“Where do you work?” asked Hyacinth.
“I’m a musician,” said Mr. Rochester. “I play the cello, and I conduct an orchestra for teens called Rhythm NYC.”
“I’ve heard of that!” said Isa, her eyes brightening. “I’m a musician too. I play the violin!”
“If you’re in high school, you can audition,” encouraged Mr. Rochester.
“I’m only twelve. But in two years I’m totally going to audition. It sounds amazing.”
Mr. Rochester reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a business card. “Keep this, and be sure to audition the summer before your freshman year. All the information is on our website.”
Isa cradled the business card as if it were a priceless gift.
“Do you live around here?” asked Oliver.
“No, but I’m looking at an apartment in this area. It’s in a brownstone.” He showed Oliver the address. “Am I going in the right direction?”
Isa, Jessie, Hyacinth, and Laney watched Oliver read the address, then glance up at them with panicked eyes.
“Uh, actually, you need to go three avenue blocks that way,” Oliver lied, pointing in the opposite direction.
“Thank you very much! I have the worst sense of direction. My wife is always leading me everywhere. She’s traveling in Egypt right now, doing research on mummies. Cool, right?”
“Cool,” echoed the children.
“Well, I better get going. I have a rehearsal right after I see the apartment, and I’m already running late,” he said, looking at his watch. “It was very nice meeting you all.” Mr. Rochester shook all the kids’ hands, accepted a hug from Laney, then strode away from them and the brownstone.
“Lightning might strike me down right here,” said Oliver.
“He was so nice,” Isa said with tears in her eyes. “And we just . . . just . . . lied to him!”
“It was for a good reason,” Jessie said weakly.
“I want him to be our neighbor,” declared Laney. “His wife knows about mummies!”
“He would have been perfect for the brownstone,” Isa said mournfully. “He would have understood the spirit of it.”
A particularly brutal wind swept through and the Vanderbeekers didn’t bother turning their backs to avoid the sting on their cheeks. It felt like a well-deserved punishment.
Sixteen
Later that afternoon, the siblings worked on their Acts of Kindness projects. Laney sat at the living room table making her brownstone drawing, with Hyacinth, Jessie, and Oliver next to her. Franz lay under the table, keeping an eye out for Paganini, who had taken to drinking from his water bowl. Downstairs in the basement, Isa was recording her violin CD. After ten minutes of silent work, Hyacinth looked over at Laney’s progress.
“Is that supposed to be our home?” Hyacinth asked.
“Yup,” said Laney, the tip of her tongue sticking out the side of her mouth.
Jessie peeked over from where she was working on her fruit battery experiment. “Our brownstone is not rainbow-colored.”
“Nope,” said Laney, adding a violet stripe in the middle of the building.
“The Beiderman won’t even know what that is!” scoffed Oliver.
“Sure he will! It’s the brownstone!”
“Don’t you think it should be more . . . realistic?” Jessie suggested. “Here, let me help—”
“I’m doing it my way,” Laney said, pushing Jessie’s hand away.
Laney pursed her lips in a stubborn line as she continued her drawing. Soon the entire page filled with color. Along the bottom she had drawn her family (including the animals), Miss Josie and Mr. Jeet, and what she thought the Beiderman looked like.
Hyacinth didn’t want to reveal her real plan for the Beiderman—it was top secret—so instead she made a Christmas wreath with cardboard and tissue paper. As she glued small puffs of rolled-up tissue paper onto a cardboard circle, a thought came to her. “Why do you think the Beiderman never leaves his apartment?”
Jessie shrugged. “He’s a crabby old man who hates everyone.”
“That doesn’t make sense. We know other crabby people who leave their apartments.”
“Mr. Nelson is super-duper crabby,” Laney reported, thinking about the guy who manned the booth at their local subway station. “It’s ’cause he has arithmetic.”
There was a brief pause. “Arthritis,” Jessie corrected her.
“Does the Beezerman have that too?”
