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“Right,” I said.

“YOU BETTER LET ME TAKE IT HOME. I CAN LOOK AFTER IT WHILE YOU’RE AWAY. IF IT’S ALL ALONE HERE, ONE OF THE MAIDS MIGHT DO SOMETHING STUPID—OR THERE COULD BE A FIRE,” he said.

“I never thought of that,” I said.

“WELL, IT WOULD BE VERY SAFE WITH ME,” Owen said. Of course, I agreed. “AND I’VE BEEN THINKING,” he added. “OVER NEXT THANKSGIVING, WHEN YOUR COUSINS ARE HERE, YOU BETTER LET ME TAKE THE ARMADILLO HOME WITH ME THEN, TOO. IT SOUNDS TO ME LIKE THEY’D BE TOO VIOLENT WITH IT. IT HAS A VERY DELICATE NOSE—AND THE TAIL CAN BREAK, TOO. AND I DON’T THINK IT’S A GOOD IDEA TO SHOW YOUR COUSINS THAT GAME WE PLAY WITH THE ARMADILLO IN THE CLOSET WITH YOUR GRANDFATHER’S CLOTHES,” he said. “IT SOUNDS TO ME LIKE THEY’D TRAMPLE ON THE ARMADILLO IN THE DARK.” Or else they’d throw it out the window, I thought.

“I agree,” I said.

“GOOD,” Owen said. “THEN IT’S ALL SETTLED: I’LL LOOK AFTER THE ARMADILLO WHEN YOU’RE AWAY, AND WHEN YOUR COUSINS ARE HERE, I’LL LOOK AFTER IT, TOO—OVER NEXT THANKSGIVING, WHEN YOU’RE GOING TO INVITE ME OVER TO MEET YOUR COUSINS, OKAY?”

“Okay, Owen,” I said.

“GOOD,” he said; he was very pleased about it, if a trifle nervous. The first time he took the armadillo home with him, he brought a box stuffed with cotton—it was such an elaborately conceived and strongly built carrying case that the armadillo could have been mailed safely overseas in it. The box, Owen explained, had been used to ship some granite-carving tools—some grave-marking equipment—so it was very sturdy. Mr. Meany, in an effort to bolster the disappointing business at the quarry, was expanding his involvement in monument sales. Owen said his father resented selling some of his best pieces of granite to other granite companies that made gravestones, and charged an arm and a leg for them—according to Mr. Meany. He had opened a gruesome monument shop downtown—Meany Monuments, the store was called—and the sample gravestones in the storefront window looked not so much like samples as like actual graves that someone had built a store around.

“It’s absolutely frightful,” my grandmother said. “It’s a cemetery in a store,” she remarked indignantly, but Mr. Meany was new to monument sales; it was possible he needed just a little more time to make the store look right.

Anyway, the armadillo was packed in a box designed for transporting chisels—for something Owen called WEDGES AND FEATHERS—and Owen solemnly promised that no harm would come to the diminutive beast. Apparently, Mrs. Meany was frightened by it—Owen gave his parents no forewarning that the armadillo was visiting; but Owen maintained that this small shock served his mother right for going into his room uninvited. Owen’s room (what little I ever saw of it) was as orderly and as untouchable as a museum. I think that is why it was so easy for me to imagine, for years, that the baseball that killed my mother was surely a resident souvenir in Owen’s odd room.

I will never forget the Thanksgiving vacation when I introduced Owen Meany to my reckless cousins. The day before my cousins were to arrive in Gravesend, Owen came over to 80 Front Street to pick up the armadillo.

“They’re not getting here until late tomorrow,” I told him.

“WHAT IF THEY COME EARLY?” he asked. “SOMETHING COULD HAPPEN. IT’S BETTER NOT TO TAKE A CHANCE.”

Owen wanted to come over to meet my cousins immediately following Thanksgiving dinner, but I thought the day after Thanksgiving would be better; I suggested that everyone always felt so stuffed after Thanksgiving dinner that it was never a very lively time.

“BUT I WAS THINKING THAT THEY MIGHT BE CALMER, RIGHT AFTER THEY HAD EATEN,” Owen said. I admit, I enjoyed his nervousness. I was worried that my cousins might be in some rare, mellow condition when Owen met them, and therefore he’d think I’d just been making up stories about how wild they were—and that there was, therefore, no excuse for my never inviting him to Sawyer Depot. I wanted my cousins to like Owen, because I liked him—he was my best friend—but, at the same time, I didn’t want everything to be so enjoyable that I’d have to invite Owen to Sawyer Depot the next time I went. I was sure that would be disastrous. And I was nervous that my cousins would make fun of Owen; and I confess I was nervous that Owen would embarrass me—I am ashamed of feeling that, to this day.

Anyway, both Owen and I were nervous. We talked on the phone in whispers Thanksgiving night.

“ARE THEY ESPECIALLY WILD?” he asked me.

“Not especially,” I said.

“WHAT TIME DO THEY GET UP? WHAT TIME TOMORROW SHOULD I COME OVER?” he asked.

“The boys get up early,” I said, “but Hester sleeps a little later—or at least she stays in her room longer.”

“NOAH IS THE OLDEST?” Owen said, although he had checked these statistics with me a hundred times.

“Yes,” I said.

“AND SIMON IS THE NEXT OLDEST, ALTHOUGH HE’S JUST AS BIG AS NOAH—AND EVEN A LITTLE WILDER?” Owen said.

“Yes, yes,” I said.

“AND HESTER’S THE YOUNGEST BUT SHE’S BIGGER THAN YOU,” he said. “AND SHE’S PRETTY, BUT NOT THAT PRETTY, RIGHT?”

“Right,” I said.

Hester just missed the Eastman good looks. It was an especially masculine good looks that Noah and Simon got from my Uncle Alfred—broad shoulders, big bones, a heavy jaw—and from my Aunt Martha the boys got their blondness, and their aristocracy. But the broad shoulders, the big bones, and the heavy jaw—these were less attractive on Hester, who did not receive either my aunt’s blondness or her aristocracy. Hester was as dark and hairy as Uncle Alfred—even including his bushy eyebrows, which were actually one solid eyebrow without a gap above the bridge of the nose—and she had Uncle Alfred’s big hands. Hester’s hands looked like paws.

Yet Hester had sex appeal, in the manner—in those days—that tough girls were also sexy girls. She had a large, athletic body, and as a teenager she would have to struggle with her weight; but she had clear skin, she had solid curves; her mouth was aggressive, flashing lots of healthy teeth, and her eyes were taunting, with a dangerous-looking intelligence. Her hair was wild and thick.

“I have this friend,” I told Hester that evening. I thought I would begin with her, and try to win her over—and then tell Noah and Simon about Owen; but even though I was speaking quietly to Hester and I thought that Noah and Simon were engaged in finding a lost station on the radio, the boys heard me and were instantly curious.