“Let’s go in the bedroom,” she whispered.
Aside from being the biggest fink in the world, Mary Rose was also the biggest sneak. Always listening in on private conversations. And if it was not for all the useful and amazing bits of information she acquired that way, Veronica would have refused to listen to her. As a rule Veronica held a very low opinion of sneaks, finks, and liars. She never lied, and she never sneaked, and, especially, she never, never finked. People might say she was a bully, but she knew very well that she wasn’t that either. Nobody could say she ever started a fight — at least not without a good reason — but she could always be counted on to finish a fight. And what was wrong with that? If she didn’t take care of herself, and make sure that nobody picked on her, who would take care of her? Or of Stanley? Or of Mary Rose, too, for that matter? All she wanted was for people to leave her and her family alone, and not to make fun of them. Why should that make her a bully?
She followed Mary Rose into their bedroom and waited while she closed the door. Mary Rose’s cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were shining. She looked almost pretty. She always seemed to look her best when she had been listening in on something she wasn’t supposed to hear.
“Boy, is Mama upset,” she said, gloating. “Wait’ll you hear what she said.”
“One of these days,” Veronica said, almost lecturing, “Mama’ll catch you sneaking around like that, and she’ll knock your head off.”
“Oh, she never has.” Mary Rose shook her head impatiently. “But you know what—I think he’s got lots of money.”
“Who has?”
“Papa. Our Papa. And Mama said she wouldn’t take a single penny from him. And she said he sold his restaurant in Las Vegas, and he’s going to live on a ranch, and she says he wants to steal us away from her.”
“What?”
“Swear to God she said that—or something like that,” Mary Rose said solemnly. “Because they don’t have any children, and they’ve been married a long time so it must be that they can’t have any. And I’ll bet that’s why they’re coming here—to take us back with them.” Mary Rose began squealing, “Isn’t that marvelous? Our Papa’s rich, and he has a ranch with horses, I bet—oh—I can’t wait to go.”
Veronica sat down on the bed. “So where’s he been all these years?” she said doubtfully. “How come he didn’t come to see us before if he wants us so much? Phooey, I don’t believe it.”
“I don’t know,” Mary Rose shrugged. “Maybe he just couldn’t come. Maybe his wife was sick. Maybe he had to work in the restaurant all the time. Who cares? But he’s coming now, and I can’t wait to go back with him. I hate this dump, don’t you?”
Veronica didn’t say anything, but she was beginning to feel a funny, jumping flutter in her stomach.
“Why should we stay here?” Mary Rose began whining. “Nobody cares for us here. Mama doesn’t really love us. You know — she just loves Stanley — not us.”
“Oh, cut it out,” Veronica snapped. Mary Rose was always going on and on about who loved who more than who, and how this one didn’t love her as much as that one—it was sickening.
“I wonder what she looks like—his wife, I mean. Helen’s such a pretty name, isn’t it? I bet she’s beautiful. I kind of think of her as a blonde with blue eyes—like Lorraine Day. And Papa’s so handsome.” Mary Rose opened the bottom drawer of the chest and pulled out the picture. She sat down next to Veronica, and they studied it, as they had many times before. It was their parents’ wedding picture, and their father looked very tall, and blond, and handsome in his tuxedo. “He must be as tall as Ralph,” Mary Rose whispered, “but he’s all muscle. Just look at his shoulders.”
In the picture Mama looked pretty much as she looked today, but younger, and her hair was all fancy on top of her head. Her veil was thrown back and she wore a long satin gown and held flowers in her hand. She looked very happy. And when Veronica saw that young, smiling face of Mama’s, she felt like hitting someone—the same way she felt when someone had hurt Stanley. Because there was something else she remembered. Something that had happened a long time ago, but Mama’s face was very clear in her mind, as clear as it was in the picture. They were riding on the subway. Mama was holding a baby in her lap—it must have been Mary Rose, and she was sitting next to Mama.
