The Vanderbeekers of 141st Street

by Karina Yan Glaser

  On the southern side of the street were a mix of larger apartment buildings, and at either end of the block were churches that had recently celebrated their centennials. Next to one of the churches sat a narrow piece of abandoned land, which Miss Josie always talked about making into a community garden and Oliver wanted converted into a basketball court. Two blocks to the west was a thin sliver of a park built into a rocky hill. At the top of the hill was a series of castle-like structures that made up the City College of New York’s Harlem campus.

  The sidewalks of 141st Street were wide, but the street was narrow. Majestic street lamps were staggered on both sides of the sidewalk, spaced fifty paces apart. The posts stretched past the first floor of the brownstone, then curved over like a crashing wave. In the evening, the warm glow of the lights made passersby feel that this street might have looked the same one hundred years earlier.

  The Vanderbeekers’ home—a humble red brownstone with a weathervane that spun on windy days—sat in the exact middle of the street. The brownstone stood out not because of its architecture, but because of the constant hum of activity that burst out of it. Among the many people who had visited the Vanderbeeker household there was quite a bit of debate about what it was like, but general agreement about what it was NOT:

  Calm

  Tidy

  Boring

  Predictable

  At the moment, the things the Vanderbeeker household were NOT seemed more pronounced than usual. The kids had relocated their Beiderman meeting to Jessie and Isa’s bedroom upstairs, where the ancient radiator whistled cheerfully at their arrival. Isa pulled out the easel and stood ready to jot notes, marker in hand. Hyacinth was making Operation Beiderman buttons for the kids to wear for their brainstorming sessions. Laney had discovered a box of flower clips under Isa’s bed and was attaching each one to her ponytail.

  As the kids settled in, Isa looked out at her siblings. As a biracial family, the kids exhibited an eclectic mix of physical characteristics and loved comparing which traits they got from what parent. Isa inherited her mother’s stick-straight black hair, which Isa always wore in a sleek ponytail or an elegant French braid, while her twin Jessie had Papa’s wild, untamable hair, which she never bothered to do anything with. Oliver had Papa’s unruly hair but Mama’s dark eyes. Hyacinth got Mama’s nimble fingers but Papa’s large feet. Laney was an exact blend of both of her parents; her hair was a shade of dark brown you would get if you swirled her parents’ hair colors together on an artist’s palette, her feet not small or large, and her eyes were darker than her papa’s but lighter than her mama’s.

  Isa cleared her throat and tapped her marker on the easel. After the room quieted down and she called their meeting to order, she made the first Operation Beiderman suggestions.

  “We could sing Christmas carols to him,” she suggested. “You know, bring him a little Christmas spirit.”

  “What if he’s Jewish? Would Christmas carols offend him?” asked Jessie from her spot by the radiator.

  “We could sing Christmas and Hanukkah songs,” said Isa.

  “I have a little dreidel, I made it out of clay,” sang Laney, off-key and very loud. Her head looked like a garden, with the flower clips attached all over it.

  Oliver stuck fingers in his ears and winced. “That is just really, really bad.”

  “Maybe no dreidel songs,” Isa said as Laney continued chanting, “Dreidel, dreidel, dreidel, I made it out of clay!”

  “I have a feeling he won’t want us singing to him,” said Jessie, glancing at Laney. “I don’t know, it’s just a hunch.”

  “Dreidel, dreidel, dreidel!” Laney sang.

  Isa put a hand over Laney’s mouth to muffle her singing. “How about doing something to help around the building, like planting flowers or something? Miss Josie can help. She’s great with flowers.”

  “It’s winter. Flowers aren’t going to grow now,” Jessie said matter-of-factly.

  “How about poinsettias? That’s a holiday-ish flower,” said Isa.

  Hyacinth wrapped protective arms around Franz, who was sitting at her feet, and glared at Isa. “Poinsettias are poisonous to animals.”

  “What about wreaths?” Isa said.

  “Too expensive,” said Oliver.

  Jessie huffed in frustration. “Okay, I see multiple problems.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “One—he doesn’t like us. Two—we have no money. Three—none of us has actually seen or met the Beiderman and we know nothing about him. Four—he doesn’t want to be disturbed. Five—he doesn’t like us.”

