I cannot believe where this is going.
“For our first student, we have decided on Jacob Kantrowitz, who is already continuing his studies at Cornell University,” Sammy continues.
“Such a genius! Kein ayin hara poo poo poo,” says Bubbe Ruth, spitting through her fingers. When we told her about Sari, she didn’t laugh or shake her head. She simply nodded and said, “I knew that boy had someone looking over him.”
Sammy fishes something out of his pocket and unfolds it. “I am pleased to present this check for fifteen thousand dollars to Jacob’s parents, Martin and Maureen, to help defray the costs of his education, to be paid yearly until his graduation!”
Sammy hands the check to my stunned father, and everybody claps and hoots, and there’s so much noise I can barely hear it when Sammy looks directly at me and says, “Listen, don’t you think the kid finally deserves a real room?”
At that point they open the door to the store. They’ve set up lots of tables with foods from all the merchants on Atlantic Avenue and Court Street laid out. People from Brooklyn sure love to eat.
I go up to Nat, who is with Gus, who has piled a plate with about five pounds of food.
“Did you know about this?” I ask her.
“Maybe,” she says, giving me a small smile. I think she’s still mad at what I said.
“You know what I said about never spending the night with you again?” I ask.
Nat stands there, not giving an inch. “What about it?”
“I couldn’t have done it without you. I’m really glad you slept over.”
Nat’s face turns redder than the tomatoes on Gus’s plate. “You are an idiot. I don’t even know what to say to that.”
She stomps off and I turn to Gus.
“Don’t look at me,” he says. “I thought it was a nice thing to say.”
Anyhow, that’s how I got Jake’s room.
I mean, my room.
I guess I’ll have to get used to saying that.
Now that my parents have the money to help Jake, we’re stopping with the AirHotel. Like I said, Dad got something called an option from Netflix on his screenplay about the Brooklyn dybbuk. Although I’m not totally sure what that means, it does mean that he’s gotten money for something he’s written, and it might become a movie, so that’s pretty great too.
And even Mom agrees that having all those strangers in her house was cool but a little hard with a full-time job and everything.
We do have one more person who is staying in the room before I can get it.
Mr. Rosen is an old man from Philadelphia, whose wife is having surgery at Maimonides Medical Center. Once she’s discharged, they’ll stay with their daughter. But the daughter has to be out of town for a meeting the night of the surgery, so he’s staying with us. He made the reservation a month ago, and we didn’t have the heart to cancel on him.
When Mr. Rosen arrives, he turns out to be very nice and a little shy. I think he’s worried about his wife. Mom helps him bring his suitcase (I don’t think he travels very often—the suitcase is blue plastic—I’ve only seen ones like it in movies from the 1970s) to his room, asking all about his wife’s procedure. My mom is the best at talking to people. That’s what makes her such a good social worker. Maybe I should ask her about talking to Nat.
Nah, that’s probably a bad idea.
But Mr. Rosen loves talking with her, and all through dinner (he is delighted to be invited to join us) he talks about his wife and which television shows she loves. He is fascinated by Dad’s work, of course. But then he turns to me and says, “So, young man, what are you interested in?”
For what feels like the first time ever (my parents will insist I’m exaggerating, but I’m pretty sure I’m not), I get to talk about things I like. So it’s a great evening.
I walk by Jake’s—my room and listen hard, but there are no whispers.
After taking my shower, I check the mirror. No messages.
I climb into bed, realizing that this could be one of the last times I’ll be in this tiny little closet.
I’ll kind of miss it.
Okay, not really. I feel my eyes drooping, and I know I’ll be getting a nice, restful night’s sleep.
Some time later, I am awakened by a knock on my door.
It can’t be happening again.
The door opens, and there stands Mr. Rosen. He opens his mouth to speak.
“Listen, young man, the toilet doesn’t seem to flush right. You think you can look at it?”
I sigh and follow him.
This I can handle.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am Brooklyn born and raised. If you walk the brownstone-lined streets of Brooklyn Heights, the history of all who lived here calls out to you. There was no doubt in my mind that if I was going to write a ghost story, it would be set in this place. Brooklyn has always been a borough with one foot in the past and one in the future, and seeing the great diversity of the people who live, work, and rub up against one another on a daily basis has been an inspiration to me since I was a kid. To the people of Brooklyn, a big thank-you.
The story of the Lebanese Christians who have lived in downtown Brooklyn for more than a century isn’t as well-known as Italian or Jewish Brooklyn immigrants, but it is no less compelling. I would never presume to tell their story (as a firm believer that authentic voices must come from the community itself) but am so grateful that the Sahadi family allowed me a small window into their lives, especially Ron Sahadi and Christine Sahadi Whelan, who now run their father Charlie Sahadi’s business. Christine was especially valuable in giving me details about everything from her parents’ struggles during the early days of the store to the correct pronunciation of Gedu, their family word for Grandfather.