And Mama began to cry. Somebody who was sitting on the other side of Mama said, “Stop it! Everybody’s looking at you.” But Mama kept crying and crying. She could hear the voice in her mind. It was a man’s voice, but that was all she remembered.
“You know,” Mary Rose whispered, “I bet it was like that movie, Stella Dallas. You know, Papa was rich, and he came from a fancy home, and he married Mama when they were very young, and then he realized his mistake — that she could never fit into his life, and he —.”
“Oh, are you a nut!” Veronica sneered, but she kept looking at the picture, and feeling angry, and wondering what had really happened. Mama said only that they didn’t get along together—and with all Mary Rose’s sneaking around behind closed doors, and listening to whispered conversations, she had never found out why. But Mama had never cried again like she had that time on the subway. Veronica clenched her fists. And it had better not happen again.
Every Christmas a card arrived with some money in it, which Mama always took to buy clothes for them. Usually the card had only a short message on it, something like “Merry Christmas to my darling daughters, Veronica and Mary Rose, from your loving Papa.” Last year he had sent presents instead of money—two mother of pearl crosses for them on silver chains.
“You know,” Mary Rose said, looking hard at the picture. “I think I remember sitting on his lap, and him kissing me.”
Veronica snorted. “You were only two when they broke up, so how could you remember him?”
“I do so remember him,” Mary Rose said stubbornly. “I have a very good memory, a lot better than yours,” she added spitefully.
Veronica could scarcely remember her Papa at all, aside from that time on the subway. She did remember a time at the zoo when she was very little. She was feeding peanuts to the elephant, and a big man was holding her. The elephant’s trunk slithered toward her, and she turned and screamed, and buried her face in the man’s jacket. It must have been her Papa who was holding her then, but when she tried to see the man’s face in her mind, it was Ralph’s face and not her Papa’s.
Mary Rose jerked her head up suddenly. “Shh, someone’s coming.” She jumped up and slid the picture into the drawer, and had just closed it when Mama came into the room.
“We’ll have to do some shopping,” Mama said, and started to sit down on the chair. But yesterday’s clothes were piled all over it, and she said angrily, “How many times do I have to tell you to put your dirty clothes in the hamper? This place looks like a pig sty.” She looked like she was going to go on in the usual way, but she stopped and looked at them thoughtfully. “I guess you’d both better go for haircuts. Let’s see, today is Wednesday. We’ll go shopping tomorrow, and Friday, you can go to the barbershop and get your hair cut. Your father will be here Tuesday or Wednesday.” She looked around the room. “Hmm, I guess we can put some clean curtains up here, and maybe I ought to put up something else on the living-room windows too. There’s the rug, we can get down too.” She shook her head wearily.
“Shopping?” Mary Rose reminded her.
“Yes. We’d better get some new clothes for the two of you. So many expenses this month, but we’ll just have to manage. I’ll take off a few hours from the store tomorrow, and we’ll go down to Alexanders. Stanley can stay with Ralph at the store.” She stood up, and then she said thoughtfully, “Maybe I’d better take the whole day off tomorrow, and straighten things up around here. I was supposed to finish that alteration on Mrs. Doyle’s dress, but maybe I can work on that at home tomorrow night. Anyway, I’ll meet you over at school. Don’t forget. I’ll be waiting outside the yard, and we’ll go shopping right from there.” She beg
an walking out of the room. At the door she turned and shouted at them, “And put all those dirty things in the hamper.”
After she was gone, Veronica began gathering up all the clothes from the chair, the floor, the top of the dresser. Mary Rose sat on the bed, hugging her legs and crowing, “New clothes for us, and it’s not even Christmas.”
Chapter 4
Veronica was halfway to school the next morning when she remembered that she had forgotten about Peter Wedemeyer.
“I was going to wait for him, and beat him up on his way to school,” she grumbled. “And today we’re going shopping after school so I can’t get him then.”
“Well, that’s all right,” Mary Rose said comfortingly. “Give him a day. He’ll think you forgot, and you’ll be able to catch him easier tomorrow. He won’t be suspicious.”
