The man just stood there shaking his head back and forth. Peter sat down in the path and quickly unstrapped his skates. After a second, Veronica did the same. But the man kept standing there, looking at them. He didn’t say anything, just watched them. Peter’s skates clanged together when he stood up, holding them in one hand, and he separated them nervously, and one of them dropped, making a loud sound on the pavement.
The man’s face bunched up then, and tears ran down his cheeks.
“Aw, Mister,” Peter said, “We’ll go now. We didn’t mean anything.”
The man tried to say something but his words caught in his throat, and he motioned with his hand toward the gravestone he was standing next to.
Veronica was the first to move. She walked around the man, and looked at the front of the stone. Peter followed her. The inscription on it said:
MARTIN FRANKLIN
1932-1940
and under that, in smaller letters:
OUT DEAR SON
The man said, “I told him that last time he was sick, I promised him a pair of skates with ball bearings, and I promised him a boat he could sail, and
a pair of boxing gloves. He always wanted boxing gloves.”
“Did he fight a lot?” Veronica asked curiously, and Peter looked at her in surprise. What a crazy question to ask. You never talked like that about dead people. Anytime the grownups in his family spoke about the dead, it was only in the most glowing terms. She should know better than to ask a question like that.
The man didn’t seem to mind though. He smiled and said, “Oh, he was a real boy, my Martin. He got into lots of scrapes. He could lick any kid on the block. His mother didn’t like it, but I knew he’d be all right. You don’t want a boy to be a sissy.”
“He must have been a wonderful boy,” Peter said respectfully, but Veronica asked, “Did he get in trouble in school?”
The man hesitated, and Peter tried to catch Veronica’s eye, and signal her to stop asking such foolish questions.
“Well,” the man said slowly, “he didn’t like school much. But he wasn’t a bad boy—just a little lively. He had this old, crabby teacher who kept calling my wife into school all the time.”
“Did you ever hit him?” Veronica asked.
“No, no,” the man protested, “I never did.” He shook his head a few times and then he swallowed, looked at Veronica, and said, “Sometimes. I had to. What do you do when a kid gets out of hand? If
I’d only known—but he was so big and strong. How could I know?”
“Sure,” Veronica said easily, and then she put her skates down on one side of the grave and said, “What are you doing now?”
“Oh!” The man looked down at the little shovel in his hand. “I’m putting some new plants in, and then I’ll weed and pull up the grass. I like to keep it looking nice.”
Veronica crouched down over the grave. “Which ones are the weeds?”
“Those tall ones that stick up,” said the man, and Veronica began pulling them out.
“Here, I’ll help too,” Peter said, putting his skates down and bending over another part of the small plot. He pulled out a few weeds, and then the man, Mr. Franklin, said, “No, not that one. That’s a plant.” He crouched down next to Peter and showed him the difference. “It’s funny,” he said, “but I never knew anything about plants or flowers. All my life I’ve lived in apartment houses. But since he’s gone, I’ve been going around to the nurseries and learning. See that.” He pointed to a spindly bush on one side of the grave. “That’s an American Beauty rosebush. I planted it last time I was here. Next year, it’ll bloom.”
“Very nice,” Peter said politely, but Veronica looked at the bush and said, “Where’s your wife?”
“She’s home. We’ve got a baby now—Katherine. She was born a few months after Martin went, and there’s Kenny and Jamie too. They’re five and seven.”
“Do they remember him?” Veronica asked.
“We don’t talk about him much. My wife doesn’t want them to feel bad. He’s only been gone a little over a year, and I think maybe Kenny doesn’t remember him any more, but I guess Jamie does. They used to play together a lot.”
Veronica sat back, and her face was thoughtful. “If I was dead,” she said, “I’d hate for nobody to remember me.”
“I tell her that all the time,” Mr. Franklin said eagerly, “but she says they’re only kids and it’ll upset them.”
“If I was dead,” Veronica went on, looking at the rosebush, “I’d want people to talk about me. I’d want them to get up in the morning, and when they sat down to eat breakfast, somebody’d say, ‘There’s the bowl Veronica ate her Rice Krispies out of.’ And maybe somebody would say how I hated eggs. And they’d talk about me, and I wouldn’t mind if Mary Rose or somebody said things that weren’t so nice about me, as long as they kept talking and thinking about me. And I’d want them all to come out to the cemetery and to look at my grave, and maybe plant things and sit around and talk so I wouldn’t be lonely.”
