by Karen Quinn
“Every day, during art, he would draw or paint pictures of the car crash where his parents died and he was paralyzed. We didn’t even know he remembered the accident. He’s never spoken of it. The images were violent and disturbing. He made two or three a day. Finally, the director called and asked us to tell him not to make car-wreck pictures anymore. On his psychiatrist’s advice, we told them no. She felt the art was helping him work through the tragedy and it could set him back emotionally if we made him stop. The director said if he didn’t change his behavior, she’d put it in his school report. We told her to go ahead. We weren’t going to step in. This went on for a few weeks. Finally, Jack Henry’s teacher took him aside, against our wishes, and told him he had to stop making those pictures or she wouldn’t let him paint anymore.”
“Did he stop?” I asked.
“Oh yes,” Tiny explained. “He listens. But now, he draws pictures of the Hindenburg—catching on fire, exploding, breaking in half, passengers falling to their deaths, that sort of thing. We watched a History Channel documentary on it. I guess it made an impression.” She handed me a stack of drawings Jack Henry had done on that theme. Whew. These were powerful images of havoc, destruction, and incineration. “God knows what they said in the school report,” Tiny said.
Patsy let me take Veronica out on three occasions. Without telling her parents, I applied my favorite little pork bun to the only three schools in town that didn’t require the ERB. They weren’t top-tier schools. They were small, progressive, nurturing programs that might be perfect for Veronica.
Pretending to be her single mother, I regaled the schools with stories about Veronica’s many interests and talents. She genuinely is an exceptional child, and I tried to help them see that. Veronica enjoyed her visits, which were low-key playgroups with teachers observing from the sidelines. Except for the fact that she spilled her juice at snack every single time, she performed beautifully. Two of the three schools seemed interested.
My concern, of course, was that no Baby Ivy would take her after that damning ERB report. Maybe I’d be able to offer Stu a private-school alternative that would be a better fit for his daughter. How I would convince him of this, I had no idea.
6. A Hoi Polloi Holiday
The admissions process came to a screeching halt until after New Year’s, so I could enjoy the holidays with my daughters. Kate and Skyler’s school was holding a fair to raise money for their library. As in, the school didn’t have one.
The charter program I’d slept on the street for was called School of the Basics. The principal, Jennifer Rachelson, was a no-nonsense educator who advocated an old-fashioned, traditional approach. The children wore uniforms. The focus was on reading, writing, and arithmetic. The girls were separated from the boys for math and science.
I was happily shocked by how much help School of the Basics provided for Kate’s learning disability. In kindergarten, she had been diagnosed with dyslexia. Our private school regretted to inform us that they didn’t have the resources to help. She either had to keep up on her own or find a new school. They strongly recommended that we get extra support three to four days a week. It didn’t occur to them that the additional $15,000 a year for special-education tutors might be more than we could manage. Of course, when she was first diagnosed, we hired help without thinking. Today, it would be out of the question.
The public school, on the other hand, provided a free learning specialist and kept Kate after school for special review sessions with her teachers. For the first time since kindergarten, she didn’t feel like the dumbest kid in class.
Skyler faced a different problem. Her private-school friends looked down on her now that she was in public school. That was driven home when, as a community service project, her old class came to School of the Basics to tutor the “disadvantaged” public-school kids in Skyler’s grade. It hurt to see my daughter belittled by girls whose opinions mattered so much to her. At the same time, I was secretly relieved to see her traveling in different, more humble circles.
Of course, I had to become more involved in the public school. There were committees to raise money for all the extras that were standard in every private school—a library, an after-school program, classes in music, art, and phys. ed. Would my daughters graduate appreciating the difference between Manet and Monet? Pucci and Gucci? Would they be on a first-name basis with the children of the power elite? Not likely. On the other hand, both were happy and learning. Both were getting a more realistic view of how the rest of the world lived. I’m not going to lie to you. If money were no object, I never would have taken them out of the sheltered world of private school. But under the circumstances, we were doing just fine.