“There has to be a bigger reason for not ever leaving your apartment,” Oliver said. “Maybe he’s on house arrest,” he suggested, his eyes brightening. “Or . . . maybe he’s in the Witness Protection Program!”
“Uncle Arthur needs to stop sending you mysteries,” Jessie said.
Oliver ignored her and waved a piece of paper in the air. Hyacinth had given him stationery with drawings of pandas all over it for his poem, which Oliver thought was weird but his sisters insisted was cute. “Hey, how does this haiku sound?”
“It’s a little . . . brief,” Jessie said as she sifted through a box of odds and ends she had picked up over the years. Bolts, bent nails, tubing, rusting pennies, and orphaned keys were all jumbled together.
Oliver rolled his eyes. “Hello? It’s a haiku. Five syllables, seven syllables, five syllables.” He signed it with a flourish.
Meanwhile, Jessie gathered four lemons and six pieces of wire that were connected on each side to small alligator clips. She clipped the wires to the lemons by attaching one end to a nail on one lemon and the other end to a penny on the next lemon. Pretty soon all four lemons were connected, and the wires on the ends dangled free.
Jessie looked at her siblings. “Are you ready?” she asked. They nodded eagerly.
Jessie touched the remaining wires to two small prongs coming down from an LED light, and the light blinked on.
“Wow wow wow!” Laney yelled, reaching out to touch it. Jessie swatted her hand away.
“That’s so cool,” Hyacinth said. “The Beiderman will be amazed.”
“Is that all it does?” Oliver asked, unimpressed.
“I’m going to stick this cool bead on it.” Jessie nudged a translucent emerald-green bead onto the LED light so it glowed prettily.
“Ooh, I love that,” Hyacinth said.
“I want one too,” Laney said.
“Is that all it does?” Oliver asked again.
Jessie shrugged. The effect was less dramatic than she would have liked—if she’d had time, she would have created a more elaborate lighting situation with dozens of lemons and more lights—but scientific progress couldn’t be achieved without experimentation, and hopefully the Beiderman would recognize and appreciate the effort.
Jessie took one prong off the nail of one lemon so as not to waste valuable citric acids, then laid her project out on a tray, and they brought their gifts upstairs. Oliver stayed back with Hyacinth on the second floor, since she was still traumatized from the placemat disaster. Laney’s drawing and Oliver’s poem were shoved under the door, Hyacinth’s wreath was taped up under the peephole, and Jessie settled her tray on the floor. Then she slipped another note under the door. It read, “Check outside and be surprised!”
As Hyacinth watched her sisters set everything up, she only hoped she could be brave enough to go to the Beiderman’s door too, when the time was right.
The doorbell rang a few minutes after the kids returned. Franz sprinted toward the door, not realizing that the rug by the door had been packed up. He skidded against the wood floor and slammed into the wall. Jessie nudged him aside.
“Hey, Angie,” Jessie said, opening the door and letting her in. Franz recovered after a brisk shake and circled Angie, his tail registering 200 wpm.
“Is Oliver here?” Angie asked, unwrapping her scarf and scratching Franz behind the ears.
“Yup.” Jessie yelled behind her. “Oliver, the girl who kicks your butt at basketball is here!”
Oliver came out of the kitchen with a th
ick peanut butter and jelly sandwich in his hand. “Hey. What’s up?” he said around a mouthful of sticky sandwich.
Angie looked at him with solemn eyes. “I found out something about the Beiderman.”
Oliver stopped chewing. Jessie ran to the basement stairs and yelled for Isa, who was still recording her CD. Soon all the Vanderbeeker kids surrounded Angie.
Oliver swallowed. “What is it? What did you find out?”
Angie handed Oliver a sheet of paper. It was a computer printout with a few brief lines of text.
Oliver read it out loud. “‘Abigail Beiderman, forty-two, and daughter Luciana, sixteen, Harlem residents, died on March eighth, 2007. They are survived by husband and father, Arthur Beiderman. Arrangements under the direction of Bernard’s Funeral Home.’” He looked at Angie. “Do you think this Arthur Beiderman is our Beiderman?”