A big (but quiet) thank-you to Cecily Dyer, reference librarian at the Brooklyn Historical Society, for her help and guidance in discovering the best way for Danny, Nat, and Gus to research the history of apartment 2R.
As always, I need to thank my agent, Holly Root, who is never more than an email or phone call away, keeping the ghosts of book deals gone bad at bay.
As for my tireless editor, Kate Sullivan, who is no doubt haunted by my insistence on telling more than showing and whose bloodred pencil marks would send chills into even the most intrepid writer, my undying thanks. I am sure she would want me to cut at least one of those ghostly references, but too bad!
And a big nod of thanks to girl wonder, editorial assistant Alexandra Hightower, who deserves an entire bag of ultimate malted milk balls for her good humor and patience in helping to get this manuscript in shape.
Heather Hughes and Colleen Fellingham, demon copyeditors, long may you catch all my errant grammatical missteps. If I’ve misspelled anything or gotten anything factually wrong in these acknowledgments, you’ve found those as well, no doubt!
Our designer Michelle Cunningham deserves all praise for bringing brilliant cover artist Marco Guadalupi to the project, as well as all other labors in making the book you are holding now.
Finally, I cannot thank my loving and supportive parents, Robert and Joan Markell, enough for deciding to not move to the suburbs or the West Coast but staying put, letting me and my sister, Marni, grow up in what was a very different Brooklyn Heights, giving us a place filled with books, art, and nightly stories and laughter around the dinner table.
I have had the enormous privilege of watching our now-teenage son Jamie grow up in the same neighborhood I did, walking the same streets, buying snacks from some of the same stores, and even attending the same school.
To that street-smart young man and his mother, my beloved wife and partner, Melissa Iwai, always go the biggest thank-yous.
And to all the ghosts of Brooklyn, long may you haunt our stories and imaginations.
It looks like something from a scie
nce-fiction movie, with so many machines and tubes going into and out of bags hung on poles.
For a moment, it doesn’t register that all those tubes and hoses are connected to a person.
I have no memory of what he looked like when I was little, and the only photo of Great-Uncle Ted in our house is from ages and ages ago. It shows a burly man with a crew cut, sitting in a living room in the 1960s. He’s got a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other. I wonder if he hadn’t smoked so many cigarettes maybe he wouldn’t be here now. He’s looking at the camera with a confident grin that says this is not a man to mess with. The only other place I’ve ever seen Asian men with kick-butt expressions like that is in samurai or martial-arts movies.
Not that I watch them all that much.
I mean, it’s bad enough other people make assumptions about us Asian kids. No need for me to help out.
But I gotta say, that photo can’t be further from the old man lying in this bed. The grossest thing is the tube going right up into his nose. It looks horrible, and is attached to a machine that does who knows what.
I go and stand awkwardly by the window, unsure of what to do. I wish Mom had come in with me, but she said Great-Uncle Ted wants to see me alone. Dying man’s last wish and all, I guess. I clear my throat and sort of whisper, “Um, hi?”
“Arwhk.”
The two veiny sacs of his eyelids slowly open, and when he sees me, he gestures, beckoning me over with one hand.
I gingerly approach the chair next to his bed, careful not to disturb any of the wires and tubes snaking around him. It’s hard—I have visions of knocking into some hose or other just as I’m supposed to be having a nice visit.
“Gghhh…” Great-Uncle Ted catches my eye and reaches out.
Without thinking, I flinch. I have a flashback to a movie I saw where a guy laid out like this had a monster burst out of his chest and jump on someone’s face. I’m not saying I expect that to happen here, but hey, it does go through my mind.
Great-Uncle Ted’s eyes change. He points impatiently to something on the table.
A pad and paper. There is spidery writing on it.
“You want me to…give you the pad?” I ask.
Now there’s a flash of fire in Great-Uncle Ted’s eyes. I know when someone’s ticked off. The message is clearly Yes, you idiot. Give me the pad.
I hand the pad to my great-uncle, who winces in pain as he presses a button on the side of his bed that raises him to a seated position.
Slowly, he writes something and then hands me the pad.
Hurts too much to talk. You Amanda’s boy, Ted?
I start to write an answer on the pad.
The next thing I know, Great-Uncle Ted yanks the pad out of my hands. The old dude is surprisingly strong!
BEEP BEEP BEEP
Great. Now the heart-rate machine is going a lot faster. That can’t be good.
He scribbles something and hands the pad back to me.
I’m not deaf, you little dope. Talk to me.
I laugh in spite of myself. Of course. Duh.
“Yes, uh, sir…I’m Ted.” I feel a little weird introducing myself, since he knows who I am, but since I don’t remember him, it feels like the right thing to do. And I’m pretty sure he seems like a “sir.”
The old man writes some more. He’s writing with more energy now.
You got big. Do you still like playing games?
“What games do you mean, sir?” I ask.
Kissing games.
What th—?