  “That’s the thing,” said Isa. “I’m sure there’s a way to show him that us living here is better than us not living here.”

  “Yeah, but how?” Jessie asked. “The only person we’ve ever seen go up there is the bird lady who drops off groceries once a week.” The bird lady was aptly nicknamed; she resembled a crane, with her long, skinny legs and pointy beak nose.

  Oliver shook his head. “She won’t be any help. I said hi to her a few times and she walked past me like I wasn’t even there. But I did peek into a grocery bag she left downstairs once. It was filled with frozen dinners.”

  “Yuck,” said Hyacinth.

  Jessie moved to her desk and switched on the computer she shared with Isa. “I’m going to see if I can find something out about him online.” She tapped some keys, paused, then tapped more keys. “That’s weird. I can’t get online.”

  Oliver, who was used to the Internet shutting off at inconvenient times, jumped up. “I’ll reset it.”

  His sisters heard him run down the hall, then some murmuring, then his feet stomping back to the twins’ bedroom.

  “Internet is shut off,” Oliver announced with a scowl on his face. “Mama said they had to disconnect it today or pay for the whole next month plus a contract renewal fee.”

  “Oh great,” Jessie said. “That’s just perfect.”

  Isa sensed discontent brewing in the room. “Maybe we need some time to get our best ideas together.” She capped her marker and shoved the blank easel back to the corner of the room. Isa stood up straight and tried to make her voice sound positive and cheerful. “Let’s meet again after dinner. Everyone bring at least two awesome ideas. I know we can do it!”

  Her siblings exchanged a look as they left the bedroom. When Isa did that falsely cheery voice thing, it meant she was worried.

  Very worried.

  The Vanderbeeker kids spent the next few hours agonizing over the Beiderman dilemma. How could they convince him to change his mind? After all, it was only five days until Christmas.

  Oliver had dark thoughts about the Beiderman as he banged down the stairs, grabbed his puffy jacket, and stepped out into the backyard. It was a space eclipsed by a century-old maple tree that dropped mountains of leaves every year from October to December. Oliver leaped onto the rope swing hanging from one of the many branches. He climbed up the rope so his feet rested on the fat knot at the bottom, and he got the rope swaying. As he gained momentum and height, he closed his eyes and breathed in the crisp cold air. He could almost smell the salty ocean wind. For that moment, he was hanging from the ropes of a pirate ship, racing across seas to confront and challenge the evil Beiderman, a peg-legged man with a long scar on his right cheek who was intent on destruction and mayhem.

  In the midst of a nasty gale, he heard Jimmy L yelling at him. Oliver opened his eyes and looked over at the brownstone across the yard, where his friend was waving from his bedroom window on the second floor. Oliver waited for the rope to steady, then ascended the rope Navy SEAL–style by locking it between his feet and squatting and stepping all the way up to the top. He had learned this technique from his PE teacher, Mr. Mendoza—the most awesome human being ever to walk on the planet—who used to be a Navy SEAL himself and now challenged each of his students to climb a rope as fast as he could.

  The top of the rope led to the start of the tree plank Uncle Arthur had made for him last year. Papa was hopeless with lar
ger-scale construction projects and big repairs, so Uncle Arthur usually did those things for him.

  Oliver hopped onto the sun-warmed plank. He scared off a squirrel that was sitting on the lid of the wood bin that held all his stuff; then he opened the lid and rummaged through the contents. There was a pack of spare batteries, a flashlight, a handful of granola bars, a first-aid kit (his Uncle Arthur insisted), and two bottles of orange Fanta that Oliver had to hide from his mother. At last he found what he was looking for: the walkie-talkie he shared with Jimmy L. The walkie-talkies were very useful since neither his nor Jimmy L’s parents let them have cell phones. Oliver clicked the walkie-talkie on and the radio buzzed to life.

  Oliver heard static; then Jimmy L’s voice came through the device. “Captain Kidd, come in. Over.”

  “Magic Jay, this is Captain Kidd,” Oliver responded. Magic Jay, Jimmy L’s secret agent name, was riffed from his favorite basketball player, the legendary Magic Johnson. Captain Kidd was taken from the notorious pirate.

  Oliver heard Jimmy L sigh through the walkie-talkie. “Captain Kidd, you need to say, ‘Go Ahead.’”

