The clock over the refrigerator said four-ten. Well that was just great, wasn’t it. For a quarter they could have gotten a bag full of cake at the day-old bakery — enough to have a real feast tonight, with plenty left over for several days. But the place was down on Third Avenue, and took at least half an hour to walk to, and closed at four-thirty sharp. So they’d have to wait until tomorrow, and eat graham crackers tonight. Oh — what she’d do to Peter when she caught him.
The door opened, and Stanley came in, still talking. “Didn’t know where you were. But now we can go. Right, Veronica?”
What a pest! “Look,” snapped Veronica, “we’re not going today. It’s too late. So go away and stop bothering me.”
Stanley’s happy smile dissolved. “I wanted a chocolate marshmallow cake with a nut on it,” he crooned, and immediately began hiccuping.
Veronica brushed by him impatiently, strode through the living room, and into the bedroom she and Mary Rose shared. Mary Rose was lying on the unmade bed, the blankets on the floor, examining something she had laid out on the bed.
“Look, Veronica,” she said happily. “They came today in the mail.” On the sheet were lying about thirty cardboard fingernails in different shades of red, pink, and orange. Mary Rose was always mailing away for things—samples of lipstick, perfumes, face powders, interior decorating charts, soaps. She picked a bright pink nail up, inspected it, and sighed. “Isn’t this the most gorgeous color you ever saw in your life?”
“Get them off my side of the bed!” Veronica thundered.
Mary Rose made a face, gave a meaningful sniff at the air, opened the window emphatically, but she moved all the fingernails to her side of the bed.
Stanley stood in the doorway, hiccuping.
“Is he starting that again?” Mary Rose said, disdainfully.
Veronica just pulled out her drawer in the chest and began hunting for some clean underwear. There were some socks in the drawer, but no underwear.
“Where’s my underwear?” Veronica shouted, pushing all the socks around desperately.
Stanley said, between hiccups, “There’s a bundle of wet wash in the hall. Mama left it — hic — before she — hic — went to the store. She said you — hic — should hang it out. What’s that funny smell — hic — Veronica?”
“Go away,” Mary Rose said. “Don’t hiccup in my room.”
Veronica slammed the drawer, hurried back through the living room into the hall, and opened the bundle. Everything was wet and clammy, but she dug down through the layers of clothes until she found an undershirt and a pair of panties. She laid them on top of the radiator, and shouted, “Mary Rose, hang up the laundry!”
No answer.
“MARY ROSE,” bellowed Veronica, “I said hang up the wash.”
“Oh, O.K.,” came the distant, dreamy voice from the bedroom.
Veronica began pulling her clothes off almost before she got into the bathroom. She closed the door, ran the water full blast in the tub, and climbed in as soon as she had stripped. But the pile of clothes on the bathroom floor smelled up the whole room, so she rose, dripping from the tub, opened the door, and flung the clothes outside. Stanley was standing there, and she banged the door in his face and hooked the latch.
The water felt warm and clean and comforting. She put her head under the water and scrubbed until all the scales were floating lazily in the tub. She had to let fresh water in twice more before she could lean back in the clean, warm, still slightly smelly water, and think pleasant thoughts about what Peter would look like with two black eyes and a bloody nose.
But her reveries were interrupted. Somebody was hiccuping outside her door.
“Stanley,” she yelled, “stop hiccuping outside my door. Go hiccup somewhere else.”
“Where?” Stanley asked.
“How should I know. But get away from that door.”
Stanley sniffed. “Where should I go?” he said sadly. “Mary Rose won’t let me hiccup in her room, you won’t let me hiccup here. Where should I go?”
“Go to the kitchen!” Veronica screamed.
“Oh, O.K.” The hiccuping on the other side of the door stopped, and again Veronica lay back in the tub and tried to compose her thoughts. Where was she? That Stanley — he never left her alone for a minute. And those hiccups of his! Once he started, he could go on like that for hours, sometimes even days. Once he got upset over something, you could count on it. He wouldn’t yell or scream or hit — just hiccup. And his sad, pale eyes kept blinking, and blinking.
