Veronica Ganz

by Marilyn Sachs

  “We’ll be back in half an hour,” said Veronica.

  “If you don’t like white,” Mary Rose compromised, “how about blue?”

  “All right,” said Mama. “I mean all right, Veronica, but don’t stay out long, and pick up two quarts of milk at the grocery store.”

  “Come on, Stanley,” Veronica said.

  “How about blue?” demanded Mary Rose.

  Woolworths was a blazing glitter of Christmas colors. There were wreaths, and paper bells, and tinsel, and brilliant Christmas balls swinging above and around them. Stanley took a deep, happy breath, and proceeded down the aisles, followed by Veronica. At every counter he paused, and ran his hand lovingly up and down everything within reach — boxes of face powder, papers of needles, thimbles, powder puffs, back scratchers, pads of paper, erasers, little lavender bags of sachet. There were so many things to consider, but, finally, with Veronica’s help he decided on a small candy dish for Mama. It cost five cents. Then the fingering and deliberation for Mary Rose’s gift began. Veronica ambled along behind him, waiting while he considered a package of six pencils in assorted colors, a silver key ring, a Christmas glitter pin, a coloring book, a fancy blue garter, a large package of gummed address labels, a small package of balloons, and a spool of bright red string for Mary Rose’s horse rein. Again with Veronica acting as consultant, he finally decided on an attractive horse-shaped pack of pen wipers.

  “Do you really think that’s what she wants?” Stanley asked.

  “Oh, she’ll love it,” Veronica said heartily. “She really needs it.”

  Stanley paid the saleslady a nickel, then he looked mysteriously at Veronica and said, “You go away now. I’m going to look around myself.”

  Now he was going to buy her a gift, so Veronica said sweetly, “O.K., but don’t take too long.”

  Stanley nodded, and scooted away. Veronica began wandering up and down the aisles, luxuriating in the sense of well-being that she always felt in Woolworths. On all sides of her were displayed shining new articles—all desirable and all lying there waiting for her. She lingered by the ribbon counter, running her finger over the roll of red velvet ribbon and inhaling the delicious smell of Woolworth’s— part chocolate and part talcum powder.

  A few aisles away she caught a glimpse of Stanley’s head bent over something, and she felt a glow of pleasure. Stanley was buying a present for her. Of course it was only going to be a nickel present, but still and all it was always exciting when you knew somebody was buying you a present and you didn’t know what it was going to be.

  Lazily she moved over to the cosmetics counter, and thought that she’d have to do some Christmas shopping herself. It was always a snap getting something for Mama. Women were easier to buy presents for than men. There was a pretty bottle of blue bath salts decorated with a fancy red ribbon on display that caught her eye. Bath salts looked enticing and colorful in the bottle, but they were always a disappointment when you put them in the tub. Nothing much happened. Maybe she’d buy perfume for Mama this year. There now, for twenty-nine cents, she could get Mama that box of six small bottles of flower perfumes. Lilac, said one, Lilies of the Valley said another, Violets, Heliotrope — now what was Heliotrope? She didn’t know what Heliotrope smelled like but it sounded lovely — Apple Blossom, Forget-me-not.

  Dreamily, Veronica moved to the jewelry counter and stood admiring the collection of birthstone rings. Garnets for January, amethysts for February, aquamarines for March, diamonds for April — no one was left out. There was something here for everybody.

  Veronica thought — what if I was locked in here all by myself? What if the place closed for a few weeks and nobody knew I was here — it would all belong to me — the yards of lace and ribbon, the snake plants, the candy. She’d have blankets to cover herself at night, games to play with all day, perfumes — Heliotrope and Forget-me-not — to put in one of those spray bottles and spray herself with, paintings to look at, counters and counters of strange unfamiliar wonders to discover, jewelry to wear. She reached out and picked up a gleaming ruby ring for July—her month, and slipped it on her finger. I’d be a queen in Woolworth’s. No—better than a queen because there wouldn’t be anyone around to bother me.

