just a movie.
18
Mr. Roberts
It was raining again as I walked Sophie home after school. "Want to stay for dinner?" she asked.
"I don't know," I said. "I have to find a book for my book report."
"My dad has a million books in his den. You can borrow one of them."
We went into a small room lined with bookcases to the ceiling. Photographs of Franklin Roosevelt, Jackie Robinson, and a woman who looked a lot like Sophie stood on the desk.
"Here," Sophie said, grabbing a book off the seat of a soft leather chair. "Try this."
"Are you crazy?" I said, examining the book jacket. "I can't do a report on a book named
The Naked and the Dead.
Sister would hang me by my ears in the playground."
Sophie laughed and poked me with her elbow. "I know, dummy. I was joking."
"A joke? Really? It's about time," I said.
She pulled another book from the shelves. "How about this one? My father actually laughed."
There was a soldier or sailor or somebody on the cover. "I don't like war books."
She held the book above her head. "Well, perhaps that's for the best," she said. "There's no guns or fighting in this, but from what I hear, it's not exactly for children. Maybe it's too old for yâ"
I grabbed it.
Mr. Roberts.
It had to be better than
Dotty Dimple Out West.
I looked around the room. "So many books," I said. The books we owned wouldn't have filled half a shelf. "Did your father write any of them?" I asked Sophie.
"No, he mostly just writes his movie scripts, which mostly don't get made into movies, even when the studio assigns him one to write, which they aren't doing right now."
"Why not?"
"He thinks it's because he helped with the benefit for Jacob Mandelbaum. His agent told him he's suspected of having 'communist sympathies.'"
Jeepers. Was that true? I looked quickly around the room, afraid I'd see a hammer and sickle magically appear on the wall. "Does he?"
"Have communist sympathies? You mean, like trying to help a friend who can't work because of his beliefs? Belonging to the Screenwriters' Guild and the Committee for the First Amendment? If you call that having communist sympathies, then yes, I guess he does." She sat down, and
her shoulders slumped. She pushed her hair back in that way she did. "I'm worried about him. What if he can't work? Or gets put in jail? What would I
do?
"
I couldn't imagine Mr. Bowman in jail. I couldn't imagine any of itâA-bombs and H-bombs, communist sympathies, losing your job or worse. It was like something out of a horror movie. "You could always live with us, Sophie." I said, "but probably it won't come to that. Maybe you could talk to your father and ask him to be more careful. Not speak up so much or call attention to himself. Not get involved. Maybe he shouldâ"
"Give it a rest, Francine," she said. "What do you know about it?" Her words were clipped and sharp edged, as if she had cut them with a knife.
I was startled and a little bit hurt. If free speech meant Mr. Bowman saying what he really thought, then free speech meant I could say what I thought. But Sophie didn't seem to see it that way.
All the talk about communists made my stomach hurt. I didn't feel like staying for dinner. I told Sophie I had to go home, even though it was my mother's meatless Wednesdayâspaghetti and rice balls. You'd think there was still a war on.
Sophie walked me toward the front door. Mr. Bowman was sitting on the couch with a martini, listening to the radio. He didn't even notice us. "Today," the voice on the radio was saying, "Senator Joseph McCarthy of Wisconsin claimed he had a list of 205 people working in our government who are known to be members of the Communist Party."
Mr. Bowman grunted and took a sip of his martini. When the newscast paused for a commercialâ"Lucky Strike means fine tobacco"âI sat down on the arm of the couch. "Is that true?" I asked Mr. Bowman. "Are there really communists in the government?"
"I don't know, Francine," he said, "and neither
18
Mr. Roberts
It was raining again as I walked Sophie home after school. "Want to stay for dinner?" she asked.
"I don't know," I said. "I have to find a book for my book report."
"My dad has a million books in his den. You can borrow one of them."
We went into a small room lined with bookcases to the ceiling. Photographs of Franklin Roosevelt, Jackie Robinson, and a woman who looked a lot like Sophie stood on the desk.
"Here," Sophie said, grabbing a book off the seat of a soft leather chair. "Try this."
"Are you crazy?" I said, examining the book jacket. "I can't do a report on a book named
The Naked and the Dead.
Sister would hang me by my ears in the playground."
Sophie laughed and poked me with her elbow. "I know, dummy. I was joking."
"A joke? Really? It's about time," I said.
She pulled another book from the shelves. "How about this one? My father actually laughed."
There was a soldier or sailor or somebody on the cover. "I don't like war books."
She held the book above her head. "Well, perhaps that's for the best," she said. "There's no guns or fighting in this, but from what I hear, it's not exactly for children. Maybe it's too old for yâ"
I grabbed it.
Mr. Roberts.
It had to be better than
Dotty Dimple Out West.
I looked around the room. "So many books," I said. The books we owned wouldn't have filled half a shelf. "Did your father write any of them?" I asked Sophie.
"No, he mostly just writes his movie scripts, which mostly don't get made into movies, even when the studio assigns him one to write, which they aren't doing right now."
"Why not?"
"He thinks it's because he helped with the benefit for Jacob Mandelbaum. His agent told him he's suspected of having 'communist sympathies.'"
Jeepers. Was that true? I looked quickly around the room, afraid I'd see a hammer and sickle magically appear on the wall. "Does he?"
"Have communist sympathies? You mean, like trying to help a friend who can't work because of his beliefs? Belonging to the Screenwriters' Guild and the Committee for the First Amendment? If you call that having communist sympathies, then yes, I guess he does." She sat down, and
her shoulders slumped. She pushed her hair back in that way she did. "I'm worried about him. What if he can't work? Or gets put in jail? What would I
do?
"
I couldn't imagine Mr. Bowman in jail. I couldn't imagine any of itâA-bombs and H-bombs, communist sympathies, losing your job or worse. It was like something out of a horror movie. "You could always live with us, Sophie." I said, "but probably it won't come to that. Maybe you could talk to your father and ask him to be more careful. Not speak up so much or call attention to himself. Not get involved. Maybe he shouldâ"
"Give it a rest, Francine," she said. "What do you know about it?" Her words were clipped and sharp edged, as if she had cut them with a knife.
I was startled and a little bit hurt. If free speech meant Mr. Bowman saying what he really thought, then free speech meant I could say what I thought. But Sophie didn't seem to see it that way.
All the talk about communists made my stomach hurt. I didn't feel like staying for dinner. I told Sophie I had to go home, even though it was my mother's meatless Wednesdayâspaghetti and rice balls. You'd think there was still a war on.
Sophie walked me toward the front door. Mr. Bowman was sitting on the couch with a martini, listening to the radio. He didn't even notice us. "Today," the voice on the radio was saying, "Senator Joseph McCarthy of Wisconsin claimed he had a list of 205 people working in our government who are known to be members of the Communist Party."
Mr. Bowman grunted and took a sip of his martini. When the newscast paused for a commercialâ"Lucky Strike means fine tobacco"âI sat down on the arm of the couch. "Is that true?" I asked Mr. Bowman. "Are there really communists in the government?"
"I don't know, Francine," he said, "and neither
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