He’s just like his father, she thought scornfully. And then feeling ashamed, she turned over on her stomach and ducked her head under the water. Not that Ralph was really such a bad egg, she didn’t mean to think that. Some kids who had stepfathers complained about how mean they were and how they liked their own kids better. Ralph wasn’t like that at all. She could still remember when he started coming around, courting Mama. He wore a big button on his coat, and he told her it said “Vote for Franklin D. Roosevelt for a New Deal.” He said if Franklin D. Roosevelt was elected President nobody would be poor any more. And one day, because she liked it so much, Ralph took off the button and pinned it on Veronica’s dress and said she could keep it. She was five then, as old as Stanley now, and Mary Rose was three. He always brought them candy, and let them sit on his lap, and climb all over him, and never scolded them, just grinned at them with those big, pale, blinking eyes, like Stanley. That was over eight years ago, and now she was thirteen, and Mary Rose was eleven, and he still brought them candy, and even though they didn’t sit on his lap any more, he still never scolded them or hit them. He had a soft, slow voice, and when he was upset, like Stanley, he didn’t lose his temper or scream. He just spoke very, very slowly, and his pale eyes grew sad.
“Spineless,” Mama said sometimes, when she was angry at him, and people took advantage of him. Not a day passed that Mama didn’t come home from the store, sore at Ralph. It might be that a customer said there were holes in a garment after it came back from the cleaners, when all the time, Mama said, that customer knew very well those holes were there before. Or somebody was in a big hurry to have something pressed and Ralph stayed late. Or Jerry, the high school boy who worked for them after school, didn’t show up but Ralph paid him anyway — always something.
Before Ralph married Mama, he used to be a presser in a big cleaning store, but Mama had persuaded him to open his own store. It was a little store on Prospect Avenue, and most every day Mama worked there too. Before Stanley started kindergarten, Mama would take him along to the store, and he played there the whole day. But now that he was in school in the mornings, he just went over there for lunch. There was a hot plate in back of the store, and Mama made lunch for him. Then he generally liked to come home and wait for her and Mary Rose.
“It won’t hurt you to keep an eye on him,” Mama said, and if they kept arguing with her, boy, would she scream. Mama screamed a lot, and hit, too, when she was real mad. Ralph would generally get nervous when she did, and say something like, “Don’t get mad, Peggy. They’re just kids.” He’d always try to work out some kind of a compromise so that everybody would be happy, but it was Mama who generally had the last word.
Just this morning at breakfast, Mama had exploded. Stanley was eating toast and cream cheese, and his whole face was covered with it. Mary Rose looked at him and said, “Uuk,” and made a sort of throwing-up noise. And Mama got right up and whacked her one across the face. And Mary Rose started crying. And Mama began yelling about how she was always picking on him and what a selfish brat she was. And Ralph said, “What are you hitting her for? She didn’t mean anything.” Then, boy, did Mama let him have it.
“You’re some big hero, aren’t you?” she yelled. “Always taking somebody else’s part. Why don’t you take my part for a change? Where were you yesterday when that Mr. Wittenberg called me a liar in the store — right in front of you too?”
“But you said he was a crook first, and you said he ...”
/> But Mama began yelling so loud then that both Ralph and Mary Rose ran out of the room.
Veronica climbed out of the tub, wrapped a towel around her, and came out into the living room to check her underwear on the radiator. It was still damp on one side so she turned it over, and sniffed the pleasant smell of clean clothes drying. There was a pile of newspapers and magazines on the coffee table, and on top of them were some letters. Veronica picked them up and looked them over. Not that she was expecting anything. She never sent away for any of that junk Mary Rose collected. There was a gas bill, and another letter to Ralph from the American Legion, and a letter to Mama.
“Mary Rose,” Veronica screamed, “you didn’t tell me there was a letter from Papa.”
“There is?” Mary Rose cried, hurrying from the bedroom. “I didn’t notice the other things when I brought the mail up. I was so busy looking at the fingernails.”
She took the letter out of Veronica’s hand and inspected it. Sure enough, it was addressed to Mrs. Ralph Petronski, and the return address said F. Ganz, 35 Laurel Dr., Las Vegas, Nevada.