  She held out her finger and looked into the depths of the gleaming ruby, and saw herself peering out of its depths. Not with a black eye and a swollen mouth, because that was all far away and had no place here. Maybe in that world outside there were big girls, bigger than anyone else, who beat up small boys. And maybe there were small boys, smaller than anyone else, who tried to beat up big girls. And maybe there were questions that had to be thought about. But not now. Because here in Woolworth’s nobody fought, and nobody was hurt, and nobody struggled to understand. There was only a blazing ruby on her finger, and her own face looking up at her, silent and serene.

  “Yes?” said a cheery voice. “Can I help you?”

  Veronica turned, and blinked in the direction of the voice. A saleslady stood behind the counter waiting. “Do you want that?” she continued, gesturing toward the ring on Veronica’s finger.

  “Uh, no,” Veronica said slowly. “I’ll — uh — get it next time I come.”

  The saleslady silently and emphatically held out her hand. Veronica slipped off the ring, laid it in the woman’s palm, and hurried off to find Stanley.

  He was standing near the candy counter, looking at her.

  “Are you finished, Stanley?” Veronica said. They’d been in Woolworth’s much longer than the half hour she had promised Mama. The clock over the door said seven-fifteen.

  Stanley was holding a bag in his hand, and his face had a tormented expression.

  “Veronica,” he said, looking as if he was going to burst into tears.

  “What?” she said sharply, eyeing the bag in his hand. It was a bag of candy, she realized, feeling a flash of resentment. He’d gone and spent her nickel, her Christmas present money, on a bag of candy for himself.

  “Veronica,” Stanley repeated, beginning to hiccup, “you know that Santa —hic—Claus I made for Papa? Well — hic — do you think I could give it to two people for Christmas — hic?”

  The world outside was already here, but a faint glow still surrounded her from out of the depths of the ruby. The nickel was spent, wasn’t it? And after all just how much could you expect from a five-year-old anyway, especially one like Stanley? So she just shook her head at him, swallowed her disappointment, and said, “Sure you could, Stanley, sure — and stop hiccuping.”

  Stanley smiled, and picked a malted milk ball out of the bag, and popped it into his mouth. “Here, Veronica,” he said, holding out the bag to her, “take a candy. Go on. Take two candies.”

  Chapter 11

  So if everything was so good, why was she feeling so bad? Veronica leaned against the school fence in her usual position and knew that everything was wrong. Here she’d been waiting for this moment all weekend, thought about it, arranged it in her mind, rearranged it, gloated over it — and it wasn’t happening at all the way it was supposed to.

  First of all, Peter wasn’t even here. Depend on him! It would be just like him to go ahead and be sick and not show up at all. She had thought about his face over the past two days, and had looked at it in her mind from all sorts of angles — front, profile, three-quarter view, back and then front, front and then side, looking down, looking up. But every way she saw it, Peter’s expression was the same — a combination of anger and humiliation.

  She had come to school this Monday morning in fine spirits and with a new sense of her own powers. Veronica bounced her body backward into the wire gate, felt it respond, and wondered what she could do now. Paul Lucas and Bill Stover were around. She’d seen them as soon as she arrived, and they’d seen her. Which was probably why they were nowhere in sight at the present moment. Sissies! Who cared about them! But Peter —she couldn’t wait to see Peter’s face. Of course she knew exactly what her own face would look like. Peter would look at her.
There would be fury and shame and revenge written on his face. But her face — too bad her left eye was still so black and blue, and her mouth all swollen — would remain silent and serene. She’d practiced that silent and serene look in the mirror over the weekend, and had really worked it into something splendid.

  Her eyes explored the yard once more, probing carefully into some of the usually neglected corners. Peter was nowhere. So what was there to do? There wasn’t anybody she was after. For ages now, Peter alone had occupied all her attention. Peter singing those silly jingles about her. Peter laughing at her, playing tricks on her, tormenting her while she prowled and plotted revenge.

  What was there to do? Veronica slowly bounced several more times against the gate, then stood up, and began moving aimlessly toward the center of the yard. Linda Jensen and Frieda Harris were bouncing a ball, playing “A My Name Is,” and Frieda was up to E. She was saying, “Edith Edison eats eggs every Easter evening but Eddie Edison eats eggplant,” and turning her foot over the ball on every word that started with “E.” “That’s more than ten,” she said, stopping and preparing to go on to “F.” Then she noticed Veronica watching. She looked in a worried way at Linda. Linda said, her forehead wrinkling, “Uh … do you want to play, Veronica?”

