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long thin metal
prong in there. I stick one half of it into the lock and feel around. I can
hear the tumblers springing, and when I'm all the way back I stick in the other
half, use my bookmark on the other lock and presto, Open Sesame! At last, my
companion is suitably impressed. "How'd you do that?"
    "It's not that hard. I'll teach you
another time. Entrez!" I hold open the door and he walks in. I flip on the
lights and the Reading Room springs into being; heavy wooden tables and chairs,
maroon carpet, forbidding enormous Reference Desk. The Field Museum's Library
is not designed to appeal to five-year-olds. It's a closed-stacks library, used
by scientists and scholars. There are bookcases lining the room, but they hold
mostly leather-bound Victorian science periodicals. The book I'm after is in a
huge glass and oak case by itself in the center of the room. I spring the lock
with my bobby pin and open the glass door. Really, the Field ought to get more
serious about security. I don't feel too terrible about doing this; after all,
I'm a bona fide librarian, I do Show and Tells at the Newberry all the time. I
walk behind the Reference Desk and find a piece of felt and some support pads,
and lay them out on the nearest table. Then I close and carefully lift the book
out of its case and onto the felt. I pull out a chair. "Here, stand on
this so you can see better." He climbs up, and I open the book. It's Audubon's
Birds of America, the deluxe, wonderful double-elephant folio that's almost as
tall as my young self. This copy is the finest in existence, and I have spent
many rainy afternoons admiring it. I open it to the first plate, and Henry
smiles, and looks at me. " 'Common Loon"' he reads. "It looks
like a duck."
    "Yeah, it does. I bet I can guess your
favorite bird."
    He shakes his head and smiles.
    "What'll you bet?"
    He looks down at himself in the T-Rex T-shirt
and shrugs. I know the feeling.
    "How about this: if I guess you get to eat
a cookie, and if I can't guess you get to eat a cookie?"
    He thinks it over and decides this would be a
safe bet. I open the book to Flamingo. Henry laughs.
    "Am I right?" "Yes!"
    It's easy to be omniscient when you've done it
all before. "Okay, here's your cookie. And I get one for being right. But
we have to save them 'til we're done looking at the book; we wouldn't want to
get crumbs all over the bluebirds, right?"
    "Right!" He sets the Oreo on the arm
of the chair and we begin again at the beginning and page slowly through the
birds, so much more alive than the real thing in glass tubes down the hall.
    "Here's a Great Blue Heron. He's really
big, bigger than a flamingo. Have you ever seen a hummingbird? I saw some
today!"
    "Here in the museum?"
    "Uh-huh."
    "Wait 'til you see one outside—they're
like tiny helicopters, their wings go so fast you just see a blur...."
Turning each page is like making a bed, an enormous expanse of paper slowly
rises up and over. Henry stands attentively, waits each time for the new
wonder, emits small noises of pleasure for each Sandhill Crane, American Coot,
Great Auk, Pileated Woodpecker. When we come to the last plate, Snow Bunting,
he leans down and touches the page, delicately stroking the engraving. I look
at him, look at the book, remember, this book, this moment, the first book I
loved, remember wanting to crawl into it and sleep.
    "You tired?"
    "Uh-huh."
    "Should we go?" Okay. I close Birds
of America, return it to its glass home, open it to Flamingo, shut the case,
lock it. Henry jumps off the chair and eats his Oreo. I return the felt to the
desk and push the chair in. Henry turns out the light, and we leave the
library. We wander, chattering amiably of things that fly and things that
slither, and eating our Oreos. Henry tells me about Mom and Dad and Mrs. Kim,
who is teaching him to make lasagna, and Brenda, whom I had forgotten about, my
best pal when I was little until her family moved to