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“People have joined the priesthood in less time than it takes you to get married,” Grandmother said to my mother.

As for joining the priesthood, that was a favorite expression of Harriet Wheelwright’s; it was always made in connection with some insupportable foolishness, some self-created difficulty, some action as inhuman as it was bizarre. Grandmother meant the Catholic priesthood; yet I know that one of the things that upset her about the possibility of Mother’s moving herself and me to the Episcopal Church was that Episcopalians had priests and bishops—and even “low” Episcopalians were much more like Catholics than like Congregationalists, in her opinion. A good thing: Grandmother never knew much about Anglicans.

In their long courtship, Dan and my mother attended both the Congregational and the Episcopal services, as if they were conducting a four-year theological seminar, in private—and my introduction to the Episcopal Sunday school was also gradual; at my mother’s prompting, I attended several classes before Dan and my mother were married, as if Mother already knew where we were headed. What was also gradual was how my mother finally stopped going to Boston for her singing lessons. I never had a hint that Dan was the slightest bothered by this ritual, although I recall my grandmother asking my mother if Dan objected to her spending one night a week in Boston.

“Why should he?” my mother asked.

The answer, which was not forthcoming, was as obvious to my grandmother as it was to me: that the most likely candidate for the unclaimed position of my father, and my mother’s mystery lover, was that “famous” singing teacher. But neither my grandmother nor I dared to postulate this theory to my mother, and Dan Needham was clearly untroubled by the ongoing singing lessons, and the ongoing one night away; or else Dan possessed some reassuring piece of k

nowledge that remained a secret from my grandmother and me.

“YOUR FATHER IS NOT THE SINGING TEACHER,” Owen Meany told me matter-of-factly. “THAT WOULD BE TOO OBVIOUS.”

“This is a real-life story, Owen,” I said. “It’s not a mystery novel.” In real life, I meant, there was nothing written that the missing father couldn’t be OBVIOUS—but I didn’t really think it was the singing teacher, either. He was only the most likely candidate because he was the only candidate my grandmother and I could think of.

“IF IT’S HIM, WHY MAKE IT A SECRET?” Owen asked. “IF IT’S HIM, WOULDN’T YOUR MOTHER SEE HIM MORE THAN ONCE A WEEK—OR NOT AT ALL?”

Anyway, it was far-fetched to think that the singing teacher was the reason my mother and Dan didn’t get married for four years. And so I concluded what Owen Meany would call TOO OBVIOUS: that Dan was holding out for more information, concerning me, and that my mother wasn’t providing it. For wouldn’t it be reasonable of Dan to want to know the story of who my father was? And I know that is a story my mother wouldn’t have yielded to Dan.

But Owen rebuked me for this idea, too. “DON’T YOU SEE HOW MUCH DAN LOVES YOUR MOTHER?” he asked me. “HE LOVES HER AS MUCH AS WE DO! HE WOULD NEVER FORCE HER TO TELL HIM ANYTHING!”

I believe that now. Owen was right. It was something else: that four-year delay of the obvious.

Dan came from a very high-powered family; they were doctors and lawyers, and they disapproved of Dan for not completing a more serious education. To have started out at Harvard and not gone on to law school, not gone on to medical school—this was criminal laziness; Dan came from a family very keen about going on. They disapproved of him ending up as a mere prep-school teacher, and of his indulging his hobby of amateur theatrical performances—they believed these frivolities were unworthy of a grown-up’s interest! They disapproved of my mother, too—and that was the end of Dan having any more to do with them. They called her “the divorcée”; I guess no one in the Needham family had ever been divorced, and so that was the worst thing you could say about a woman—even worse than calling my mother what she really was: an unwed mother. Perhaps an unwed mother sounded merely hapless; whereas a divorcée implied intent—a woman who was out to snare their dear underachiever, Dan.

I don’t remember much about meeting Dan’s family: at the wedding, they chose not to mingle. My grandmother was outraged that there were people who actually dared to condescend to her—to treat her like some provincial fussbudget. I recall that Dan’s mother had an acid tongue, and that, when introduced to me, she said, “So this is the child.” And then there followed a period of time in which she scrutinized my face—for any telltale indication of the race of my missing male ancestor, I would guess. But that’s all I remember. Dan refused to have anything further to do with them. I cannot think that they played any role at all in the four-year “engagement.”

