After the sermon and hymns and our communal prayers, Neil dropped off Minna and the kids at home and went over to the Golden Spoon for some pancakes and to read the Sunday paper. Sitting at the counter, as immersed in the news as the pancakes were drenched in maple syrup, Neil was startled from his reverie by Wheel Barrow, appearing suddenly, glaring. He leaned in close and whispered, "Listen, Wright. There'll be a new man working at the museum. He starts tomorrow." No mincing of words. "He'll be paid by the Association."

"Just so it's not Captain Cunningham," Neil said, kidding Barrow.

"It is Captain Cunningham," Barrow said.

Silence. About ten seconds of silence.

"You don't see any problems with that?" Neil said.

"No," Barrow answered. "Why?"

"Well," Neil said, "I'm the curator, and he's the Vice President of the Corporation. Having the curator be the boss of the Association Vice President could be worse than a little awkward. And we're talking about Powderkeg Cunningham. Based on his past performance, it seems to me we could be into some real trouble here."

"You won't be the boss of him," Barrow said firmly. "It won't be a problem."

"What will his schedule be?"

"He'll work twenty hours a week," Barrow explained. "You can work out a schedule with him tomorrow."

"Anything else I wanted to tell you?" Barrow asked himself. "No -- I guess that's it," he said, and departed from the Golden Spoon grinning.

Usurpations, wrongs, offenses -- and yet ever increasing usurpations, wrongs, and offenses! Neil pushed his fingertips hard into the temples of his hard head. Usurpations, wrongs, offenses. This private corporation, created from and endowed by a trust, was totally corrupt! God damn these usurpators, wrong-do-ers, offenders!

Back at the house, Minna was packing for an afternoon picnic. Mark's new first grade classmates and their parents were gathering together at the mountaintop home of Mark's stuttering pal, Solomon. Mark would be starting first grade at a private school in the fall. Minna would be teaching German part-time. It was a fun day, but Neil was deeply preoccupied with thoughts of Barrow's pressing revelations. That night, he begin composing a letter to his new best friend at the museum, the President of the Friends group, Camperdene bookbinder Nick Wentworth.

"Dear Nick: Whoever cares ever more deeply for the fate of The Museum of the Year 1912 is ever a better friend of mine. Thank you for your concern. I trust that only good will come of it. I have lately come to have the opinion that a crime is itself, the punishment. I believe that conscience brings to each of us exactly such a punishment as we earn. Corruptions have occured that must cause certain individuals some awful, sleepless nights. So be it. You will remember that I made your acquaintance in the first place through my dedication to having good things happening at the museum. Though the series 'The Art of the Book in Camperdene,' of which your display was a part, would be immensely successful in the end, it early on faced opposition -- from the President of the Museum Association and the Chairman of the Museum Artifacts Committee. You have recognized that the Museum Association has repeatedly malappropriated the display cases for the improper distribution of misinformation. So far as it is right for me to do so, I apologize for them. I have been careful to proceed in the most optimistic and productive manner possible -- under the circumstances. I have been optimistic and forward-looking -- and diplomatic, and patient, and cautious -- in working with the Executive Committee of the Museum Association. Unfortunately, certain members of it -- only a few, I must emphasize -- have crossed the lines of civility. I trust formal apologies will be forthcoming soon. I trust justice will catch up with those who've abused their opportunities and the public's trust. I am eagerly awaiting a change in the current atmosphere, looking forward to a new Museum of the Year 1912. Anybody who also cares to see this happen is a friend of mine."

On the first Monday morning in September, Neil walked to the museum and found, out front, Wallace Barrow chumming it up with former Mayor Barton Driscoll. Wheel was guffawing, regaling Driscoll with a story, then they were both braying -- hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw. Neil went up the steps smiling, greeting them. Driscoll moved quickly toward Neil to take his hand, and shook it vigorously. Hands deep in his pockets now, Barrow was frowning. Neil asked for a second of his time. Driscoll said, "Excuse me, gentleman," and went across the lawn to depart in his new silver Audi convertible.

"What is it now?" Barrow asked.

Neil told him he had given the matter of Captain Cunningham's impending employment much thought. He requested the Captain either be asked to step down as Vice President, or that the Executive Board reconsider its decision to make him a salaried employee of the Association. Neil repeated what he'd said the day before, that he couldn't see The Captain's being both under his authority even as The Captain had authority over him. Neil asked Barrow, couldn't he seehow wrong it was for a museum trustee to be given a salaried post as a museum assistant? He searched desperately for a metaphor. "If one of your dying potential customers said he'd let you bury him only on the condition you let him have sex with your wife before he died, would you sponsor that?" Would that be ethical? Hiring a museum trustee, the Captain, to work for money at the museum -- is that ethical?

"You're calling me a pimp?" Wallace hollered. "Why, you troublemaker! You should get your head examined! I hope you have your resume out there because -- you are out of a job!"

He stomped away indignantly, crossed the street, walked up his drive, and entered his office, slamming the door behind him.

Neil went into the museum and started making phone calls. He phoned the Commission of Museums in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, Acting Mayor Martha Driscoll, and Alice Armour Armstong at the Camperdene Daily Journal. Tuesday's morning headline would read: "Museum of the Year 1912 Curator Angry At Staff Choice."