“I am not shy,” I say. I hate when she says that. It makes me want to kick something. “And I’m not a ghost.”
“Not with me, you’re not. Just with the rest of the world. Here.” Bernadette hands me my free doughnut hole. We eat the doughnuts in a few bites as we walk, bending into the cold wind.
“Do you believe there’s such a thing as spies?” I ask.
“Real spies or movie spies?”
“Real ones. You know, like that guy yesterday in the black hat.”
“I didn’t see any guy in a black hat.”
“Well, I did, and he was kind of—I mean, really staring at us. You didn’t see him?” The wind swooshes a cloud of snow up from the sidewalk right into our faces. We grab on to each other’s arms and trudge along together.
“Why would anyone want to spy on us?” asks Bernadette when she gets her breath back.
She has a point. Spies probably have better things to do than stand in the freezing cold and watch three kids fight about Nazis.
“But what if ? That’s all I’m saying. What if he’s a real spy, and he’s watching us. In our midst.” Every day the newspapers and the television warn us to be alert for spies and commies in our midst. “Midst means right in our neighborhood, Bernie.”
“I know that. You’re the one who answered, C. light rain, for midst on the vocabulary test. Kirk read it out loud to the class, remember?”
I give her a swat on her arm for remembering that. We both laugh.
“But seriously, he could be watching where we live.”
“For what?”
“Spy stuff. I don’t know.”
“If you’re so worried, why don’t you tell someone?”
I want to scream at her that I had told someone: I’d told her. I’d told my dad. And my mom knew. But no one was taking me seriously. If I were Nancy Drew I’d find a way to investigate him and probably catch him in the act. Turn him over to the cops. I’d be a hero.
“I’m not as shy as you think I am,” I say.
“Right,” Bernadette says as she inches the heavy library door open.
The library’s a warm envelope made of golden wood. Tall windows gather every bit of light out of the winter sky and project it in streaks across the two main rooms. Every blank wall is heavy with books, and the floor sighs with each step as we cross it. We brush the snow off of our boots on the rug by the door and tiptoe in, trying not to make a sound, as if we are tracking deer in the forest. I wince every time one of our rubber boots squeaks.
One of the million things that Bernadette and I share is our gigantic love of books. All books. Picture books. Stories. Biographies. Encyclopedias. Even the unabridged dictionary that sits in the library on its own stand is something we’ve spent time studying. This library is as familiar to us as our own homes, since we spend at least one afternoon a week here, and almost every Saturday morning. The only problem is, now we’re in sixth grade. Technically we’re too young to be let into the adult section, even though we’ve pretty much worn out the children’s section.
Mom started bringing me to story hour when I was hardly big enough to stand and walk at the same time. As soon as I was able to come here with Bernadette, Mom stopped making trips to the library because she’s always too swamped with all the Mom stuff she has to do.
Bernadette and I do our Nancy Drew best to break out of the kids’ section every time we visit. We act casual and try a right turn into the grown-up area instead of the left turn into the children’s area as we enter the library. The checkout desk stands between the two, and our chance of snagging a copy of Life magazine or a biography, instead of re-reading Laura Ingalls Wilder again, depends directly on who is standing behind that desk. Mrs. Svenson will often pretend to be looking the other way.
“Ladies!”
Mrs. Pearson is standing behind the desk with her arms folded tight.
Rats.
“Ladies?” She eyeballs us with a beady, accusing stare over her glasses and points to the children’s area sign.
“Oh, hello, Mrs. Pearson. How are you doing today?” sings Bernadette in her sweetest voice.
“Children’s area,” Mrs. Pearson says again and nods to the left.
“Of course, Mrs. Pearson. Thank you so much.” Bernadette smiles as she whispers, “Witch” under her breath. We obediently make the left turn.
The smell of the cold is still on our coats as we sling them over the backs of two chairs at a pint-sized round table. “We don’t even fit in these chairs anymore,” Bernadette moans.
“That ought to be the rule. You outgrow the chairs in the children’s area and you outgrow the whole room,” I say.
