“THEY’RE GIANT DOVES,” Owen said. “THEY’RE AS BIG AS HALF A DONKEY. WHAT KIND OF BIRD IS THAT? A BIRD FROM MARS? THEY’RE ACTUALLY KIND OF FRIGHTENING.”
“Not everyone can be a king or a shepherd or a donkey, Owen,” the rector said.
“BUT NOBODY’S SMALL ENOUGH TO BE A DOVE,” Owen said. “AND NOBODY KNOWS WHAT ALL THOSE PAPER STREAMERS ARE SUPPOSED TO BE.”
“They’re feathers!” Barb Wiggin shouted.
“THE TURTLEDOVES LOOK LIKE CREATURES,” Owen said. “LIKE THEY’VE BEEN ELECTROCUTED.”
“Well, I suppose there were other animals in the manger,” the rector said.
“Are you going to make the costumes?” Barb Wiggin asked him.
“Now now,” Mr. Wiggin said.
“COWS GO WELL WITH DONKEYS,” Owen suggested.
“Cows?” the rector said. “Well well.”
“Who’s going to make the cow costumes?” Barb Wiggin asked.
“I will!” Mary Beth Baird said. She had never volunteered for anything before; clearly her election as the Virgin Mary had energized her—had made her believe she was capable of miracles, or at least cow costumes.
“Good for you, Mary!” the rector said.
But Barb Wiggin and Harold Crosby closed their eyes; Harold did not look well—he seemed to be suppressing vomit, and his face took on the lime-green shade of the grass at the feet of Christ’s disciples, who loomed over him.
“THERE’S ONE MORE THING,” said Owen Meany. We gave him our attention. “THE CHRIST CHILD,” he said, and we children nodded our approval.
“What’s wrong with the Christ Child?” Barb Wiggin asked.
“ALL THOSE BABIES,” Owen said. “JUST TO GET ONE TO LIE IN THE MANGER WITHOUT CRYING—DO WE HAVE TO HAVE ALL THOSE BABIES?”
“But it’s like the song says, Owen,” the rector told him. “‘Little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes.’”
“OKAY, OKAY,” Owen said. “BUT ALL THOSE BABIES—YOU CAN HEAR THEM CRYING. EVEN OFFSTAGE, YOU CAN HEAR THEM. AND ALL THOSE GROWN-UPS!” he said. “ALL THOSE BIG MEN PASSING THE BABIES IN AND OUT. THEY’RE SO BIG— THEY LOOK RIDICULOUS. THEY MAKE US LOOK RIDICULOUS.”
“You know a baby who won’t cry, Owen?” Barb Wiggin asked him—and, of course, she knew as soon as she spoke … how he had trapped her.
“I KNOW SOMEONE WHO CAN FIT IN THE CRIB,” Owen said. “SOMEONE SMALL ENOUGH TO LOOK LIKE A BABY,” he said. “SOMEONE OLD ENOUGH NOT TO CRY.”
Mary Beth Baird could not contain herself! “Owen can be the Baby Jesus!” she yelled. Owen Meany smiled and shrugged.
“I CAN FIT IN THE CRIB,” he said modestly.
Harold Crosby could no longer contain himself, either; he vomited. He vomited often enough for it to pass almost unnoticed, especially now that Owen had our undivided attention.
“And what’s more, we can lift him!” Mary Beth Baird said excitedly.
“There was never any lifting of the Christ Child before!” Barb Wiggin said.
“Well, I mean, if we have to, if we feel like it,” Mary Beth said.
“WELL, IF EVERYONE WANTS ME TO DO IT, I SUPPOSE I COULD,” Owen said.
“Yes!” cried the kings and shepherds.
“Let Owen do it!” said the donkeys and the cows—the former turtledoves.