The Vanderbeekers of 141st Street

by Karina Yan Glaser

  Hyacinth opened the door a crack and peeked out. Her mom had put up an old baby gate to block the stairs leading up to the bedrooms, and Paganini had been removed to safety upstairs. Mama was standing on the other side of the baby gate, ready for Franz’s appearance.

  “WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF!” Franz broadcast as he nudged his way out of the bathroom and bounded through the living room and kitchen. He bounced off sofas, knocked over chairs, and skidded into moving boxes. These post-bath rampages lasted only about ten minutes, and the Vanderbeekers knew to steer clear until Franz exhausted himself.

  Unfortunately, when Hyacinth let Franz loose, she did not count on someone coming home at that exact moment. The front door opened, and in walked Isa.

  “Watch out!” Hyacinth yelled at Isa.

  “Franz!” Mama yelled at the crazed dog.

  But it was too late. Mama shielded her eyes.

  “WOOF!” barked Franz, running straight toward Isa and not stopping until he rammed right into her and knocked her down, leaving a basset hound–sized wet spot on her jacket.

  “What the . . .” Isa felt something inside her snap. She pushed Franz off and struggled to her feet. Franz, who now realized that knocking Isa over was one of his poorer decisions of the year, retreated slowly to Hyacinth, who stood in the bathroom doorway, still dripping.

  The commotion in the living room was so dramatic that the Vanderbeeker kids peeked down and watched as Isa marched to the head of the basement stairs, where Jessie had just appeared after waking up from her nap.

  “YOU.” Isa pointed a finger at Jessie. “We need to talk RIGHT NOW.” Isa strode out the back entrance into the yard, the door slamming behind her.

  Jessie was petrified. Isa had never, ever raised her voice to her like that. She felt the eyes of her family follow her as she walked through the kitchen and into the backyard. Isa stood stiffly under the old maple, her back to Jessie. Wind gusted around them, and Jessie rubbed her arms, shivering.

  “I was just at Castleman’s,” Isa said.

  Jessie gulped.

  “Guess who I saw there.”

  “Uh . . . Mrs. Castleman?” Jessie suggested hopefully.

  “BENNY!” Isa shouted, turning to face Jessie, the wind whipping through her hair. “He hates me. All because of you.”

  “I can explain, Isa—”

  “Do you have the right to make decisions for me? You knew I wanted to go to the dance. Now Benny thinks I hate him. Why would you do this to me?”

  “Isa, I thought you wouldn’t want to go! Remember how I used to make fun of those dances—”

  “I am not you!” Isa yelled. “We are not the same person! And because of you, Benny asked someone else to the dance!” Tears ran down Isa’s face. Jessie was a statue, unable to move or say a word.

  Isa’s voice lowered. “I want you to leave me alone. Don’t speak to me. Don’t speak for me, don’t make decisions for me. Don’t talk to other people about me. Got it?”

  Isa flew back into the apartment and the door banged closed. Her family, who had watched the entire exchange through the windows, jumped guiltily away. Their eyes followed Isa as she stormed upstairs. When they heard her bedroom door slam, they returned to the windows to look for Jessie. Her back was to them, but they could see her shoulders hunched. Jessie stood out there for five minutes in the cold, with no jacket, before Mama joined her.

  “Hey,” Mama said, draping a coat over her. Jessie was shaking. “Want to talk? Can I help?”

  Jessie shook her head. Mama put her arms around Jessie’s waist, pulling her close, murmuring comforting words. Together they stood until Jessie began to shake so uncontrollably that Mama took her arm and guided her inside.

  Later that evening, Jessie went to bed on the couch. Isa had made it clear she did not want to see Jessie that night, or possibly ever again. It was the first time in their lives that the twins hadn’t slept in the same room. Sensing that she needed companionship, George Washington curled at Jessie’s side and did not once attack her feet. Paganini lay on the floor at the foot of the couch, nose twitching and ears pricked forward, as if on alert for danger.

  Tears leaked from Jessie’s eyes and soaked into her pillow as she stared at the ceiling, counting the number of times she heard ambulance sirens blare down the avenue en route to the hospital. She counted eight before she settled into a troubled sleep. A few hours later, she awoke to see her father dozing on the floor next to Paganini.

