Free City Boy by Herman Wouk Page B

show Lennie my camp pictures,” and dashed away.
    From the demeanor of the four members of the Bookbinder family when they rode home, 2645 Mosholu Parkway might have been the address of Woodlawn Cemetery. Jacob Bookbinder broke the bleak silence once to say, “If you ask me, Louis Glass is being paid by Powers to say the blue paper is no good—” but his wife said, “Please. Even in front of the children do we need to discuss it?” No further sound was heard, except the rattling song of the Chevrolet, until it drew to a stop on Homer Avenue.
    As she opened the door, Mrs. Bookbinder said to the children in the back seat, “Why so quiet? Did you enjoy the party?”
    “Party!” sniffed Felicia. “Please, Mom, don't drag me to any more nurseries.”
    Herbie said nothing. He was already out of the car, on his way to the highest rock in the vacant lot, where he often sought solitude. There in the sunset he undertook some emergency repair work. For an hour he tried to rebuild the ruins of the underground palace, but it was wrecked forever. Nothing was left but its queen, and she no longer wore crown and robe, but a white bow and a party frock. And he could not even compel her to sit by his side. Her faithless Majesty went on and on dancing with Lennie.

The Romance of Art and Natural History

    M a, can I go to the museum with Cliff today?”
    It was Saturday morning. Herbie and Felicia were eating breakfast at the luxuriously late hour of eight-thirty in the Bookbinder kitchen. The narrow white room was bright with a shaft of sunlight that illumined it for about forty minutes each morning, when the sun appeared in a cleft between two apartment houses across the street. It shone not into the kitchen but upon the windows of the Feigelson living room across the court, which cordially bounced the glittering beam over to the Bookbinders.
    “I suppose so,” said the mother, busy with onions at the sink. “What's at the museum?”
    “Aw, you know, it's just a museum. Mrs. Gorkin said we should all go.”
    “Where is it?”
    “Downtown in Central Park.”
    “How much is it?”
    “It's free, Mom.”
    “You can go.”
    “How come,” said Felicia, spooning lumps out of her oatmeal with a wry face, “that you're not going to the movies today?”
    “A museum is more important than an old movie,” said Herbie haughtily.
    “More important than episode fourteen of
The Green Archer
?”
    How was it, wondered Herbie, that his sister had such skill in prodding his weak points? His heart yearned to know what had happened when the Archer's mask had been shot off by a bullet from the hero's gun. By the worst luck the Archer had had his back to the camera when his face was bared, and the episode had ended. Who would he turn out to be? After following the serial through snow, rain, bankruptcy (solved by mortgaging his skates), and illness (he had seen episode eight with a temperature of 103½), he found it hard not to be in at the kill. But greater matters were afoot.
    “Aw, the heck with that old serial,” said Herbie. “What's the sense of payin' money 'n' sittin' through a rotten movie every week, just to see an episode that lasts five minutes?”
    Mrs. Bookbinder jumped with surprise and dropped an onion. She had been using this line of reasoning on Herbert for three years with no effect. To hear it now from his mouth gave her as joyful a thrill as a missionary might feel over his first converted cannibal. She stopped peeling onions long enough to pat her son's head and say, “You're growing up, Herbie. Bless you.”
    Herbie basked in the approval, and tried to look like a profound man of affairs.
    “Which museum are you going to?” pursued Felicia. She sensed intrigue strong in the air.
    “Which one do you think?” parried Herbie.
    “There are two, you know,” said his sister.
    “Well, whaddya know! Two museums! Imagine that! Guess you hafta be in 8B to know that,” said Herbie, and, drinking his milk, he rose and