  “Oh yeah. Sorry. Magic Jay, go ahead.”

  “All quiet here. Over.”

  “Potential disastrous situation here at one-seven-seven West One-Four-One Street,” Oliver said. “Immediate attention required. How copy?”

  “Captain Kidd, I copy that. Elaborate. Over.”

  “The Beiderman—you know, our landlord?—he’s forcing us to move. We have to leave by the end of the month. Over.”

  There was a long pause. Oliver pressed the button to talk again. “Magic Jay, radio check. Over.”

  Jimmy L’s voice came through the device, loud enough to make the squirrel that was attempting a granola bar theft scurry away. “Are you serious, Oliver?”

  Oliver grimaced. Jimmy L had broken conversation protocol, which had never happened before in the history of their walkie-talkie relationship.

  “Yeah. My parents just told us,” Oliver said into his device.

  “This is the neighbor dude who yelled at your dad when we hit the baseball into his window?”

  “That’s the one,” Oliver replied.

  “That’s so wrong, man. He can’t take away your home.”

  “He’s doing it. Papa says we’re staying in the neighborhood, though.”

  “What about the treehouse? What about our walkie-talkies, man! We saved up for two months for these things.”

  “We’re trying to convince the Beiderman to let us stay,” Oliver said lamely. That head-squeezing feeling he had felt back when his parents first told him the news had returned.

  “Let me know what happens, man. I can help you. Over.”

  Jimmy L was back to the walkie-talkie protocol, which Oliver took as a good sign. “Thanks. We on for basketball on Sunday? Over.”

  “Yeah, man. Current ETA for basketball game on Sunday is fourteen hundred hours. How copy?”

  “Magic Jay, I copy that. Over.”

  “And, Oliver?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I really don’t want you to move.”

  Oliver looked over at Jimmy L’s window, but his friend had disappeared from view. The sun dropped behind a building, and a shadow fell across the treehouse. “Magic Jay, I read you loud and clear. Over.”

  Three

  Hyacinth always had her best ideas when surrounded by her favorite things: scraps of odd-shaped fabric, buttons of many shapes, fat spools of thread in a rainbow of colors, and paper packets with deadly-looking sewing needles. Hyacinth’s yellow paisley dress—her own creation—was made from an old pillowcase with holes cut out for her arms and head. She knotted a wide lavender ribbon around her waist to complete the look.

  Sitting in the middle of the living room, Hyacinth rummaged through her ribbon collection as she tried to think of something to make for the Beiderman. It would have to be something so spectacular that he would change his mind about forcing them to move. When Franz ambled by, Hyacinth took out a piece of green ribbon and draped it over him. His tail wagged, about a 200 on the wpm, or wags per minute, meter.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Hyacinth spotted her mom leave the kitchen, disappear into the laundry room, then reappear lugging a stack of collapsed boxes that had been stored behind the washing machine. But they weren’t just regular boxes. They were moving boxes.

  Hyacinth’s bleak mood was interrupted by Franz’s happy yowl, followed by the sound of the mail slot opening and a stack of envelopes and magazines dropping onto the floor. Hyacinth hopped to her feet and followed Franz to the front door. She rotated the locks and pulled the door open.

  “Hello, Mr. Jones!” said Hyacinth. Mr. Jones had been a postman in her neighborhood since before Papa was born. Franz barked twice and snuffled his nose into the mailbag.

  “My friends!” Mr. Jones replied, rubbing Franz behind the ears with one hand and giving Hyacinth a high five with the other. He gently nudged Franz’s nose out of the way, then took a biscuit from his mailbag and tossed it to him. Franz swallowed it whole and shamelessly rummaged through the mailbag for more.

  Mr. Jones was dressed in his usual navy blue parka with the USPS sonic eagle logo, blue pants, black slip-resistant shoes (Mama had bought those for him after Mr. Jones slipped on a patch of ice last winter and sprained his wrist), and a fur cap (also with the sonic eagle logo). Mr. Jones wore a few accessories not sanctioned by the USPS. These were round buttons designed by Hyacinth with help from her button machine. One said “Mail Rules!” Another said “Love Your Postman,” and the last said “Dogs Are a Postman’s Best Friend.” The dog one was the hardest to read, given the amount of text squeezed onto the tiny circle.