“I’m almost positive this is your Beiderman. My dad recognized the first name.”
“He had a kid? And a wife?” Isa asked.
“It can’t be him,” Jessie said. “He hates kids. He hates people.”
“What if he”—Oliver paused dramatically—“killed them?”
Hyacinth gasped. Franz growled. Laney stuck her pinkies in her ears.
“If he killed them,” Jessie pointed out, “he would be in jail.”
“Only if they found him,” Angie chimed in. “Maybe that’s why he never comes out of his apartment! He’s hiding!”
“No, no, no,” Isa said. “He wouldn’t be hiding where he lived. He would be on some remote island off the coast of Mexico, or Madagascar, or something.”
“True,” Oliver admitted, looking back down at the obituary. His eyes kept focusing on the word died. It seemed so final.
“I wonder how they died,” Jessie said. “Strange that his wife and daughter died but he didn’t.”
“Isn’t that so sad?” Isa asked. “Can you imagine if we all died and only Papa was left? What would Papa do?”
“Papa would cry,” Laney said. “He would cry, and cry, and cry.”
The kids fell silent, imagining what it would be like to have your family die and be the only one left living.
Isa had a black-hole feeling in her stomach. It was only three o’clock and nothing was going right. First the failure to get in touch with the art history department at City College. Then the whole lying-to-a-super-nice-person-for-selfish-reasons situation with Mr. Rochester. Finally, most of all, discovering that the Beiderman’s family was dead.
Her mind was a tornado of thoughts and questions and anxiety while she recorded herself playing the violin section of Paganini’s “Cantabile for Violin and Guitar” for the CD she was making for the Beiderman. It’s hard to play a cantabile when your mind is a tornado, Isa thought as she started over again.
Jessie joined her in the basement not too much later. As Isa recorded her fourth take, she watched Jessie prop two pillows against the wall and sprawl against them with her National Geographic magazine. A few minutes later she watched Jessie slowly close her eyes, lulled to sleep by the violin playing and the warm air wrapping around her from the radiator.
Isa switched off the recorder. There was no magic in the cantabile right now. She needed to get outside, breathe fresh air, and clear her mind. She glanced at Jessie, wondering if she should wake her, but her sister looked so peaceful curled up on the carpet. Isa laid a blanket over her before heading upstairs.
Isa made her way to Castleman’s to buy bread for the next day’s dinner, fighting the intensifying wind the whole way. She was anxious about seeing Benny again after their super-weird conversation a couple of days ago. Benny was one of her best friends. She had spent hundreds of hours in the bakery with him, playing board games and working out puzzles. More recently, Benny was the boy who helped her find her locker and walked her to classes on the first day of middle school. How could he care so little about their move?
By the time she arrived at the bakery, Isa was surprised to feel her heart pounding. She entered to find Mrs. Castleman—not Benny—behind the register, helping another family with an order. Isa hung back and studied the glass case even though she knew everything in it with her eyes closed. When the other customers left, Mrs. Castleman spotted Isa and gestured her over.
“I have something for you,” Mrs. Castleman said, reaching under the counter and pulling out an envelope. “Read it later.”
“What is it?” asked Isa, taking the envelope. It was so light, Isa wasn’t sure anything was inside.
Mrs. Castleman just shook her head and disappeared through the doors into the back of the bakery. Isa froze when she heard Mrs. Castleman calling Benny to come out and handle the front.
Isa busied herself by putting the envelope in her bag, her hands trembling. When the door swung open, Isa looked up. Benny saw her, stilled, then stiffened.
“Hi,” Isa said.
“Hi,” Benny replied.
“I’m here to buy bread.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll take three loaves of French bread.”
“Fine.”
Benny took three loaves from the basket and bagged them.
“That’s four fifty.”
Isa took out her wallet and gave him exact change.
“Thanks,” Isa said.
Benny didn’t respond, turning his back to her as he adjusted the display of breads hanging in wire baskets against the wall.
