The Vanderbeekers of 141st Street

by Karina Yan Glaser

  “I’ve got a headache. And I have my science fair research to do. And I need to do some sit-ups. You know, keep the body fit.” Stop talking, stop talking, stop talking, Jessie demanded of herself.

  “Jess, is everything . . . all right?” Isa’s brow furrowed in confusion.

  Jessie nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak anymore.

  “We’ll be right back. Then we can think more about the Beiderman. We’ll get you a chocolate croissant.” Isa and Allegra stepped away from Jessie, Isa still eyeing her sister critically. Jessie attempted to smile, which only made Isa look more concerned. Jessie scooted into their bedroom and shut the door. She dropped down onto her bed, covered her head with a pillow, and let out a low, tortured groan.

  Nine

  “That was weird,” Allegra said to Isa once they were outside and on their way to Castleman’s Bakery.

  “I think this moving stuff is making her nuts.” Her sister was not taking the news about moving well. Isa had to come up with a new plan to conquer the Beiderman once and for all, and she had to do it fast.

  Allegra shrugged and returned to her new favorite topic, the eighth grade dance. “My mom said Carlson will bring me a corsage and I should get him a boutonniere. Isn’t that wild? I think corsages are so gorgeous. How do you think I should wear my hair? Should I leave it down? I wonder if Carlson is going to wear a suit. Wouldn’t that be so romantic? I’m so excited. Do you want me to ask Carlson whether he knows anyone who would take you? You’re so pretty, I know it wouldn’t be hard to find someone. I wish I had your big brown eyes and long eyelashes. How about that boy who sits next to you in orchestra? What’s his name? Henry? I love his red hair. And those freckles! So cute.”

  Isa nodded halfheartedly. She was glad to be going to Castleman’s; she wanted to tell Benny about the move and ask his advice about the Beiderman. Allegra was great, but when Isa talked to Benny she felt like he stopped everything he was doing and really, truly listened to her.

  They turned the corner and made their way down the street and into the bakery. When they entered, Benny was alone at the counter.

  “Hey, Benjamin,” Allegra called out, walking in first. Benny gave a wave. When Isa stepped in, he frowned at her. But that couldn’t be right. Benny had never not smiled when he saw her.

  “Hi, Benny,” Isa said. She smiled at him, but he was definitely frowning. “Everything okay?”

  “Yup,” Benny replied, not sounding like anything was okay at all. “What do you want?”

  Isa stilled. “Oh. Okay. Um . . . two chocolate croissants,” Isa said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Wait, change that to three. I want to bring one back to Jessie.”

  Benny’s frown turned into a full-blown scowl and his eyes narrowed. He pulled out a piece of wax paper and used it to grab three chocolate croissants from the glass case. He dropped them into a white bag and thrust it at her.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  Isa shook her head, taking the bag as if it were filled with snakes. She handed him the money and waited as he made change. He dropped some quarters in her hand and focused his attention on a point just beyond her left ear, where a picture of a grazing dairy cow hung on the wall.

  “Benny,” Isa began, clutching the bag tighter. “I wanted to tell you—”

  “Isa, don’t worry about it, okay?” Benny said, still avoiding her gaze. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “Wait a second. You already know?” Isa said, confused.

  “Yeah, I know. Jessie told me this morning.”

  “O-kay,” Isa said slowly. “Don’t you have anything to say about it?”

  Benny met Isa’s eyes. “What do you want me to say? It’s fine. It doesn’t matter.”

  Isa stepped back, her fingers gripping the bag so tightly her knuckles turned white. He didn’t care that she was moving? “I thought you would . . . Oh, never mind.” Isa swallowed. “I guess I’ll see you later.”

  Benny shrugged and turned around, disappearing through the swinging doors that led to the back of the store. Isa stood there for a moment staring at the empty space he left behind.

  “Geez,” said Allegra, who had been unusually silent during the entire exchange. “What’s wrong with him?”

  Isa felt tears burning in her eyes. She didn’t trust herself to respond.

  Oliver and Laney stood at the bottom of the stairs watching Mama’s parade of boxes pile up along the hallway. George Washington was having a terrific time jumping up on the stacks and swiping his claws through the cardboard.

  Laney pointed to a word on a white box and looked at Oliver.