  “And how are we doing today, Miss Hyacinth?” Mr. Jones said.

  “We are fine, thank you,” Hyacinth said in her most polite voice.

  “Isn’t that so nice to hear,” Mr. Jones said as he took out a handkerchief and polished the three buttons attached to his parka. “Very nice to hear indeed.”

  Hyacinth picked up a small bag of bone-shaped dog treats from the table next to the door and handed them to Mr. Jones. “These are peanut butter dog treats,” Hyacinth said. “If you haven’t visited Señor Paz yet, I think he would like them.” Señor Paz was an ancient black Chihuahua that lived down the street.

  “I’m sure Señor Paz will right appreciate these,” Mr. Jones replied, tucking the bag carefully into his pocket. He said sure the same way Hyacinth said shore. “As a matter of fact,” he continued, “I’m heading that way next. Tell me now, did you make these by yourself?”

  “Yes, I did,” Hyacinth replied, glad he asked. She normally did not offer up this type of information, in case it was considered bragging. “Mama helped, of course.”

  “Your mama sure does have a hand with the baking,” Mr. Jones said with an agreeable nod. “I don’t know what the neighborhood dogs would do without you, Miss Hyacinth. I thought Snuggles had gone to heaven when he tasted the other dog cookie you made.”

  Thinking about Snuggles made Hyacinth think about her blanket (also named Snuggles), which made her think of her bed and bedroom, which reminded her of the move. “Oh, Mr. Jones! Mama and Papa told us the worst news ever today. We’re moving!” She pulled at the hems of her shirtsleeves and balled the ends into her fists.

  Mr. Jones’s body appeared to shrink a few inches. “Move? What move?”

  At that exact moment, Mama skidded into the foyer holding a bag. “Hello!” she said with a big, apologetic smile. “Hello, Mr. Jones! I baked some cookies. Would you like some? Nothing like double chocolate pecan cookies to comfort the tummy and the soul, I always say.”

  Mr. Jones did not reach out for the bag. “Now tell me straight, Mrs. Vanderbeeker. Are you moving?”

  Hyacinth noticed that Mama also seemed to shrink a little bit. “Oh, Mr. Jones! I was hoping to tell you first. Our landlord isn’t renewing our lease. We just found out.”

  “I’ve known your husband s
ince he was born,” Mr. Jones said, accusation in his eyes.

  “I know, Mr. Jones. You’re like a part of our family,” Mama said, tears coming into her eyes as she nudged Franz’s nose out of the mailbag and tucked the bag of double chocolate pecan cookies in there instead.

  “We’re looking for another place in the neighborhood, Mr. Jones. If you hear of anything, please let us know,” Mama said.

  Mr. Jones went quiet for a few seconds, then said, “Mr. Beiderman is your landlord?”

  Hyacinth and Mama nodded.

  Mr. Jones shook his head and glanced up, as if he expected to see Mr. Beiderman hanging out his third-floor window at that exact moment.

  “Mr. Beiderman had some hard times,” Mr. Jones said, looking back at them. “Hard times. He bought this brownstone a few months before your family moved in. He used to live a couple blocks away, right by the college. He worked there.”

  “You knew Mr. Beiderman? What did he do?” Hyacinth asked.

  “He taught in the art history department.”

  “He made paintings?”

  “He studied art and its history. Who made the art, where and when the artists lived, what techniques they used. Then he taught students about it,” Mr. Jones said, giving Franz a final head pat.

  “Well, I best be going. Lots of mail to deliver.” Mr. Jones held up the bag Hyacinth had given him. “And dog treats to pass out. Have a good day, now.” He tipped his fur cap and leaned slightly on the bar of his postage cart as he rolled it away from the Vanderbeeker brownstone and down the street. Mama reached over Hyacinth’s head and clicked the door closed, then shuffled back to the kitchen to cook dinner while Hyacinth watched out the window until she couldn’t see Mr. Jones anymore.

  Laney—the youngest Vanderbeeker—had transformed into her alter ego, Panda-Laney. A furry white coat was draped over her stout body and she was crawling around, keeping her mama company in the kitchen. She was the only one who was not so concerned about the possibility of moving. If the Beiderman was the only obstacle, Laney knew she could win him over. She loved people! Surely he would love her too.