The Truth about Mary Rose (2 page)

“And, Mary Rose, make sure you get all your things together, so you’ll be able to leave right after dinner. Now I’m going to lie down and try to get a few minutes rest. It would help if you girls tried to play quietly.”

After she left, Pam said, “She won’t let me go.”

“I figured,” I said.

“But you can always come here.”

“That’s right.”

“And, Mary Rose!”

“What?”

“Do you really like my peignoir set?”

“Sure, I do.”

“I mean—if somebody gave you one, would you wear it?”

“I would. When I was Mary Rose at the funeral, I would.”

“That’s what I thought,” said my cousin Pam.

In the fourth grade, Miss Henderson, our teacher, asked us to write a wishing poem.  I wrote:

 
MY
WISH

I
wish I could speak to Mary Rose.

That’s my name too.

I am named after her.

She died in a fire.

She saved everybody’s life but she died.

I wish I could speak to her.

I would tell her that I love her

And that I wish I could be like her.

Not to die in a fire

But to be brave and beautiful like her.

Miss Henderson read it to the class, and Danielle Rogers said I was always showing off about being named after Mary Rose.

That was when we lived in Lincoln. We probably would still be living there, but one day last November my father got a telegram.

I remember it because I was home sick from school that day. I was sitting in the kitchen drinking hot chocolate, and my father was making rice pudding. My father always makes rice pudding when he is worried about somebody being sick.

He was carrying the dish of rice pudding over to the stove when the doorbell rang. You know how it takes only a second or two to put a dish in the oven, but if somebody rings the bell when you are about to do it, you get all mixed up. So the doorbell rang, and my father stood there holding the dish, and not moving. He was thinking: 1) Should he put the dish in the oven, and go and answer the door? 2) Should he put the dish down somewhere else, and go and answer the door? 3) Should he carry the dish with him, and answer the door? or 4) Should he just keep standing there, holding the dish and thinking about what to do?

The doorbell rang again, so I got up and answered it.

A man in a Western Union uniform stood outside.

“Telegram for Mr. Luis Ramirez,” he said.

“Daddy,” I called. “There’s a telegram for you.”

My father came over, without the rice pudding, and signed for it.

“Go away from the door, Mary Rose,” he said. “You’ll get a chill.”

He looked at the telegram in a worried way. Maybe he thought it was bad news about his son, Philip (my father was married before), or about one of his sisters or brothers. Nobody ever sends him telegrams.

We walked back into the kitchen. The rice pudding was sitting in the middle of the table.

“I wonder what it is,” said my father.

“Go ahead and open it, Daddy,” I told him. “Then you’ll find out.”

We both sat down at the table, and my father read the telegram. Then he began to cry.

“Daddy,” I said, and I began to cry too. “Who died?”

“Nobody died,” he said. Then he laid his head down on the table, and cried so hard his shoulders were shaking.

“Can I read it, Daddy?” I asked. He didn’t answer, but he didn’t say no. So I picked it up, and read it. The telegram was very long. It told him Congratulations. That he had won first prize in the
ARTISTS
OF
THE
PLAINS
COMPETITION
, and that he would be given a one-man show in the Museum of Modern Art in New York City in February. It also said that the Sheldon Memorial Art Gallery in Lincoln was going to purchase his painting entitled
Interior—
7, and a check for $2,000 would be arriving shortly,

“I don’t know why you’re crying,” I told him. “It’s the first time you ever won anything, and you never sold a painting for that kind of money before.”

“I know,” said my father. He sat up and wiped his hand across his eyes. “I can’t believe it.”

After a while, he got up, and put the rice pudding in the oven, and started to do the dishes. I hurried upstairs to the phone in my parents’ room because I wanted to call my mother, and tell her. I figured he’d be thinking about how to tell her, and in the meantime I could be telling her.

I dialed the number. Helen answered. “Dr. Ganz’s office.”

“Hi, Helen. It’s me, Mary Rose.”

“Oh hi, Mary Rose. How are you?”

“Pretty good. Is my mother busy? Can I talk to her?”

