adult world.
Now, this was close logic, but Felicia knew that it was not likely to penetrate the opaque mind of a parent. Her lines of attack on her mother were three:
1. If I can't wear silk stockings, I
won't go
to the old party, and you can't
make
me.
2. Every girl in my class has at least
five
pairs of silk stockings, and even kids a year
below
me have them.
3. Herbie gets
everything
in this house, and I get
nothing.
Mrs. Bookbinder had doggedly held out, because she resisted by instinct every move of the children toward maturity. She knew that in the end Felicia would go to the party, in rubber rompers if necessary. But with all her edge of experience, insight, and authority, she made a slip that cost her the victory.
Felicia howled, “Why, why,
why
can't I wear silk stockings?”
The mother answered, “Felicia, for the last time, it's too late now to argue. The stores are closed today, and I can't buy the stockings anyway.”
Felicia pounced. “I can borrow a pair from Emily.”
“They won't fit.”
“Oh, won't they?”
The girl flashed open a lower drawer of the dresser, and from under a pile of her blouses pulled out a pair of the sheer hose. Before the astonished parent could protest, she kicked off her slippers and pulled the stockings on, saying rapidly, “I borrowed them Friday, just in case. I wasn't going to wear them without your permission. But do they fit or don't they? Look. Look!” She jumped up and pirouetted. They fitted.
“Well, anyway, Papa won't stand for it,” said the trapped mother.
“I'll go ask him. Whatever he says goes. All right?” The girl was at the door of the bedroom, on her way to the parlor, where her father was pouring over
Refrigerating Engineering.
To have her veto overridden was a worse defeat for the mother than plain surrender, and she knew it. Dialogues between the children and the father always went so:
CHILD :
Pa, can I do so-and-so?
FATHER :
I'm busy. Ask your mother.
CHILD :
She says it's up to you.
FATHER :
Oh.
(Brief glance at the child, standing by him humbly with a winning smile.)
I guess so, yes.
CHILD :
(Top of lungs)
Ma! Pa says it's all right.
He had thus given consent even to things of which he later disapproved growling, when the mother cited his permission, “Well, why do you send them to me?”
So Mrs. Bookbinder said, “Never mind. You can wear them, just this once, and you'll return them in the morning.”
The girl hugged her mother, agreeing with joyous hypocrisy. Her foot was inside the door of grownup life at last, and she knew she would not be driven out again by fire or bayonet. Nor was she. From that day forward she wore silk stockings.
Half past twelve, and the family assembled in the parlor for a final review before leaving.
“Herbert, there's something funny about the way you look.” The mother examined him up and down, and her eyes finally came to rest on his hair. “What is it?”
The boy quickly put his cake-eater hat on. “Nothing, Mom. I'm just dressed up.”
“Take your hat off in the house.”
The boy reluctantly obeyed.
“Papa, can you tell what it is?”
The father inspected him. “He looks older, somehow. What's the difference? Let's go.”
At the word “older,” Herbert felt all warm inside, as though he had drunk wine.
“Ma, I see what it is,” cried Felicia, and giggled. “He's parted his hair on the wrong side. Isn't that silly?”
“All right for you, Silk Stockings,” snarled Herbert. In a red flash he considered informing his mother that Felicia had bought, not borrowed, the hose, with nickels and dimes fished out of her pig bank with a breadknife, but talebearing revolted him. “What's the difference which side I part it on, anyway?” he appealed to his parents.
“As long as it makes no difference, go back and comb it the right way,” said the mother.
Mrs. Bookbinder was fertile in these argumentative dead ends. Herbert slunk off muttering, and combed away precious years of
Now, this was close logic, but Felicia knew that it was not likely to penetrate the opaque mind of a parent. Her lines of attack on her mother were three:
1. If I can't wear silk stockings, I
won't go
to the old party, and you can't
make
me.
2. Every girl in my class has at least
five
pairs of silk stockings, and even kids a year
below
me have them.
3. Herbie gets
everything
in this house, and I get
nothing.
Mrs. Bookbinder had doggedly held out, because she resisted by instinct every move of the children toward maturity. She knew that in the end Felicia would go to the party, in rubber rompers if necessary. But with all her edge of experience, insight, and authority, she made a slip that cost her the victory.
Felicia howled, “Why, why,
why
can't I wear silk stockings?”
The mother answered, “Felicia, for the last time, it's too late now to argue. The stores are closed today, and I can't buy the stockings anyway.”
Felicia pounced. “I can borrow a pair from Emily.”
“They won't fit.”
“Oh, won't they?”
The girl flashed open a lower drawer of the dresser, and from under a pile of her blouses pulled out a pair of the sheer hose. Before the astonished parent could protest, she kicked off her slippers and pulled the stockings on, saying rapidly, “I borrowed them Friday, just in case. I wasn't going to wear them without your permission. But do they fit or don't they? Look. Look!” She jumped up and pirouetted. They fitted.
“Well, anyway, Papa won't stand for it,” said the trapped mother.
“I'll go ask him. Whatever he says goes. All right?” The girl was at the door of the bedroom, on her way to the parlor, where her father was pouring over
Refrigerating Engineering.
To have her veto overridden was a worse defeat for the mother than plain surrender, and she knew it. Dialogues between the children and the father always went so:
CHILD :
Pa, can I do so-and-so?
FATHER :
I'm busy. Ask your mother.
CHILD :
She says it's up to you.
FATHER :
Oh.
(Brief glance at the child, standing by him humbly with a winning smile.)
I guess so, yes.
CHILD :
(Top of lungs)
Ma! Pa says it's all right.
He had thus given consent even to things of which he later disapproved growling, when the mother cited his permission, “Well, why do you send them to me?”
So Mrs. Bookbinder said, “Never mind. You can wear them, just this once, and you'll return them in the morning.”
The girl hugged her mother, agreeing with joyous hypocrisy. Her foot was inside the door of grownup life at last, and she knew she would not be driven out again by fire or bayonet. Nor was she. From that day forward she wore silk stockings.
Half past twelve, and the family assembled in the parlor for a final review before leaving.
“Herbert, there's something funny about the way you look.” The mother examined him up and down, and her eyes finally came to rest on his hair. “What is it?”
The boy quickly put his cake-eater hat on. “Nothing, Mom. I'm just dressed up.”
“Take your hat off in the house.”
The boy reluctantly obeyed.
“Papa, can you tell what it is?”
The father inspected him. “He looks older, somehow. What's the difference? Let's go.”
At the word “older,” Herbert felt all warm inside, as though he had drunk wine.
“Ma, I see what it is,” cried Felicia, and giggled. “He's parted his hair on the wrong side. Isn't that silly?”
“All right for you, Silk Stockings,” snarled Herbert. In a red flash he considered informing his mother that Felicia had bought, not borrowed, the hose, with nickels and dimes fished out of her pig bank with a breadknife, but talebearing revolted him. “What's the difference which side I part it on, anyway?” he appealed to his parents.
“As long as it makes no difference, go back and comb it the right way,” said the mother.
Mrs. Bookbinder was fertile in these argumentative dead ends. Herbert slunk off muttering, and combed away precious years of
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