  “Papa,” Jessie whispered, her voice rough with sleep and tears.

  “Moral support,” he said. “In case you need me.”

  Jessie closed her eyes again as more tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Upstairs, Isa had yet to fall asleep. Her mind buzzed with thoughts of her sister and Benny and eighth grade dances and long pale-pink dresses and corsages. The thoughts merged into the Beiderman and their brownstone and her basement, and Isa felt so lonely and lost that she didn’t know how their mission to win him over could possibly succeed.

  After another hour of tossing, Isa remembered the envelope Mrs. Castleman had given her. She got out of bed and dug through her bag to find it. As she opened the envelope, a yellowed newspaper clipping fluttered to the ground.

  Isa quickly scanned the article and felt her heart stretch tight. She slipped the newspaper clipping back into the envelope and stuck it between two books on her bookshelf. Then she left her room and crept down the hall to her parents’ room.

  Mama was sleeping alone in the bed. Isa got under the covers and curled in next to her.

  Mama opened her eyes. “Hi, sweetie,” she murmured.

  “Mama,” Isa said, rubbing her chest where her heart lay underneath. “Everything hurts.”

  “I know, sweetie,” Mama said, stroking her hair. “I know.”

  When Isa finally drifted off an hour later, the brownstone groaned with relief as the last Vanderbeeker fell into a fitful sleep.

  Local Mother and Daughter Killed in Harlem Motorist Accident

  * * *

  * * *

  Abigail Beiderman, 42, and her daughter, Luciana Beiderman, 16, were crossing the street at 137th Street and Convent Avenue when they were struck by a cab, said police. They were five blocks away from their Harlem home. The driver, David Albertson, sustained minor injuries.

  “A cab came speeding around the corner,” said Helene Castleman, a local baker, who witnessed the accident in front of her business. “It was a horrible scene.”

  The victims were rushed to Harlem Hospital, where Abigail Beiderman was pronounced dead. Luciana Beiderman died from injuries later that evening. The driver was released from the hospital, and police are investigating whether he was driving while intoxicated. No arrests have been made.

  Tuesday, December 24

  Eighteen

  Jessie’s eyes flew open. It took her a few moments to register her father snoring on the floor and George Washington kneading the blanket draped over her. Paganini hopped circles around Papa and nudged Papa’s feet with his nose, ready to start the day. Jessie put her hand on her heart and rubbed.

  Today was Christmas Eve.

  Papa emitted a powerful snore and woke himself up.

  “What? Grab the coats!” he said, bolting upright. He looked around, confused, then saw Jessie staring down at him.

  “Oh, hey, sweetie. Sorry about that. Was I snoring?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Did I say weird things in my dreams?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  They got up, folded the blankets, and started preparing breakfast. Jessie retrieved her list of things to do for Christmas Eve dinner and examined it while listening to the sounds of her family awakening upstairs. Her stomach was full of knots as she waited for Isa to come down.

  First Laney appeared, wearing her panda coat and talking to her stuffed bunny about what presents she wanted for Christmas. Oliver stumbled into the kitchen next, his hair in disarray. Jessie felt Oliver’s eyes settle on her as she pretended
to review the dinner menu.

  “Mama is going to help you make dinner, right?” Oliver asked her.

  “I don’t know.” Jessie adjusted her glasses. “Probably not.”

  “I think she should. It’s Christmas Eve dinner,” Oliver reminded her, perhaps unwisely.

  “I think you should be quiet,” Jessie snapped.

  Papa spoke up. “Oliver, my beloved son—”

  “Only son,” Jessie grumbled under her breath.

  “—this would be a good time to give your sister some space,” Papa finished.

  Oliver shrugged and tried not to think too hard about what he had said wrong. He knew he would never understand.

  Hyacinth came downstairs with Franz at her heels, followed by Mama’s light footsteps. At last, Jessie heard the last set of familiar footfalls. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Isa make her way into the kitchen. Isa picked up Laney and settled her on her hip, greeting everyone except Jessie.

  Jessie dared to look up at her sister. “What time do you want to start cooking?” she asked.

