by Karen Quinn
After a lesson on what goes on inside the admissions machine, Tipper ended by warning me never to let schools know if any of my little clients were in therapy or had learning disabilities—these were flagged for almost certain rejection. Also, many private schools get out of accepting kids with disabilities by not making their facilities wheelchair-accessible. Admissions directors were seeking perfect children, so that’s what I should give them.
Tipper’s eyes shot nervously around the room. She reached into her bag and removed some papers, then slipped them to me under cover of a menu. “If anyone found out I gave these to you, I’d be dead.”
2. Kiddie Corrupt
Nonchalantly, I slipped the papers under my yellow pad. “What is this?” I said without moving my lips.
Under her breath, Tipper replied, “It’s twenty of the best parent essays Harvard Day ever received. They’re priceless. Every one of these kids got in. But you have to promise me one thing.”
“Anything,” I answered.
“Read them, learn what you can, and burn them. If these were found in your possession, I’d be ruined.” With great effort, Tipper extricated her titanic tush from the booth. She stood up to see if the coast was clear. Dropping a ten-spot on the table, she said, “Good luck, Ivy. Remember, we never had this conversation. I only did this because you were my mentor at Myoki. Now we’re even.”
I was speechless. In the end, we left separately, just to be safe.
I had to get my hands on that test.
To get into kindergarten, four-year-olds took a test called the WPPSI—the Wechsler Preschool and Primary Scale of Intelligence, to be precise. Since it was given by the Educational Records Bureau, folks around town just called it the ERB. For admission to the top-tier schools, kids needed world-class scores.
The ERB stayed the same from year to year, so I knew that if I could secure one, I could show my clients how to prepare their kids. Schools threatened that children caught having been coached would be eliminated from consideration, but it was common among rich families to visit out-of-town psychologists and pay thousands of dollars for their children to practice the test before taking the official one. I figured if I could see what was on it, I could teach parents and nannies how to get their children ready at home without ever exposing them to the actual questions.
The problem was, no psychologist would show me a copy, even when I offered to hire them as consultants. They were worried about losing their licenses. I tried the Internet, but no one was selling old WPPSIs, not even on eBay. The wall of silence that psychologists had built around these instruments was impenetrable. Damn them!
Desperate, I asked Faith for the name and address of the psychologist who first tested Mae, the one who died. Maybe I could get in touch with the family and offer to buy her copy.
I went to her building, hoping the doorman would tell me how to reach her next of kin. Unfortunately, Tanvir, the concierge, refused to divulge such sensitive information. As soon as I slipped him a C-note, however, he blabbed. It seems that her son, a Mr. Bendiner, would be visiting New York in the near future to clean out the apartment. Tanvir knew this because the place had been rented beginning next month. I gave Tanvir an extra ten-spot and my phone number and told him there’d be another C-note in it for him if he’d call me when Mr. Bendiner was in the apartment.
About a week later, the phone rang.
“Mrs. A, it’s T.”
“T?”
“Yes, T, Tanvir from the building.”
“Oh, hi, T, how are you?”
“The robin has laid its egg,” he said cryptically.
“Excuse me?”
“The eagle has landed,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Ooooh, thanks, T.” We hadn’t settled on a secret code, but I admired him for being so stealthy.
When I arrived at the late psychologist’s building, Tanvir buzzed me up as soon as I paid him off. “Hello,” I shouted. “Is anyone home?” The door was ajar, and big black Hefty bags filled with clothes lined the hall.
A clean-cut guy wearing a Nebraska Cornhuskers cap stuck his head out of the bathroom and motioned me in. Tall and gangly with enormous ears, he greeted me with a boyish smile.
“Hi,” I said tentatively. “You must be Dr. Bendiner’s son.”
“Yes, I am, I’m Barry Bendiner,” he said. “And you are . . . ?”
“I’m Ivy . . . My . . . Yoki. Ivy Myoki. Actually, I’m Jewish, married to a Japanese guy. He died. Long story,” I said, extending my hand. “I just want to tell you how sorry I am for your loss. Your mother was a wonderful woman.”