As if we are acting in a play, we know where we go next. Straight to the magazine section to see if a new craft or puzzle magazine has arrived. Not as interesting as the Life or Vogue magazines in the adult rack, but better than picture books.
“What’s that doing there?” Bernadette stops short. A rolling cart of books is shoved up against the wall by the magazine rack. Adult books. Just sitting there.
“Quick,” I whisper, and we each grab one and slip it into a copy of Highlights magazine as slick as sticking salami into a sandwich—a big, fat, overflowing Dagwood sandwich. “This way,” I motion, and we hold the barely wrapped books tight to our chests and smuggle them to a back table, out of the direct line of sight of nosy Mrs. Pearson.
“What’d you get?” Bernadette asks after we sit down.
“It’s just a number,” I say, reading the title. “A date. 1984. What’s yours?”
“The Grapes of Wrath,” she whispers back. “Mrs. Pearson will never let us check these out.”
“Read fast,” I answer, opening the cover.
“Easy for you to say,” Bernadette says. “Your book is a number, and you’re good at numbers.”
“Shh.”
CHAPTER 4
Caught in the act.
I sit slumped in a baby chair Mrs. Pearson has pulled out of the children’s section and set by her desk where she can keep an eye on me.
“Are you all right, Marjorie?” My mother swooshes up to the front desk, looking like she rode in on a tornado. Her French twist has untwisted and half of her hair is tucked behind one ear. Her face is a blotchy tomato color from the cold and her unbuttoned coat falls loosely from one shoulder. Hanging looped around her neck is my red scarf.
I nod. Mrs. Ferguson already picked up Bernadette. She promised Mrs. Pearson to ground Bernadette from books for weeks, or months, or maybe even years. She made a big deal about ordering Bernadette straight into her car. She announced to the entire library that she was going to wait until Bernadette’s father arrived home to give her a good talking to. “There are certain things you have no business knowing about at your age, young lady,” she had said, looking straight at me and buttoning up Bernadette’s coat like she was a doll or a five-year-old instead of what she is, which is usually anything but quiet.
Then she snapped Bernadette’s earmuffs on a little snappier than necessary and pulled her hat down over the whole business and most of her eyes. “You are certainly not going to bring any communist propaganda into my house, Missy, I will not permit it. Do you hear me?” I doubted Bernadette could hear anything with earmuffs, a hat, and a scarf covering her ears, but the rest of the library could. Mrs. Ferguson made sure of that.
“Not when your father is heading up a committee at the Rotary to investigate communist threats in the community, no sirree, little lady.” She grabbed Bernadette by the shoulders and turned her around. “You will grow up to be a lady, which means you will not be reading filth.” She gave Bernadette a swat on her behind, and Bernadette started walking toward the door like a robot. Mrs. Ferguson said, “Thank you, thank you,” about a dozen times to Mrs. Pearson. She thanked her for her patriotism and her diligence. And then she thanked her on behalf of her husband and the entire Rotary Club for being “ever vigilant.” Then both of them shook their heads and clucked their tongues all over
the place.
“We can’t be too careful about the communist threat,” Mrs. Pearson said.
“You are entirely right about that. Get moving into the car,” she prodded Bernadette, who was dragging her rubber boots across the floor. She paused. “I brought the blue car,” she called out, bringing the total to three times she had managed to let it drop that they are a two-car family. She walked away, running her fingers back and forth over her pearl necklace.
Bernadette’s dad was 4-F during the war, meaning he couldn’t fight because he had bad feet. Instead of fighting, he did his part in the war effort by making Jeeps for Ford. Dad says that puts the Fergusons ahead of the game while the rest of the GIs have to play catch-up. That explains why they have two cars and one of them is a 1953 custom red Crestline Sunliner Ford-O-Matic with a convertible top, and we have a basic DeSoto that’s four years old. Mom likes to say, “If you can’t say something nice about a person, you shouldn’t say anything at all.” She also says that any woman who wears pearls to drive to the grocery is a little too full of herself, even if she does own a convertible.
My mom doesn’t have her own car. She had to walk to the library to pick me up. I know this is going to make things a hundred times worse for me than for Bernadette. I stare at the floor and wait for the ceiling to open and dump a ton of bricks on my head.
