Veronica Ganz (2 page)

Mrs. Rizzio grabbed Veronica’s shoulders and began shaking her. “Shame on you, shame!” she cried. “You big bully, picking on a nice little boy like Peter Wedemeyer.”

“Nice little boy!” yelled Veronica. “He started it. He —”
.

“Now go home, go home!” shrilled Mrs. Rizzio, dragging her toward the door. “Go home, and don’t let me see you here again.” She stopped for a moment and sniffed the air. “What’s that terrible smell? Phew!”

“He threw fish on me,” Veronica began. “He —
.
”

“Fish, tish,” scolded Mrs. Rizzio. “A big girl like you. Take a bath, that’s what you should do instead of picking on little kids and telling lies. Clean yourself up, and don’t go around smelling like that. If you go around smelling like that, nobody’ll ever marry you. You’ll see.”

She opened the door, pushed Veronica out on the stoop, waited for Mary Rose to follow, and then slammed the door.

“C’mon, Veronica,” Mary Rose whined, “let’s go home.”

“I’m not going home!” Veronica said, sitting down on the stoop. “I’ll wait here all night for him. I’ll stay here till he comes out. I’ll catch him. I’ll fix him. I’ll —
.
”

Mrs. Rizzio opened the door and waved her hand a few times. “Go!” she ordered. “Go!”

Veronica stayed where she was.

“I’m calling the police,” Mrs. Rizzio said.

Veronica got up, and walked quickly down the stairs, and up the block.

“Tomorrow’s another day,” Mary Rose said soothingly, walking beside her. She pulled the fish head from Veronica’s hair, tittered, and began brushing the scales and fish pieces off her jacket.

“What’s so funny?” Veronica snarled, raising her hand. But Mary Rose tittered again, and quickly fled up the block, and around the corner.

“Fink!” Veronica muttered. But she was too tired to give chase. Now all she wanted to do was get home and, as Mrs. Rizzio had suggested, take a bath and separate herself from that horrible smell of fish that enveloped her.

“Veronica Ganz

Doesn’t wear pants.

Veronica Ganz

Doesn’t wear pants”

Veronica knew that she should just ignore him now. Just keep on walking, and later at home, when she was cool, calm, collected, and clean, she could lay out a reasonable plan of revenge. But revenge was not the only issue at stake here. There was also this matter of whether she did or did not wear pants. And she always did wear pants. So she turned and looked back at Peter Wedemeyer, who was leaning half out of his window, and she shouted back at him, “Peter Wedemeyer, you liar! I do so wear pants.” And quickly she flipped her skirt up to her waist, revealing the pair of pink panties that lay underneath. Then she dropped her skirt, shook her fist at him, and said, “I’ll get you tomorrow.”

And with that question cleared up, she turned and began walking again toward the corner. A moment of silence, and then,

“Veronica Ganz

Has ants in her pants.”

But Veronica just hurried along. Tomorrow was another day.

Chapter 2

Stanley was sitting on the stoop waiting, and as soon as he saw her he jumped up and began shouting something she couldn’t hear. As she drew closer, she could see that he looked even messier than usual — his hair stood up in points on his head, his shoes were untied, the buttons were off his jacket, and as usual his nose was running.

“Go ‘way,” she snapped, as soon as they were close enough for him to hear her.

But Stanley’s face was shining with pleasure. “Can we go now, Veronica?” he continued shouting even though there was no longer any need to shout. “Right now? I’m ready, Veronica.”

Veronica walked right past him through the door to the apartment house and began climbing the three flights of stairs. Stanley followed along right behind her.

“What took you so long, Veronica? I’ve been waiting and waiting. Mary Rose is home. Can we go now? What smells so funny? Veronica, are you ready? Can we go? I want a chocolate marshmallow cake with a nut on it, and Papa likes to have a lemon coconut cake. Mama said so. Are you ready, Veronica? Can we go now?”

Veronica opened the door that said 40 on it, and R. Petronski under it, entered the apartment, and slammed the door behind her. She nearly tripped over a bundle that stood in the hall, and, grumbling, she kicked at it and continued on into the kitchen.

Mama had promised to leave a quarter for them on the kitchen table, and it was there, all right. The note under it said:

V.
—

Make sure to get a lemon coconut cake for R. and anything else you like.

M.

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.