  “That says ‘DONATE,’” Oliver told her.

  Mama bumped a garbage bag down the stairs.

  “What’s that, Mama?” Laney asked.

  “Things to throw away,” Mama replied, wiping her forehead with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

  “But, Mama,” Oliver protested, pointing the tip of his sword at the blue T-shirt poking out the top of the bag. “That’s my favorite T-shirt!”

  “Sweetie, that was your favorite T-shirt two years ago. There’s a weird smell to it. It’s not even donate-able. Is that a word? ‘Donate-able’?”

  Oliver dropped his sword and pulled the shirt out. “Do not throw this away!”

  Meanwhile, Laney threw the lid aside from one of the white cardboard boxes, rummaged through the box, removed a pair of old floral leggings, and stretched the waistband around her head to make a hat.

  “Laney, don’t you dare take anything out of that box without telling me,” Mama warned. “I don’t want to see everything we’re donating back in your bedroom.”

  “Hey,” said Papa, coming down the stairs with a slight swagger. He wore his coveralls and had his toolbox in one hand. “Guess what I just fixed.”

  “Mama wanted to throw this shirt away,” Oliver said, holding it up so Papa could see.

  “Of course she’s not throwing that away,” Papa scoffed. “You made your first free throw—all net, may I add—with that shirt on. It’s got basketball mojo. Just like my coveralls have Mr. Fix-It mojo.”

  Papa and Oliver bumped fists, Laney grinned, and Mama rolled her eyes.

  “I hope your coveralls and T-shirt have Pack-Up-the-Apartment mojo,” Mama said, “because that’s what I need from both of you right now.”

  George Washington mewled and ran his claws along the side of a box of books, and Mama turned her wrath onto the cat. “George Washington! If you touch one more box, I’m giving your dinner to the nice kittens living in the backyard!”

  “Mama, look!” Laney cried from her spot by the white DONATE box. She still wore the leggings hat, and the fabric for the legs flapped around her face. “These are records!”

  Mama collapsed on a kitchen stool and took a long drink of water. “I found those at the back of the upstairs closet. They may have been here from the previous tenants.”

  “Miss Josie can use them. She has a record player.”

  Mama looked defeated. “Okay, bring them upstairs and ask Miss Josie if she wants them. There’s some jazz in there.”

  “Jazz!” Laney exclaimed. She grabbed the stack and whispered loudly to Oliver. “Jazz! The Beegerman likes jazz!” Oliver hushed her, then grabbed the records from Laney’s arms and dragged her upstairs.

  “How do you know the Beiderman likes jazz?” he asked when they were out of Mama’s earshot.

  “Miss Josie said that long ago he used to listen to jazz all the time,” Laney answered. “Can we bring a record up to him?”

  “You’re absolutely sure? Like, absolutely, absolutely sure?” Oliver asked.

  “I’m sure!” Laney said, bouncing up and down. Together they chose a record with a picture on the front of a man named Duke Ellington playing the piano.

  Oliver and Laney crept upstairs, hand in hand. A sigh sounded with each step leading to the third floor, where they left the offering at his door.

  Ten

  The five Vanderbeeker kids were
unabashedly eavesdropping on their mother’s phone conversation. They knew from her voice and her pacing back and forth across the room that something bad was going down.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Beiderman, that is not enough notice,” Mama barked into her cell phone. “It’s the holidays! We have boxes all over the place! There’s absolutely no way.”

  Papa came in from the backyard, wiping his hands on his coveralls. “Hey, kids!” he boomed.

  “Shhh!” responded the children, waving him away without taking their eyes off Mama.

  “We’re eavesdropping,” Hyacinth said in a loud whisper, holding her index finger to her lips.

  “Mr. Beiderman,” Mama continued, her voice going up an octave, “you realize that the apartment is not going to look its best if you show it now, right?”

  Pause.

  “Okay. Fine. Goodbye.” Mama stabbed a button on her phone and tossed it onto an end table.

  The Vanderbeeker kids and Papa surrounded Mama, waiting for an explanation.

  Mama massaged her temples. “Mr. Beiderman will have a real estate broker start showing the apartment to prospective renters beginning tomorrow. He strongly suggests that we not be in the apartment when it is shown.” Mama gritted her teeth when she said strongly. “The broker will try to give us at least twenty-four hours’ notice.”