And what with all the comparing and contrasting of a theological nature, there was no end of religious approval for matching Dan and my mother; there was, in fact, double approval—the Congregationalists and the Episcopalians appeared to be competing for the privilege of having Dan and my mother come worship with them. In my opinion, it should have been no contest; granted, I was happy to have the opportunity to lift Owen up in the air at Sunday school, but that was the beginning and the end to any advantage the Episcopalians had over the Congregationalists.

There were not only those differences I’ve already mentioned—of an atmospheric and architectural nature, together with those ecclesiastical differences that made the Episcopal service much more Catholic than the Congregational service—CATHOLIC, WITH A BIG C, as Owen would say. But there were also vast differences between the Rev. Lewis Merrill, whom I liked, and the Rev. Dudley Wiggin—the rector of the Episcopal Church—who was a bumpkin of boredom.

To compare these two ministers as dismissively as I did, I confess I was drawing on no small amount of snobbery inherited from Grandmother Wheelwright. The Congregationalists had pastors—the Rev. Lewis Merrill was our pastor. If you grow up with that comforting word, it’s hard to accept rectors—the Episcopal Church had rectors; the Rev. Dudley Wiggin was the rector of Christ Church, Gravesend. I shared my grandmother’s distaste for the word rector—it sounded too much like rectum to be taken seriously.

But it would have been hard to take the Rev. Dudley Wiggin seriously if he’d been a pastor. Whereas the Rev. Mr. Merrill had heeded his calling as a young man—he had always been in, and of, the church—the Rev. Mr. Wiggin was a former airline pilot; some difficulty with his eyesight had forced his early retirement from the skies, and he had descended to our wary town with a newfound fervor—the zeal of the convert giving him the healthy but frantic appearance of one of those “elder” citizens who persist in entering vigorous sporting competitions in the over-fifty category. Whereas Pastor Merrill spoke an educated language—he’d been an English major at Princeton; he’d heard Niebuhr and Tillich lecture at Union Theological—Rector Wiggin spoke in ex-pilot homilies; he was a pulpit-thumper who had no doubt.

What made Mr. Merrill infinitely more attractive was that he was full of doubt; he expressed our doubt in the most eloquent and sympathetic ways. In his completely lucid and convincing view, the Bible is a book with a troubling plot, but a plot that can be understood: God creates us out of love, but we don’t want God, or we don’t believe in Him, or we pay very poor attention to Him. Nevertheless, God continues to love us—at least, He continues to try to get our attention. Pastor Merrill made religion seem reasonable. And the trick of having faith, he said, was that it was necessary to believe in God without any great or even remotely reassuring evidence that we don’t inhabit a godless universe.

Although he knew all the best—or, at least, the least boring—stories in the Bible, Mr. Merrill was most appealing because he reassured us that doubt was the essence of faith, and not faith’s opposite. By comparison, whatever the Rev. Dudley Wiggin had seen to make him believe in God, he had seen absolutely—possibly by flying an airplane too close to the sun. The rector was not gifted with language, and he was blind to doubt or worry in any form; perhaps the problem with his “eyesight” that had forced his early retirement from the airlines was really a euphemism for the blinding power of his total religious conversion—because Mr. Wiggin was fearless to an extent that would have made him an unsafe pilot, and to an extent that made him a madman as a preacher.

Even his Bible selections were outlandish; a satirist could not have selected them better. The Rev. Mr. Wiggin was especially fond of the word “firmament”; there was always a firmament in his Bible selections. And he loved all allusions to faith as a battle to be savagely fought and won; faith was a war waged against faith’s adversaries. “Take the whole armor of God!” he would rave. We were instructed to wear “the breastplate of righteousness”; our faith was a “shield”—against “all the flaming darts of the evil one.” The rector said he wore a “helmet of salvation.” That’s from Ephesians; Mr. Wiggin was a big fan of Ephesians. He also whooped it up about Isaiah—especially the part when “the Lord is sitting upon a throne”; the rector was big on the Lord upon a throne. The Lord is surrounded by seraphim. One of the seraphim flies to Isaiah, who is complaining that he’s “a man of unclean lips.” Not for long; not according to Isaiah. The seraphim touches Isaiah’s mouth with “a burning coal” and Isaiah is as good as new.

That was what we heard from the Rev. Dudley Wiggin: all the unlikeliest miracles.

