Peter and Veronica

by Marilyn Sachs

  “Oh, Marvin,” she said, coming through the door, and walking along with them, “how’s your papa?”

  “He’s better, Mrs. Jacobs,” said Marv.

  “Is he back to work?”

  “Not yet but the doctor thinks maybe in another week or so.”

  “I’m glad. And how’s your mama?”

  “She’s fine. Thanks.”

  They reached the living room and saw that the girls had already arrived. Most of them were sitting around the room deep in conversation. A record was playing on the record player, and Reba and Frieda were dancing a Lindy Hop.

  “I felt so bad when I heard he was sick again,” Mrs. Jacobs continued. “Tell your parents I’ll be over tomorrow to see them.”

  “Ma—please!” Lorraine said urgently.

  “What? Oh—all right, I’m going. Have a nice time, children.” Mrs. Jacobs moved back through the hall to the kitchen, and the boys stood at the entrance to the room, waiting.

  “Why don’t you drop your coats on the bed in there,” Lorraine said, pointing to the bedroom on the other side of the French Doors, “and then we can start.”

  Peter caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the dresser, after he had laid his coat on the bed. Hair smooth on his head, nice suit, new tie-he looked, well, he guessed he looked all right. He waited until all the other boys were ready, and together they moved back through the door into the room.

  He knew that Roslyn was sitting on the couch. He’d seen her as soon as he came in. She had a pink sweater on and pearls. All the girls were wearing sweaters and pearls. Now, he figured, she’d look up and smile at him. He’d smile at her. She’d move over a little bit on the couch. He’d walk over, and sit down next to her. She’d say, “You look nice, Peter.” He’d say, “So do you.” Then she’d say ...

  But she didn’t look up. Nobody looked up and all the boys remained together near the French doors.

  “Well, I guess we can start,” Lorraine said. “Everybody’s here except Veronica Maybe she couldn’t come.”

  “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” said Bill. Peter tightened his fists, but then Frieda giggled and said, “You’re some wit, Bill, a regular half-wit.”

  The girls tittered, and Bill squared his shoulders and said, “Oh, yeah!” Then he broke from the ranks, walked over to the chair where Frieda was sitting, and made believe he was going to sit down on top of her. She squealed, and after a while Bill settled down on the arm of her chair. So that was one down.

  “Well now,” Lorraine said, looking with satisfaction at Frieda and Bill, “what should we do?”

  “Eat,” said Paul, and he walked over to the bridge table in one corner of the room and inspected the platters of potato chips, cookies, and pretzel sticks. Two down.

  “How about a game?” said Lorraine.

  “Let’s play Coffee Pot,” suggested Linda.

  “Naa!” in a chorus from the boys.

  “How about Indian Chief?”

  “Naa!”

  “Charades?”

  “That sappy game!”

  “So what do you want to play?”

  “Stickball,” said Frank.

  And Lorraine said, “Just for that, mister, you’re going to help me carry in the drinks for everybody. Come on!”

  Frank made a face, but he didn’t struggle when Lorraine took his arm and pulled him along with her to the kitchen. Three down. And that left Peter, Jeffrey, and Marv standing at their post.

  Marv said, looking at the record player, “That’s a new portable. I think the speaker’s in the top.” He ambled off, and that was four down.

  Jeffrey whispered nervously, “Does it really smell like Flit?”

  “What?”

  “The stuff on my hair.”

  Peter took a furtive sniff and said, “Yeah.”

  “Where’s the bathroom?”

  “Up the hall”

  Jeffrey groaned and hurried out of the room. And that was five gone. Peter looked at Roslyn. She was still talking to Reba on the couch, and he decided what he’d do is walk over to the refreshment table, take a handful of chips, and sort of casually pass in front of the couch. She’d look up, and he’d say, “Care for some potato chips?”

  He had just arrived at the table when Lorraine and Frank returned with the bottles of soda pop, and then there was a mild crush while all the kids converged on the table to make their selection.

