Peter and Veronica (4 page)

“I don’t care for boats,” Mr. Wedemeyer said pleasantly.

“You don’t care where he goes or who he plays with. You don’t know the kind of girl this is. She’s a juvenile delinquent, that’s what she is. I found out. I asked around in the neighborhood. He thinks I don’t know what she is, but I look out for him. But you, all you’re interested in is sitting there reading the same books over and over again.

Mr. Wedemeyer rose, picked up his book, and, speaking in Yiddish, said with dignity:

“It is better to dwell in a corner of the housetop Than in a house in common with a contentious woman.”

As he left the room, Mrs. Wedemeyer burst into tears, and Peter grabbed his skates and ran.

“I changed my mind,” Veronica said. “I’m not going in.”

Peter had his hand on the door, but he turned around and said irritably, “Why not?” What a day this was turning out to be! First that scene with his mother, then Stanley blubbering away, and now, after skating miles and miles down to West Farms, Veronica was going to give him a hard time.

“Why not?” he demanded again.

She shrugged her shoulders. “Wasn’t my idea in the first place. You talked me into it, and I just don’t want to go in. That’s all! Now let’s go.”

The door of the diner opened, and Peter had to step to one side as a big man with a toothpick in his mouth came through the door. Before the door closed again, Peter caught a glimpse of the inside of the diner and got a warm, fragrant sniff of hamburgers and onions. Maybe Veronica had eaten lunch, but he hadn’t, and it reinforced his desire to act as peacemaker between Veronica and her kin.

The man proceeded slowly down the stairs, and Peter said persuasively, “Let’s just take a look inside. We don’t have to stay.”

“No!”

“What have you got to lose? Your uncle will probably be so happy to see you that he’ll ...” Peter licked his lips in anticipation of the way in which Veronica’s uncle would show his joy at the sudden appearance of his niece.

“No!”

“Why not?”

“Because I haven’t seen him for four years, and the last time he came he fought with my mother, so why should I go out of my way to see him?”

Veronica’s parents were divorced. Her mother had remarried, and her father lived in Las Vegas with his second wife. Veronica hadn’t seen her father since she was little. She and her sister, Mary Rose, were children of her mother’s first marriage, while Stanley was her half brother. The uncle, whose diner they were standing in front of, was her father’s older brother.

“Well, let’s just go in, and see what he has to say.”

“No!”

“You shouldn’t be so hardhearted, Veronica. Let bygones be bygones,” Peter said righteously. “I bet he’s sorry. After all, we all make mistakes, and if he’s sorry, you shouldn’t go on like that, carrying grudges. Give him a break.”

Veronica snorted, but she looked hesitantly at the door,

“Come on, we’ll try him out,” Peter said, taking her hand and pulling her up the stairs. “Let’s see what he has to say for himself.”

“If he says one thing about my mother ...” Veronica said fiercely, but she allowed Peter to haul her up the stairs with him, through the door and into the diner.

They stood for a moment inside the door, expanding in the warmth and looking around them. There were some booths against the wall and a long counter with a row of seats that ran down the length of the room. Peter, holding Veronica’s hand, skated her over to two unoccupied seats at the counter. There was a tall, blond, teen-aged boy behind the counter, and Veronica nudged Peter, and whispered, “That’s Charles, Jr.”

“Who’s Charles, Jr.?” Peter asked, enjoying the view of three or four pies with triangular pieces cut out of them.

“The youngest one. My uncle has two boys—August and Charles, Jr.”

“Oh.” Peter inspected the case that held a large chocolate cake, an equally large coconut layer cake, and a variety of doughnuts. After a while, Charles, Jr., came over to them and said, “Yes?”

Peter finished his appraisal of the baked apples, smiled at Charles, Jr., turned a little toward Veronica, and waited.

But Charles, Jr., just looked at the two of them blankly and said, “What do you want?”

“Let’s  go,” said Veronica, beginning to rise.

“Just a minute,” Peter said, holding her down and catching a fleeting glimpse of some apple turnovers off in the distance. “Is Mr. Ganz around?”

“My father? Yes, he’s in the back,”

“Could we see him, please?” Peter said, trying to sound important.

Charles, Jr., poked his head around the partition that separated the kitchen from the front and said, “Pa, there’s a kid here who wants to see you.”

“What did you do that for?” Veronica hissed.

