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“Tell Dan,” Grandmother said. “I’m sure I don’t know the first thing about it.”

“I KNOW ABOUT IT,” said Owen Meany. Grandmother regarded Owen uncertainly; before she allowed him to replace her at the open door, she reached outside and snatched her mail from Mr. Morrison’s tentative hand.

“What do you know about it?” the mailman asked Owen.

“IT’S AN IMPORTANT PART,” Owen said. “YOU’RE THE LAST OF THE SPIRITS WHO APPEAR TO SCROOGE. YOU’RE THE GHOST OF THE FUTURE—YOU’RE THE SCARIEST GHOST OF ALL!”

“I got nothin’ to say!” Mr. Morrison complained. “It ain’t even what they call a speakin’ part.”

“A GREAT ACTOR DOESN’T NEED TO TALK,” Owen said.

“I wear this big black cloak, with a hood!” Mr. Morrison protested. “No one can see my face.”

“There’s some justice, anyway,” my grandmother said under her breath to me.

“A GREAT ACTOR DOESN’T NEED A FACE,” Owen said.

“An actor needs somethin’ to do!” the mailman shouted.

“YOU SHOW SCROOGE WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO HIM IF HE DOESN’T BELIEVE IN CHRISTMAS!” Owen cried. “YOU SHOW A MAN HIS OWN GRAVE! WHAT CAN BE SCARIER THAN THAT?”

“But all I do is point,” Mr. Morrison whined. “Nobody would even know what I was pointin’ at if old Scrooge didn’t keep givin’ speeches to himself—‘If there is any person in the town who feels emotion caused by this man’s death, show that person to me, Spirit, I beseech you!’ That’s the kind of speech old Scrooge is always makin’!” Mr. Morrison shouted. “‘Let me see some tenderness connected with a death,’ and so on and so forth,” the mailman said bitterly. “And all I do is point! I got nothin’ to say and all anybody sees of me is one finger!” Mr. Morrison cried; he pulled his mitten off and pointed a long, bony finger at Owen Meany, who retreated from the mailman’s skeletal hand.

“IT’S A GREAT PART FOR A GREAT ACTOR,” Owen said stubbornly. “YOU HAVE TO BE A PRESENCE. THERE’S NOTHING AS SCARY AS THE FUTURE.”

In the hall, behind Owen, an anxious crowd had gathered. Lydia in her wheelchair, Ethel—who was polishing a candlestick—and Germaine, who thought Owen was the Devil … they huddled behind my grandmother, who was old enough to take Owen’s point of view to heart: nothing is as scary as the future, she knew, unless it’s someone who knows the future.

Owen threw up his hands so abruptly that the women were startled and moved away from him. “YOU KNOW EVERYTHING YET TO COME!” he screamed at the disgruntled mailman. “IF YOU WALK ONSTAGE AS IF YOU KNOW THE FUTURE—I MEAN, EVERYTHING!—YOU’LL SCARE THE SHIT OUT OF EVERYONE.”

Mr. Morrison considered this; there was even a glimmer of comprehension in his gaze, as if he saw—albeit momentarily—his own, terrifying potential; but his eyes were quickly fogged over by his breath in the cold air.

“Tell Dan I quit, that’s all,” he said. Thereupon, the mailman turned and left—“most undramatically,” my grandmother would say, later. At the moment, despite her dislike of vulgar language, Grandmother appeared almost charmed by Owen Meany.

“Get away from the open door now, Owen,” she said. “You’ve given that fool much more attention than he deserves, and you’ll catch your death of cold.”

“I’M CALLING DAN, RIGHT AWAY,” Owen told us matter-of-factly. He went directly to the phone and dialed the number; the women and I wouldn’t leave the hall, although I think we were all unconscious of how very much we had become his audience. “HELLO, DAN?” he said into the phone. “DAN? THIS IS OWEN!” (As if there could have been any doubt concerning who it was!) “DAN, THIS IS AN EMERGENCY. YOU’VE LOST THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS YET TO COME. YES, I MEAN MORRISON—THE COWARDLY MAILMAN!”

“The cowardly mailman!” my grandmother repeated admiringly.

“YES, YES—I KNOW HE WASN’T ANY GOOD,” Owen told Dan, “BUT YOU DON’T WANT TO BE STUCK WITHOUT A SPIRIT FOR THE FUTURE.”

That was when I saw it coming; the future—or at least one, small part of it. Owen had failed to talk Mr. Morrison into the role, but he had convinced himself it was an important part—far more attractive than being Tiny Tim, that mere goody-goody. Furthermore, it was established that the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come was not a speaking part; Owen would not have to use his voice—not as the Christ Child and not as the Ghost of the Future.

“I DON’T WANT YOU TO PANIC, DAN,” Owen said into the phone, “BECAUSE I THINK I KNOW SOMEONE WHO’D BE PERFECT FOR THE PART—WELL, IF NOT PERFECT, AT LEAST DIFFERENT.”

It was with the word DIFFERENT that my grandmother shivered; it was also the first time she looked at Owen Meany with anything resembling respect.

Once again, I thought, the little Prince of Peace had taken charge. I looked at Germaine, whose lower lip was captured in her teeth; I knew what she was thinking. Lydia, rocking in her wheelchair, appeared to be mesmerized by the one-sided phone conversation; Ethel held the candlestick like a weapon.

“WHAT THE PART REQUIRES IS A CERTAIN PRESENCE,” Owen told Dan. “THE GHOST MUST TRULY APPEAR TO KNOW THE FUTURE. IRONICALLY, THE OTHER PART I’M PLAYING THIS CHRISTMAS—YES, YES, I MEAN THE STUPID PAGEANT—IRONICALLY, THIS PREPARES ME FOR THE ROL

E. I MEAN, THEY’RE BOTH PARTS THAT FORCE YOU TO TAKE COMMAND OF THINGS, WITHOUT WORDS … YES, YES, OF COURSE I MEAN ME!” There was a rare pause, while Owen listened to Dan. “WHO SAYS THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS YET TO COME HAS TO BE TALL?” Owen asked angrily. “YES, OF COURSE I KNOW HOW TALL MISTER FISH IS. DAN, YOU’RE NOT USING YOUR IMAGINATION.” There was another brief pause, and Owen said: “THERE’S A SIMPLE TEST. LET ME REHEARSE IT. IF EVERYBODY LAUGHS, I’M OUT. IF EVERYONE IS SCARED, I’M THE ONE. YES, OF COURSE—‘INCLUDING MISTER FISH.’ LAUGH, I’M OUT. SCARED, I’M IN.”

But I didn’t need to wait to know the results of that test. It was necessary only to look at my grandmother’s anxious face, and at the attitudes of the women surrounding her—at the fear of Owen Meany that was registered by Lydia’s transfixed expression, by Ethel’s whitened knuckles around the candlestick, by Germaine’s trembling lip. It wasn’t necessary for me to suspend my belief or disbelief in Owen Meany until after his first rehearsal; I already knew what a presence he could summon—especially in regard to the future.

That evening, at dinner, we heard from Dan about Owen’s triumph—how the cast stood riveted, not even knowing what dwarf this was, for Owen was completely hidden in the black cloak and hood; it didn’t matter that he never spoke, or that they couldn’t see his face. Not even Mr. Fish had known who the fearful apparition was.

As Dickens wrote, “Oh cold, cold, rigid, dreadful Death, set up thine altar here, and dress it with such terrors as thou hast at thy command, for this is thy dominion!”