  Everybody seemed to feel more convivial with a bottle of pop in his or her hand, and they played Coffee Pot for a while. Peter ended up sitting next to Jeffrey on one side and Linda on the other. After they got tired of playing Coffee Pot, they played Indian Chief and Charades and a couple of other games. Then Lorraine suggested that they dance.

  “We’re a girl short.” Linda offered the interesting statistic. “Since Veronica didn’t come, that makes five girls and six boys.”

  “Somebody has to dance with the broom,” Reba giggled.

  “Me!”

  “Me!”

  “Me!”

  “Me!”

  “Me!”

  “Me!” shouted the six boys, and there was a mad scramble for the kitchen.

  Mr. Jacobs was reading his paper at the table when they all galloped in, and he said, “What’s going on?”

  “It’s O.K., Papa,” Lorraine said, hurrying in. “We need the broom.”

  Mr. Jacobs looked meaningfully at the clock over the refrigerator and then at his daughter. “It’s nine-thirty, Lorraine,” he said.

  “Pa, please,” Lorraine said. “Come on, boys, let’s go back.”

  Paul had the broom and began cavorting around with it. Lorraine put a record on and she and Frank began dancing. So that made two couples dancing. Lorraine and Frank, and Paul and the broom. Peter looked at Roslyn again. If she’d only look up, he’d walk right over and ask her to dance. He was beginning to feel desperate. The evening was slipping by, and she hadn’t even noticed him. What was the matter with her anyway? Or was there- something the matter with him? Maybe something was wrong with him. Something must be wrong with him.

  “Where is it?” he whispered to Jeffrey.

  “What?”

  “The bathroom.”

  “Up the hall.”

  Peter hurried into the bathroom, locked the door, and carefully examined his face in the mirror. There was a red blotch on his chin, and he’d never noticed before but his left eye was definitely larger than his right eye. He looked awful. Carefully he stood up on the bathtub so he could get a glimpse of the rest of himself in the mirror above the sink. The suit didn’t fit right. The shoulders were too big and the pants were too long. What a mess!

  Grimly he walked back out into the hall and wondered if he should go home. He was having a miserable time.

  Voices emanated from the kitchen as he approached. Mr. Jacobs was saying plaintively, “But I want to go to bed. I worked hard all day and I’m falling off my feet.”

  “A little longer, Max. Don’t be like that. It’s nearly ten. Another half hour, it’ll be over. Don’t you want her to have a good time?”

  “In the day,” Mr. Jacobs moaned. “Can’t she have a good time in the day?”

  “Shh, someone’s outside. Hello,” Mrs. Jacobs said, sticking her head out into the hall. “Oh, Peter.” She said nodding agreeably. “Are you having a good time?”

  “Great!” Peter said glumly, walking slowly back to the living room.

  Roslyn was dancing with Reba, and Lorraine and Frank were dancing too. Bill was talking to Frieda, Marv was busy at the record player, and Linda was chatting away to Paul over the platters of potato chips and pretzels. Jeffrey was standing near the French doors. “Even I can smell it now,” Jeffrey said. “Maybe it was the Flit.”

  Peter glared at Roslyn and Reba. He’d try once more and that was it. But how? You couldn’t just go up to two girls dancing together and cut in on one of them. How come girls could dance together anyway but boys couldn’t? Besides, he didn’t know how to dan
ce so even if he did cut in, what then?

  He looked over at the empty couch, and an idea born of desperation grew in his mind. He crossed the room, sat down in the middle of the empty couch, and waited. After a while the dance ended, and the two girls returned to the couch.

  Now was the time for him to look at Roslyn and say something clever. The girls stood there waiting. Peter concentrated, but he couldn’t think of anything clever to say. As a matter of fact, he couldn’t think of anything to say at all. So he moved over. Reba sat down next to him and Roslyn next to her. The two of them began yakking again.

  The doorbell rang twice, and Roslyn rose and said to Lorraine, “That’s my father. He said he’d pick me up at ten.”

  She hurried into the bedroom, returned with her coat, said, “Good-by everybody,” and left.

  After she had gone, Reba turned to Peter and said, “What happened to Veronica?”

  “I don’t know,” Peter said, wondering if he should go home or eat some potato chips first. “I guess she just decided not to come.”