“Gee!” Mary Rose said. “It’s not Christmas yet. He never writes to Mama in between.”
Veronica took the letter back, and she and Mary Rose sat down on the couch and looked at it.
“What do you think?” Mary Rose said softly.
Stanley came into the room, still hiccuping. “Can we go tomorrow?” he pleaded. Nobody answered him, so he moved the pile of jackets away and sat down next to Veronica. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the letter.
“It’s a letter,” Mary Rose said loftily, “from our Papa.”
“From Papa?”
“From our Papa,” Mary Rose continued patiently. Stanley always forgot. “Your Papa is Ralph but our Papa is Frank Ganz, who lives on 35 Laurel Drive in Las Vegas, Nevada.”
“Is he dead?” Stanley said thoughtfully.
“No, he’s not dead,” Mary Rose snapped. “You always say that. Why can’t you understand? Mama was married to our Papa before she married Ralph. They got a divorce. I keep telling you.”
She took the letter back from Veronica and held it up. “There’s a lot of writing inside.” She licked her lips. “I wonder what it says.” She looked at Veronica, just waiting.
“No,” Veronica said weakly. “Mama’ll be home soon. Better wait and let her read it first.” They looked at each other, but then the door opened, and Stanley jumped up, and ran out of the room, yelling and hiccuping, “Mama, Mama, we didn’t go to the day-old bakery. Mama ...”
There was a rustling and a thump in the kitchen, where Mama must have put down her packages. They heard the water running, and Mama saying to Stanley, “Drink it up.” Then she walked into the living room.
“Why is he hiccuping?” she asked. “What did you do to him?”
“Nothing, Mama,” Mary Rose cried. “There’s a letter from Papa.” She jumped up from the couch and ran over to Mama with the letter in her hand.
“From Frank?” Mama said, surprised. “What in the world?”
She opened it and began reading. Veronica got up and walked over to her, and waited. Mama turned the first page, her eyes darting quickly back and forth as she read. There was another page, but Mama didn’t read that. She just stopped reading, and looked worried. “Your father,” she said, “he’s coming next week — with his wife.”
Chapter 3
After supper, Mama and Ralph went into the kitchen and shut the door. But first, Mama said, “You can put Stanley to bed tonight.”
Mary Rose immediately got up and walked off.
“Who, me?” Veronica said.
“Yes, you.”
“Why me?” Veronica grumbled. “Why do I have to always be the one?”
“You aren’t always the one,” Mama began talking, her voice rising higher and higher as she spoke. “You hardly ever do it, but tonight you have to do it because I SAID SO.” She slammed the kitchen door.
Stanley was sitting on the floor in his parents’ bedroom when Veronica stamped into the room. He had two decks of cards spread out around him and was trying to match all the same ones together. He was holding the jack of hearts in his hand and looking around for its mate.
“Pick those cards up off the floor,” Veronica said, “and get into your pajamas.”
Stanley looked happy. “You putting me to bed, Veronica?”
Veronica began pulling Stanley’s trundle bed out from under the big bed. “Get a move on,” she said. “I’ve got things to do.”
“Sure, Veronica, sure.” Stanley quickly began gathering all his cards together. “I’m glad you’re putting me to bed. I like when you put me to bed.”
Veronica took the blanket and pillow out of the closet. “Come on, hurry,” she said, “and go to the bathroom first.”
When Stanley came back, he pulled all his clothes off and dropped them on the floor.
“What’s that?” Veronica said, pointing to a red circle on his shoulder.
“Where? Oh, that. That’s where Jimmy Reilly bit me.”
“Bit you? Why’d he bite you?”
“He always bites me,” Stanley said in a melancholy voice.
“And what do you do when he bites you?”
“I tell him, ‘Stop it!’ But he won’t.”
Veronica exploded. “You’re such a spineless little coward,” she screamed at him. “That’s why they’re always hitting you, and pushing you, and biting you. You’re the biggest kid in your class, and everybody picks on you, and you never lift a finger. Why didn’t you hit him back?”
