Veronica Ganz (6 page)

Mrs. Wedemeyer paused for a second to take a breath, and in that second Veronica said quickly, “Where is he?”

“At the library,” Mrs. Wedemeyer answered, inhaling deeply, and continued telling Veronica how Peter read all the time—such books—way over the

heads of most children his age—books even her husband would have trouble with.

“Well, yes, thank you very much, Mrs. Wedemeyer, “Veronica said, easing her way toward the outer door. “I’ll see if I can catch—I mean find— him at the library.”

“It’s been very nice talking to you, Roslyn,” Mrs. Wedemeyer said, “and if you see Peter, tell him to cross by the lights.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll tell him,” Veronica leered. “G’bye.”

She hurried down the steps, and practically flew up 169th Street to the library. She certainly would tell Peter to cross by the lights, she thought light-heartedly as she climbed the long flight of stairs to the children’s room. While she was blackening both of his eyes, she’d tell him to be sure to cross by the lights.

Inside the room, Veronica passed the big desk, and paused to look around her warily. It had been a long, long time since she’d been to the library. Back in fifth grade, was it, the teacher had made them all get library cards, and she had taken out a book about horses or something, had lost the book, lost the card, and gotten all kinds of letters from the library saying how much money she owed, and how she couldn’t take any more books out until she paid up.

Partially hidden by the crowd  around the desk, Veronica tried to locate Peter in the big room. Once she saw him, she’d just sneak away downstairs before he saw her, and wait until he came out. Then she’d deliver his mother’s message, and deliver some other things as well. But there were so many children in the room, and several corners that she couldn’t see into at all. So slowly, and quietly, she moved away from the desk and began to circle the room. Twice, she moved around it. Peter was not there.

Either he had come and gone while she’d been trailing him or, and she hoped this was the case, he had not yet arrived. Veronica sat herself down at a table and kept her eyes glued to the entrance.

“Now what was the name of that book?” she heard someone say. A librarian was leading a boy over to the catalog that stood near the table where Veronica sat.

“I think it’s the
Little Captive Lad,”
said the boy, and he watched as the librarian flipped through the cards in the catalog.

“Here it is,” she said,
“Little Captive Lad,
and the author’s last name is Dix. You’ll find it over in the D’s in the fiction section.”

The boy thanked her, and was gone. A few minutes later, the librarian returned with a girl.

“It’s three something or maybe it’s four something. And it has a lot of good stories in it. My girl friend had it out last week.”

“Three
...
three
...
three,” hummed the librarian, flipping through the cards again. Veronica

unfastened her eyes from the entrance and watched.

“Three
...
three
...
” said the librarian. “Here we are.
Three Boys and a Dog?”

“No,” said the girl.

“Three Cats Go West?”

“No.”

“Three Friends of Long Ago?”

“No.”

“Three Golden Oranges?”

“That’s it, that’s it,” said the girl, nodding.

“The author’s name is Boggs,” said the librarian. “It’s over in the fairy-tale section. Come along. I’ll help you find it.”

Veronica watched them walk off together. The librarian moved quickly to a certain shelf, pulled out a book, and handed it to the girl. Veronica began watching her in between keeping an eye on the door. Back and forth from the catalog to the bookshelves she went, finding books, and acting as if there wasn’t any book in the whole place she didn’t know. Such certainty! Such confidence in her own ability! Such assurance! Veronica took another look at the door, thought for a few minutes, grinned wickedly, and decided to have a little fun while she waited for Peter. The next time the librarian moved in her direction, Veronica stood up and said, “Uh, miss, could you help me find a book?”

“Why certainly,” replied the librarian, her round face confident. “What’s it called?”

“Well, I think it’s called
The Mystery of the Hidden Shoes.”

“Mmm
...
mystery
...
mystery of
...
” said the librarian, flipping through the cards. Veronica stood patiently by her side.
“Mystery of the Hidden Door, Mystery of the Hidden Treasure, Mystery of the Hidden Villa.
I don’t see anything listed called
The Mystery of the Hidden Shoes.
Are you sure you have it right?”

“Oh yes, ma’am,” Veronica said, taking a quick peek at the entrance. “I think the author’s name is Toes.”