“If you were dead, you wouldn’t be lonely,” Peter said.
“How do you know?”
“Well,” Mr. Franklin said unhappily, “none of them—the children I mean—has been here. When they’re older, my wife says she’ll take them.”
“She’s right,” Peter said. “They’re only little kids. Little kids shouldn’t have to think about sad things like this. They should play and be happy. You have to protect little kids.”
“But what about the little kid who’s dead?” Veronica cried. “What about Martin?”
Mr. Franklin said gently, “It’s not like we’ve forgotten him. Don’t think that. My wife and I talk about him and think about him all the time. We’ll never forget him. Don’t think that.” He put an arm out and pressed Veronica’s shoulder as if he was comforting her, and she nodded and began pulling up weeds again.
When they were finished, Mr. Franklin offered them some money for helping but they both refused. Veronica said slowly, “Could I come here sometimes, even if you’re not here, and weed? Would that be all right?”
Mr. Franklin didn’t answer her question. He just said quickly, “I’m sorry about the skates. You go ahead and put them on.” And then he hurried away.
“I’m not going to put them on. Are you?” Peter asked.
Veronica shook her head. Then she turned away and said, “If I was dead, would you forget about me?”
“What kind of stupid question is that?” Peter said uncomfortably. “You’re not going to be dead.”
“Someday I will.”
“Not for a long time. Gee, why are you thinking about dying? Let’s get out of here.”
“But if I did die. Say I got hit by a truck or got polio, would you forget me?”
“But you’re not going to die.”
“But if I did. Would you?”
“Would I what?”
“You know—forget me.”
“No,” Peter said, “I wouldn’t forget you. Now, let’s go.”
Veronica looked at him then and she said, “Peter, if you die, I swear, I’ll never forget you. I’ll talk about you all the time. I’ll tell people how you used to wear a blue sweater and how smart you were in school. And I’ll come all the time to where your grave is and I’ll plant lots of rosebushes and take care of them.” She clenched her fists. “I won’t let anybody forget you. When you care for somebody it doesn’t stop when he’s dead. I won’t let it. Ralph Peterson, the snake, he’s dead, and Mr. Bailey threw him out in the garbage, but I’m not forgetting him. And you know what I’m going to do? Every day when I take care of my snakes, I’m going to tell them about Ralph Peterson. I’m going to whisper to them about how smart he used to be, and about that long white stripe he had down his back. I’m
going to remind them. And I’d do the same for you, Peter, only more. So swear, if I die, you won’t forget me either. Go on, swear on his grave!”
She put her hand on Martin Franklin’s tombstone, and Peter looked at her wild face and thought, I mustn’t laugh, I mustn’t laugh.
So he put his hand on Martin Franklin’s tombstone too, and he said, “I swear to God I’ll never forget Veronica Ganz if she dies. And if I do, may I fall down dead!”
“And I swear,” said Veronica fiercely, “that if Peter Wedemeyer dies first, I’ll remember him and make everybody else remember him or may I be struck down dead!”
And then they were strolling along through the cemetery, carrying their skates over their shoulders, as if nothing important had happened. They began looking at the inscriptions on the other tombstones.
“Hey, look at this one,” Veronica shouted. “It’s for a lady—Martha Prendergast, 1856-1932.
If heaven is the reward for a life
Passed in innocence and usefulness
Then she was a favored candidate
Veronica read slowly. “I’ll bet she was nice.”
“Listen to this one,” Peter said, bending over a very old, weathered stone. “It’s another lady, Sarah T. Carey, 1806-1847.
Behold my friends as you pass by
As you are now, so once was I
As I am now, so you must be
Prepare for death and follow me
Brr! That’s not very cheerful, is it?”
“What do you think of this one?” Veronica cried. “It’s a man, Matthew Lukes, 1850-1903.
To live in hearts
We leave behind
Is not to die
That’s beautiful.” She sat down next to the tombstone and began pulling weeds. There were many of them, and Peter, watching her, suddenly began chuckling. “I see you’ve got a new occupation.”
“Oh, shut up!”
Peter moved off and began inspecting some of the other stones.
“Peter!”
“What?”
“Did you ever think about what you’d like them to write on your tombstone?”
“No—did you?”
“No—but I’m thinking now.”