Peter let his eyes move from the tray of

Jell-O to the one filled with rice pudding and murmured gently, “Just give him a chance.”

A very tall, powerful, blond man emerged from the kitchen. His son motioned in their direction, and Veronica’s uncle approached them.

“You wanted to see me?” he said.

Peter smiled benignly at him, and then motioned with his head at Veronica, and waited for the reconciliation scene.

Mr. Ganz looked at Veronica then back at Peter. “Well, what is it?” he asked impatiently.

Peter was astonished. Veronica’s uncle did not know who she was. Why, in his family, everybody knew everybody else down to the third cousins, four times removed. He could feel Veronica stiffen next to him, and he said quickly, “Uh, could I have a glass of water, please?”

Mr. Ganz impatiently filled a glass with water and slapped it down on the counter. “Now what’s up?” he demanded.

Peter sipped his water, glanced at Veronica with her eyes down on the counter, and beyond her to a case filled with Danish pastries.

“Nice place you got here—Mr. Ganz?”

“How do you know my name?” said the man suspiciously.

“That your boy over there?” Peter asked.

Mr. Ganz’s eyes narrowed.

“Nice boy,” Peter said nervously. “Have you got any girls?”

“Look, who sent you over here?” Veronica’s uncle said, bending over him.

“Nobody. I just wondered if you had any daughters or maybe nieces, because it’s nice having girls in a family,” Peter said lamely.

“I’m going,” Veronica said, rising.

Veronica’s uncle put out a huge hand and caught Peter’s jacket with it.

“What do you want, kid? What kind of a game are you playing?”

“Let him go!” Veronica yelled. She pushed her uncle’s hand away, and Peter said sadly, “O.K., Veronica, you’re right. Let’s go.”

“Veronica?”   said   Mr.   Ganz.   He   came    quickly around the counter and loomed above them just as they reached the door.  “Veronica?” he said to Veronica. “Are you Veronica?”

“Yes,” said Veronica, trying to skate around him to the door.

“Veronica Ganz?” He put his hand on her shoulder and looked at her. She struggled for a moment and then stood there with her eyes on the ground.

“Well, what do you know,” said Mr. Ganz slowly. “It’s Veronica.”

He propelled her over to one of the tables and eased her into a seat. Then he sat down across from her and suddenly began grinning. “The image of Frank,” he said. “The image of him.”

“You didn’t know who I was,” Veronica said, stubbornly keeping her eyes away from his.

“Just for the minute,” said her uncle, “and that kid kept on talking. I didn’t know what he was up to.”

He looked up at Peter who had slowly followed them over to the table. “Come here, boy, sit down.” Peter sat down carefully next to Veronica, and Mr. Ganz laughed and said, “Well, that’s a good joke on me. Do I have any girls in my family?” He laughed a loud, hearty laugh and leaned over to poke Peter’s shoulder. “You’re a real comedian, son. What’s your name?”

“Peter Wedemeyer, sir.”

“Yes, sir, Peter Wedemeyer, you’re a real comedian.” Veronica’s uncle laughed some more. Then he looked Veronica over again and said, “Wait till I write your father and tell how his beautiful daughter came to visit me and played a joke on me.”

Veronica’s face turned red, but she still kept her eyes down and didn’t say anything.

“You know, just the other day I was saying to your Aunt Margaret that you and Mary Jane must be grown-up now, and that one of these days I was just going to have to come over and see the two of you. Just the other day I said it. Isn’t that funny?”

“Her name is Mary Rose, not Mary Jane,” Veronica said between her teeth.

“That’s what I said—Mary Rose, and here you are. Isn’t that great! So many times I wanted to run over and see the two of you, I can’t tell you.”

“But you never did,” Veronica said, looking up at him finally, with a serious face.

“Aw, honey, don’t be like that,” Uncle Charles said, leaning toward her. “Lots of things a kid like you doesn’t understand. But now here we are together, so how about giving your uncle a big, sweet smile.”

Veronica just looked at him without smiling.

“She’s shy,” Peter murmured.

“Shy, is she, my beautiful niece?” Uncle Charles reached over and patted Veronica’s cheek. “I bet she doesn’t have any teeth—that’s why she’s not smiling.”

Veronica struggled for a moment, but then her face grew very red and she burst out laughing. Peter did, too, and so did Uncle Charles.

“That’s better,” Uncle Charles said comfortably, rumpling her hair. “And how about some lunch, something superduper for my superduper niece?”

