School librarians are always smiling. Well, unless the students are horsing around, and then they can lose it. Which is understandable. But it takes a lot to get them mad.
Anyway, this librarian doesn’t look like she’s in a bad mood, just like she’s all business. “Hello, children,” she says. “Are you meeting with a school group?”
Nat is best at talking to people, so Gus and I look to her. “No, we’re here to do some research for a term paper,” she says, smiling her nicest smile. There is a sign on the desk that says MS. DYER, HEAD LIBRARIAN, so Nat takes a chance. “And we could use some help finding things?”
Bingo! Ms. Dyer’s expression changes, and she smiles back. When she smiles, her whole face lights up. It’s pretty clear that she senses a kindred spirit, the way Gus does when he meets someone else who loves anime.
“What exactly are you researching?” Ms. Dyer asks.
Nat turns to me, so I unglue my lips. “Um, I live in one of the buildings on Willow Street, and I thought it would be cool to write about all the people who lived there.”
Ms. Dyer nods. “What a great idea! Well, we have lots of resources for that!”
She gestures for us to follow her. Nat reaches into her backpack for a pen and paper.
“Oh, you’ll have to leave that here in a cubby,” Ms. Dyer says, and takes Nat’s bag. “And no pens. Only pencils allowed in this library.”
“You don’t want kids writing in the books, huh?” Gus asks.
Ms. Dyer gives him one of her smiles and says, “Well, yes, that’s the idea. But it’s not just kids, it’s everyone.” She leans in and cocks her head toward all the grown-ups at the tables doing their work. “You’d be surprised who are the worst culprits.”
Nat takes a pencil from the desk, and we walk past the tables to one of the shelves. Ms. Dyer indicates a wall of books covered in blue fabric. “These go back to the 1860s and list everyone who lived in Brooklyn. You’d have to go through them year by year.”
There are at least a hundred of them. It would take weeks, I think.
Ms. Dyer’s expression changes. “But these are only the society people, the ones people thought were important.”
“The person we’re looking for isn’t all that important, probably,” Nat says. I think of the girl’s lace collar, but I guess Nat doesn’t want to look through all those books either.
Ms. Dyer thinks for a minute and then takes us to another part of the library, where there are computers. “Here might be a good place to start.” She sits in front of one and types something, and a website pops up. “This is a wonderful resource,” she says. “It’s scans of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle, the entire newspaper, going back to its first issues. If you type in an address, it will show you all the times any person who lived there was ever mentioned in the paper.”
This sounds a whole lot easier than looking at hundreds of books.
There is a hushed call across the library, and we see another librarian waving at Ms. Dyer, holding a phone.
Ms. Dyer waves, then turns back to us and takes Nat’s pencil and writes something on her pad. “I have to take this call. But if you do find a name, you can go to this ancestry site and put the name in and any census form or document will show you who else might have been living there as well.”
“That’s awesome!” Gus says a little too loudly. He and libraries are not a natural fit. He is so used to people glaring at him, he doesn’t even notice all the glares from the research tables. Ms. Dyer wishes us good luck and rushes off to answer the phone.
We turn to the keyboard, and I type “42 Willow Street.” To my surprise, dozens of entries pop up.
I click on the first one, and a page of an old newspaper fills the screen. It’s packed with type, from top to bottom. Not like today’s papers. This was the only way for people to get their news, so I guess newspapers crammed as much as possible onto each page.
There are columns and columns of different advertisements. Help Wanted has things like Wanted: A chambermaid. Must have first-class references. Apply at 125 Atlantic Avenue.
“Look!” Gus says, pointing. “There’s a Lost and Found!”
He reads aloud. “ ‘Ten-dollar reward. Went astray Friday, February 25: large yellow Newfoundland dog; white breast, leather collar, answers to Lion. Return to 272 Court Street, between Congress and Warren, in the Oyster Saloon.’ ”
Nat grins. “That’s so cool! I wonder if Lion was ever found?”