“Uh, no, sir,” I begin. “I don’t enjoy kissing games. That is, I’ve never played them. Maybe I would enjoy them if I did. I mean, you never know about something until you try it, right?” I’m babbling now. Trying to look casual, I lean against something, then realize it’s a pole holding some fluid going into my great-uncle (or maybe coming out of him—hard to tell). Gross. I attempt to cross my legs, but I dare anyone to try to do it while wearing these ICU snot-green-colored clown pants they made me wear over my jeans to come in here. It’s not so simple. So my leg sort of hovers half hoisted.
Meanwhile, Great-Uncle Ted is scribbling away.
I know you like computer games, you little twerp. I just wanted to see your face.
I laugh, and I see a hint of a smile under all the machinery.
You like the ones where you shoot people?
“I’m not allowed to play those,” I say, which is the truth.
I didn’t ask if you were allowed to. I asked if you liked them.
I smile and nod. This guy is pretty sharp. “Um…yeah, I play them sometimes.”
Great-Uncle Ted looks at me with an expression I can’t make out.
A lot of fun, huh?
“I guess.” I shrug.
I hope that’s the only way you ever have to shoot and kill a man. The other way is a lot less fun.
“You’ve killed a man?” I try to ask casually, but it kind of comes out in a squeak. Not my most macho moment, but give me a break, I wasn’t ready for this.
Quite a few, yes.
What did Uncle Ted do before he retired? I wonder what sort of professions call for killing men. Or more precisely, “quite a few” men. Was he a soldier? A hit man?
Let’s talk about something else. Why do you like these games so much?
I’m happy to move on. “I don’t think the shooting games are all that—and that’s the truth. It’s more something to do with my friends when we hang out. What I really like is what are called escape-the-room games.”
Tell me about them.
Sure, why not? “They’re kind of puzzles, where you’re stuck in a room and have to figure a way out.”
Great-Uncle Ted’s eyes survey the space around him.
There’s only one way to escape this room.
“Well, I don’t agree,” I say eagerly, standing up to look around. “There are all sorts of exits, if you look carefully. Not just the door. There’s that window. You could tie your sheets together and climb down there, or maybe there’s an air-conditioning duct—”
TAP TAP TAP.
My brilliant analysis is interrupted by the sound of my great-uncle’s pencil tapping loudly on the pad to get my attention.
I was actually referring to dying, Ted. Try to keep up.
I sit down, deflated. “I guess I didn’t think of that,” I say honestly, “because you seem so alive.”
Great-Uncle Ted does his best to roll his eyes.
Don’t bother sucking up to a dying man, Ted. You any good at these room games?
“Never seen a game I couldn’t solve or beat. I’m always the top scorer—that means I’ve solved them quicker than anyone else. I guess that makes me the best,” I say, before realizing how obnoxious it sounds. “That sounds like bragging. Sorry.”
You ever heard of Dizzy Dean?
Okay, that’s a little random. But old people do that sometimes. The name does sound kind of familiar, but I can’t place it. I shake my head.
One of the best pitchers in the history of baseball.
When you go home, look up what he said about bragging.
Great-Uncle Ted settles back onto his pillow. He’s clearly tired.
I stare out the window, watching the headlights of the traffic below making patterns on the ceiling. “Yeah. That’s about the one thing I am good at,” I say softly, almost to myself. I hear scratching, and he’s up and writing more.
Don’t ever sell yourself short, Ted. Your mother says you’re very smart.
I nod my head and laugh. “Yeah, I know, I just don’t ‘apply myself.’ She’s always saying that. Lila’s the smart one.”
Lila is my big sister, the bane of my existence. Lila the
straight-A student, Lila the president of the student body. Lila, who got the highest Board scores in La Purisma High’s history. Lila, who gave the most beautifully written senior address at her graduation, currently crushing it in her freshman year at Harvard. I mean, seriously. Why even try to compete with that?
Your mother told me you’re smarter than your sister. You just don’t know it.
Oh, snap! I hope there’s a burn unit at Harvard, because Lila just got smoked. Big-time!
I’m starting to like Great-Uncle Ted. But I feel bad. We’ve been talking about me the whole time I’ve been here. Well, except for the part about him killing a lot of people. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to hear more about that.
“So I guess you knew my mom when she was a little kid,” I begin. “What was she like?”
Amanda was a pain in the a
He stops and his eye drifts up to my face and back down to his pad.
Amanda was a pain in the a behind, if you’ll excuse my French.
I can’t believe I thought this was going to be boring. This is great! “Seriously? How so?” It takes all the self-control I can muster to get this out without cracking up.
He writes for a long time, then hands the pad to me.
When she was nine, she had this thing where no matter what you would ask her she’d say, “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
Like you’d ask her, “What flavor ice cream do you want?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
“What movie do you want to see?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out!”
“Do I have lung cancer?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out!”
The Ghost in Apartment 2R Page 19