“I think she’s looking at some X-rays, so maybe she can talk. Just a second,” Helen said, and I heard her call, “Doctor! Oh, Doctor Ganz! It’s your daughter.”

My mother is a dentist. She keeps her maiden name, which is Ganz, at work.

“Hi, Mary Rose,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

“Terrible,” I said.

“Is anything hurting?” my mother asked. “You were asleep when I left this morning.”

“Everything is hurting,” I told her. “My throat, my head ... and my ears feel like they’ve got knives in them.”

“Did Daddy take your temperature yet?”

“No. He’s been making rice pudding.”

“Rice pudding?” My mother knew that meant he thought I was really sick. “Maybe I’ll try to run home during lunch, and see how you are.”

“And bring me some Seven-Up.”

“OK, honey. Now get back into bed, and I’ll see you soon.”

“All right, and ... oh, Mom ...”

“Yes?”

“I have a pain in my stomach too.”

“Well, I’ll be home in a little while.”

“And, Mom ...”

“What, Mary Rose? I really have to be going.” My mother’s voice sounded impatient.

“I forgot to tell you why I called.”

“Why?” Still impatient.

“Because Daddy was crying.”

“Crying?” My mother’s voice wasn’t impatient anymore. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“He got a telegram ...”

“From whom?”

“... and that’s why he cried.”

For a moment she didn’t say anything. Then she asked, real slow, “Was it ... Philip?”

“No, Mom,” I told her. “It was because he won an art contest, and they’re going to buy his painting for two thousand dollars.”

“Mary Rose,” my mother said, “are you playing some kind of joke on me?”

“No, Mom, really. I thought it was so great I just wanted you to know.”

“Mary Rose,” said my mother, “you’re a sweetie ... a honey ... a darling. Hurry up, and get your father on the phone!”

I ran downstairs. Daddy was sitting at the table, reading the telegram. He wasn’t crying anymore.

“Mom’s on the phone,” I told him. “She wants to talk to you.”

“Did you tell her, Mary Rose?” my father said. “Why didn’t you let me tell her?”

He picked up the phone, and I ran upstairs to listen. For a while, they were both talking at the same time. My father was reading her the telegram, and she was laughing and saying how finally the art world was coming to its senses, and of course she was pleased, but not surprised, certainly not surprised since she’d been waiting for this for years now, since it was only what he deserved—what he’d always deserved. And he was saying how she shouldn’t get too excited. Maybe it was a mistake, and what should they do with the $2,000. And she said—

“Mary Rose, are you listening in on the upstairs phone?”

I held the phone away from me because I figured my breathing was kind of snorty, and maybe she could hear it. Although she often seems to know when I’m listening in—not always, but often.

My father kept on talking and talking. He said maybe he’d have to go to New York for the show in February, and did she think she could go too.

Was he crazy, she asked. Of course she’d go. How could he think for a minute that she wouldn’t go.

But how about her patients, he said, and she said, well, it was only November so she wouldn’t make any appointments for that week, and if any emergency came up, she’d ask Doctor Bryher to cover for her, and ...

“Mary Rose! Now I know you’re listening. So just hang up! Go ahead now!”

My father read her the telegram again, and she asked him to read it again.

“Oh, Luis,” she said, “it’s just wonderful. I’m so proud ... and Mary Rose, if you don’t get off that phone, I’ll break your neck!”

“Veronica,” said my father, “she’s not on the phone. I think she’s lying down.”

“Hmm,” said my mother. “Well, I really have to run now. I’ve got a patient waiting. But I’ll be home for lunch. I promised Mary Rose I’d bring her some Coke.”

“Seven-Up,” I said, before I remembered I wasn’t supposed to be there.

“Mary Rose!”

But she couldn’t stay mad at me on that day. Especially since my temperature went up to 103 by lunch-time, and Doctor Kaplan had to come and give me a shot. I wasn’t so happy, but everybody else was, including my brothers, and especially Ray. He’s fourteen, the middle one. He was really happy.

Ray’s real name is Raoul, but when he started to play on the little league, he changed it to Ray. He’s a real great player too. All sorts of people know about him. They say he’s going to be a famous ballplayer when he grows up.