I scan the page. There’s a small yellow box highlighting an ad:
Boarding
TO LET WITH BED AND MEALS
A very pleasant quite large room. Home has all modern amenities. Apply at 42 Willow Street.
“Well,” I say, “it looks like my folks weren’t the first ones to rent out that room.”
We’ve gone through about half of the listings. Most are ads through the years for renting out the room. Then my heart skips a beat as the page from 1897 loads and I see the yellow box highlighting the simple headline DIED.
“Wow, they didn’t fool around in those days,” mutters Gus.
I hold my breath and look. Spinoza, April 10. After a long and painful illness, John C. Spinoza, aged 45 years and 3 months.
“Probably not her,” Nat declares. I give her a look. “I’m joking.”
I turn back to the entries. More rooms to let.
Then I get to April 2, 1909. This time it’s page one. The front page.
We scan the headlines: ROOSEVELT LANDS AGAIN, 3 HOURS AT GIBRALTAR, and HUNTING A FIREBUG—WHITESTONE HAS ONE, AND HE IS BEING EAGERLY SOUGHT.
Nat points at another one. BAKER FINED $100—ADMITTED USING LIQUID EGGS—MILK DEALERS ALSO FINED.
And then I see it. This time the yellow box is part of an article toward the bottom of the page. But the headline in bold letters stops me cold.
Terrible Tragedy as Young Mother Dies in Building Fire
Sari Rosenbaum, 17 years old, was found dead this morning in her apartment at 42 Willow Street, where she was a boarder with her sister.
Mrs. Ryder, who runs the furnished boardinghouse, smelled smoke and called the fire department, who arrived and promptly set to putting out the fire, the cause of which was a faulty gas stove. They came upon a dreadful sight: the bodies of a young woman and a baby boy nearby in his cradle. Mrs. Ryder told the firemen that upon hearing the sirens of the fire engines, Miss Rosenbaum, who had been conversing outside with a young man, rushed into the building to save her baby, only to be overcome by smoke, and she perished alongside her child. Her sister, Rachel Rosenbaum, 23 years old, had been at her job as a seamstress. Informed of what had happened when she returned, she fainted and had to be revived. Police are still investigating this incident.
All of a sudden I realize I’ve been holding my breath the entire time I’ve been reading. Maybe that’s why I feel light-headed. I grab the table to steady myself. I look at Gus and Nat, and they both look pretty shaken up too.
“You…don’t think…?” Gus finally says.
Nat nods. She isn’t looking at me; her eyes are glued to the screen. Then I see that she’s blinking, and tears are running down her face. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Nat cry.
“Hey! Are you crying?” Gus says, with that incredible talent for saying exactly the wrong thing on any occasion.
Nat wipes her eyes with her sleeve. “So what? It’s heartbreaking. Danny was crying too.”
I start to protest and then discover that my face is wet. I mean, it really is sad.
“You’re an idiot,” Nat grumbles to Gus, who looks embarrassed.
“Sari Rosenbaum,” I say. “And her sister, Rachel.”
Nat keeps looking at the screen. “We need to help her find rest.”
“And how do you suggest we do that?” Gus asks.
“She ke
eps asking where her little boy is,” I reply. “We need to find out how to get her to accept that he’s not in the apartment anymore.”
Nat turns away from the monitor and gathers her things. “We need to talk to her.”
“But she’ll only talk to Rachel!” I protest.
There is a small “I know the answer” look on Nat’s face that I’ve seen so often in class. “But we’ve learned her name. Now we can control her.”
“That’s just something my bubbe said!” I say. “What if she keeps asking for Rachel?”
“Then I’ll be Rachel,” Nat answers simply.
There is an “I am totally confused” look on Gus’s face that I also know from class. “Wait. What?”
Nat looks at me so hard I almost have to turn away. She’s got a plan, and I can see there’ll be no arguing with her. “She enters the body of people staying in Jake’s old room. Danny, you’ll stay in the room, and when she comes looking for her son. I’ll be there and pretend to be Rachel. Then maybe I can convince her that he’s at peace and she’ll leave.”