At noon on Sunday, the girls and I walked out of our building and headed for the fair. The line to get into Kratt’s was twice as long as usual. Good for Michael, I thought, the Knishery is hopping. I vowed to have a heart-to-heart with him about expanding. The place was a gold mine.
Faith and Steven’s limo drove by just as we reached Hester Street. They were joining us. We caught a ride with them for the last few blocks. Archie came with Wendy and Winnie. It warmed my heart to see how seriously he was taking this gig. With background music provided by a parent salsa band, the fair had face-painting, balloon animals, sand art, a bake sale, and an arts-and-crafts zone where children could make their own holiday presents—no grown-ups allowed. That’s where Kate, Skyler, Mae, Lia, and Winnie spent their time.
“How’s Winnie handling her new image?” I asked Wendy.
She frowned. “Not so great. Her friends didn’t recognize her at first. So the teacher explained that Winnie looked different because she was in an Off-Broadway play. Then Winnie told everyone that she changed her skin and hair to help her get into a better school. You should have heard me backpedal with the teacher. I just can’t get her to lie.”
“You’ve got to impress upon her how important it is to keep the secret. If schools find out she’s not really black, no one will take her.”
“I know. I’m trying,” Wendy said. “I hate to say it, but I think this was a mistake.”
“It might have been, but it’s too late now to find another father. You have to stay the course. I know you can do it.”
“Of course I can,” she said. “I’m a Weiner, and a Weiner never quits.”
I put my arm around her. “That’s the spirit. C’mon, let’s go to the potluck.”
After dinner, a silent auction was held. It featured smaller-ticket items than those offered at the girls’ old school. Principal-for-a-day. Dinner for four at Kratt’s Knishery, arranged by me. Hip-hop lessons by Gabriel Fernández, husband of Plus-Sized Mama, who was now my good friend and co-chair of the book-fair committee—that sort of thing. There were no dates with George Clooney or penthouse suites on the Crystal Symphony. We stayed for both the potluck and the auction. Skyler was thrilled when she found out she would be principal-for-a-day, a gift from me. I bought break-dancing lessons for Faith and Steven, which they thought would be a hoot.
When the fair was over, Principal Rachelson made a big announcement. To her delight, the auction had raised $104,900! Forty-nine hundred dollars from school parents, and $100,000 from one of the world’s richest men, who happened to be in the courtyard at that very moment trying to learn how to spin on his head.
7. Oprah’s Favorite Things
Wednesday after the fair, I went to Kratt’s after dropping the girls at school. I’d been avoiding the place ever since Michael and I had that fight. But since he reached out to me with that peace-sign-shaped piecrust, it was time to return the gesture by stopping in to eat. Plus, I thought I might casually bring up the idea of expanding. I knew he was against it the last time we talked, but the place got busier every week. It would be a service to the people of New York City.
I sat at a window booth waiting for Michael to notice me. He didn’t. That could only mean he wasn’t there. Peeking in the back, I spied him having a heated discussion with two wo
men who were up to their elbows in flour. I hustled back to my table, waiting for him to emerge.
“What was going on back there?” I asked when Michael finally came out. It wasn’t like him to be so stressed.
He sat down and put his head in his hands. “You know The Oprah Winfrey Show?”
“Of course.”
“Well, she does a program near the holidays called ‘Oprah’s Favorite Things,’ where she picks items she particularly likes—clothes, electronics, food, that sort of thing—and she does a show about them. A few weeks ago, we got a call that Oprah chose our cinnamon-cheese coffee cake as one of her favorite things. She tasted it last fall when she ate here. They asked us to send two hundred tins of coffee cake for everyone in her audience, so we did.”
“That’s great, isn’t it?”
“Well, sure. The show aired a week ago Tuesday. Did you see the line on Sunday? It went all the way to Broome Street.”
“I did! I saw it on my way to the kids’ fair.”
“The problem is, we’ve gotten more than twenty thousand orders for cakes, and we have to fill them in the next two weeks. I don’t see how we can do that.”
“Can’t you hire more workers?”
“I have. See the two women in the back? All they do is bake coffee cake. I have a second shift that comes in after dinner. My cousin’s wrapping and boxing as fast as he can. I hate to say it, but I think we’re going to disappoint a lot of people.”
