Peter and Veronica (9 page)

Only a month away now, and he would be thirteen, no longer a child. On May 27, a Thursday, his birthday would take place, and on the following Saturday, his bar mitzvah.

He had been to many bar mitzvahs of friends and relations in the past. Some of the boys had been nervous, some solemn, some radiant. But one way or another, all had passed their initiation into manhood and had starred in the festivities that followed. There would be gifts too, many gifts, and although Peter tried hard to ignore the worldly part of his bar mitzvah—as Rabbi Weiss urged all his students—and keep his mind solely on the spiritual end of it, still his heart thumped joyfully at the flow of presents that would certainly come.

He was not nervous at all about his performance in the synagogue. He had studied hard, had understood what he was studying, and spoke Hebrew with an ease that delighted his teacher and troubled his fellow students. When the day arrived, he would be ready. That it would be a day filled only with joy, spiritual as well as material, he had no doubt at all.

Listening to his father and mother discussing the guests to be invited reminded him that he had not as yet issued any invitations on his own, so he put his fork down and said, “Ma, can I invite all my friends?”

“Sure,” said his mother, smiling. “It’s your day— whoever you like. There’ll be plenty of everything.”

“Knishes?” Peter said hopefully.

“That reminds me,” Mama said. “I’m glad you mentioned it. I’ll tell Jake to make the little ones. They’re fancier. Maybe some with chopped liver too.”

She stopped talking suddenly and looked intently at Peter.

“Who are you going to invite?”

“My friends. You just said I could invite anybody I wanted.”

“Who?” his mother insisted.

“Well—Marv.” His mother nodded. “Bill, Paul-some of the kids in my class.”

“And who else?”

Peter looked at her and realized that he might as well get it over with now.

“I’m going to invite her, too, Ma, so just don’t say no.”

“Invite who?”

“Veronica.”

His mother pushed her plate away and stood up. “You are not going to invite that girl! Anybody else you can invite, but that girl is not coming into my house.”

Peter stood up and shouted, “If she doesn’t come, neither will I. You can have the bar mitzvah without me.”

“Jennie!” his father said, warningly, “Sit down, Jennie! Peter, don’t you shout at your mother! Sit down! We’re civilized people. We’ll talk.”

“Where does he go with her?” Mrs.  Wedemeyer
cried. “A whole day on Sunday, he’s gone. Where? What does he do?”

“I told you, I went skating,” Peter said between his teeth, but in a lower voice. “I just went skating. What do you think I’m doing—robbing banks?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised with a girl like that. But you will not invite her to this house. I can’t stop you from seeing her outside, but this is my house, and she is not coming inside as long as I live!”

“Sit down! SIT DOWN!” commanded Papa. Peter and his mother obeyed, but they glared at each other from across the table.

“I know, I know,” Mama said angrily, turning suddenly toward her husband. “You’re going to take his part. You always take his part.”

“No,” said Mr. Wedemeyer, “I’m only going to say what’s right and that’s not taking anybody’s part.”

Peter also looked at his father, and there was warmth and comfort in that look. It would all come right now that his father had taken over. His father was a man of reason who loved justice, and Peter knew that justice would now prevail. She might yell a little and argue, but she would ultimately, as she had always done in the past, respect her husband’s wishes. And what those wishes were, Peter thought he knew very well. For there was only one way for a man who was wise and just to act. He leaned back in his chair and listened.

“Peter,” his father said gently, “you must not invite this girl if your mother objects.”

“Pa,” Peter cried in horror, “how can you say such a thing?”

His mother sighed happily. “You see,” she said, “if Papa says so then it must be so.”

“Think about it, Peter,” his father continued. “What does it mean being bar mitzvahed. What is the party? Nothing. Even the ceremony in the synagogue is not important. What is important is that you’re supposed to be a man now, not a child who whines for his own way without understanding the consequences. What does it mean being a man? It means responsibility. And you have a responsibility to respect your parents first and foremost. Not only because it says so in the Bible, but because you’re old enough now to realize that your mother has done a great deal for you, more than anybody else in this world, and it’s only fair that you respect her wishes in something that matters so much to her. Believe me, Peter, it doesn’t make any difference to me whether your friend comes or not. As a matter of fact, if it gave you pleasure, I’d be glad to have her come. But your mother objects. Maybe she’s wrong. Maybe not. That’s not the point. Whether you agree with her or not, this is her house, and you must not invite this girl if your mother says no.”

