The Truth about Mary Rose Read online

  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.”

  “It’s a bet,” said my mother, and she opened the door and landed a sharp one on my backside as I went running off down the hall.

  Chapter 3

  Except for the kitchen and bathroom, every room in my grandmother’s house had something about Mary Rose hanging up on the walls. The medal that was awarded to her posthumously by the mayor hung over the fake fireplace in the living room. Surrounding it were newspaper and magazine articles that my grandmother had framed. In both the dining room and my grandmother’s bedroom, the famous picture of Mary Rose at the window hung on the walls. The photographer had given my grandmother a blown-up picture, which was the one in the dining room in a big, fancy, gold frame. You really couldn’t see what she looked like in that picture. Most of it was smoke, and off in the upper right-hand corner, was a tiny figure at a window holding out its arms. Like some of the pictures you see of the Pope blessing the people. But you couldn’t see Mary Rose’s face. All of my grandmother’s pictures of her were burned in the fire. Afterwards, she rounded up a couple of baby pictures from her first husband and some snapshots from other relatives. They were framed and hung up in the other rooms, but you couldn’t tell from them what Mary Rose really looked like.

  My mother said she and Mary Rose looked alike, but Mary Rose was smaller, thinner and more delicate. My mother is tall and thin. She has blue eyes and hair that she said used to be blond. She said I do not look at all like Mary Rose since I am dark like my father, and tall and strong and healthy as a horse.

  I always thought I knew what Mary Rose looked like. There is a picture of Joan of Arc in one of my father’s art books. She is praying, and there is a light on her face. She is very beautiful. I think Mary Rose must have looked like that. I showed it to my mother once, and she said no, Mary Rose didn’t look anything like Joan of Arc. But it’s been thirty years since Mary Rose died, and I think my mother must have forgotten.

  My grandmother is a widow. Her second husband, Ralph Petronski, died two years ago. He was my mother’s and Mary Rose’s stepfather, but Uncle Stanley’s real father. My grandmother broke her hip in May, so when we moved to New York in June, my mother said we should go and stay at my grandmother’s house. She said she would look after my grandmother until she was better, and then our family could find our own place. My father didn’t like the idea, but he got to collect that five-dollar bill from my mother. Right away. The first night.

  We were sitting around the dining room table. Uncle Stanley was there, and Pam and her three sisters, Jeanette, Olivia and Margaret. But Aunt Claudia wasn’t there. She said her legs were swollen, and that the doctor said she had to lie down. But everybody knew it was because she hated my grandmother.

  “Well, Lou,” my grandmother said, “they certainly are paying you enough to teach art.”

  My father was looking down at the slice of frozen chocolate cake on his plate. I didn’t think it was so terrible, but I guess he was used to his own baking.

  “It’s not enough,” my mother said. She was handing around the cake. “Whatever they’re paying him, they’re getting more than their money’s worth.”

  “It’s like I always said,” my grandmother went on. “There’s no country like America. It doesn’t make a bit of difference who you are or where you came from, if you aren’t lazy and just make an effort, you can always get ahead.”

  My father took a bite of the cake, and smiled at my mother. I guess he was thinking about that five-dollar bill.

  “Mama,” said Uncle Stanley, “this cake is delicious. I think I’ll have another piece.”

  “Anybody can get a job in this country,” said my grandmother. “It has nothing to do with what color a person is, or where he comes from. A man with a family has no excuse ...”

  “Mama,” said my mother, “please don’t start in again after all these years. Let’s just have some cake now and talk about other things.”

  “But what did I say?” said my grandmother.

  “She always says that,” Pam whispered to me. "Every time she and my mother get together, sooner or later, my mother gets mad, and Grandma says, 'What did I say?' "

  My mother sat down and pulled Jeanette over to her. “When am I going to hear you play the violin?” she asked, smoothing Jeanette’s hair. “Your dad says you’re very, very talented.”

  Jeanette is eight, and kind of a prodigy. She plays her violin all the time. Whenever I spend a weekend at Pam’s house, Jeanette is always practicing.

  “I brought my violin with me,” Jeanette said.

  “Well, go and get it,” said my mother.

  “Can we go upstairs?” Pam asked.

  We went upstairs to the little bedroom where I’m sleeping. It used to be my mother’s room. After the fire, her mother and stepfather bought this house, and she lived here until she went away to dentistry school in Lincoln. It still had the same furniture that was there when my mother used it—a bed with a pink flowered bedspread, a chest of drawers, a desk and chair, and a mirror hanging over the chest. Pam and I looked in the mirror together.

  “We don’t look alike,” she said. “You’re prettier.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” I said, although I really am prettier. “And I do think we have the same kind of mouth.”

  “I’m supposed to look like my mother, except I’m tall like my father.”

  “And I’m supposed to look like my father, except I’m tall like my mother.”

  We both laughed, and that’s when we started liking each other. Downstairs, Jeanette was playing her violin. Pam closed the door.

  “My mother is so happy your family is here,” I told her. “She always used to talk about your father and how cute he was. Whenever one of my brothers does something she likes, she always says, ‘That’s just like your Uncle Stanley.' I guess I always thought of him as kind of little. I had no idea he was such a tall man."

  “He’s six-f
oot-four,” said Pam. “I think he and your mother look alike even though they’re only half sister and brother.”

  “Hey, does that make us quarter cousins?” I asked, and Pam cracked up over it. She thinks I’m very funny.

  After Jeanette stopped playing the violin, we went downstairs again.

  My grandmother was saying, “Well, I don’t know why you have to look for another place. You could live here rent free.”

  “Mama,” said my mother, “money is no problem. Luis is making plenty of money, and I’ll be starting a practice ...”

  “Yes, Lou is making plenty of money now, but we don’t know how long that will last. And I’m sure if you don’t have to work, you won’t.”

  “I love my work,” said my mother. “I work because I want to, not because I have to.”

  “...so you could live here rent free, and I could fix up an efficiency apartment for myself in the garage, the way the De Lucas did—down the street—in the pink house.”

  “Mama,” said Uncle Stanley, “would you like me to come and do a little weeding in your garden this weekend?”

  “... plenty of room. You couldn’t ask for a nicer place. I could have the upstairs bedrooms painted, and maybe put up new Venetian blinds in the living room. And you wouldn’t have to worry about the kids. This is a good neighborhood.”

  “Oh!” said my mother. “And what do you mean by that?”

  “I could come the following weekend too,” said my Uncle Stanley.

  “... very safe. A nice class of people. But they’re all broad-minded. You wouldn’t have any trouble with them, Lou, I can promise you that. And, of course, the kids—well, the boys are as blond as you and Stanley used to be, and Mary Rose really isn’t dark the way Puerto Ricans are.”

  “Mama! Stop it!”

  “What did I say?” said my grandmother.

  My grandmother was always saying things that made my mom mad. My mom would explain to Ray, Manny and me that we shouldn’t get excited at some of the things Grandma said, and we should always try to see things in perspective. She said Grandma’s generation had many prejudices that our generation was free of, and that the best thing was to try not to argue with her.