“Number one, that’s a big maybe,” I say. “And number two, you mean you’re going to sleep over at my apartment?”
Nat turns red. “Oh, yeah. I guess so. I mean not exactly. We wouldn’t be sleeping.”
Gus smirks. “Oooh! A sleepover? With you two?”
“Shut up!” Nat and I say in unison. We look at each other.
“I don’t know what is more unlikely,” Gus finally says. “You finding a ghost who’s going to inhabit Danny and talk to Nat pretending to be her sister, or your parents actually letting you have a sleepover now that we’re thirteen.”
I have to admit, he has a point.
I wait until dinner to bring it up. The look on my mom’s face when I ask if Nat can sleep over would be funny except for the fact that it totally isn’t.
“Absolutely not.” I mean, not even a second of hesitation.
“So…what? You don’t trust me?” I ask.
My dad plays with the food on his plate, not meeting my eye. “It’s not that, exactly….”
“Oh, so you don’t trust Nat? Really?”
My mom’s lips are set in a tight line. “This is completely out of the question. You are thirteen years old. She is not sleeping over.”
“But why?” I say.
My mom gives me a “you’ve got to be kidding” look. “Danny, you know darn well why.”
“No I don’t. Nat and I used to have sleepovers all the time.”
“When you were nine,” my mom reminds me.
“So what’s so different now?” I ask.
My dad covers his smile with a napkin. “Um, a little thing called puberty? Maybe you’ve heard of it, Danny?”
“Oh, for crying out loud!” I squeal. “You two are disgusting!”
My mom lowers the fork she’s been jabbing the air with and tries a different tack. “Danny, this isn’t about trust. I just don’t understand why all of a sudden you two need to have a sleepover.”
“It has to do with…everything that’s been going on,” I say. “Nat needs to stay overnight to help me contact the dybbuk.”
Dad shoots Mom an accusing look. “Your mother. I could kill her. She’s the one who put this idea in your head, Danny, isn’t she?”
“Don’t blame Bubbe Ruth. Nat, Gus, and I just learned some things about the apartment that might explain what’s been going on.”
“From whom?” my mom asks suspiciously.
“We went to the Brooklyn Historical Society library, as a matter of fact,” I say, trying not to sound as pleased with myself as I am.
My parents exchange glances.
My mom’s eyes widen. “You went there on your own?”
“Yes, to do research on the house,” I answer.
My dad looks impressed. “Wow. That’s a first. Sounds more like something your—”
Mom cuts him off with a look.
“That’s okay, Mom, I know Dad was going to say it was something Jake would do. We went because Nat wanted to go. See? She’s a really good influence on me.”
“Great,” my mom says. “You two can go to all the libraries you want together. Just no sleepovers.”
Before I can think, the words come out of my mouth. “Mom, you’re being ridiculous. Besides, we’re not even going to sleep.”
Whoops. Really shouldn’t have put it that way.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” my mother says triumphantly.
I am trying to ignore the fact that my face is obviously bright red. “I didn’t mean that.”
“You didn’t mean what, exactly?” my dad asks.
“Whatever you’re thinking!”
I hate this whole conversation.
Mom’s phone rings and she checks to see who’s calling, saving me from further humiliation.
Or so I thought.
She looks up after checking the screen. “Ha! That’s Marie Haddad. Let’s hear what she has to say.”
Marie is Nat’s mother. There is a small part of me willing to hope that she’s going to tell my mother she’s acting like a jerk and she should trust their children, who have never given them a moment to doubt their moral fiber.
Yeah, fat chance.
My mom is nodding as she looks at my dad. “Yes, Marie. I know. I said exactly the same thing. I mean, the idea. What? Yes, there have been some events at the house that have been hard to explain, but certainly nothing that would…Right. No, I don’t think that’s it. But I’m so glad you called. Of course I’ll say hello next time I’m in the store. Goodbye, sweetheart.”
Mom clicks off her phone. “Well, Marie is even more dead set against this than we are. She thinks Nat made up the stories about the ghost.”
