Peter and Veronica

by Marilyn Sachs

  “Someday I will.”

  “Not for a long time. Gee, why are you thinking about dying? Let’s get out of here.”

  “But if I did die. Say I got hit by a truck or got polio, would you forget me?”

  “But you’re not going to die.”

  “But if I did. Would you?”

  “Would I what?”

  “You know—forget me.”

  “No,” Peter said, “I wouldn’t forget you. Now, let’s go.”

  Veronica looked at him then and she said, “Peter, if you die, I swear, I’ll never forget you. I’ll talk about you all the time. I’ll tell people how you used to wear a blue sweater and how smart you were in school. And I’ll come all the time to where your grave is and I’ll plant lots of rosebushes and take care of them.” She clenched her fists. “I won’t let anybody forget you. When you care for somebody it doesn’t stop when he’s dead. I won’t let it. Ralph Peterson, the snake, he’s dead, and Mr. Bailey threw him out in the garbage, but I’m not forgetting him. And you know what I’m going to do? Every day when I take care of my snakes, I’m going to tell them about Ralph Peterson. I’m going to whisper to them about how smart he used to be, and about that long white stripe he had down his back. I’m going to remind them. And I’d do the same for you, Peter, only more. So swear, if I die, you won’t forget me either. Go on, swear on his grave!”

  She put her hand on Martin Franklin’s tombstone, and Peter looked at her wild face and thought, I mustn’t laugh, I mustn’t laugh.

  So he put his hand on Martin Franklin’s tombstone too, and he said, “I swear to God I’ll never forget Veronica Ganz if she dies. And if I do, may I fall down dead!”

  “And I swear,” said Veronica fiercely, “that if Peter Wedemeyer dies first, I’ll remember him and make everybody else remember him or may I be struck down dead!”

  And then they were strolling along through the cemetery, carrying their skates over their shoulders, as if nothing important had happened. They began looking at the inscriptions on the other tombstones.

  “Hey, look at this one,” Veronica shouted. “It’s for a lady—Martha Prendergast, 1856-1932.

  If heaven is the reward for a life

  Passed in innocence and usefulness

  Then she was a favored candidate

  Veronica read slowly. “I’ll bet she was nice.”

  “Listen to this one,” Peter said, bending over a very old, weathered stone. “It’s another lady, Sarah T. Carey, 1806-1847.

  Behold my friends as you pass by

  As you are now, so once was I

  As I am now, so you must be

  Prepare for death and follow me

  Brr! That’s not very cheerful, is it?”

  “What do you think of this one?” Veronica cried. “It’s a man, Matthew Lukes, 1850-1903.

  To live in hearts

  We leave behind

  Is not to die

  That’s beautiful.” She sat down next to the tombstone and began pulling weeds. There were many of them, and Peter, watching her, suddenly began chuckling. “I see you’ve got a new occupation.”

  “Oh, shut up!”

  Peter moved off and began inspecting some of the other stones.

  “Peter!”

  “What?”

  “Did you ever think about what you’d like them to write on your tombstone?”

  “No—did you?”

  “No—but I’m thinking now.”

  Peter looked at her sitting on the grass, grinned, and said, “I’ve got one for you.”

  “What?”

  “It’s an old one.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  “You remember when we were enemies, I used to make up jingles about you?”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “Remember the one—

  Veronica Ganz

  Has ants in her pants?”

  Veronica stood up.

  “Well, if you were dead, I’d have to change it to—

  Veronica Ganz

  Had ants in her pants.”

  Veronica came at him then, and he dodged around a convenient stone and shouted, “Or maybe a better one would be—

  She liked plants

  Did Veronica Ganz.”

  “Wait till I get my hands on you,” Veronica yelled, but she was laughing too.

  They chased each other up and down the path until they saw some grownups in the distance. Then they began walking decorously along, holding their skates behind them. Veronica said, leering at him, “I’ve got one for you.”

  “What?”

