, BUT THEY NEVER LOOK UP; THEY KEEP LOOKING DOWN AT WHAT USED TO BE ME. AND SOON I’M ABOVE EVERYTHING; THE PALM TREES ARE VERY STRAIGHT AND TALL, BUT SOON I’M HIGH ABOVE THE PALM TREES, TOO. THE SKY AND THE PALM TREES ARE SO BEAUTIFUL, BUT IT’S VERY HOT—THE AIR IS HOTTER THAN ANY PLACE I’VE EVER BEEN. I KNOW I’M NOT IN NEW HAMPSHIRE.”

I didn’t say anything; he put his diary back in Hester’s bedroom, he stirred the tomato sauce, he looked under the lid of the water pot to see if the water was near to boiling. Then he went and knocked on the bathroom door; it was quiet in there.