Veronica nodded. She could be patient. What was the big hurry anyway? Whether it was going to be today or tomorrow, the outcome was certain. He’d never mess with her again. Today he was probably shaking in his pants. Good! Let him shake a day longer. Serve him right.
In the schoolyard, Mary Rose faded away, and the last Veronica saw of her, she was following along after that drip Annette de Luca. Veronica moved along the inside of the school gate, noting how the children moved out of her way as she came. Not one of them would dare to start in with her, and once she got Peter settled, she could relax for a while — until a new kid arrived, anyway. In front of her, leaning against the gate, she saw Linda Jensen and Frieda Harris. They had their arms around each other’s shoulders and were whispering and giggling into each other’s ears. Funny how they’d been doing that ever since kindergarten. You’d think by now they’d have run out of things to say to each other. Veronica looked at them curiously, but then Frieda saw her, whispered something quickly to Linda, and pulled her away from the gate. They hurried off, leaving a clear path for Veronica, and she stood looking after them, and wondering what Frieda had said.
“Veronica Ganz
Smells like cans
Of fish.”
Caught off guard, Veronica whirled around sharply, and there was Peter, holding his nose and grinning at her. Bill Stover and Paul Curran were standing next to him, grinning too. But when they saw her looking at them, they both stopped grinning and pretended to be looking up at the sky. Peter, though, still holding his nose, began dancing around, singing,
“Down in the meadow in a itty bitty stream
Swam three little fishies and a Mama fishie too.
‘Swim,’ said the Mama fishie,
‘Swim if you can
Cause here comes Veronica
Who’ll give you a bam.’ ”
What a jerk! Veronica thought in amazement. Her arms actually began aching, and her fingers curled in anticipation. She took a step or two toward him, saw Bill and Paul begin running, and then checked herself. The schoolyard was no place. Too many teachers around. And what she planned to do to Peter had to be done in the wide open spaces, without any nosy grownups. No, she’d wait! With an effort, she forced herself to turn around and move slowly away from him and the sound of his song, which he was obligingly singing over again.
She felt a little better as the lines began moving up the stairs. Snatching the hat off Rosalie Fry, in front of her, she playfully tossed it down the stairs to somewhere between the first and the second landing.
“My hat!” shrieked Rosalie.
“Who said that? Who talked on line?” the monitor on the second landing said, peering down over the sea of heads.
“Just playing a little game,” Veronica crooned. “Wanna play?”
But when the monitor saw it was Veronica, she just acted like nothing had happened, and the lines continued upstairs.
Between the second and the third landing, Veronica bent down and pretended to tie her shoe. The whole line had to stop and wait for her.
“What’s going on down there?” the monitor on the third landing shouted down. “What’s holding up the line?”
“It’s only little old me,” Veronica said in a baby voice, sitting down on the step. “My laces are untied, and I don’t know how to tie them.”
“Oh!” said the monitor, and retreated to a safe corner of the landing.
As she passed the monitor on the fourth landing, Veronica began singing, “Anchors aweigh, my boys, anchors aweigh ...” and tried to look in the girl’s face. She even stuck her face up real close, but the monitor’s eyes seemed intent on something in the distance.
Veronica’s class 8B4, was on the top floor of the building, and by the time the class arrived at its room, she had regained most of her usual good temper. The children sat down in their seats, and row by row, starting with the first row, they filed into the clothes closet and hung up their coats. Veronica had the last seat in the sixth row, near the window. Peter Wedemeyer also sat in the sixth row, but his seat was the first. He was already seated when she started walking up the row, and he held his nose and made a strangling noise as she walked by.