  “Peter Wedemeyer had a friend

  And that was how he met his end.”

  And she landed a quick kick on his shins before she got away.

  Later, they climbed up to the elevated train platform in their skates and stood hanging over the back railing. They could see beyond the rooftops to where the lights of the city made patterns against the darkening blue sky. They stood there together, quietly looking at the lights until the train pulled into the station.

  Chapter 9

  “Where’s Rosalie?” Papa said, sitting down at the kitchen table.

  Mama put a plate of salad on the table and smiled mysteriously. “You’ll see a new girl when she comes home tonight.”

  Papa put his napkin on his lap. “What do you mean?”

  “I gave her the money,” said Mama triumphantly, looking at the clock. “ ‘Here,’ I said to her, ‘I’m treating you. Go get a permanent—one of those new hair styles all the young girls are wearing. Don’t be a stick-in-the-mud.’ So she listened to me for a change and made an appointment at the beauty parlor for after work, and we’ll see.”

  “Don’t send for honey when sugar is sweet,” remarked Papa, selecting a pickle and some tomatoes from the platter.

  “Tomorrow night,” Mama continued, ignoring her husband’s bit of wisdom, “Bernard’s taking her to the Knights of Pythias banquet. She’ll wear a new dress—I made her buy it—and Tillie’s fur coat—I borrowed that—and she’ll have a beautiful new hair style, and we’ll see, we’ll see.”

  “She looks fine to me,” Papa said stubbornly.

  “Ma, what’s for supper?” Peter asked, without much hope. Tonight being Thursday generally meant fish, and fish was not one of Peter’s favorite foods.

  “Fish,” his mother said, bending down and inspecting the interior of the stove.

  “What’s for dessert?” Peter continued, a little more hopefully.

  “Chocolate pudding.”

  “So, Peter, how was school today?” his father asked.

  “Oh, Pa, you should have seen me today. Both times I was up when we played stickball, I hit a homer. The second time, two men were on base and pow—we won seven to three.” Peter chuckled. “You should have seen that ball go.”

  “Very nice,” said his father, “but I meant Hebrew School. Is Rabbi Weiss satisfied with you?”

  Mama brought the platter of baked fish and potatoes to the table and began portioning it out.

  “Why shouldn’t he be satisfied?” she said. “The boy never misses a day. He does all his work. He knows Hebrew better than any other boy in his class. What’s for Rabbi Weiss not to be satisfied?”

  “I guess he thinks I’m doing O.K.,” Peter said. “A little piece, Ma, please, not so much.”

  His mother finished distributing the food and sat down at the table.

  “It’s only a month off now,” she said thoughtfully. “We’ll really have to start getting everything organized. Did you ask the men at the shop—Ralph Spector and Sy Wurtzman and the others to come?”

  “Not yet, but I will,” Papa said.

  “Tell them to bring their families too,” Mama said. “I’ll have enough for everybody.”

  Peter nibbled carefully around the exterior of his piece of fish and moved on to the potatoes.

  “Are you inviting Rose Lerner?” Papa asked.

  “Should I? She didn’t invite us to Harriet�
��s wedding.”

  For months now, his parents had been discussing Peter’s bar mitzvah and the party that was to follow. First there would be the services in the synagogue on Saturday morning, when he and one other boy would read portions of the Torah and make their bar-mitzvah speeches. Afterward, all the guests would return to the house to eat, drink, and rejoice. A new, silk-fringed tallith, the traditional prayer shawl worn by men, lay wrapped in tissue paper in a box in his parents’ closet. His father had bought it for him, and on the day of his bar mitzvah, would present it to him in the synagogue as a symbol of his arrival at religious maturity under Jewish law.

  Only a month away now, and he would be thirteen, no longer a child. On May 27, a Thursday, his birthday would take place, and on the following Saturday, his bar mitzvah.