  “Whenever,” Isa replied, avoiding her glance as she kissed Laney’s nose and put her down on the floor.

  Jessie tapped her pencil against her dinner notes. She felt uncharacteristically apprehensive. “Should we split up the list? I can make the beef stew and the cheesecake. Do you want to do the roasted vegetables and carrot cake?”

  “Fine.”

  “If you’d rather do the beef stew, I can do the roasted vegetables.”

  “Whatever.”

  Jessie hesitated. “Does that mean you want to do the beef stew, or do you want to make the roasted vegetables?”

  “I don’t care.” Isa turned away from Jessie to grab a mug from the cupboard.

  “So should we stick with the original plan?”

  “Fine!” Isa whipped around and glared at Jessie. Then she turned her glare to Oliver and Hyacinth, who had been spectators to the entire exchange, their gazes bouncing back and forth.

  “Well!” Hyacinth said to no one in particular. “Looks like Franz wants to visit the kittens in the backyard!” She grabbed a snoozing Franz by the collar and dragged him outside.

  Oliver’s delivery was equally unbelievable. “Yeah, gotta run. Going to, uh, organize my bookshelves . . .” He trailed off, then scurried up the stairs two at a time.

  “Listen,” Mama said, one hand braced on Isa’s shoulder and the other braced on Jessie’s. “We can see that you two are working something out. However, seven hungry adults and three hungry kids are counting on you for dinner tonight. Papa and I will take the kids down the street to help wrap gifts for the toy drive, so we’ll be out of your hair. Are you two going to be okay? Should we think about a plan B?”

  “We can do it,” Isa muttered. Jessie nodded mutely.

  The day couldn’t be over soon enough.

  An hour later, the Vanderbeekers’ home was eerily quiet. While the rest of the family was at PS 737’s school cafeteria wrapping gifts for the toy drive, Isa and Jessie went about their dinner preparations without a word, every sound echoing throughout the kitchen.

  Jessie retrieved her beef stew ingredients mechanically. Her stomach felt squeamish and unsteady—the last time she had felt like this was when she ate the fish head stew Allegra’s mom had made. (It does amazing things for your kidneys, Allegra’s mom, the pediatrician, had said. Even if I throw it all up? Jessie had thought but not said.)

  Jessie chopped the onions, carrots, celery, and garlic. Put them in a bowl. Lined up her seasonings. Turned the burner on. Added olive oil to the pot. Threw in the vegetables, then beef, then broth. Stirred. Waited.

  Isa was doing her own chopping on the kitchen counter, her knife pounding against the scarred cutting board. Potatoes, mushrooms, bell peppers, and carrots were all dumped together in a roasting pan with olive oil, salt, and pepper. Isa set the oven to four hundred degrees, shoved the roasting pan inside, and let the oven door bang closed. Then she stomped downstairs to the basement. Soon after, Jessie heard the sounds of Isa’s bow striking her violin in a moody rendition of “La Folia.”

  Jessie collapsed onto a kitchen stool, arms crossed on the counter, head buried in her arms. She stayed there, unmoving, while the steam rattled the lid on the soup pot up and down, up and down.

  Hyacinth was the first one out of the school when the Vanderbeekers were done with gift wrapping. The second she got home, she leashed up Franz and was back outside before her family had even made it inside.

  “Franz-and-I-are-going-to-hang-out-in-the-backyard-okay-see-you-later-bye!” Hyacinth blurted out. No one questioned her, even though it was thirty-five degrees and the trees lining the sidewalk bent against the strain of the wind.

  “Franz, listen up. It’s time for our secret spy mission.”

  First they stopped by the alley where Papa kept the gray trash cans and blue recycling bins. Hyacinth sifted through a stack of boxes Mama had deemed too small to be useful for the move. After choosing the perfect one, Hyacinth and Franz made their way to the hydrangea bush in the corner of the backyard, just beyond the big oak.

  Underneath the bush was a family of cats. Hyacinth had been feeding the mama, a sleek black cat she had named Francesca Priscilla Arlington, for the last two months and had salvaged a small wooden cabinet abandoned on the sidewalk for her to live in after she gave birth to her litter six weeks ago. The cabinet was lined with old fuzzy blankets Hyacinth had procured from Miss Josie and Mr. Jeet.