Mrs. Pearson has her arms crossed tightly, the way she always does. Crossed arms are as natural to her as breathing. It makes me wonder how she opens a car door or flushes a toilet. I imagine she was born with her arms crossed, telling the doctor to keep it down as soon as she opened her eyes.
Whatever she does to wake up cranky every morning before work, she does it perfectly. Mostly she’s supposed to circulate around with her coffee breath and look over kids’ shoulders to see what we are reading, but she’s usually too lazy to leave her swivel chair. She relies on her little spies. She has a gang of second graders who are her library monitors. They do her dirty work, reporting back whenever they see any of the rest of us talking or reading something we managed to sneak out of the adult section. You might wonder what’s in it for them, but the truth is, second graders will do anything to please a grown-up. Hillary Hastings was the one who caught us, and she shot like an arrow up to the desk to tattle to Mrs. Pearson.
Here’s the joke. In the first two pages of this book 1984, this guy Winston is walking up the stairs to his apartment. Hanging on the walls are these telescreens that work something like a television and something like a camera. While Winston watches the person on the screen, that person is also watching him. The watcher is this guy called Big Brother, and he watches Winston’s every move.
So, I’m reading about this Big Brother and how Winston is being watched, when really it’s me who is being watched by Hillary Hastings. Except unlike Winston, I don’t know I’m being watched until it’s too late. And now Mom, Mrs. Pearson, and Mrs. Svenson are all watching me. I may be the most watched kid on the planet. My feet want to shift around, but every part of me except my bouncy knees is afraid to move.
“What exactly is the problem here?” Mom’s breathing hard. She only glances at me. Mrs. Pearson is obviously the person in charge.
“Your daughter was reading this,” Mrs. Pearson says and lifts her crinkled nose in the direction of the closed book like she’s pointing out a skunk that’s just crawled out from under the desk. Her lips are pressed together as tightly as her arms are folded.
“What?” Mom asks, her eyes darting all around. There are books on every wall and surface, and she has yet to focus on the book.
“This book.” Mrs. Pearson temporarily unwraps her arms and taps it with one fingernail, then quickly locks them back into their natural, crossed position. “This book is a pro-communist manifesto that’s been pulled from the shelves for the safety of the public, and your daughter just decided to help herself.”
“Oh, for cripes’ sake.” Mom drops her elbow onto the checkout counter and sinks her forehead into her open hand for a second. Then she stands back up and puts both hands on her hips. “I practically ran all the way here. I thought something had happened.”
“Clearly something has happened, Mrs. Campbell. And you might as well know that she encouraged her little friend Bernadette Ferguson to steal a book that’s even worse. Not only is your daughter a thief, she is an instigator, Mrs. Campbell.”
“A thief?” Mom starts shaking a little, but it isn’t because of the icy temperature outside anymore. Nope. Her eyes narrow and she takes in a slow breath. She may have been cold a second ago, but one look at her, and I can tell she’s all heated up now. “The girl has a library card. I don’t think you call it stealing when she borrows a book.”
“Shh,” says Mrs. Pearson, letting Mom know who’s boss. Her eyes circle all around Mom, taking in her messed-up hair, her flyaway coat. Her eyes catch on my red scarf which is hanging around Mom’s neck and stay there as she begins to talk. “Mrs. Campbell, this book was written by a known communist sympathizer, and therefore, it is anti-American. It’s been pulled from the shelves in all respectable libraries in this country and overseas,” she says, all puffed up and looking proud. And then, as if Mom isn’t seeing her point, she hisses, “It’s a dangerous book.”
“How did you—where did you get this book?” Mom asks me.
“I—” but my answer won’t come out fast enough.
“I pulled several dozen such subversive books from the shelves yesterday and put them aside. We are not entirely certain how they wound up on a rolling cart in the children’s area.” She pauses and looks hard at Mrs. Svenson, who up until now has been quietly rearranging pencils in a cup.
“People who read about communism support the people who write about communism, am I right? And people who defend communist propaganda—well, I would say their motivations are suspect, wouldn’t you, Mrs. Svenson?”