Stanley’s big eyes blinked and blinked. “Maybe tomorrow,” he said softly. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll hit him back.”
“Sure, sure,” Veronica sneered, “tomorrow you’ll hit him back! Baloney! If it wasn’t for me, they’d tear you to pieces, and you’d let them.” She put her face up close to his. “I’ve always got to be pulling some kid or other off you, and I don’t like smacking little kids.”
“So why do you do it?” Stanley said, moving his head back a little.
“Because you don’t do it for yourself. But after this, I’m finished. Whatever happens to you, I’m not going to lift a finger to help you. Do you hear me?”
“O.K., Veronica,” Stanley said meekly. He touched the bite on his shoulder. “It doesn’t really hurt so much, any more.” He drew his pajamas on, crept into his bed, and pulled the covers up to his chin.
“Good night!” Veronica said, putting out the light.
“Veronica!”
“What?”
“Tell me a story.”
“Not tonight,” said Veronica. “I’m busy.” She began walking out the door, and a gentle hiccup followed her. Oh, that rotten kid! He’ll start hiccuping again, and Mama’ll chew my head off.
“All right, all right,” Veronica snapped, coming back into the room. “Just stop hiccuping.”
“I’ll try.” Stanley hicced again.
Veronica sat down on the big bed.
“Tell me the one about Bluebeard,” Stanley pleaded.
“Oh, all right. Just don’t hiccup.”
“I won’t,” Stanley said in a strangled voice between his teeth.
“Once upon a time,” said Veronica quickly, “there was a man named Bluebeard because he had a beard that was so black it looked blue. And he came to a country where nobody knew him. And he married a beautiful girl named ... named ...”
“Veronica,” Stanley offered.
“No, Loretta. So he took her home to his house. It was a great big house, kind of dark, and smelly, and gloomy.”
“Like school?”
“No, bigger, and gloomier, and smellier. And he gave her a bunch of keys and said she could look in every room in the house except the one up in the attic. But one day, when he wasn’t home —.”
“Veronica,” Stanley said, “come and sit on my bed.”
Veronica bent down and sat on the edge of Stanley’s bed, and Stanley turned over on his side
with his face against her leg, and one arm in her lap.
“Well, so he wasn’t home, and she opened the door to the room in the attic, and she saw —.”
“Bodies,” Stanley said contentedly, “lots of bodies.”
“All over the place,” Veronica continued. “And some had their heads off, and some had their arms and legs off, and pieces of ladies were hanging up all over the walls.”
Veronica began describing all the horrors the room contained, and Stanley nestled closer and closer to her. Her voice grew low as she told how Loretta sent a message to her brothers, big, strong men—.
“Like Papa?” Stanley suggested.
Veronica let that pass without comment, and went on to tell how Bluebeard discovered that Loretta had been in the room. How he told her to prepare to die. How she stalled for time. How her brothers arrived just as Bluebeard was chasing her around the kitchen table, and proceeded to hack him into many pieces.
“How many?” Stanley asked.
“Oh, lots and lots.”
“Maybe a thousand,” Stanley murmured happily, without a single hiccup.
“Maybe,” Veronica said agreeably. Stanley’s hand was in hers by this time, and his head was in her lap. She couldn’t see his face in the darkness, and maybe that was why she forgot to be sore at him.
Gently, she put his hand down, stood up, and walked quietly to the door.
“Veronica!”
“Now what?”
“I’m scared.”
“What of?”
“That window shade,” Stanley murmured. “It keeps flapping.”
Veronica pulled the window shade down below the level of the window and started out once more.
“Veronica!”
“What?”
“That was a nice story, Veronica,” Stanley said sleepily.
“Good night,” said Veronica, closing the door. She made a mental note to catch Jimmy Reilly tomorrow and give him a few slaps for biting Stanley.
Mary Rose wasn’t in their bedroom, and she wasn’t in the bathroom either. Veronica looked in the living room. She wasn’t there either, but was crouched down behind the kitchen door, listening. She grinned when she saw Veronica, put her finger to her lips, and softly, on stockinged feet, tiptoed back into the living room.
Veronica Ganz Page 2