Veronica's Grave by Barbara Bracht Donsky

Author:Barbara Bracht Donsky
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: She Writes Press
Published: 2016-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

ARRIVING HOME after midnight, I’m surprised to find my mom in the kitchen, a newspaper spread out before her on the table.

Where’s Nick?

He’s gone home. Opening the refrigerator, checking for leftovers, I ask what she’s doing up so late.

The weather’s going to be good tomorrow, and I want to hang out the clothes first thing in the morning. We’re short towels. So how’s Nick?

The way she says his name suggests something’s not right.

What do you mean how’s Nick?

I mean, how is he, what’s he doing?

He’s fine, but why do I get this feeling you don’t like him?

I like him, but I don’t know … it’s that he’s … so stuck on himself. It’s all about him—what he’s doing, where he’s going.

As she’s saying this, I watch the corners of her mouth turning down with disapproval. The comment is surprising coming from her, as she never makes snarky remarks about anyone. Never. So what’s it all about? Has she found all of his letters, read them all aloud? Does she think I’m giving him a pass on plays well with others?

Are you saying he’s conceited? With one arm draped over the refrigerator door, I complain there’s nothing to eat. I think you don’t like listening to him talking about college this and college that.

Let not start that again. Close the door before the light burns out. Bob, give me a hand with those dungarees.

I don’t mind threading my brothers’ dungarees through a wringer after midnight, but I mind being Bob. When I was born, was my father hoping for a boy? The only one who would know that is my missing mother. Funny how she came to mind just then, when I haven’t thought about her for ages. I don’t know if that’s a sign I’m growing up or giving up. What I do know is that Veronica most often comes to mind at those times when I’m dancing on the edge of the blues. As for Nick, he’s like smoking—hard to give up.

WITHIN THE week, a razor-slim, businesslike, engraved envelope arrives from the Berkeley Business School:

Dear Miss Bracht:

We are delighted to offer you a two-year partial scholarship to the Berkeley Business School in White Plains. Would you be so kind as to contact …

Alternating between disbelief and delight, I do a little war dance—jiggling the hips, pumping a fist in the air—before flopping onto the bed with the letter pressed to my heart. I can see it now, happy skies ahead. Okay, but how will I convince my father to let me go? He’s done paying tuition, done paying the bills. But hope springs eternal, so at the first opportunity I lob one rosy scenario after another at him, only to have him bat each in turn out of the park. Unable to see my way forward, I tuck the letter between the pages of my Merriam-Webster and put off writing the committee—praying he will change his mind.

Dear Sir: Thank you for your most kind offer of a scholarship to the Berkeley Business School.

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