“How many orders are you filling a day?”
“About five hundred, and the requests keep coming.”
“You’ll never get it done at that rate.”
“I know. That’s what I’ve been saying.”
“I’ll help,” I volunteered.
Michael smiled, flashing those dimples. “Would you prefer to box or bake?”
I thought for a moment. “No, we need to think bigger. You know how, in the olden days, neighbors used to help their neighbors by having barn-raising parties?”
“Yeah, I remember seeing that on Little House on the Prairie.”
“You watched that show?”
“Every day after school. I was in love with Mary, the blond sister. But don’t tell anyone.”
“You mean the blind sister.”
“That, too.”
I laughed. “Okay, here’s my idea. Let’s organize a party to fill the orders. We’ll invite our neighbors to help.”
“Ivy, my naïve tenant, I hate to burst your bubble, but this is New York City in the twenty-first century. People aren’t as neighborly as they were in the days of Little House on the Prairie. But thanks for the suggestion.”
“Hey, don’t be so cynical. It’s a good idea. If I could get you a bunch of volunteers, would you feed them?”
“Sure, I guess.”
“Then don’t worry. You cook. Leave the volunteers to me.”
That afternoon, I made flyers for KRATT’S COFFEE CAKE-BAKING PARTY, to take place Saturday night after sunset, from 7:00 P.M. until 7:00 A.M. I posted the invites all over the neighborhood—at the girls’ school, the boys’ club on Canal, and the Henry Street Settlement House. We advertised entertainment by the Naked Carpenter and free food for anyone willing to work.
After Friday’s lunch at School of the Basics, Principal Rachelson lent us the school’s industrial ovens. No way could Michael’s equipment handle 20,000 coffee cakes. With Plus-Sized Mama in charge, our PTA book committee held a bake-a-thon in the school’s kitchen for twenty hours straight. As each batch of cakes cooled, two of Faith’s drivers loaded and delivered them to the Knishery for packing and mailing.
By 10:00 P.M. Saturday, only a handful of volunteers had shown. Faith was there, supervising cake packing. Ollie Pou boxed and labeled the packages. Tiny and Willow processed charges for orders. Wendy Weiner served food to hungry volunteers, not that we had many. The Goldofskys were there, of course. They never seemed to leave. Even the kids pitched in. When the Naked Carpenter finished each set, the children sang old standards like “The Wheels on the Bus,” “Head and Shoulders, Knees and Toes,” and that perennial favorite, “If You’re Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands.” I was moved that so many clients and friends had answered my call for help. But what about the neighbors?
“I don’t get it. It’s after 10:00. Where is everyone? I put signs up all over,” I said.
“Ivy, this is New York. I think you’re expecting too much. We’ll get through most of the work with the volunteers we have,” Michael said. “You’ve done an amazing job.”
“But I wanted to get it all done for you,” I said. I thought for a minute. “Stay here. I’m going recruiting.”
“Ivy, don’t. It’s Saturday night. There’s a full moon.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“The city’s extra-dangerous when the moon is full. More crime. More accidents. More rats crawling out of the sewers.”
“Eeeuw. Why’d you have to tell me that?” I said.
“The point is, you shouldn’t be out alone at this hour.”
“You’re right. So come with me,” I said.
A less-than-enthusiastic Michael put his cousin in charge of the Knishery. We left in search of volunteers.
“Let’s go to Cosette’s. There’s always a crowd outside,” I suggested.
“No, I can’t,” Michael said. “They’ll be furious if I steal their customers.”
“They’re not customers. They’re sad, rejected people who will never be let in.”
“Doesn’t matter. They need the crowd to look hot. It’s their shtick,” Michael said. “Plus, have you seen the size of their bouncers? I’d rather not die tonight.”
“Fine. Okay. Let’s think. What about this?” I said. “There’s a homeless shelter at St. Dominico’s on Hester Street. The food’s lousy. There’s no TV. No music. I’ll bet we can find volunteers there.”
“How do you know the food’s lousy?”
“I’m guessing.”