Most of the kids Ray knows have fathers who are crazy about sports and are out there playing with their kids or watching them. Most of those kids’ fathers go to work every day, and earn money. It always bothered Ray more than Manny or me when kids made jokes about our parents being Doctor and Mister Ramirez. Because, like I said, my mother is Doctor Ganz, not Doctor Ramirez. She’s Mrs. Ramirez. But Ray always got upset anyway.

So that’s why Ray was especially happy when he heard about Daddy winning the contest. It made him feel good to know that Daddy was earning some money, like those other fathers.

“Wow!” he said. “Two thousand dollars for a painting! Wow! Which one was it?”

“Interior—
7,” Manny told him. Manny, that’s Manuel, my sixteen-year-old brother, isn’t very interested in sports, or in painting either for that matter. He’s serious, like my mother, and we all figure he’ll grow up to be a doctor too.

“Interior—
7?” Ray asked. “Isn’t that the one with all the holes?”

“They all have holes,” I said. “For the past two years all Daddy’s paintings have holes. Where have you been?”

“Yes, I know, but isn’t that the one with the great big hole in the center, and a couple of smaller holes up on one side?”

“That’s the one.”

“Two thousand dollars for a painting that’s practically not even there,” Ray said proudly. “They must really think he’s good.”

And of course, it turned out that they did. Daddy’s one-man show in February was a smash. One critic thought he was crazy, but all the others said he was great. People started buying his paintings. One of them cost $3,500, and was bought by Bertha Remington, who went to school with Jacqueline Onassis.

In March, my father received an important phone call. He was offered a job, teaching at the Art Students League in New York City, starting in the fall.

“And why?” said my father to my mother that night. They were in their bedroom, and the door was shut. “Why do they offer me this job now? Is it because they like my work suddenly? I doubt it. I have been working like this for twenty years, and they have never showed any interest in me before. Why now?”

“But what did you tell them, Luis?” my mother asked.

“For twenty years,” my father went on, “I have been painting my heart out, and nobody noticed. But now, all of a sudden, because a couple of art critics who don’t know one end of a paintbrush from another, decide I know how to paint ... look ... just look at what’s happening! It is disgusting, this art world ... degrading ... insulting. I should have been a plumber, or a carpenter—something honest.”

“But, Luis, what did you tell them?”

“Do you know what I wanted to tell them?” shouted my father.

“But ... ?”

“But I didn’t,” said my father in a lower voice. “I told them, thank you very much. I would think it over, and let them know.”

My mother didn’t say anything.

Finally, my father said, “You think I should take it then, Veronica?”

“Well, I really don’t want to influence you, Luis. This is your decision, and whatever you decide is fine with me.”

“But?”

“But, Luis—oh, Luis, you’d make such a wonderful teacher. Just think what you’d have to offer those kids just starting out—help, encouragement, understanding—what you needed and never got. It doesn’t matter why and how they offered you the job. The thing is they
did
offer you the job, and just think what you could do with it.”

“What about your practice?” asked my father. “We’d have to move to New York.”

“Yes, I know,” said my mother. “But, Luis, people in New York have teeth too. It wouldn’t be so terrible starting over again. I might even take a little time off before I do.”

“You’re tired,” said my father. “No wonder ... all those years ... you’ve worked so hard.”

“Of course I have,” said my mother, “and so have you. And both of us always will, I hope. You know how I love my work, but I feel like taking a long, long vacation, especially since you’ll be making so much money. I could loaf and go sightseeing and shopping and catch up with all my friends and relatives.”

“Relatives?” said my father. “You consider spending time with relatives a pleasure? Listening to your mother saying what a fool you were to marry a starving, no-good artist, and a Puerto Rican besides. And on top of that, a divorced man whose alimony you’ve been paying all these years. You consider that a pleasure?”

My mother laughed. “That’s all ancient history. Now that you’re famous and making money, she’ll probably treat you like a hero.”

“It would be worth going to New York just to have that experience,” said my father. “So I tell you what I will do. I will take the job at the Art Students League. We will move to New York, and I will bet you a five-dollar bill that your mother’s opinion of me will not change.”