  “Is that legal?” asked Papa, shocked.

  “Apparently it’s in our lease and we signed off on it. The landlord has the right of entry for the purpose of showing the space to a prospective tenant in the last thirty days of our lease,” Mama recited in a monotone voice.

  “You’re kidding,” Oliver said flatly, his arms crossed.

  “That makes no sense!” cried Jessie. “The probability that he could rent this place out would increase significantly if the apartment were vacant.” Her eyes flitted between Mama and Papa.

  “Landlords can do it,” Mama said, “but it would have been nice if he didn’t. Oh, fudge, there is so much to do.” Mama looked at the state of the ground floor. “Mr. Beiderman’s Realtor is showing the apartment tomorrow morning at eleven.”

  Papa sighed. “Hon, why don’t I take the kids out while you do some packing. And I’ll try to talk to the Beiderman—I mean, Mr. Beiderman—later tonight.” Mama nodded, then went up the stairs two at a time. A second later they heard her dragging more boxes around.

  “Someone else is actually going to live here? In our home?” asked Hyacinth worriedly.

  “That blows!” Oliver said. He kicked the wall, leaving black smudges on the white paint.

  “Don’t kick the wall,” Papa said absently as he adjusted his glasses.

  “Someone is going to live in my room?” Oliver asked. He kicked the wall again.

  “They’ll probably make it back into a closet,” Jessie said. “That’s what it was before you were born.”

  “But—why— My books—?” Oliver spluttered.

  “You know what we need around here?” Papa said, attempting to change the anxious mood. “Some holiday spirit! Let’s get a Christmas tree!”

  “What’s the point?” Jessie said, flopping onto a kitchen stool and burying her head in her hands. “We’ll have to take it down in a few days anyway.”

  “Yeah,” said Isa, Oliver, and Hyacinth in dejected agreement, while Laney yelled, “Tree! Tree! I want a tree!”

  Everyone stared at Laney.

  “And we can decorate it,” Laney continued, “and put lights up, and the presents go under the tree, and I’m gonna make ornaments . . .” She started skipping around the kitchen. “And I’m gonna give Paganini a big carrot for a present, and I’m gonna wrap it . . .”

  Papa looked at the older kids. “So, are we getting a tree or what?”

  The older kids watched Laney run over to Paganini, lift up one floppy ear, and whisper all her grand plans for the tree.

  “Okay,” said Isa.

  “Fine,” said Oliver.

  “I guess,” said Jessie.

  “Yeah,” said Hyacinth.

  Papa pulled his coveralls off. Underneath he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt that said “I’m Here Because You Broke Something.” “That’s the Christmas spirit, kids!”

  The Vanderbeeker kids put on their winter gear and headed out the door.

  “Hello, Vanderbeekers!” Angie yelled as she raced down the street on her bike. “Oliver, you owe me a basketball game!”

  “You’re on!” Oliver yelled back.

  A window opened on the second floor of the brownstone.

  “Hello, dear ones!” called out Miss Josie.

  “Hello, Miss Josie!” the kids chorused. Laney blew kisses to the second floor, which were returned with equal enthusiasm.

  A gentleman in baggy pants, an oversized jacket, and headphones swaggered by holding a rhinestone-studded leash attached to a pocket-sized Chihuahua.

  “Yo, Vanderbeekers,” he said as he fist-bumped each one.

  “Yo, Big Zee,” they answered.

  “Did you ever notice,” Isa said to Jessie after watching Big Zee stride down the street with his Chihuahua skipping behind him, “that we know everyone in this neighborhood?”

  Jessie nodded. “Feels like Sesame Street.”

  “It’s giving me a Beiderman idea,” Isa murmured.

  Jessie studied Isa, wanting to ask more, but then Oliver threw a handful of pine needles on her head and Jessie’s thoughts turned solely to revenge as she chased him down the street.

  It was a twenty-minute walk to the Christmas tree stand, requiring the Vanderbeekers to cross a bridge that connected Harlem to the Bronx. “It’s tradition,” Papa had insisted when the kids suggested they go to the Christmas tree stand around the corner rather than walking to the Bronx.