  “Naa,” said Veronica.

  So Frieda began bouncing the ball again, saying, “Frances Farmer fixes frankfurters Friday,” but she was saying it too fast, and she missed, and the ball went bouncing away. While she was chasing it, Veronica moved off, and paused to watch a rope game in progress. There were about eight girls jumping, and two girls turning. Reba Fleming had landed on “Z,” and so the group chanted as she jumped, “H-O-T spells HOT.” The enders began turning very quickly, and Reba jumped faster and faster as the group counted ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty. Reba missed on eighty so she had to take one of the ends. She saw Veronica standing there, looked around at the other girls, and said nervously, “If you like, you can get on line.”

  “Naa,” said Veronica.

  The game started up again, and after a while Veronica wandered off, stopping to watch a bunch of other children playing “Follow the Leader.” Rita Ferguson saw her first, looked meaningfully at Frances Scanlon, jerked her head in Veronica’s direction, and said, “Hi ... uh, Veronica, do you feel like playing with us?”

  There was nothing to do, absolutely nothing. And Veronica, feeling unhappy and very lonely, was just about to say, “Naa,” and move on, when she caught sight of Peter, leaning against the fence and looking right at her. This was the moment she’d been waiting for — the moment when she was supposed to look back at him, silent and serene. But she felt embarrassed, and instead, cried heartily, “Sure, I’ll play. Sure.” She added her books to the row already on the ground and took her place at the end of the line. Soon she was leaping, laughing, and generally trying to give the impression that she was having the time of her life. Every so often, she’d look up quickly at Peter, and each time he was exactly in the same place, leaning against the fence and staring at her.

  When Hilda Rosenzweig became leader, and was rearranging all the books, lunch boxes, rulers, and jackets to form a new hurdle, and the rest of them stood around waiting, Rita Ferguson moved cautiously closer to Veronica to get a better view of her black eye.

  Veronica’s good eye noted Peter as he bounced against the wire gate, looked toward her, bounced again, looked again.... There was an agonizing desire inside her to share all this with somebody else, somebody who could enjoy with her all the details of Peter’s humiliation, all the excitement and suspense of the present moment.

  She looked hungrily at Rita, and Rita looked hungrily into her black eye. Should she tell her? Rita’s eyes were traveling happily down Veronica’s scratched nose, settling finally with satisfaction on her swollen lips. No! She wouldn’t tell Rita anything. Rita would only enjoy the fact that she had been beaten.

  Hilda Rosenzweig finished her arrangements — the hurdle now curved like an S — and shouted, “O.K., let’s go!” As the line braced itself, Veronica saw Peter throw himself into one fierce bounce against the gate, stand up, and head in her direction. Veronica’s fists clenched. Desperately she thought, No! I don’t want to fight. But what should I do? Where should I go? She looked around, but nobody noticed. Nobody realized what was happening. The bell rang. Peter stopped in his tracks, looked at her, and then headed over to the boy’s line.

  All morning long Peter watched her, circled, approached, retreated, and instead of feeling easy and triumphant, Veronica was confused and filled with an unfamiliar sense of panic. What should she do? Madame Nusinoff asked her to remain after French class. It was only to tell her what the group had decided in the way of costumes, since she had missed the discussion last Friday afternoon. And as Madame Nusinoff talked about flare skirts for the dances, and artificial flowers on crepe-paper streamers for the girls’ hair, Veronica looked longingly into the teacher’s face, waiting for her to stop talking.

  Madame Nusinoff stopped finally. She looked at Veronica’s black eye, and her own eyes, like Rita’s, moved across Veronica’s bruised nose and down to her swollen lips. Madame Nusinoff did not look pleased, as Rita had. She looked troubled, and said gently, “What happened, Veronica?”

  Veronica hesitated. Then she shook her head. “Nothing,” she said, and hurried off to her next class. What’s the use, she thought to herself. She’d never believe me anyway.

