“I’m going home.”
“Iguess I will too,” Reba said, also standing up.
“Are you going now, Peter?” Jeffrey said eagerly. “I’m going too.”
So the three of them left together, but when they got downstairs, Jeffrey, who lived over on Cottage Avenue, went off in the other direction, which meant that Peter ended up walking Reba home.
And that was the worst part of it. Even worse than arriving home and having to fend off his mother’s questions. Alone in his bedroom finally, he thought angrily about what a bust the party had been. So Roslyn had avoided him because of Veronica. Well, that was her hard luck. She could flunk math for all he cared. Just let her come and ask him for help. Just let her. He’d be the one to look off vaguely into nowhere. And Bill—one more crack from Bill, and he’d pop him one in the mouth.
He tore off his tie, threw his jacket on the floor, and fished his skates out of the closet. Tomorrow morning, he’d go find Veronica and go skating in spite of all of them.
Chapter 8
“What’s the matter with you kids? Don’t you have any respect for the dead?”
They hadn’t noticed the man as they came skating up the path and they jumped as he stood up. He was holding a small gardening tool in his hand and had been planting something around one of the graves,
He motioned angrily toward their skates, and Veronica whispered, “Let’s get out of here.”
“You don’t come into a cemetery with skates on,” the man continued. “That’s not right. That’s not right at all. And what are you doing here anyway?”
Peter said uncomfortably, “We were just skating around Bronx Park and then we ended up here. We never saw this place before and so we thought we’d just come in and take a look, and—well—gee, Mister, I guess we weren’t thinking. We’ll take them off. I’ve never been in a cemetery before,” he added lamely.
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, anda 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
“Iguess I will too,” Reba said, also standing up.
“Are you going now, Peter?” Jeffrey said eagerly. “I’m going too.”
So the three of them left together, but when they got downstairs, Jeffrey, who lived over on Cottage Avenue, went off in the other direction, which meant that Peter ended up walking Reba home.
And that was the worst part of it. Even worse than arriving home and having to fend off his mother’s questions. Alone in his bedroom finally, he thought angrily about what a bust the party had been. So Roslyn had avoided him because of Veronica. Well, that was her hard luck. She could flunk math for all he cared. Just let her come and ask him for help. Just let her. He’d be the one to look off vaguely into nowhere. And Bill—one more crack from Bill, and he’d pop him one in the mouth.
He tore off his tie, threw his jacket on the floor, and fished his skates out of the closet. Tomorrow morning, he’d go find Veronica and go skating in spite of all of them.
Chapter 8
“What’s the matter with you kids? Don’t you have any respect for the dead?”
They hadn’t noticed the man as they came skating up the path and they jumped as he stood up. He was holding a small gardening tool in his hand and had been planting something around one of the graves,
He motioned angrily toward their skates, and Veronica whispered, “Let’s get out of here.”
“You don’t come into a cemetery with skates on,” the man continued. “That’s not right. That’s not right at all. And what are you doing here anyway?”
Peter said uncomfortably, “We were just skating around Bronx Park and then we ended up here. We never saw this place before and so we thought we’d just come in and take a look, and—well—gee, Mister, I guess we weren’t thinking. We’ll take them off. I’ve never been in a cemetery before,” he added lamely.
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, anda 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
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