  “Oh!” Reba’s plump face looked full of mysterious wisdom. “We thought maybe she was coming later, and that’s why you were standing around—sort of waiting for her.”

  “I wasn’t waiting for anybody,” Peter protested. “There wasn’t anything to do, and I was just waiting for something to happen.”

  “Oh—well Roslyn thought you were waiting for Veronica.”

  “Why should she think I was waiting for Veronica?” Peter snapped. “That’s pretty stupid of her.”

  “I’ll tell her.” Reba giggled, and Peter looked at her with fury.

  “Why should anybody think I was waiting for Veronica?” he repeated angrily.

  Reba continued to giggle, so he stood up and said with dignity, “I’m going home.”

  “I guess I will too,” Reba said, also standing up.

  “Are you going now, Peter?” Jeffrey said eagerly. “I’m going too.”

  So the three of them left together, but when they got downstairs, Jeffrey, who lived over on Cottage Avenue, went off in the other direction, which meant that Peter ended up walking Reba home.

  And that was the worst part of it. Even worse than arriving home and having to fend off his mother’s questions. Alone in his bedroom finally, he thought angrily about what a bust the party had been. So Roslyn had avoided him because of Veronica. Well, that was her hard luck. She could flunk math for all he cared. Just let her come and ask him for help. Just let her. He’d be the one to look off vaguely into nowhere. And Bill—one more crack from Bill, and he’d pop him one in the mouth.

  He tore off his tie, threw his jacket on the floor, and fished his skates out of the closet. Tomorrow morning, he’d go find Veronica and go skating in spite of all of them.

  Chapter 8

  “What’s the matter with you kids? Don’t you have any respect for the dead?”

  They hadn’t noticed the man as they came skating up the path and they jumped as he stood up. He was holding a small gardening tool in his hand and had been planting something around one of the graves,

  He motioned angrily toward their skates, and Veronica whispered, “Let’s get out of here.”

  “You don’t come into a cemetery with skates on,” the man continued. “That’s not right. That’s not right at all. And what are you doing here anyway?”

  Peter said uncomfortably, “We were just skating around Bronx Park and then we ended up here. We never saw this place before and so we thought we’d just come in and take a look, and—well—gee, Mister, I guess we weren’t thinking. We’ll take them off. I’ve never been in a cemetery before,” he added lamely.

  The man just stood there shaking his head back and forth. Peter sat down in the path and quickly unstrapped his skates. After a second, Veronica did the same. But the man kept standing there, looking at them. He didn’t say anything, just watched them. Peter’s skates clanged together when he stood up, holding them in one hand, and he separated them nervously, and one of them dropped, making a loud sound on the pavement.

  The man’s face bunched up then, and tears ran down his cheeks.

  “Aw, Mister,” Peter said, “We’ll go now. We didn’t mean anything.”

  The man tried to say something but his words caught in his throat, and he motioned with his hand toward the gravestone he was standing next to.

  Veronica was the first to move. She walked around the man, and looked at the front of the stone. Peter followed her. The inscription on it said:

  MARTIN FRANKLIN

  1932-1940

  and under that, in smaller letters:

  OUT DEAR SON

  The man said, “I told him that last time he was sick, I promised him a pair of skates with ball bearings, and I promised him a boat he could sail, and a pair of boxing gloves. He always wanted boxing gloves.”

  “Did he fight a lot?” Veronica asked curiously, and Peter looked at her in surprise. What a crazy question to ask. You never talked like that about dead people. Anytime the grownups in his family spoke about the dead, it was only in the most glowing terms. She should know better than to ask a question like that.

  The man didn’t seem to mind though. He smiled and said, “Oh, he was a real boy, my Martin. He got into lots of scrapes. He could lick any kid on the block. His mother didn’t like it, but I knew he’d be all right. You don’t want a boy to be a sissy.”

  “He must have been a wonderful boy,” Peter said respectfully, but Veronica asked, “Did he get in trouble in school?”

  The man hesitated, and Peter tried to catch Veronica’s eye, and signal her to stop asking such foolish questions.