“That might work,” Michael said. “Let’s go.”
The church was open, but there was no sign of the shelter. A janitor who was wiping Pledge on the pews told us where to go.
Father Christopher stood at the basement door welcoming people who were seeking shelter. We introduced ourselves and told him about our plight. “Would you be willing to make an announcement about our cake-baking event?” He agreed, but only after extracting a promise from Michael to donate all the food Kratt’s couldn’t sell to his shelter. He said their food was lousy (see, I was right!). He’d eaten at the Knishery and knew the cuisine was superb. Father Christopher offered to pick it up every night. Michael was happy to oblige. Usually he tossed his less-than-fresh food. It was a win-win, as they used to say at Myoki.
Twenty minutes later, we led a motley crew of nineteen volunteers back to Kratt’s. Those who came were happy for something to do. The promise of good food and music was a powerful draw. We divided them up into packers, bakers, and box labelers. By midnight, the place was humming.
“Ivy, I don’t know what to say,” Michael said. “I thought I’d seen it all.”
“See, Michael, sometimes people surprise you. I knew we’d find volunteers.” I noticed a few more neighbors had arrived, so I asked them why they’d come.
“Food, definitely,” a bleached blonde with five visible face piercings declared.
“The entertainment. I just love that Naked Carpenter,” said a nurse who had just finished her shift. “Is he married?”
“I wanted to help,” a red-cheeked Irishman said.
“What did I tell you, Michael? People giving to other people. Neighbors helping neighbors.”
“Plus, I was hoping to meet girls,” the guy added.
Mr. and Mrs. Goldofsky were packing cakes into tins under Faith’s supervision. Mrs. G. took this as an opportunity to make introductions. “Michael Kratt, this is my granddaughter, Miriam Goldofsky. Michael, Miriam is a docta. Miriam, Michael is the Kratt from Kratt’s Knishery.�
� She lowered her voice so that we all paid close attention. “He owns buildings all over the Lower East Side. You could do woise.” Michael and Miriam smiled at each other and went outside to talk.
By Sunday morning, we had baked and boxed enough coffee cake to fill all the orders and then some. Michael was ecstatic and exhausted at the same time. While the rest of us said goodnight, he opened the Knishery to a gaggle of hungry New Yorkers clamoring for their Sunday brunch. I went to sleep, with visions of coffee cakes dancing in my head.
8. A Mysterious Benefactor
“Let’s go look at the tree at Rockefeller Center,” I suggested to the girls on the Saturday before Christmas. Even though we celebrated Chanukah, New York was amazing this time of year and we never missed the big tree or holiday windows.
“Yeah!” Skyler and Kate screamed. They were suckers for decorations, too. We bundled up in our winter coats, scarves, and hats and hoofed it to Fifth Avenue and 49th Street just for the exercise. The girls whined about the long walk, but I distracted them by pointing out cool holiday decorations along the way. When we arrived at Rockefeller Center, the side-walks were jam-packed with visitors who all had the same idea we did. It was too crowded to get near the tree, so we stood across the street and gazed at the top of it, which was the only part we could see.
“Come on, let’s get in line and look at Saks’ windows,” I suggested. After half an hour in the dense crowd, we reached the first display. The mob carried us past the windows like swimmers caught in the undertow. Kate and Skyler were so jostled, they couldn’t have seen much beyond the backs of the taller people in front of them.
“Wasn’t that fun, Mommy?” Kate said after we blew past the last window.
“It sure was,” I said. Did she really think that was fun? Frankly, I was overwhelmed by the crowd, my feet hurt, I needed to pee and was starved. Otherwise, I was enjoying myself immensely. Then I had a brilliant idea. “Come on, girls, let’s go to Tavern on the Green.” We headed west through Central Park. As a native New Yorker, I knew that the best Christmas decorations were at Tavern on the Green’s patio, where trees were strung with lights of every color and shrubs had been pruned to resemble everything from King Kong to delicate swans. You could grab a hot dog, sit for free at an outdoor table, and marvel at the gorgeous setting. Plus, I could probably talk my way into their bathroom, even though we weren’t eating there.