“Yes, she was,” he said sadly, his eyes tearing up.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Maybe I should go.”
“No, it’s okay. It’s nice to meet someone who cared about my mother. How did you know her?”
Think fast. Think fast. Come clean. Lie. Come clean. Lie. “Well . . . I’m studying to be an educational psychologist, like she was,” I managed to reply. “And I interned with her through . . . NYU. Your mom taught me everything I know about testing children. She was amazing with kids, but I’m sure you’ve heard that from other people.” I was ashamed of telling such blatant lies to this brokenhearted son, but not so ashamed that I didn’t press on.
“I came by on the off chance that you might be selling some of her psychology books,” I said. “It would mean a lot to me to have some of Dr. Bendiner’s books in my own library, the one I’m just starting to build.” Liar. Liar. God’s gonna punish you.
“Of course,” Barry said gently. “All her work stuff is on the shelves in the den. Take a look.”
I walked into the room and immediately noticed a number of treatises on abnormal and educational psychology that I had no use for. On the bottom shelf—bingo—the entire WPPSI test was there for the taking. I’d hit the jackpot! Go, I-vy. It’s ma birfday.
I gathered up the test materials. “Barry, can I buy these from you?”
“You just take them, Ivy,” he urged. “It would have meant a lot to my mother to have you own something she valued so much. I couldn’t accept money from you.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, feeling like the complete and utter fraud I was.
“Absolutely.”
“Thank you, Barry. You’ll never know how much this means to me,” I said, visualizing his mother pounding on the inside of her coffin in a desperate attempt to stop this travesty. I offered Barry a warm sympathy hug. I really did feel bad that he’d lost his mom.
3. I Have a Feeling We’re Not on Park Avenue Anymore
Our moving day came on a rainy Tuesday at the end of April. Schlomo, Zev, and Moishe packed us up and hauled all the girls’ stuff and my half of the household to our new home on the Lower East Side. Zev noticed the mezuzah on my door and couldn’t resist asking, “How can you move to that neighborhood, a nice girl like you, with two young daughters? They have gangs down there.”
What is it about Jews that we feel licensed to butt into one another’s business?
“I’ll be careful. Anyway, I’m happy about the move,” I told Zev, bubbling over with fake enthusiasm. “I can easily cover the rent, and that’s a huge load off my mind. My husband doesn’t contribute a dime because he’s unemployed. I’m getting a divorce. I have no income of my own. I can’t possibly afford to stay on Park Avenue.”
Of course, I had just laid my whole life out before Zev with no hesitation, either. Why didn’t I just add that my menstrual flow was especially heavy that day?
Our new apartment was a third-floor walk-up located above Kratt’s Knishery, one of the oldest kosher delis in the city. On Sunday mornings, the line to get a table at Kratt’s is worse than Space Mountain on Memorial Day. Customers stand three deep in front of the take-out counter waiting for bagels, lox, herring, nova, and sable. Michael Kratt, the fourth-generation owner of the building and restaurant, lived on the top two floors. The place was conveniently located between Hung-Goldstein Grocery and Lupe’s Bue
no Laundromat.
It didn’t take long to set up the new apartment since the whole thing would have fit in my old living room. The tiny kitchen and living area were up front, and the two small bedrooms and a bathroom were in the rear. The bathroom and kitchen had recently been renovated. The wood floors were original and in reasonably good shape. The best part was that we had backyard rights. The fire escape outside my bedroom window led to a stairway that descended to the postage-stamp-sized property shared by the tenants.
On our first night in the new house, the doorbell rang. Yikes. That’s when it hit me that we no longer had doormen. Anyone could show up—a murderer, a rapist, a Scientologist. I peeked through the hole and saw a large African American guy and a short, dark-haired white guy standing there. Without so much as a “Who is it?” I opened the door. Not a smart thing to do in New York City.
“Hi,” the first guy said. “I’m Archie Elliot. I live on the fourth floor. I think you know Michael, our landlord.”