Peter looked down at his plate and thought to himself, She will come or I won’t. But he said nothing.

“If you like, Peter,” said his father, “I’ll talk this over with Mama and try to persuade her to let your friend come. But if she refuses, then you will have to respect her wishes.”

“And she’s going to keep on refusing,” said his mother happily. “Now let’s have some chocolate pudding.”

They heard the door open, and Rosalie came into the kitchen. Yesterday her hair had hung very straight, down to her shoulders without a single wave in it. She had worn her hair that way for as long as Peter remembered. But now, from out of the scent of hair lotion, Rosalie stood with her hair in short, tight curls, plastered close to her head.

“Oiy!” said Peter’s father in horror.

Rosalie burst into tears and fled.

“What did you have to say ‘Oiy’ for?” hissed Mama, rising from her seat.

“She looks terrible,” whispered Papa. “What did they do to her? She looks like a clown.”

“Just don’t say ‘Oiy,’ “ said Mama, and she hurried out of the room.

Papa sighed. “Women!” he muttered. “Never satisfied with the way things are. Beauty parlors they call them. They should be called ugly parlors.”

“Pa,” Peter said slowly, “what you said about being a man, and taking responsibility ...”

“So?”

“Well, doesn’t a man have a responsibility to make fair decisions and do what he thinks is right even if everybody else disagrees?”

“A
wise man maketh a glad father

But a foolish man despiseth his mother,”

said Papa kindly. “You’ve studied the Bible, Peter. You’ll do what’s right.”

Peter stood up. “I will do what’s right,” he said. “And I know it’s right to invite Veronica.”

“Is it so important to you, Peter, that you would rather ask this girl, whom you’ve known only a short time, than make your mother, whom you’ve known all your life, happy? That’s not right, is it?”

“But, Papa, it’s only because Mama’s prejudiced that she doesn’t want me to invite her. It isn’t because Veronica’s done anything wrong. She’s not like she used to be. Don’t you see? It’s not fair. It’s not right. It’s the principle of the thing.”

But his father only shook his head, and Peter ran out of the kitchen and into his own room, where even though the door was closed, he could hear Rosalie’s sobs and his mother’s voice saying over and over again, “It’ll be all right. It’ll be all right.”

“Are you sure it’s all right if I come?” Veronica asked.

“Sure I’m sure,” Peter said, even though he wasn’t sure at all. With only three weeks to go now, he and his family were still deadlocked over Veronica. He had spoken to Rabbi Weiss, and of course Rabbi Weiss had only said he must respect his parents’ wishes. He had drawn Rosalie into the argument, and she had sided with him. But still his mother said no. Every night at his house there were more arguments, more scenes, more tears. The whole atmosphere began to feel more like a funeral, Peter thought, than a bar mitzvah.

So now, on this Friday afternoon, he had just gone ahead and invited her anyway. If his parents persisted in refusing to allow her to come, he had decided that he would ask them to call the whole thing off. But there was no point in going into details
with Veronica. She knew how his mother felt about her. He knew how her mother (and Stanley), felt about him. Ever since their conversation on the library steps, it hadn’t seemed necessary to discuss family matters any further.

“I mean—nobody’ll mind if I come?” Veronica said carefully.

“Look,” said Peter, “this is my party, and if I can’t invite my friends, then it won’t be much of a party. And I especially want you to come. As a matter of fact,” Peter clenched his fists, “I want you to come more than anybody else. O.K.?”

“Well, thanks,” Veronica said, her face thoughtful. “But what do I do? Where do I go?”

“First you come to the synagogue at nine o’clock in the morning. And then, after the services, you come to my house for the party.”

“I’ve never been inside a synagogue before,” Veronica said, twisting up her face. “Stop pulling my hand, Stanley! What do I have to do?”

“Nothing special. Just come and sit down. Oh, wear a hat and maybe a nice dress.”

“Like church.” Veronica nodded. “But what do I do inside?”

“It’s easy. Sit down, and take a prayer book, and just do what everybody else is doing.”