It was too much. He was spoiling her day, that’s what he was doing. Veronica watched the lines file in and out of the clothes closet. The first, second, third, now the fourth. Maybe she could just get a few quick but hard jabs in under the darkness of the clothes closet. Just a little prelude to tomorrow’s action. That would make her feel a lot better. As their line rose, and moved toward the closet, Veronica hurried forward, elbowing several children in front of her out of the way. When she entered the closet, she could see Peter over in the left-hand corner and she started toward him. But Peter just lowered his head and charged. “Oof,” gasped Veronica, and Peter stepped delicately through the door. Even though she whacked Paul Lucas one, it wasn’t the same, and when she emerged into the light again, and saw the gentle smile on Peter’s lips and the innocent look in his blue eyes, she knew she had to do something today or life would not be worth living.
Miss Merritt, their teacher, was assigning jobs to different children in the class.
“Linda Jensen, you may be the attendance monitor today. John Brody, I’d like you to empty the waste-paper basket. Uh — Veronica Ganz — could you please clean the board erasers this afternoon, and, Douglas Green, perhaps you can help.”
Veronica nodded carelessly. Banging board erasers together outside in the schoolyard was one job she really didn’t mind. But her partner usually did. Douglas Green, a soft, timid boy, would be a pleasant person to clean erasers on.
But then suddenly an idea burst into Veronica’s mind, and she raised her hand, and leaped to her feet, and said, “Please, Miss Merritt, I cleaned the board erasers last week.”
Miss Merritt looked at her nervously. Miss Merritt was so young and so nervous.
“Did you, Veronica? I didn’t think you had.”
“Oh yes, Miss Merritt, I did,” Veronica insisted, crossing her fingers. “But I would love to water the plants. I never get to water the plants, and I love plants.”
A deep, thoughtful silence penetrated the classroom.
“Why, Veronica,” Miss Merritt said, flushing a little with pleasure, “I didn’t realize you liked plants so much.”
“Oh I do, I do,” Veronica said passionately.
“Well in that case,” Miss Merritt beamed, “why don’t you water the plants, and perhaps if you do a good job —.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Veronica said, hurrying over to the watering can near the window sill.
“That’s a good idea,” Miss Merritt said enthusiastically. “Go ahead and water them right now.” Miss Merritt smiled thoughtfully as Veronica hurried out of the room to fill up the can with water. She had always believed, in spite of what some of her older colleagues said, that there was really no such thing as a bad child. Just plumb the depths of that child’s heart, and find what it was that interested him, and encourage him to develop that interest. For a while, it is true, she had wondered if there was anything that interested Veronica besides smacking other children. Funny how she had never thought of flowers.
So often she had seen Veronica looking out of the window in what she had thought was boredom, while actually the child was probably looking at the rows of flowerpots that lined the sills, hungering for a chance to care for them. How foolish she had been! How insensitive! Miss Merritt’s thoughts moved ahead to a bright and flower-laden future. She would encourage this interest in Veronica. She would appoint her permanent flower monitor, give her books on gardening, flower arrangement, maybe take her to a flower show. She continued talking to the class, but her mind followed gently along with that new Veronica who loved plants and found in their care a constructive way to express herself.
Veronica returned, and her face was aglow with eagerness. Miss Merritt was talking to the class about next week’s trip to the Museum of Natural History, but her eyes followed Veronica as she moved from pot to pot, starting at the back of the room. Every so often Miss Merritt saw her hesitate and saw her eyes raised questioningly to hers, and each time Miss Merritt tried to nod encouragingly. Slowly, Veronica moved down the row of pots, and, with each pot watered, Miss Merritt saw another milestone in the renaissance of Veronica Ganz.
The last pot was watered. Miss Merritt turned for one moment to ask Jerome Kirschenbaum to be sure to bring in his permission slip from his mother for the trip when—a terrible howl, and Ralph Crespi was standing up, his hair plastered down on his head, and water dripping from every part of him.
“I tripped,” Veronica cried, biting her lip angrily. And the terrible thing was that it was true. She had really tripped, and the water had missed its target, and gone spilling all over Ralph, who sat in the seat behind Peter.
“VerONICA ...” began Miss Merritt.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Veronica wearily, “I’m going.” She put down the watering can and slunk out of the room on her way to the principal’s office.
Veronica Ganz Page 3