  At lunch, Peter, Paul, and Bill sat together, looking over at her. During the afternoon recess, Veronica saw them again, whispering and staring at her. They would be waiting for her this afternoon, she knew now for sure. Perhaps this time there would be no one around to help. Perhaps there would. If so, would they wait for her again tomorrow? The next day? Would it go on and on until they were able to get her alone somewhere and beat her up without anybody stepping in and breaking it up. And wasn’t this what she would do if she was after somebody? But she wasn’t after anybody, and how silly she had been to think that after Friday everything would be better. Things were worse — and she was now the hunted instead of the hunter. And even worse than that was this terribly lonely feeling that had held on to her all through the day.

  Veronica left by way of the Franklin Avenue exit that afternoon, and went home the long way.

  Peter was standing on her stoop, waiting for her. She looked around for Paul and Bill, but they were not in sight. As soon as he saw her, Peter jumped off the stoop and came flying toward her. It was too late to run. He was standing there in front of her. He stuck his face right up close to hers, and shouted, “Go ahead! Sock me!”

  Veronica looked quickly behind her. Nobody in sight yet. “Sure,” she cried, “that’s all I have to do. And I know what’ll happen next.”

  “What?” shouted Peter.

  “Where are Paul and Bill?” said Veronica, looking over his shoulder.

  Peter’s face turned a deep red. He backed away, and said, “Nobody’s here but me.”

  “Sure, sure,” Veronica said, looking across the street.

  “I swear to God,” Peter went on fervently. “All weekend long, I kept thinking about it, and I don’t know why I did it. That man was right. It’s bad enough for a boy to hit a girl, but for three boys to gang up on one girl, even a girl like you ...” Peter’s voice cracked. His face was exactly what she had hoped to see—filled with anger and humiliation. But instead of feeling triumphant, Veronica felt embarrassed, and even more lonely.

  “What do you mean—a girl like me?” she cried. “I never did anything to you. You were the one who started it.”

  Peter shook his head impatiently. “Well, everybody said you were such a bully — always picking on kids smaller than yourself.”

  “But everybody is smaller than me,” Veronica said helplessly, “and what am I supposed to do if they make fun of me?”

  “But you’re so big,” Peter said, looking up at her with a strange look on his face.

  “I kno
w I’m big,” Veronica shouted. “That’s the whole trouble. I just wish I was small like everybody else.”

  “But why?” Peter said, screwing up his face in surprise.

  “So nobody would make fun of me.”

  “But why should you care?” said Peter. “If I was like you, I wouldn’t care what anybody said. You’re such a ... such a ... big girl.”

  “Stop saying that!” Veronica said between her teeth.

  “You’re the biggest girl I know,” Peter said solemnly.

  “Do you want me to sock you?” Veronica cried desperately, clenching her fists.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Peter nodded. “I forgot. I want you to sock me. And I swear to God, I’ll never raise my hand to you again no matter what happens. Even though you’re so big, you’re still a girl, so go ahead! Sock me!” Peter moved in closer, and stuck his face out again.

  So it was all going to be over then—finished. Peter would never tease her or hound her, and probably not even notice her any more. And why? Because she was a girl. Well, she’d show him. Even if she was a girl, she could still punch him so hard he’d never forget it. She raised her fist and — nothing happened.

  “I’m not going to sock you,” Veronica yelled, feeling as if she was going to cry. “Leave me alone! Go away!”

  But Peter kept moving in closer, saying in a soft, wheedling voice, “Go ahead, Veronica, just sock me, a good hard one. I’ve got it coming, and I won’t hit you back.”

  “No, no, no!” Veronica cried, retreating. Nothing was right today. Everything was upside down.

  Peter said, “Look, I’ll put one hand behind my back so you don’t have to be afraid. Go ahead. Hit me!”

  Veronica reached the edge of the sidewalk, and put one foot off the curb. Peter put his hand behind his back, closed his eyes, and stood, chin out, waiting. The top of his head came up to her mouth, and the rest of him looked so small and slight that it seemed to her that all she’d have to do was breathe hard on him, and he’d fall down.