“Hi,” Michael said. “We wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood. Here’s some stuffed cabbage and noodle pudding.” Michael handed me a covered dish.
“Gosh, that’s so nice of you. This is just like the suburbs, I think. I’ve never actually lived in the suburbs. But, you know, I saw this happen on Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood a few years ago. Would you guys like to come in?” I asked.
“No, we can see you’re busy,” Archie said, peering at the boxes behind me that the girls were using as tables for their sausage-and-pineapple pizza.
“These are my daughters, Skyler and Kate, and our dog, Sir Elton,” I added. The girls waved “Hello.”
“Enjoy the food,” Archie said. “Michael owns the deli downstairs. He’s a great cook.”
“Really,” I said. “And what about you, Archie, what do you do?”
“I’m an actor. A performance artist.”
“Have you heard of the Naked Carpenter?” Michael asked. “That’s Archie.”
“Get out of town,” I said. “I live downstairs from the Naked Carpenter? I don’t believe it.”
Archie blushed. Just a few weeks ago, Kate, Skyler, and I had watched him perform “Handy Man” in Times Square. We threw money into his guitar case and he winked at us. There was a recent article about him in Time Out. You can find the Naked Carpenter almost every day in one of the hot tourist spots wearing only his Fruit of the Looms, a tool belt, hard hat, and work boots, strumming his guitar and singing. Visitors pay to pose with him. He’s on postcards. He appears at corporate events. Apparently, he makes over $200,000 a year with his simple but profound concept. Lots of people think he’s just another New York nutcase, but I think he’s a genius. Anyone who manages to get paid that much, in cash, without having to deal with office politics, is wise beyond all measure.
“Have you met Philip, second floor?” Archie asked.
“Not yet.”
“He’s a good guy,” Archie said. “Quiet, but you’ll like him. Anyway, welcome to the building. Let us know if we can help you out. I’m pretty handy. Really.”
I smiled, shocked, but grateful to have neighbors who would reach out to me. This would never happen on Park Avenue.
A week later, we met our elusive second-floor neighbor. The girls and I were jumping rope in the backyard after school, laughing and singing. For them it was playtime. For me, it was exercise. For Sir Elton, it was just one more thing to bark at.
Mother, mother, I am ill.
Send for the doctor over the hill.
Doctor, doctor, will I die?
Yes you must and so must I.
How many years will I live?
1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 41 . . . 42 . . .
“Excuse me. Hel-low.” The man stuck his head out the window, interrupting my concentration. I messed up at forty-three. Only four more years to live. Gaaad!
“Yes,” I said, huffing and puffing. “Hi. You must be Philip.”
“I am. I take it you’re the new neighbors.”
“Yes, we are. I’m . . .” I tried to catch my breath.
“I’m writing up here. Could you keep it down? I work in the back and can’t think with all that noise,” he said.
There was no need to get testy. We’re all mature people here. “Why don’t you close your window, genius?” Skyler mumbled.
“Skyler!” I admonished. “Don’t worry, we’ll be quieter,” I shouted.
He left and we resumed our fun. This time, Skyler jumped double dutch but we whispered our song.
Raspberry, strawberry, banana tart.
Tell me the name of your sweetheart.
Andy, Billy, Charlie, David . . .
The man’s head popped out the window again. “Ex-CUSE me.”
We stopped. “Are we still bothering you?”
“Yes.”
“But we whispered.”
“Your ropes are loud.”
“Fine,” I said. “When will you be finished with your work?”
“In four or five hours.”
“Thanks for being so flexible,” I said.
“What are we gonna do, Mommy?” Skyler asked.
“Grab Sir Elton’s leash. We’re going to the park.” Grrrrr, I thought. This never happened to Mr. Rogers.
4. Kratt’s Knishery
I wonder ... would it be considered child abuse to gag my kids before sending them out to play? After three complaints from Mr. Hypersensitive, I was seriously considering it. Of course, I wouldn’t tie the gags too tightly, just enough to muffle their screams. But first, I decided to bring the man food as a peace offering. Perhaps I could sweet-talk him into tolerating Kate and Skyler.