  He had been to many bar mitzvahs of friends and relations in the past. Some of the boys had been nervous, some solemn, some radiant. But one way or another, all had passed their initiation into manhood and had starred in the festivities that followed. There would be gifts too, many gifts, and although Peter tried hard to ignore the worldly part of his bar mitzvah—as Rabbi Weiss urged all his students—and keep his mind solely on the spiritual end of it, still his heart thumped joyfully at the flow of presents that would certainly come.

  He was not nervous at all about his performance in the synagogue. He had studied hard, had understood what he was studying, and spoke Hebrew with an ease that delighted his teacher and troubled his fellow students. When the day arrived, he would be ready. That it would be a day filled only with joy, spiritual as well as material, he had no doubt at all.

  Listening to his father and mother discussing the guests to be invited reminded him that he had not as yet issued any invitations on his own, so he put his fork down and said, “Ma, can I invite all my friends?”

  “Sure,” said his mother, smiling. “It’s your day— whoever you like. There’ll be plenty of everything.”

  “Knishes?” Peter said hopefully.

  “That reminds me,” Mama said. “I’m glad you mentioned it. I’ll tell Jake to make the little ones. They’re fancier. Maybe some with chopped liver too.”

  She stopped talking suddenly and looked intently at Peter.

  “Who are you going to invite?”

  “My friends. You just said I could invite anybody I wanted.”

  “Who?” his mother insisted.

  “Well—Marv.” His mother nodded. “Bill, Paul-some of the kids in my class.”

  “And who else?”

  Peter looked at her and realized that he might as well get it over with now.

  “I’m going to invite her, too, Ma, so just don’t say no.”

  “Invite who?”

  “Veronica.”

  His mother pushed her plate away and stood up. “You are not going to invite that girl! Anybody else you can invite, but that girl is not coming into my house.”

  Peter stood up and shouted, “If she doesn’t come, neither will I. You can have the bar mitzvah without me.”

  “Jennie!” his father said, warningly, “Sit down, Jennie! Peter, don’t you shout at your mother! Sit down! We’re civilized people. We’ll talk.”

  “Where does he go with her?” Mrs. Wedemeyer cried. “A whole day on Sunday, he’s gone. Where? What does he do?”

  “I told you, I went skating,” Peter said between his teeth, but in a lower voice. “I just went skating. What do you think I’m doing—robbing banks?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised with a girl like that. But you will not invite her to this house. I can’t stop you from seeing her outside, but this is my house, and she is not coming inside as long as I live!”

  “Sit down! SIT DOWN!” commanded Papa. Peter and his mother obeyed, but they glared at each other from across the table.

  “I know, I know,” Mama said angrily, turning suddenly toward her husband. “You’re going to take his part. You always take his part.”

  “No,” said Mr. Wedemeyer, “I’m only going to say what’s right and that’s not taking anybody’s part.”

  Peter also looked at his father, and there was warmth and comfort in that look. It would all come right now that his father had taken over. His father was a man of reason who loved justice, and Peter knew that justice would now prevail. She might yell a little and argue, but she would ultimately, as she had always done in the past, respect her husband’s wishes. And what those wishes were, Peter thought he knew very well. For there was only one way for a man who was wise and just to act. He leaned back in his chair and listened.

  “Peter,” his father said gently, “you must not invite this girl if your mother objects.”

  “Pa,” Peter cried in horror, “how can you say such a thing?”

  His mother sighed happily. “You see,” she said, “if Papa says so then it must be so.”

  “Think about it, Peter,” his father continued. “What does it mean being bar mitzvahed. What is the party? Nothing. Even the ceremony in the synagogue is not important. What is important is that you’re supposed to be a man now, not a child who whines for his own way without understanding the consequences. What does it mean being a man? It means responsibility. And you have a responsibility to respect your parents first and foremost. Not only because it says so in the Bible, but because you’re old enough now to realize that your mother has done a great deal for you, more than anybody else in this world, and it’s only fair that you respect her wishes in something that matters so much to her. Believe me, Peter, it doesn’t make any difference to me whether your friend comes or not. As a matter of fact, if it gave you pleasure, I’d be glad to have her come. But your mother objects. Maybe she’s wrong. Maybe not. That’s not the point. Whether you agree with her or not, this is her house, and you must not invite this girl if your mother says no.”