  “Well,” the man said slowly, “he didn’t like school much. But he wasn’t a bad boy—just a little lively. He had this old, crabby teacher who kept calling my wife into school all the time.”

  “Did you ever hit him?” Veronica asked.

  “No, no,” the man protested, “I never did.” He shook his head a few times and then he swallowed, looked at Veronica, and said, “Sometimes. I had to. What do you do when a kid gets out of hand? If I’d only known—but he was so big and strong. How could I know?”

  “Sure,” Veronica said easily, and then she put her skates down on one side of the grave and said, “What are you doing now?”

  “Oh!” The man looked down at the little shovel in his hand. “I’m putting some new plants in, and then I’ll weed and pull up the grass. I like to keep it looking nice.”

  Veronica crouched down over the grave. “Which ones are the weeds?”

  “Those tall ones that stick up,” said the man, and Veronica began pulling them out.

  “Here, I’ll help too,” Peter said, putting his skates down and bending over another part of the small plot. He pulled out a few weeds, and then the man, Mr. Franklin, said, “No, not that one. That’s a plant.” He crouched down next to Peter and showed him the difference. “It’s funny,” he said, “but I never knew anything about plants or flowers. All my life I’ve lived in apartment houses. But since he’s gone, I’ve been going around to the nurseries and learning. See that.” He pointed to a spindly bush on one side of the grave. “That’s an American Beauty rosebush. I planted it last time I was here. Next year, it’ll bloom.”

  “Very nice,” Peter said politely, but Veronica looked at the bush and said, “Where’s your wife?”

  “She’s home. We’ve got a baby now—Katherine. She was born a few months after Martin went, and there’s Kenny and Jamie too. They’re five and seven.”

  “Do they remember him?” Veronica asked.

  “We don’t talk about him much. My wife doesn’t want them to feel bad. He’s only been gone a little over a year, and I think maybe Kenny doesn’t remember him any more, but I guess Jamie does. They used to play together a lot.”

  Veronica sat back, and her face was thoughtful. “If I was dead,” she said, “I’d hate for nobody to remember me.”

  “I tell her that all the time,” Mr. Franklin sa
id eagerly, “but she says they’re only kids and it’ll upset them.”

  “If I was dead,” Veronica went on, looking at the rosebush, “I’d want people to talk about me. I’d want them to get up in the morning, and when they sat down to eat breakfast, somebody’d say, ‘There’s the bowl Veronica ate her Rice Krispies out of.’ And maybe somebody would say how I hated eggs. And they’d talk about me, and I wouldn’t mind if Mary Rose or somebody said things that weren’t so nice about me, as long as they kept talking and thinking about me. And I’d want them all to come out to the cemetery and to look at my grave, and maybe plant things and sit around and talk so I wouldn’t be lonely.”

  “If you were dead, you wouldn’t be lonely,” Peter said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Well,” Mr. Franklin said unhappily, “none of them—the children I mean—has been here. When they’re older, my wife says she’ll take them.”

  “She’s right,” Peter said. “They’re only little kids. Little kids shouldn’t have to think about sad things like this. They should play and be happy. You have to protect little kids.”

  “But what about the little kid who’s dead?” Veronica cried. “What about Martin?”

  Mr. Franklin said gently, “It’s not like we’ve forgotten him. Don’t think that. My wife and I talk about him and think about him all the time. We’ll never forget him. Don’t think that.” He put an arm out and pressed Veronica’s shoulder as if he was comforting her, and she nodded and began pulling up weeds again.

  When they were finished, Mr. Franklin offered them some money for helping but they both refused. Veronica said slowly, “Could I come here sometimes, even if you’re not here, and weed? Would that be all right?”

  Mr. Franklin didn’t answer her question. He just said quickly, “I’m sorry about the skates. You go ahead and put them on.” And then he hurried away.

  “I’m not going to put them on. Are you?” Peter asked.

  Veronica shook her head. Then she turned away and said, “If I was dead, would you forget about me?”

  “What kind of stupid question is that?” Peter said uncomfortably. “You’re not going to be dead.”