the note goes on. But one fine August day, Owen Meany untied the rope, underwater, and he swam underwater to some hidden crevice in the rocky shore while we waited for him to rise. I knew this was information that my grandmother had never known-and how it must have interested her! And, of course, I also knew Wiggin asked.
Owen had been the last person to dress the dummy; this time, he had tried a wide, black belt-one of Mother's favorites-to try to make the dress more tempting. Long before Dan Needham's armadillo changed Owen's and my life, a game that Owen enjoyed at Front Street involved dressing and undressing my mother's dummy. He was the color of a gravestone; light was both absorbed and reflected by his skin, as with a pearl, so t Owen Meany did not miss the irony in my grandmother's voice; yet he beamed at her-and he returned her curtsy with a confident bow, and with a little tip of his red-and-black-checkered hunter's cap.
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