Peter and Veronica Read Free

Jake.
    Outside, the cold, March night flew at them and they held the remains of their hot knishes under their noses, enjoying the mingling of the two worlds of warm and cold.
    “He’s nice, your uncle,” Veronica said, sighing, “nicer than my uncle.”
    “I’ve got a lot of uncles,” said Peter, “but Uncle Jake’s the nicest. What’s your uncle?”
    “Uncle Charles. He’s got a diner near West Farms.”
    Peter stopped smelling the fading warmth of his knish. “Let’s go visit him sometime.”
    “Well,” Veronica said carefully, “my mother’s not talking to him. I haven’t seen him for a couple of years, but once he gave us a big lemon meringue pie.” She began skating, and Peter swallowed the remains of his knish and hurried along beside her.
    “Well, here goes,” he said.
    A raindrop fell on his nose, then another, and then another.
    “It’s raining,” Veronica chortled, and by the time they had hooked onto a trolley for the return trip, the rain had plastered their hair down on their heads, run down the collars of their jackets, and transformed the streets into a glistening pool of lights. ‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,” Veronica sang, and Peter laughed and held on with both hands.
     
Chapter 2
     
    “Peter?”
    He laid the skates down in the hall, shook off the top layer of raindrops from every part of him, pulled his wet handkerchief out of his wet pocket, dabbed at his face, and quickly smoothed his hair. It was all futile anyway, he knew, because she was sure to fuss.
    He walked into the living room and braced himself. A strange woman sat on the couch and she smiled and nodded at him. But Mama got up from her chair and said, “What happened to you? You’re soaking wet. Where were you?”
    “Oh ... around,” Peter said vaguely, and then added hopefully, “I better go change.”
    “Take off your shoes and socks right away,” Mama said sharply. If the lady wasn’t there, she would have gone on for a while, but out of politeness for her guest she held off mentioning all the other articles of clothing, seen and unseen, that should be removed.
    “This is my boy,” she said to the guest, “my Peter. You remember Mrs. Rappaport, don’t you, Peter?”
    “Uh, I think so,” Peter said politely. “How do you do, Mrs. Rappaport.”
    “Nice boy,” Mrs. Rappaport said, smiling to Mama. “How old is he?”
    “Twelve.” Mama rested a warm, plump hand on his shoulder. “He’ll be thirteen in May.”
    “Like my grandson,” Mrs. Rappaport said, “Rachel’s boy. But he’s much taller.”
    Mama’s hand stiffened on his shoulder, and he said, “I better go change, Mama.”
    “You should give him lots of milk,” Mrs. Rappaport said, “and liver. He’d grow taller if he ate liver.”
    “Kinnahura, he eats fine,” Mama said coldly, “and he’s growing fast. He’s like my brother, Irving. He didn’t grow until he was thirteen and now he’s over six feet. It’ll be the same with my Peter.”
    Peter squirmed unhappily under Mama’s hand. He didn’t like being short, and every time Mama said how fast he was growing—and she’d been saying it for years—he felt worse.
    “I better go change,” he said.
    But Mama’s hand held him. “Reads all the time,” Mama said. “Such books! You wouldn’t believe it.”
    “My grandson too,” Mrs. Rappaport said airily.
    “The smartest one in the class,” Mama continued.
    Peter  writhed  desperately,  and  said,  “Ma,   I  better ...”
    “Like my grandson,” echoed Mrs. Rappaport.
    “Been on the honor roll every single term since he started school,” Mama said.
    There was no response from Mrs. Rappaport.
    “I saved them,” Mama said, pressing her advantage. “I’ll show them to you.”
    “Very nice,” Mrs. Rappaport said coldly. She looked at Peter. “You go to cheder?” she asked.
    “Uh, huh.”
    “And you should hear what the Hebrew School teacher said to me last week,” said Mama. “He