“I had lunch,” said Veronica.

“I didn’t,” Peter said happily.

Peter had two hamburgers, a piece of apple pie, and a Coke. Veronica refused to eat anything. But after Peter had finished eating, and the two of them stood up, ready to go, Uncle Charles said, “Just a
minute.” He went into the kitchen and returned with a big, flat, white box.

“Some things maybe I don’t remember so well,” he said, “but some things I do. Is lemon meringue pie still your favorite?” he asked Veronica,

Veronica’s eyes shone.

“Here,” he said, holding the box out toward her, “for you and Mary Rose.”

Veronica’s hands remained at her side. “And Stanley too?” she asked tensely.

“And Stanley too,” Uncle Charles said gently. She took the box then, and Uncle Charles put an arm around her shoulder and said, “You’re a good girl, Veronica. You were very good to come and see me, and after this, I won’t wait for you to come. I’ll be by to see you and Mary Rose real soon. So give her a kiss from me, and ... and ... say hello to your mother.”

Veronica was halfway up the block before Peter caught up with her.

“He’s a pretty nice guy, your uncle,” Peter said, “and watch out, you’ll drop the box.”

Veronica was holding it with two fingers crooked under the string. Her face was glowing, and she giggled and said, “I thought he was going to break your neck when you said that about him having any girls in his family. What a nut you are!”

“Uh, huh,” said Peter, his mind on more important matters. “But how are we going to get home with that. Well never make it skating. We better take the trolley. Do you have any money?”

“No—you?”

“I’ve only got a nickel, so why don’t you go back and get a nickel from your uncle.”

“No,” Veronica said very firmly. “We’ll skate.”

“We’d never make it.”

She looked at him appraisingly. “Maybe,” she said thoughtfully, “if we both get on the streetcar together, and you stoop down a little and hold my hand, the driver might think you were my kid brother.”

“I don’t look like a five-year-old,” Peter said, suddenly close to tears.

“No, no, I don’t mean that,” Veronica said quickly. “Only I’m so tall. That’s what I mean. It’s me—I’m so big that maybe—aw gee, Peter—I didn’t mean anything. My mother. didn’t start paying for Mary Rose on the streetcar until she was ten, and she was always tall for her age. Look, let’s just forget it and skate home. Or, how about this ...”

“The trolley’s coming,” Peter said, motioning down the track. “Hurry up.”

“You take the pie, and ride home on the trolley, and wait for me by my house, and I’ll skate home.”

She held out the pie to him, slowly, as if it would burn her hand to give it up. So Peter quickly dropped the nickel into her jacket pocket and skated away. He didn’t look back, but as the trolley passed him, somebody was banging loudly on the window, and he looked up at Veronica, thumbing her nose at him as she passed.

He stuck out his tongue in return and felt happy and important. He’d certainly patched things up for Veronica. The day had ended a lot better than it had begun. It certainly was a good feeling knowing that you’d done something for a friend. Peter squared his shoulders and began skating in earnest. He had a long way to go. But how could she ever have thought he’d pass for a five-year-old. Nobody would ever take him for a five-year-old. Sometimes she could be an awful sap!

The annex of the high school that Peter went to lay on the other side of the park. All first, second, and third termers went to the annex.

It was a long walk from where Peter lived, and on rainy days, it was an exciting one. Everybody would arrive at school wet and wind-swept and full of high spirits. On rainy days, most teachers seemed to understand that serious work could not begin when the bell rang—that a period of distillation must be allowed before wet feet could be settled beneath desks, pink cheeks fade to a studious pallor, and giggles and squeals converted to the restrained response of “present” when the roll call was sounded.

On this rainy Monday, Peter’s mother was still not talking to him, which made him uncomfortable, but which also meant that he was able to get out of the house without her telling him to wear his rubbers.

In the park, he caught sight of Veronica flopping along ahead and he shouted for her to stop. Veronica never wore rubbers or carried an umbrella. She’d been wearing the same kind of rain outfit for as long as he’d known her, and he couldn’t help snickering quickly to himself as he hurried up to her. It was a poncho, she said, left in her stepfather’s cleaning store, a huge square of khaki-colored material that she had flung over her head. It covered her whole body, down to her ankles, and it kept her books and the rest of her dry. But she sure looked funny. When the wind whipped, as it did today, the corners of the poncho billowed out on all sides, making her look like a fat, funny version of Bat Man.