“I DON’T LIKE THE SERAPHIM,” Owen complained. “WHAT’S THE POINT OF BEING SCARY?”

But although Owen agreed with me that the rector was a moron who messed up the Bible for tentative believers by assaulting us with the worst of God the Almighty and God the Terrible—and although Owen acknowledged that the Rev. Mr. Wiggin’s sermons were about as entertaining and convincing as a pilot’s voice in the intercom, explaining technical difficulties while the plane plummets toward the earth and the stewardesses are screaming—Owen actually preferred Wiggin to what little he knew of Pastor Merrill. Owen didn’t know much about Mr. Merrill, I should add; Owen was never a Congregationalist. But Merrill was such a popular preacher that parishioners from the other Gravesend churches would frequently skip a service of their own to attend his sermons. Owen did so, on occasion, but Owen was always critical. Even when Gravesend Academy bestowed the intellectual honor upon Pastor Merrill—of inviting him to be a frequent guest preacher in the academy’s nondenominational church—Owen was critical.

“BELIEF IS NOT AN INTELLECTUAL MATTER,” he complained. “IF HE’S GOT SO MUCH DOUBT, HE’S IN THE WRONG BUSINESS.”

But who, besides Owen Meany and Rector Wiggin, had so little doubt? Owen was a natural in the belief business, but my appreciation of Mr. Merrill and my contempt for Mr. Wiggin were based on common sense. I took a particularly Yankee view of them; the Wheelwright in me was all in favor of Lewis Merrill, all opposed to Dudley Wiggin. We Wheelwrights do not scoff at the appearance of things. Things often are as they appear. First impressions matter. That clean, well-lit place of worship, which was the Congregational Church—its pristine white clapboards, its tall, clear windows that welcomed the view of branches against the sky—that was a first impression that lasted for me; it was a model of purity and no-nonsense, against which the Episcopal gloom of stone and tapestry and stained glass could pose no serious competition. And Pastor Merrill was also good-looking—in an intense, pale, slightly undernourished way. He had a boyish face—a sudden, winning, embarrassed smile that contradicted a fairly constant look of worry that more usually gave him the expression of an anxious child. An errant lock of hair flopped on his forehead when he looked down upon his sermon, or bent over his Bible—his hair problem was the unruly result of a pronounced widow’s peak, which further contributed to his boyishness. And he was always misplacing his glasses, which he didn’t seem to need—that is, he could read without them, he could look out upon his congregation without them (at least not appearing to be blind); then, all of a sudden, he would commence a frantic search for them. It was endearing; so was his slight stutter, because it made us nervous for him—afraid for him, should he have his eloquence snatched from him and be struck down with a crippling speech impediment. H

e was articulate, but he never made speech seem effortless; on the contrary, he exhibited what hard work it was—to make his faith, in tandem with his doubt, clear; to speak well, in spite of his stutter.

And then, to add to Mr. Merrill’s appeal, we pitied him for his family. His wife was from California, the sunny part. My grandmother used to speculate that she had been one of those permanently tanned, bouncy blondes—a perfectly wholesome type, but entirely too easily persuaded that good health and boundless energy for good deeds were the natural results of clean living and practical values. No one had told her that health and energy and the Lord’s work are harder to come by in bad weather. Mrs. Merrill suffered in New Hampshire.

She suffered visibly. Her blondness turned to dry straw; her cheeks and nose turned a raw salmon color, her eyes watered—she caught every flu, every common cold there was; no epidemic missed her. Aghast at the loss of her California color, she tried makeup; but this turned her skin to clay. Even in summer, she couldn’t tan; she turned so dead white in the winter, there was nothing for her to do in the sun but burn. She was sick all the time, and this cost her her energy; she grew listless; she developed a matronly spread, and the vague, unfocused look of someone over forty who might be sixty—or would be, tomorrow.

All this happened to Mrs. Merrill while her children were still small; they were sickly, too. Although they were successful scholars, they were so often ill and missed so many school days that they had to repeat whole grades. Two of them were older than I was, but not a lot older; one of them was even demoted to my grade—I don’t remember which one; I don’t even remember which sex. That was another problem that the Merrill children suffered: they were utterly forgettable. If you didn’t see the Merrill children for weeks at a time, when you saw them again, they appeared to have been replaced by different children.