I wandered into Kratt’s Knishery and was instantly hit with the smell of my grandmother Etta’s kitchen. Ahhh—there’s no mistaking the aroma of fresh beef brisket. The cases were filled with every artery-clogging Jewish delicacy that I adored—blintzes, chopped liver, gefilte fish, beef kishke, knishes, rugalach, kasha varnishkas. Living above the deli would be hell on my diet.
“Welcome. Can I get you anything?” Michael Kratt himself came over to help me. He was a good-looking guy in his early forties with thick black hair and deep dimples. I guarantee that every Jewish grandmother who ate here tried to set him up with her granddaughter or gay grandson.
“Hey, Michael. I’m looking for something really delicious that I can give to Philip, our neighbor. What do you suggest?”
“I’ll tell you what. Sit down and I’ll put together a tasting meal for you. Are you hungry?”
“Starved, thanks.”
I sat in a booth while Michael prepared a plate. Customers were popping in and out, and other employees took care of them. Michael handed me an overflowing plate and a cold Dr. Brown’s cream soda.
“What is all this?” I asked.
“We have fresh beef brisket, potato latkes, chopped liver, knoblewurst on rye, kasha varnishkas, and some cinnamon Danish.”
“Nothing green?” I joked.
“Would you like some vegetarian chopped liver?” he asked seriously.
“I’ll pass, thanks. It looks delicious.”
Michael went behind the counter to work while I sampled each dish. That old guy from The Sopranos was sitting at a back table having lox and bagels with a young hottie, either his granddaughter or his girlfriend. This was cool. Had I inadvertently moved above a celebrity haunt? Talk about dumb luck. Michael was oblivious to the star in our midst. He was too busy attending to an itsy-bitsy Jewish grandmother and her ancient humpbacked husband, who were buying cold cuts. The lady was lecturing Michael for not throwing in extra meat after the order was weighed like his late father used to do. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Goldofsky, I’m giving you an extra half-pound of whatever you like on the house,” Michael said.
“You mean free?” she asked.
“I mean free.”
“You’re a good boy, Michael. Isn’t he a good boy, Max?”
“He’s a good boy,” Max agreed.
The food at Kratt’s Kni
shery brought back memories of my childhood in Brooklyn—the happy part, that is. In the end, I bought a pound of chopped liver and a box of Ritz crackers for Philip. Michael didn’t charge me for the tasting.
I brought the pâté home and transferred it to a Pyrex dish. Then I warmed it in the microwave so it would seem fresh from the chopping bowl. Satisfied that my neighbor would think it was homemade, I went downstairs, intent on bewitching him with my charm or chopped liver—whichever worked.
5. The Neighbor Downstairs
The moment he answered the door, I knew I’d brought the wrong dish. This guy was thin and lanky. He had that intentionally accidentally tousled look like those models in the Calvin Klein ads. Definitely a vegetarian and probably a runner. What was he? Twenty-three? Twenty-five? Dammit, I thought, I should have worn makeup.
I cleared my throat, bringing myself back to the moment. “Hi, sorry to bother you. We didn’t have a chance to meet last week when my children were annoying you. I’m Ivy Ames, and I’d like to offer you a nice bowl of chopped liver.”
He stared at me.
“It’s homemade,” I added, sounding like June Cleaver trying to cajole the Beaver.
He stood there.
“If this is a bad time, um, I can come back.”
“No, it’s okay,” he said quietly. “Why don’t you come in?”
I noticed that his apartment was exactly like mine except most of the interior walls were down and it was one big open room, like a loft.
“I’m Philip Goodman,” he said, taking the bowl of chopped liver out of my hands. We stood awkwardly in his living room for a few moments. “Can I offer you some liver?” He smiled.
Whew. The guy’s human.
We went into the kitchen, where he laid out a plate, some crackers, and two butter knives so we could sample the cuisine. “I’ve never had chopped liver,” he said.
“I’m surprised. ‘Goodman’ is a Jewish name and chopped liver is the mother of all Jewish dishes.”