  Franz tilted his head and one ear twitched. He stuck his face inside the cabinet and nuzzled the three kittens, who responded by batting his nose playfully. Hyacinth stroked Francesca Priscilla Arlington and leaned down to kiss her head. For a moment, Hyacinth’s resolve faltered. But then—as if her father were right next to her whispering in her ear—Hyacinth remembered something.

  Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.

  Hyacinth took a deep breath, then lifted the little black kitten with the smudges of white fur on her paws out of the cabinet. “We’re going to take real good care of your baby,” Hyacinth whispered to Francesca Priscilla Arlington. She placed the kitten in the box, removed her own scarf—a rainbow-colored piece she had knitted herself—and tucked it around the kitten. Kitten and box in hand, Hyacinth led the way out of the alley and back up the brownstone’s front stairs. She entered the first-floor hallway, crept along the walls on tiptoe, and looped the end of Franz’s leash to the doorknob that led to their apartment. She kissed Franz on his cold nose.

  “You must be very, very quiet,” she whispered to him. Franz looked back into her hazel eyes, and Hyacinth knew in her soul that he understood the importance of this moment.

  Hyacinth commenced the final stage of her super-spy mission. Up she went to the third floor with the box in her arms. Her hands shook when she laid the box in front of the Beiderman’s door. She clenched a trembling hand into a fist, paused only slightly, then banged on the door. Down two flights of stairs she flew before grabbing Franz’s leash off the door handle and disappearing into her apartment. The sound of her pounding heart so filled her ears that she couldn’t tell whether the door on the third floor had opened or not.

  Nineteen

  The entire Vanderbeeker family was sprawled around the living room when Papa’s cell phone rang. He answered it, and the kids abruptly quieted when they heard him say, “Hello, Mr. Beiderman, how are you?” There was a pause, then, “Oh really? The last two mornings? I had no idea.” Papa cast a you-have-a-lot-of-explaining-to-do look in the kids’ direction while Mama leaned in close to the phone.

  The Vanderbeeker kids gave each other uneasy glances before backing up in the direction of the stairs.

  “I’m very surprised,” Papa continued, glaring at his kids. “That doesn’t sound like them. You saw them out your window? I see. I will definitely talk with them. That is completely unacceptable, and I’m very sorry.”

  Papa’s glare at his retreating childr
en intensified as he pointed one stern finger at them, then to a spot on the ground one foot away from him.

  “I’m very sorry, Mr. Beiderman. The sudden move has been hard on them. I’m sure you can understand that.”

  The kids arrived at the designated spot in front of Papa and stared at the ground.

  “Yes, of course. We will be out by December thirty-first, maybe earlier. Again, I’m sorry, Mr. Beiderman. I hope you have a happy holi—” Papa stopped and looked down at the phone screen. “The man just hung up on me,” Papa muttered. He set his phone on top of a side table, then turned slowly to face the kids.

  “Anything you want to tell me?” Papa asked, looking at each of his kids.

  No one said anything.

  “That was Mr. Beiderman,” Papa said. “He told me about a petition that you kids put together. He’s very, very upset.”

  Isa twisted her fingers together. Jessie looked straight ahead at a crack in the brownstone wall. Oliver’s eyes darted to each of his siblings in panic. Hyacinth’s eyes filled with tears as she reached down to stroke Franz’s ears. Laney was the only one looking up at Papa, with glum brown eyes.

  “Mr. Beiderman is furious, not only about the petition, but because someone—and from the way he described her, it sounded like it might be your friend Allegra—figured out his phone number and circulated it throughout the neighborhood.” The twins grimaced while Papa continued. “People have been calling him all day demanding that he renew our lease. He had to disconnect his phone.”

  Hyacinth held her breath, waiting for Papa to bring up the kitten, but he didn’t.

  Oliver spoke up. “We thought it would encourage him to let us stay if he knew how many people loved us in the neighborhood,” he explained.

  “I know you kids love the brownstone. Your mama and I love it too. But you cannot do things like this. It’s hurtful to Mr. Beiderman, and I expect you all to apologize. You will each write him a note and slide it under his door. Please do not disturb him anymore.”