Peter looked at her sitting on the grass, grinned, and said, “I’ve got one for you.”
“What?”
“It’s an old one.”
“Well, what is it?”
“You remember when we were enemies, I used to make up jingles about you?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Remember the one—
Veronica Ganz
Has ants in her pants?”
Veronica stood up.
“Well, if you were dead, I’d have to change it to—
Veronica Ganz
Had ants in her pants.”
Veronica came at him then, and he dodged around a convenient stone and shouted, “Or maybe a better one would be—
She liked plants
Did Veronica Ganz.”
“Wait till I get my hands on you,” Veronica yelled, but she was laughing too.
They chased each other up and down the path until they saw some grownups in the distance. Then they began walking decorously along, holding their
skates behind them. Veronica said, leering at him, “I’ve got one for you.”
“What?”
“Peter Wedemeyer had a friend
And that was how he met his end.”
And she landed a quick kick on his shins before she got away.
Later, they climbed up to the elevated train platform in their skates and stood hanging over the back railing. They could see beyond the rooftops to where the lights of the city made patterns against the darkening blue sky. They stood there together, quietly looking at the lights until the train pulled into the station.
“Where’s Rosalie?” Papa said, sitting down at the kitchen table.
Mama put a plate of salad on the table and smiled mysteriously. “You’ll see a new girl when she comes home tonight.”
Papa put his napkin on his lap. “What do you mean?”
“I gave her the money,” said Mama triumphantly, looking at the clock. “ ‘Here,’ I said to her, ‘I’m treating you. Go get a permanent—one of those new hair styles all the young girls are wearing. Don’t be a stick-in-the-mud.’ So she listened to me for a change and made an appointment at the beauty parlor for after work, and we’ll see.”
“Don’t send for honey when sugar is sweet,” remarked Papa, selecting a pickle and some tomatoes from the platter.
“Tomorrow night,” Mama continued, ignoring her
husband’s bit of wisdom, “Bernard’s taking her to the Knights of Pythias banquet. She’ll wear a new dress—I made her buy it—and Tillie’s fur coat—I borrowed that—and she’ll have a beautiful new hair style, and we’ll see, we’ll see.”
“She looks fine to me,” Papa said stubbornly.
“Ma, what’s for supper?” Peter asked, without much hope. Tonight being Thursday generally meant fish, and fish was not one of Peter’s favorite foods.
“Fish,” his mother said, bending down and inspecting the interior of the stove.
“What’s for dessert?” Peter continued, a little more hopefully.
“Chocolate pudding.”
“So, Peter, how was school today?” his father asked.
“Oh, Pa, you should have seen me today. Both times I was up when we played stickball, I hit a homer. The second time, two men were on base and pow—we won seven to three.” Peter chuckled. “You should have seen that ball go.”
“Very nice,” said his father, “but I meant Hebrew School. Is Rabbi Weiss satisfied with you?”
Mama brought the platter of baked fish and potatoes to the table and began portioning it out.
“Why shouldn’t he be satisfied?” she said. “The boy never misses a day. He does all his work. He knows Hebrew better than any other boy in his class. What’s for Rabbi Weiss not to be satisfied?”
“I guess he thinks I’m doing O.K.,” Peter said. “A little piece, Ma, please, not so much.”
His mother finished distributing the food and sat down at the table.
“It’s only a month off now,” she said thoughtfully. “We’ll really have to start getting everything organized. Did you ask the men at the shop—Ralph Spector and Sy Wurtzman and the others to come?”
“Not yet, but I will,” Papa said.
“Tell them to bring their families too,” Mama said. “I’ll have enough for everybody.”
Peter nibbled carefully around the exterior of his piece of fish and moved on to the potatoes.
“Are you inviting Rose Lerner?” Papa asked.
“Should I? She didn’t invite us to Harriet’s wedding.”
For months now, his parents had been discussing Peter’s bar mitzvah and the party that was to follow. First there would be the services in the synagogue on Saturday morning, when he and one other boy would read portions of the Torah and make their bar-mitzvah speeches. Afterward, all the guests would return to the house to eat, drink, and rejoice. A new, silk-fringed tallith, the traditional prayer shawl worn by men, lay wrapped in tissue paper in a box in his parents’ closet. His father had bought it for him, and on the day of his bar mitzvah, would present it to him in the synagogue as a symbol of his arrival at religious maturity under Jewish law.