“Well, you know, Peter, I’m Lutheran, and I don’t know if I’m supposed to do what everybody else is doing in a synagogue.”

“Oh, that’s right,” said Peter. “Well, I guess you
don’t have to say or do anything if you don’t want to. Some of the other kids who are coming aren’t Jewish either. Just read the book or look around.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m up in the front with the rabbi and the other boy who’s being bar mitzvahed. The two of us read selections in Hebrew from the Torah—that’s the first five books of the Bible—and then we make speeches.”

“In front of everybody?”

“Uh, huh.”

“Aren’t you scared?”

“Nope.” And he wasn’t. Not about making the speech. It was going to be a good one, that he knew. Most bar-mitzvah speeches dealt with the debt of gratitude the boy owed to his parents and his teacher. Peter’s speech would also contain the expected words of gratitude, but he had some other ideas he thought he might also like to include. This part of his speech he had not discussed with his teacher, preferring to develop it all by himself. The idea for it had actually grown out of his friendship with Veronica, and his struggle in her behalf. He had some polishing up to do, but by and large, the speech was completed. He was proud of it and of himself. It would be somewhat different from other bar-mitzvah speeches he had heard, somewhat more important, he thought. Of course, the way matters stood now, he might never get to give it at all.

“You just be there,” he said grimly.

Stanley’s skates skidded out from under him and he flopped down on the ground.

On this particular Friday, Stanley had again joined them, on skates, this time, and was occupied at present with clutching Veronica’s hands, legs, skirts-whatever he could reach.

Veronica turned her attention to him. “Get up, Stanley, and don’t hang on to me. You’ll never learn to skate if you hang on.”

Stanley remained seated on the ground. “If
I
don’t hold on to you, you’ll run away,” he said pathetically.

“All right. I promise I won’t run away. Now stand up. Here.” She held out a hand to him. Stanley grabbed it with both hands and staggered to his feet.

“Now—let go!”

Stanley let go, swayed, skidded, and flopped again to the ground. He began hiccuping.

“Why don’t we put him between us,” Peter said, “and each of us hold one of his hands. That way we can balance him better.”

“I’m not going to hold your hand,” Stanley said, turning his special look of loathing on Peter.

“Now look,” Veronica said sharply, “nobody wanted you along today, but you said you were just dying to skate. So get up, and you’re going to skate whether you like it or not.”

She pulled him to his feet, grabbed one hand, and motioned for him to give Peter his other hand. But Stanley’s arm hung limply by his side. Peter
put out his hand, took Stanley’s, and Stanley clenched his fist so that Peter ended up holding his thumb. The three of them began moving along, Veronica and Peter supporting Stanley between them.

“Who else is going to be there?” Veronica asked, continuing the conversation.

“Marv, and Paul, and I have to ask Bill, and I guess some of the girls, and ...”

“I’m not coming,” Stanley said, lurching into Veronica.

“Nobody asked you,” Veronica said, yanking him upright.

Around the corner came Roslyn Gellert and Reba Fleming. Reba began giggling as soon as she saw them, and Roslyn seemed to be studying something in another direction. There was strength in numbers, and Peter decided that this would be a fine time to invite Roslyn to his bar mitzvah. And since one should not harbor thoughts of malice at such an important occasion, he might as well ask that drip, Reba, too.

“Hey, Roslyn, Reba,” he yelled, letting go of Stanley’s hand and skating in their direction.

Stanley’s feet flew out from under him and he fell down.

“Aw,” said Reba, “the poor little kid.”

She and Roslyn hurried over and helped Stanley up.

“Hello, Veronica,” Roslyn said. “Is this your brother?”

“Yeah.”

“What a cute little boy!”

Stanley grabbed hold of Roslyn and held on for dear life.

“Roslyn,” said Peter, “I’d like you to come to my bar mitzvah. It’s three weeks from tomorrow. You too, Reba.”

“Thanks,” said Reba. “I can come.”

Stanley had one arm around Roslyn’s neck and the other around her waist.

“There you are, honey,” Roslyn cooed. “You won’t fall. Just let go of my neck.”

“Let go of her neck, Stanley,” Veronica ordered.

But Stanley hung paralyzed where he was.