  “When I was a little boy,” Papa said in his reminiscing voice, “my dad took us across the bridge to Mr. Ritchie’s Christmas tree stand. This was back when Christmas trees only cost five dollars,” Papa added. The kids nodded. They had heard this story so many times, Jessie could mouth the words along with Papa.

  “One year, my dad broke his arm. He couldn’t work for six weeks while it healed, and we had no money for a tree or presents that year. When I walked by Mr. Ritchie’s Christmas tree stand one day on the way to the subway, he asked me why we hadn’t gotten a tree yet. I told him about my dad’s arm, and he had me choose a tree and take it home anyway. He insisted that the tree would brighten up the holiday, and he was right.”

  The tree stand was on a corner right next to a set of basketball courts, and when they got there, they found Mr. Ritchie sitting on a blue plastic milk crate listening to a portable radio that gave out static in far greater measure than the Tchaikovsky concerto he had it tuned to. When Mr. Ritchie saw them, he stood up and held out a hand to Papa.

  “Good to see you, Mr. Ritchie,” Papa said as he clapped his other hand on Mr. Ritchie’s shoulder. Papa pulled a thick forest-green scarf from his backpack, and Isa helped Papa wrap it around Mr. Ritchie’s neck.

  “From Mrs. Vanderbeeker,” Papa explained.

  Mr. Ritchie fingered the end of the scarf and gave a satisfied nod and a grunt.

  Laney grabbed Mr. Ritchie’s hand and swung it back and forth. “I like your gold tooth,” she told him. “I want one too.”

  Mr. Ritchie rewarded her with a small smile, his gold tooth glinting against the light of the street lamps.

  “We want a tall tree,” Jessie said to Mr. Ritchie, raising her arm to indicate the height. “If the tree was six feet and four inches exactly, it would fit perfectly in our living room.”

  “It has to be fluffy, not skinny,” Oliver added, his arms splayed wide.

  “We need one with a good, straight branch on the top to stick the star on,” Hyacinth said.

  “It has to be perfect,” Isa said with a soft sigh as she fiddled with the buttons on her coat.

  While her siblings made their demands, Laney had a different idea of the perfect Christmas tree. It didn’t take long for her to sel
ect the most crooked, most pathetic, patchiest pine tree in the bunch. Then she coerced Papa into dragging the tree to her sisters and brother.

  Laney tugged on Isa’s arm to get her attention. “This is it!” Laney declared, jabbing her finger at the tree she had chosen.

  “Seriously?” asked Oliver. “You want our last Christmas tree to look like it was pulled out of a forest fire?”

  “Ollie!” Laney protested, stomping her foot and pouting. “I love it! It’s cute and tall and I like the branches and I want it!”

  The siblings looked at each other. Mr. Ritchie watched the Vanderbeekers with his hands clasped behind him, awaiting the final decision.

  Isa was the first to cave.

  “Laney has never chosen the tree before,” Isa admitted with an indifferent shrug.

  “Yeah, for a reason,” Oliver muttered.

  “C’mon,” Jessie protested. “We’re supposed to get a tall, fluffy, symmetrical tree. This tree”—Oliver pointed to the offending arbor—“fulfills exactly zero of our specifications.”

  “I think it looks great,” Hyacinth said loyally. After all, Laney was her roommate.

  Laney’s face broke into a huge grin that took up half her face, and even Oliver had to admit that it was worth getting an ugly tree for that smile.

  “I guess the tree is sort of symbolic,” Jessie admitted.

  “And I want this one too,” Laney said, grabbing a tiny tree that sat next to Mr. Ritchie’s milk-crate stool. She thrust it at her dad while bouncing up and down.

  “Give a girl an inch, she’ll take a mile,” murmured Oliver.

  “Honey, we’re not getting two trees,” Papa said to Laney.

  “Not for me, silly! For Miss Josie and Mr. Jeet!” Laney said.

  Papa relented. Mr. Ritchie wrapped the tree in netting while Papa pulled out his wallet to pay. Laney carried the small tree, and Papa hitched the bigger one on his shoulder. The dearth of boughs and pine needles made it light and easy to carry.

  The Vanderbeekers waved goodbye to Mr. Ritchie, and Papa led the way home. They left the Bronx and went back over the bridge. The sun had set behind the castle on the hill, and the lights from the city sparkled on the water. A tugboat made its way down the river, causing the water to crash into the rocks along the shorelines.