“Toes?” said the librarian. “How do you spell it?”

“T-O-Z-E,” said Veronica carefully.

“That’s an odd name,” said the librarian, but she began looking through the cards in the T drawer.

“I think it’s I. C. Toze,” Veronica said, and waited. The librarian continued flipping the cards unsuspectingly, and said finally that they just did not have that book in the library.

“There’s another one I’d like then,” Veronica said.

“Good,” said the librarian kindly. “Maybe we can find that one for you.”

“It’s called
The Crazy Man.”

“I see,” said the librarian. But this time she did not begin flipping through the cards. “And the author? Do you know his name?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Veronica with a serious face. “It’s U. R. Looney.”

The librarian just cocked her head to one side, and looked at Veronica. “I don’t think,” she said crisply, “that you are really in a mood for books today. Why don’t you run along now, and come back another day.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Veronica said agreeably, “but there is another book I wanted. It’s called—”

“Another day,” said the librarian emphatically. “Good-bye.”

Veronica leaped down the stairs chuckling to herself. Now that had been fun, and she certainly would return on another day.

A couple of hours later, after canvassing the park, Peter’s block, the schoolyard, and several other likely spots, Veronica returned home. She hadn’t found Peter after all, but in the park she had found a tennis racket without a handle and a slightly rusted flashlight that should work once she got some new batteries for it. Her new possessions, particularly the flashlight, made her feel that the day had not been completely wasted.

As she opened the door to the apartment, Mary Rose came running out of the living room, her cheeks flushed, a letter in her hand.

“Veronica,” she cried, “See, it’s from Papa. He didn’t forget. Something came up in his business, and he couldn’t leave. In a few weeks, he says. For sure by Christmas.”

Chapter 6

“Mademoiselle Fry,” said Madame Nusinoff,
“levez-vous.”
["Stand up."]

Rosalie stood.

“J’ai vingt-et-un fleurs dans mon jardin”
said the teacher,
“et vous avez quinze fleurs dans votre jardin. Qui a plus de fleurs?”
["I have twenty-one flowers in my garden and you have fifteen flowers in your garden. Who has more flowers?"]

Rosalie blinked. A nervous silence enveloped the rest of the class as each child went over in his mind the teacher’s question, and what the appropriate answer should be. Veronica watched the mole over Madame Nusinoff’s lip twitch.

“Avez-vous étudié la leçon
[“Have you studied the lesson”]
,
Mademoiselle Fry?” inquired Madame Nusinoff politely.

“Yes I have but —
.
”

“En francais
["In French"]
,
”
commanded the teacher.

“Oui.”
[“Yes.”]

“Eh bien—quelle est la réponse?”
["So—what is the answer?"]

Rosalie bit her lip and looked up at the ceiling.

“Asseyez-vous!”
["Sit down!"]
said Madame Nusinoff, putting a mark in the book on her desk. Rosalie sat down. The teacher’s eyes swept over the classroom and rested on Paul Curran. “Monsieur Curran,” she said,
“Levez-vous, s’il vous plaît.”
["Will you please stand up."]

Paul cast one last desperate look at the open book on his desk, and very slowly stood up.

“Monsieur Curran,” said Madame Nuisnoff,
“J’ai vingt-et-un fleurs dans mon jardin, et vous avez quinze fleurs dans votre jardin. Qui a plus de fleurs?”
["I have twenty-one flowers in my garden, and you have fifteen flowers in your garden. Who has more flowers?]

Paul hesitated, and then said without very much conviction,
“Moi
—
.
”
["Me —
.
"]

“Pourquoi?”
["Why?"]

Paul took a deep breath.
“Parce que vous avez
—
.
” ["Because you have—"] His vocal chords failing him, Paul’s hands began describing larger and larger arcs in the air. The mole on Madame Nusinoff’s upper lip twitched once again, and Veronica burst out laughing.

“Asseyez-vous
[“Sit down]
,
Monsieur Curran,” said Madame Nusinoff, putting another mark in the book on her desk. Then she looked at Veronica.

“Mademoiselle Ganz,” she said,
“levez-vous, s’il vous plaît.”
[“please stand up."]

Veronica rose, and leaned, smiling against her desk.