  Peter looked down at his plate and thought to himself, She will come or I won’t. But he said nothing.

  “If you like, Peter,” said his father, “I’ll talk this over with Mama and try to persuade her to let your friend come. But if she refuses, then you will have to respect her wishes.”

  “And she’s going to keep on refusing,” said his mother happily. “Now let’s have some chocolate pudding.”

  They heard the door open, and Rosalie came into the kitchen. Yesterday her hair had hung very straight, down to her shoulders without a single wave in it. She had worn her hair that way for as long as Peter remembered. But now, from out of the scent of hair lotion, Rosalie stood with her hair in short, tight curls, plastered close to her head.

  “Oiy!” said Peter’s father in horror.

  Rosalie burst into tears and fled.

  “What did you have to say ‘Oiy’ for?” hissed Mama, rising from her seat.

  “She looks terrible,” whispered Papa. “What did they do to her? She looks like a clown.”

  “Just don’t say ‘Oiy,’ “ said Mama, and she hurried out of the room.

  Papa sighed. “Women!” he muttered. “Never satisfied with the way things are. Beauty parlors they call them. They should be called ugly parlors.”

  “Pa,” Peter said slowly, “what you said about being a man, and taking responsibility ...”

  “So?”

  “Well, doesn’t a man have a responsibility to make fair decisions and do what he thinks is right even if everybody else disagrees?”

  “A wise man maketh a glad father

  But a foolish man despiseth his mother,”

  said Papa kindly. “You’ve studied the Bible, Peter. You’ll do what’s right.”

  Peter stood up. “I will do what’s right,” he said. “And I know it’s right to invite Veronica.”

  “Is it so important to you, Peter, that you would rather ask this girl, whom you’ve known only a short time, than make your mother, whom you’ve known all your life, happy? That’s not right, is it?”

  “But, Papa, it’s only because Mama’s prejudiced that she doesn’t want me to invite her. It isn’t because V
eronica’s done anything wrong. She’s not like she used to be. Don’t you see? It’s not fair. It’s not right. It’s the principle of the thing.”

  But his father only shook his head, and Peter ran out of the kitchen and into his own room, where even though the door was closed, he could hear Rosalie’s sobs and his mother’s voice saying over and over again, “It’ll be all right. It’ll be all right.”

  Chapter 10

  “Are you sure it’s all right if I come?” Veronica asked.

  “Sure I’m sure,” Peter said, even though he wasn’t sure at all. With only three weeks to go now, he and his family were still deadlocked over Veronica. He had spoken to Rabbi Weiss, and of course Rabbi Weiss had only said he must respect his parents’ wishes. He had drawn Rosalie into the argument, and she had sided with him. But still his mother said no. Every night at his house there were more arguments, more scenes, more tears. The whole atmosphere began to feel more like a funeral, Peter thought, than a bar mitzvah.

  So now, on this Friday afternoon, he had just gone ahead and invited her anyway. If his parents persisted in refusing to allow her to come, he had decided that he would ask them to call the whole thing off. But there was no point in going into details with Veronica. She knew how his mother felt about her. He knew how her mother (and Stanley), felt about him. Ever since their conversation on the library steps, it hadn’t seemed necessary to discuss family matters any further.

  “I mean—nobody’ll mind if I come?” Veronica said carefully.

  “Look,” said Peter, “this is my party, and if I can’t invite my friends, then it won’t be much of a party. And I especially want you to come. As a matter of fact,” Peter clenched his fists, “I want you to come more than anybody else. O.K.?”

  “Well, thanks,” Veronica said, her face thoughtful. “But what do I do? Where do I go?”

  “First you come to the synagogue at nine o’clock in the morning. And then, after the services, you come to my house for the party.”