“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.
“Let’s go in the bedroom,” she whispered.
Aside from being the biggest fink in the world, Mary Rose was also the biggest sneak. Always listening in on private conversations. And if it was not for all the useful and amazing bits of information she acquired that way, Veronica would have refused to listen to her. As a rule Veronica held a very low opinion of sneaks, finks, and liars.
She
never lied, and
she
never sneaked, and, especially,
she
never, never finked. People might say she was a bully, but she knew very well that she wasn’t that either. Nobody could say she ever started a fight — at least not without a good reason — but she could always be counted on to finish a fight. And what was wrong with that? If she didn’t take care of herself, and make sure that nobody picked on her, who would take care of her? Or of Stanley? Or of Mary Rose, too, for that matter? All she wanted was for people to leave her and her family alone, and not to make fun of them. Why should that make her a bully?
She followed Mary Rose into their bedroom and waited while she closed the door. Mary Rose’s cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were shining. She looked almost pretty. She always seemed to look her best when she had been listening in on something she wasn’t supposed to hear.
“Boy, is Mama upset,” she said, gloating. “Wait’ll you hear what she said.”
“One of these days,” Veronica said, almost lecturing, “Mama’ll catch you sneaking around like that, and she’ll knock your head off.”
“Oh, she never has.” Mary Rose shook her head impatiently. “But you know what—I think he’s got lots of money.”
“Who has?”
“Papa. Our Papa. And Mama said she wouldn’t take a single penny from him. And she said he sold his restaurant in Las Vegas, and he’s going to live on a ranch, and she says he wants to steal us away from her.”
“What?”
“Swear to God she said that—or something like that,” Mary Rose said solemnly. “Because they don’t have any children, and they’ve been married a long time so it must be that they can’t have any. And I’ll bet that’s why they’re coming here—to take us back with them.” Mary Rose began squealing, “Isn’t that marvelous? Our Papa’s rich, and he has a ranch with horses, I bet—oh—I can’t wait to go.”
Veronica sat down on the bed. “So where’s he been all these years?” she said doubtfully. “How come he didn’t come to see us before if he wants us so much? Phooey, I don’t believe it.”
“I don’t know,” Mary Rose shrugged. “Maybe he just couldn’t come. Maybe his wife was sick. Maybe he had to work in the restaurant all the time. Who cares? But he’s coming now, and I can’t wait to go back with him. I hate this dump, don’t you?”
Veronica didn’t say anything, but she was beginning to feel a funny, jumping flutter in her stomach.
“Why should we stay here?” Mary Rose began whining. “Nobody cares for us here. Mama doesn’t really love us. You know — she just loves Stanley — not us.”
“Oh, cut it out,” Veronica snapped. Mary Rose was always going on and on about who loved who more than who, and how this one didn’t love her as much as that one—it was sickening.
“I wonder what she looks like—his wife, I mean. Helen’s such a pretty name, isn’t it? I bet she’s beautiful. I kind of think of her as a blonde with blue eyes—like Lorraine Day. And Papa’s so handsome.” Mary Rose opened the bottom drawer of the chest and pulled out the picture. She sat down next to Veronica, and they studied it, as they had many times before. It was their parents’ wedding picture, and their father looked very tall, and blond, and handsome in his tuxedo. “He must be as tall as Ralph,” Mary Rose whispered, “but he’s all muscle. Just look at his shoulders.”
In the picture Mama looked pretty much as she looked today, but younger, and her hair was all fancy on top of her head. Her veil was thrown back and she wore a long satin gown and held flowers in her hand. She looked very happy. And when Veronica saw that young, smiling face of Mama’s, she felt like hitting someone—the same way she felt when someone had hurt Stanley. Because there was something else she remembered. Something that had happened a long time ago, but Mama’s face was very clear in her mind, as clear as it was in the picture. They were riding on the subway. Mama was holding a baby in her lap—it must have been Mary Rose, and she was sitting next to Mama.
And Mama began to cry. Somebody who was sitting on the other side of Mama said, “Stop it! Everybody’s looking at you.” But Mama kept crying and crying. She could hear the voice in her mind. It was a man’s voice, but that was all she remembered.
“You know,” Mary Rose whispered, “I bet it was like that movie,
Stella Dallas.
You know, Papa was rich, and he came from a fancy home, and he married Mama when they were very young, and then he realized his mistake — that she could never fit into his life, and he —
.
”
“Oh, are you a nut!” Veronica sneered, but she kept looking at the picture, and feeling angry, and wondering what had really happened. Mama said only that they didn’t get along together—and with all Mary Rose’s sneaking around behind closed doors, and listening to whispered conversations, she had never found out why. But Mama had never cried again like she had that time on the subway. Veronica clenched her fists. And it had better not happen again.
Every Christmas a card arrived with some money in it, which Mama always took to buy clothes for them. Usually the card had only a short message on it, something like “Merry Christmas to my darling daughters, Veronica and Mary Rose, from your loving Papa.” Last year he had sent presents instead of money—two mother of pearl crosses for them on silver chains.