Suspect? Is she saying I’m a suspect? Suspects run down alleys until they can’t climb over the fence and then the cops slap the cuffs on them. Suspects sit under bare light bulbs and sweat it out until they spill their guts. Suspects wear black hats and stand and watch kids from sidewalks. I never thought of myself as a suspect. I didn’t know that suspects read books.
Mrs. Pearson’s acting like a kid on a playground pushing other kids around and trying to start a fight. I say nothing, and Mrs. Svenson says nothing, which is a good thing. But Mrs. Pearson has more to say.
“I’m sure we all agree that we have to be ever vigilant in our efforts to destroy the communist enemy that is creeping within and threatens to destroy our country. These writers are bad seeds, Mrs. Campbell. Godless, bad seeds that we don’t want planting evil ideas in the minds of our children. There are people who are working actively to destroy our way of life and enslave us to the Soviets. These authors have no place in our public libraries.” Mrs. Pearson isn’t leaving any room for argument in the conversation and reaches over to grab the dangerous book.
But Mom is faster.
“1984 by George Orwell.” She reads the title aloud. I have never seen my mother read anything other than her Good Housekeeping magazine, so I am kind of surprised when she says, “Orwell. I know this author. I read one of his books in college. And what’s this other one?” She picks up the book that Bernadette had been reading, “The Grapes of Wrath?” she says. “I saw this movie. That’s not dangerous. That’s Henry Fonda.”
“Filth,” sniffs Mrs. Pearson.
I’ve heard Mom talk about Henry Fonda before. He’s a movie star. Mom says he’s a dreamboat. Obviously, Mrs. Pearson doesn’t agree. Right now, it doesn’t look like they agree on anything.
“The Grapes of Wrath was the 1940 winner of the Pulitzer Prize,” Mrs. Svenson says softly. With her Swedish accent, it almost sounds like she’s singing the words.
“Communists have been among us for a long time. Some people were communists when they arrived in this country.” Mrs. Pearson says. She stares down at the top of Mrs. Svenson’s head, whos
e eyes remain focused on the pencil cup.
Then Mrs. Pearson turns her attention back to Mom. “We can’t let loyal Americans be deceived into supporting communists. These books were pulled from circulation for good reason,” Mrs. Pearson says, pronouncing every word carefully and precisely. No song in her voice.
“President Eisenhower does not support book banning or book burning,” Mrs. Svenson says. It’s hard to tell who’s talking to who. The two librarians are both looking at Mom, but instead of talking to her, they seem to be talking to each other.
Mrs. Pearson stands, her spine a broomstick. “As a citizen and as head librarian, I take a strong stance against banning or burning books. I read the list of authors that Senator McCarthy listed as promoters of communist propaganda and I pulled their books from the shelf. I’m not banning books. I’m extracting dangerous authors.”
“Excuse me?” Mom says, her head tilting to the side. “You’re joking, right?”
“I don’t joke about subversives, Mrs. Campbell. Steinbeck, Orwell, Thoreau, Hemingway, and that tramp, Dorothy Parker. They will not be turning our neighbors into puppets for the likes of Stalin, not on my watch.”
“I’m glad to hear you don’t believe in banning books and that you agree with the president.” Mrs. Svenson speaks quietly, but she doesn’t give in. “Because burning or destroying books, these are very dangerous practices. This is the work of the fascists, yes?”
“Are you implying that I am a fascist?” Mrs. Pearson’s voice is a little higher, and she finally turns to look directly at Mrs. Svenson.
“Not at all.” Mrs. Svenson smiles. “I knew it must be a simple mistake that those books were in the rubbish bin. This is why I put them back on the cart.”
I think that Mrs. Pearson’s face can’t flame any redder, but it does. “It’s not like I am burning the books, Mrs. Svenson. I would never, ever do such a thing as that. I am simply protecting the community.”
Mom looks at them, and then I follow her eyes to the clock. It’s five minutes after four. Uh oh, I’m thinking. They better decide on my prison term quick, or sparks are really going to fly. Secret Storm comes on at 4:15. You don’t want to stand between Mom and a television set when it’s time for her story to come on.
The Enemy Page 3