The teacher droned again,
“J’ai vingt-et-un fleurs dans mon jardin, et vous avez quinze fleurs dans votre jardin. Qui a plus de fleurs?
["I have twenty-one flowers in my garden, and you have fifteen flowers in your garden. Who has more flowers?"]
Mademoiselle Ganz,
traduisez la question, s’il vous plaît.”
["please translate the question."]

“You said,” Veronica answered, “that you have twenty-one flowers in your garden, and that I have fifteen flowers in my garden. Who has more flowers?”

“Bon!”
[“Good!”] said  Madame  Nusinoff.
“Et la réponse?”
[“And the answer?"]

“Vous,” [“You,”]
said Veronica, grinning.

“Bon! Et pourquoi?”
["Good! And why?"]

“Because,” said Veronica, the grin stretching all over her face, “I don’t have a garden.”

There was a general sucking in of breaths from all corners of the classroom, quickly followed by a rising wave of titters.

The mole twitched again, but Madame Nusinoff just said tonelessly, as if nothing unusual had been said,
“En français.”
["In French."]

Feeling a little foolish, Veronica said,
“Parce que je n’ai pas un jardin.”
["Because I don't have a garden."]

“Asseyez-vous
["Sit down]
,
Mademoiselle Ganz,” said the teacher,
“et restez ici après la classe!”
[“and stay here after class!"]

Then Madame Nusinoff proceeded, in French, to tell the class that it was obvious that most of them had not done the homework, that many of them were sure to fail French, and that they must also be going to fail math if they couldn’t answer a simple question in subtraction such as the one she had presented to them. Her specific comments were not completely understood by most of the students, who were delighted to have her talking anyway and were only hoping that she would continue berating them in French or any other language she chose until the bell rang. Unfortunately, with about fifteen minutes to go, Madame Nusinoff resumed the inquisition, and it was not until Peter Wedemeyer was called upon that the question was finally answered to her satisfaction.

Then Madame Nusinoff, in English this time, told the class that the French Club, of which she was the faculty advisor, was going to put on a pageant for Christmas — in French of course. It would include French songs, French dances, and a play. More actors were needed, and she asked if there were any children in the class who would like to join the club and take part in the pageant. Peter’s hand immediately shot up. Madame Nusinoff wrote his name down in her book, and looked around the classroom with one eyebrow raised. Linda Jensen put up her hand, so naturally Frieda Harris raised hers too. Then very slowly the hands of Reba Fleming, Frank Scacalossi, and Lorraine Jacobs floated upward. Madame Nusinoff wrote. Just as the bell rang, Paul Curran’s right hand, which had been held tightly under his desk by his left hand, broke free and jerked up. Madame Nusinoff’s eyebrow rose a little higher, but Paul’s name was duly recorded.

“We will meet Friday afternoon at three-thirty in the auditorium,” said Madame Nusinoff. “If anyone else decides to join us, meet us then.”

Veronica ambled over to the desk, and stood looking out into the hall, and tapping one foot in rhythm to bop de dum dum, dum dum. The teacher had told her to remain after class, and that’s what she was doing. She knew that Madame Nusinoff would just tell her off, read her the riot act, and send her on her way, as she had done so many times before. Madame Nusinoff, for all her grumpiness, never sent people to the principal, which was one reason why she liked Madame Nusinoff better than most of her other teachers.

Paul Curran stopped by the desk, too, and began explaining to Madame Nusinoff that he really had known the correct answer to her question about the flowers in the garden but that he had been thrown by translating “I” and “you.” She had said in French “I have twenty-one flowers in my garden and you have fifteen flowers.” But when he translated it in his own mind, he became the “I” and she the “you.” So that was why he wasn’t sure who had the six extra flowers, although he realized one of them had.

“I see,” said Madame Nusinoff frostily.

Paul looked meaningfully at the record book on her desk, but since she made no move in its direction, he said sadly, “Good morning,” and moved off.

“Veronica,” said Madame Nusinoff when they were alone, “you were very funny today.”

Veronica looked away modestly.

“Very funny,” continued Madame Nusinoff. “Now I hope you’re going to think it’s funny when I tell you that you’ll probably fail French on the next report card period.”