Isa took the bag and started to leave. But she was feeling reckless, an unusual emotion for her. She turned back around and stomped to the cash register.
“What exactly is your problem, Benny?” Isa demanded, hands on her hips.
Benny spun around. “What do you mean, my problem? How can you even ask that? You’re the one with the problem!”
“I have a problem? You’re the one acting so weird. A terrible thing is happening to me, and you don’t even care.”
Benny’s eyes narrowed. “Nice to know I’m such a terrible thing. Thanks a lot, Isa.”
“What does this have to do with you? I thought you would help me, not blow me off.”
“Me blow you off? You’re the one who—” Benny stopped and took a deep breath. “Look, Isa, let’s just pretend this whole thing never happened. Okay?”
“What thing? You’re making no sense!”
“Are you telling me you forgot about the eighth grade dance already?”
“What does the eighth grade dance have to do with me? I helped Allegra choose a dress for the dance, if that’s what you’re talking about. She’s going with Carlson.”
“I know she’s going with Carlson,” Benny said through gritted teeth. “I’m talking about you.”
“I’m not going to the dance, Benny! No one asked me!” Isa said, her voice rising to a shout.
“I asked you!” Benny shouted back.
Then, silence.
“I—what—with—you?” Isa stuttered. “You never asked!”
“I did! I asked Jessie if she thought you would go with me, and she said you would definitely NOT. She was positive.”
Isa’s heart skipped a beat; then she whispered, “She never told me, Benny.”
“Right,” Benny said bitterly. “You two talk about everything. Don’t act like you didn’t know. Anyway, I’ve already asked someone else.” Benny began to tidy up the area around the register, dismissing her.
Isa felt like crying. How could he think she was lying to him? Did he really want to take her to his dance? Who was he taking now?
And then there was Jessie. Her best friend, her twin sister, the person who knew her better than anyone. Or so she thought.
Isa left the bakery and blindly walked toward home, not feeling the harsh wind whipping around her. She needed to get answers.
She needed to talk to Jessie.
Seventeen
Mama was exasperated. Mr. Beiderman’s real estate agent had the nerve to call about someone seeing the place tomorrow. Tomorrow! Christmas Eve! Mama said absolutely, defini
tely no apartment showings on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. When the agent continued to wheedle her, Mama hung up on her. The nerve!
“I have too much to do,” Mama said, talking to herself as she stood in the middle of a living room full of boxes. Oliver was sitting inside one box, reading, and Laney was sitting in another, pretending she was a puppy.
“I can help you,” Hyacinth offered from her spot on the rug. Her brow was furrowed as she manipulated knitting needles, and Franz’s eyes were glued to the unwinding yarn ball.
Mama glanced at the grimy basset hound. “You know, you can help. Franz needs a bath.”
It had been three weeks since Franz’s last bath. The longer Franz went without a bath, the wilder and more erratic his behavior became. He was much more contained when he had clean ears and smelled like honeysuckle.
With the swiftness of hunted gazelles, Oliver and Laney jumped out of their boxes and raced up the stairs. Their disappearances were phenomenons that happened every time Hyacinth gave Franz a bath.
Hyacinth eyed her dog. “Don’t worry, Franz. This will be quick.” Franz hunkered down by the back door and tried to make himself invisible.
Hyacinth lured him with her secret weapon—a dog biscuit—and Franz’s stomach betrayed him as he crept toward the heavenly-smelling treat. Hyacinth grabbed his collar at the same time Franz grabbed the biscuit, and she used all her strength to drag him toward the bathroom and into the tub. Fifteen minutes later, Franz was hoarse from his persistent howling and they were both soaked. Hyacinth wrapped Franz in a fluffy towel, then braced herself and knocked on the bathroom door three times.
“Are you ready?” Hyacinth yelled.
“Not yet . . . Wait . . . Okay, I think everything is secure!” her mother yelled back.
The Vanderbeekers of 141st Street Page 11