I let out a noise of frustration. I bet there’s a word for that noise. I mean, it’s not a sigh or a groan. Whatever it is, it drives parents crazy.
“Danny, I told her Nat didn’t make it up. Just be glad I didn’t tell her the truth.”
Now I’m getting mad. “What truth? Are you saying I’m lying too?”
Dad steps in. “She’s not saying that, Danny. It’s just—”
Mom does not appreciate when Dad explains what she’s saying. “I can tell him, dear. Danny, did you hear what your father just did? We call that mansplaining. Don’t do that.”
“I was not!” Dad protests.
“I learned all about that from Nat, Mom. Her sister goes to Barnard, remember?”
Mom softens. “I’m sorry. I know you want to believe there’s some sort of evil spirit in this house, but maybe the only evil spirit is that you didn’t get the room you wanted. And having Nat over is not going to change that.”
I look at Mom, not saying anything. Then I get up, carefully take the plates, and place them in the sink. “May I please be excused?” I ask.
“Sure, sweetheart,” my mom says. “And I’m sorry. But really, you’ve got to trust us that this is not a good idea.”
* * *
Nothing happened last night. I’m actually a little disappointed. It’s like somehow Sari found out that I know all about her and is afraid to show her face. I leave for school before my parents get up, just so I don’t have to talk to them. I cannot believe how unreasonable they’re being.
At school, Nat looks glum.
It turns out her mother gave her a lecture about “those sorts of boys,” and Nat asked her what sorts of boys she meant, and her mom said don’t be smart and Nat said you are always telling me how smart I am, and her mom said that’s not what I mean, you know what I mean, and Nat said if I knew what you meant I wouldn’t ask and that’s when her mom called my mom.
It seems we need a plan B.
“Why don’t I sleep over?” Gus says, during lunch period.
Nat dips her pita in baba ghanoush. If you’ve never had it, it’s like hummus, but made with eggplant, and it has a smoky flavor. You know what? Even if you have had it, you haven’t had it like they make it at Haddad’s. Trust me.
Anyhow, Nat takes a bite and turns wearily to Gus. “We’ve been over this. She’s not going to believe that you’re her sister.”
“Why not?” Gus asks, grabbing a piece of pita and dipping it in the baba ghanoush before Nat can slap his hand away.
“Whatever happened to asking?” Nat says. “Gus, you just…well, I just think I would be better talking to her, that’s all. You know, woman to woman.”
Gus does not look impressed. “You’re a woman? You’re a kid.”
Nat reddens. “You know what I mean.”
We decide to talk more after school, and plan on walking down to Brooklyn Bridge Park again.
Our plans change when we get outside and see my mom and Nat’s mom standing there.
“Uh-oh,” I say.
Marie Haddad comes up to Nat. She doesn’t look mad. Well, maybe a little. “Hi, kids. There’s nothing wrong, it’s just that we have someplace to go.”
In response to our confused looks, my mom adds: “We need to go see your grandfather, Nat. We have been summoned.”
The two moms don’t seem to know any more than we do what this is about.
We walk over to Haddad’s, Nat’s mom complaining the whole way that it’s her one day off and her father knows she has things to do, and what’s so important that it can’t wait until tomorrow. And of course my mom piles on, talking about all the client meetings she had to rearrange. So they’re both in a joyous mood.
Nat and I just keep looking at each other like “Isn’t this weird?”
When we enter the store, Sammy is holding court with a young family. They’ve just moved to the neighborhood, and he’s giving them his list of the best places to eat and shop. Even day care options. But this isn’t Sammy being Sammy. It’s Sammy being a Brooklynite. Everyone in Brooklyn has an opinion. Like right now, Sammy has just said that the best pizza in the neighborhood is Table 87 and two people in the checkout line butt in to say he is full of it. One saying that the best pizza is My Little Pizzeria and the other says that if you really want to get good pizza you have to go to Carroll Gardens.
The Ghost in Apartment 2R Page 16
