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Was there anything Owen Meany hadn’t thought of before I’d thought of it? I wondered.

“WE DON’T HAVE TO GO WHERE THERE ARE PALM TREES—IT WAS JUST AN IDEA,” Owen said.

We weren’t in the mood for Moon over Miami; a story about husband-hunting requires a special mood. Owen went out to the pickup and got his flashlight; then we walked up Front Street to Linden Street—past the Gravesend High School to the cemetery. The night was still warm, and not especially dark. As graves go, my mother’s grave looked pretty nice. Grandmother had planted a border of crocuses and daffodils and tulips, so that even in the spring there was color; and Grandmother’s touch with roses was evident by the well-pruned rosebush that took very firm grasp of the trellis that stood like a comfortable headboard directly behind my mother’s grave. Owen played the flashlight over the beveled edges of the gravestone; I’d seen better work with the diamond wheel?—Owen’s work was much, much better. But I never supposed that Owen had been old enough to fashion my mother’s stone.

“MY FATHER WAS NEVER AN EXPERT WITH THE DIAMOND WHEEL,” Owen observed.

Dan Needham had recently placed a fresh bouquet of spring flowers in front of the gravestone, but Owen and I could still manage to see the lettering of my mother’s name—and the appropriate dates.

“If she were alive, she’d be forty-three!” I said. “Imagine that.”

“SHE’D STILL BE BEAUTIFUL!” said Owen Meany.

When we were walking back along Linden Street, I was thinking that we could take a trip “Down East,” as people in New Hampshire say—by which they mean, along the coast of Maine, all the way to Nova Scotia.

“Could the pickup make it to Nova Scotia?” I asked Owen. “Suppose we just took it easy, and drove along the coast of Maine—not in any hurry, not caring about when we arrived in Nova Scotia, not even caring if we ever arrived there—do you think the pickup could handle that?”

“I’VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT THAT,” he said. “YES, I THINK WE COULD DO THAT—IF WE DIDN’T TRY TO DRIVE TOO MANY MILES IN ONE DAY. WITH THE PICKUP WE COULD CERTAINLY CARRY ALL THE CAMPING GEAR WE’D EVER NEED—WE COULD EVEN PITCH THE TENT IN THE BACK OF THE PICKUP, IF WE EVER HAD A PROBLEM FINDING DRY OR LEVEL GROUND....”

“That would be fun!” I said. “I’ve never been to Nova Scotia—I’ve never been very far into Maine.”

On Front Street, we stopped to pet someone’s cat.

“I’VE ALSO BEEN THINKING ABOUT SAWYER DEPOT,” said Owen Meany.

“What about it?” I asked him.

“I’VE NEVER BEEN THERE, YOU KNOW,” he said.

“It’s not really very interesting in Sawyer Depot,” I said cautiously. I didn’t think my Aunt Martha and Uncle Alfred would welcome Owen Meany into their home with open arms; and considering what had just happened with Hester, I wondered what attraction Sawyer Depot still had for Owen.

“I’D JUST LIKE TO SEE IT,” he said. “I’VE HEARD SO MUCH ABOUT IT. EVEN IF THE EASTMANS WOULDN’T WANT ME IN THE HOUSE, PERHAPS YOU COULD SHOW ME LOVELESS LAKE—AND THE BOATHOUSE, AND MAYBE THE MOUNTAIN WHERE ALL OF YOU WENT SKIING. AND FIREWATER!” he said.

“Firewater’s been dead for years!” I told him.

“OH,” he said.

My grandmother’s driveway looked like a parking lot. There was Grandmother’s old Cadillac, and my Volkswagen Beetle, and the dusty tomato-red pickup; and parked at the rear of the line was Hester’s hand-me-down ’57 Chevy.

She must have been out looking for Owen; and when she’d seen the pickup in Grandmother’s driveway, she must have gone into 80 Front Street to find him. We found her asleep on the couch; the only light that flashed over her was the ghastly, bone-colored glow from the TV, which she had turned to another channel—apparently, Hester hadn’t been in the mood for Moon over Miami, either. She had fallen asleep watching Duchess of Idaho.

“HESTER HATES ESTHER WILLIAMS, UNLESS ESTHER IS UNDERWATER,” said Owen Meany. He went and sat beside Hester on the couch; he touched her hair, then her cheek. I switched the channel; there was never just one Late Show—not anymore. Moon over Miami was over; something called The Late, Late Show had begun in its place—John Wayne, in Operation Pacific.

“HESTER HATES JOHN WAYNE,” Owen said, and Hester woke up.

John Wayne was in a submarine in World War Two; he was battl

ing the Japanese.

“I’m not watching a war movie,” Hester said; she turned on the lamp on the end table next to the couch—she examined the stitches in Owen’s lip closely. “How many?” she asked him.

“FOUR,” he told her.

She kissed him very softly on his upper lip and on the tip of his nose, and on the corners of his mouth—being very careful not to kiss the stitches. “I’m sorry! I love you!” she whispered to him.

“I’M OKAY,” said Owen Meany.

I flicked through the channels until I found something interesting?—Sherlock Holmes in Terror by Night, with Basil Rathbone.