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“You certainly have!” cried Mr. McSwiney, who paid little attention to me, even when Owen took special pains to introduce me by putting unmistakable emphasis on my last name, which we thought might be familiar to the singing and voice teacher.

“THIS IS MY FRIEND, JOHN WHEELWRIGHT,” Owen said, but Mr. McSwiney couldn’t wait to have a look at Owen’s Adam’s apple; the name “Wheelwright” appeared to ring no bells for him.

“It’s all the same thing, whatever you call it,” Mr. McSwiney said. “An Adam’s apple, a larynx, a voice box—it’s the most important part of the vocal apparatus,” he explained, sitting Owen in what he called “the singer’s seat,” which was a plain, straight-backed chair directly in front of the piano. Mr. McSwiney put his thumb and index finger on either side of Owen’s Adam’s apple. “Swallow!” he instructed. Owen swallowed. When I held my own Adam’s apple and swallowed, I could feel my Adam’s apple jump higher up my neck; but Owen’s Adam’s apple hardly moved.

“Yawn!” said Mr. McSwiney. When I yawned, my Adam’s apple moved down my neck, but Owen Meany’s Adam’s apple stayed almost exactly where it was.

“Scream!” said Mr. McSwiney.

“AAAAAHHHHHH!” said Owen Meany; again, his Adam’s apple hardly moved.

“Amazing!” said Mr. McSwiney. “You’ve got a permanently fixed larynx,” he told Owen. “I’ve rarely seen such a thing,” he said. “Your voice box is never in repose—your Adam’s apple sits up there in the position of a permanent scream. I could try giving you some exercises, but you might want to see a throat doctor; you might have to have surgery.”

“I DON’T WANT TO HAVE SURGERY, I DON’T NEED ANY EXERCISES,” said Owen Meany. “IF GOD GAVE ME THIS VOICE, HE HAD A REASON,” Owen said.

“How come his voice doesn’t change?” I asked Mr. McSwiney, who seemed on the verge of a satirical remark—regarding God’s role in the position of Owen’s voice box. “I thought every boy’s voice changed—at puberty,” I said.

“If his voice hasn’t changed already, it’s probably never going to change,” Mr. McSwiney said. “Vocal cords don’t make words—they just vibrate. Vocal cords aren’t really ‘cords’—they’re just lips. It’s the opening between those lips that’s called the ‘glottis.’ It’s nothing but the act of breathing on the closed lips that makes a sound. When a male voice changes, it’s just a part of puberty—it’s called a ‘secondary sexual development.’ But I don’t think your voice is going to change,” Mr. McSwiney told Owen. “If it was going to change, it would have.”

“THAT DOESN’T EXPLAIN WHY IT ALREADY HASN’T,” said Owen Meany.

“I can’t explain that,” Mr. McSwiney admitted. “I can give you some exercises,” he repeated, “or I can recommend a doctor.”

“I DON’T EXPECT MY VOICE TO CHANGE,” said Owen Meany.

I could see that Mr. McSwiney was learning how exasperating Owen’s belief in God’s plans could be.

“Why’d you come to see me, kid?” Mr. McSwiney asked him.

“BECAUSE YOU KNOW HIS MOTHER,” Owen said, pointing to me. Graham McSwiney assessed me, as if he feared I might represent an elderly paternity suit.

“Tabitha Wheelwright,” I said. “She was called Tabby. She was from New Hampshire, and she studied with you in the forties and the fifties—from before I was born until I was eight or nine.”

“OR TEN,” said Owen Meany; into his pocket went his hand, again—he handed Mr. McSwiney the photograph.

“‘The Lady in Red’!” Mr. McSwiney said. “I’m sorry, I forgot her name,” he told me.

“But you remember her?” I asked.

“Oh sure, I remember her,” he said. “She was pretty, and very pleasant—and I got her that silly job. It wasn’t much of a gig, but she had fun doing it; she had this idea that someone might ‘discover’ her if she kept singing there—but I told her no one ever got discovered in Boston. And certainly not in that supper club!”

Mr. McSwiney explained that the club often called him and raided his students for local talent; as the Giordanos had told us, the club hired more established female vocalists for gigs that lasted for a month or more—but on Wednesdays, the club rested their stars; that’s when they called upon “local talent.” In my mother’s case, she had gained a small, neighborhood reputation and the club had made a habit of her. She’d not wanted to use her name—a form of shyness, or provincialism, that Mr. McSwiney found as silly as her idea that anyone might “discover” her.

“But she was charming,” he said. “As a singer, she was all ‘head’—she had no ‘chest’—and she was lazy. She liked to perform simple, popular songs; she wasn’t very ambitious. And she wouldn’t practice.”

He explained the two sets of muscles involved in a “head voice” and in a “chest voice”; although this was not what interested Owen and me about my mother, we were polite and allowed Mr. McSwiney to elaborate on his teacher’s opinion of her. Most women sing with the larynx in a high position, or with only what Mr. McSwiney called a “head voice”; they experience a lack of power from the E above middle C, downward—and when they try to hit their high notes loudly, they hit them shrilly. The development of a “chest voice” in women is very important. For men, it is the “head voice” that needs the development. For both, they must be willing to devote hours.

My mother, a once-a-week singer, was what Mr. McSwiney called “the vocal equivalent of a weekend tennis player.” She had a pretty voice—as I’ve described it—but Mr. McSwiney’s assessment of her voice was consistent with my memory of her; she did not have a strong voice, she was not ever as powerful as Mr. McSwiney’s previous pupil had sounded to Owen and me through a closed door.

“Who thought of the name ‘The Lady in Red’?” I asked the old teacher—in an effort to steer him back to what interested us.

“She found a red dress in a store,” Mr. McSwiney said. “She told me she wanted to be ‘wholly out of character—but only once a week’!” He laughed. “I never went to hear her perform,” he said. “It was just a supper club,” he explained. “Really, no one who sang there was very good. Some of the better ones would work with me, so I heard them here—but I never set foot in the place. I knew Meyerson on the telephone; I don’t remember that I actually met him. I think Meyerson called her ‘The Lady in Red.’”

“Meyerson?” I asked.

“He owned the club, he was a nice old guy—from Miami, I think. He was honest, and unpretentious. The singers I sent to him all liked him—they said he treated them respectfully,” Mr. McSwiney said.

“DO YOU REMEMBER THE NAME OF THE CLUB?” Owen asked him.