“The petition was my idea,” Isa said, a flush covering her cheeks. “We didn’t know Allegra would have people call him,” she added quickly. “I just wanted to show the Beiderman how important this place is to us. I can see how the petition was wrong. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”
Isa looked at her siblings. Hyacinth’s face was pale, Laney was openly crying, Jessie was yanking at a loose thread on her T-shirt, and Oliver was grinding the toe of his sneaker into the wooden floor. Isa took a deep breath.
“We have something else to tell you,” Isa said. Oliver looked at her in panic and shook his head briskly. Isa glanced away from him. “We did something else . . .”
Papa dropped his head as if he couldn’t handle more bad news. Mama sighed and crossed her arms over her chest.
“We sent away a man who came to look at our apartment,” Isa said in a whisper.
“I told him he was walking in the wrong direction,” Oliver jumped in. “But I didn’t feel good about it!”
There was a long pause while Papa and Mama communicated with their eyes. “This is a fine mess,” Papa finally said. “Not only are you getting extra chores next week, but you will each write a letter of apology to Mr. Beiderman, and you will also confess what you did with the prospective tenant. In person.”
“But, Papa,” protested Jessie.
“No. No excuses,” Mama said. “We’re disappointed in you.”
“Okay, Papa,” said Isa, her voice trembling. “I’ll make sure we apologize right.” She felt the weight of failure hang heavy on her. Failing to convince the Beiderman that they were worth keeping. Failing to hold on to their home. Failing her parents. Failing, failing, failing.
Papa finally broke the silence. “I know this has been hard on you kids,” he said. “I wish I could have . . .” He paused and shook his head, and instead of finishing his sentence, he opened his arms and Isa fell into him, sobs pouring out of her. After a moment, the other kids and Mama gathered in, mourning all the things they could not hold on to.
The Vanderbeeker kids headed upstairs to Isa and Jessie’s bedroom, where the only sound was the rattle of the windows in their frames from the winter winds. Isa still refused to look at or speak to Jessie. Hyacinth helped Laney write “I’m sorry. Love, Laney” before writing her own apology letter. Jessie watched Isa slip the CD she had made for the Beiderman into an envelope. When everyone was done, they trudged upstairs. Hyacinth was relieved to see that the kitten and the box were gone.
The Vanderbeeker kids took turns sliding their letters of apology under the door. Oliver pushed through Mr. Rochester’s business card last. A sticky note was attached to the card with a hasty scribble on it that said, “He’s the right guy for the brownstone.”
“Who’s ready for Christmas?”
Auntie Harrigan and Uncle Arthur were waiting in the living room with huge smiles, tinsel draped around their necks and Santa hats on their heads, when the Vanderbeekers returned from their trip to the Beiderman’s apartment. Auntie Harrigan had altered her hair again; this time it was dyed bright red and cut super short and spiky. Uncle Arthur had grown a grizzly beard and was wearing a plaid flannel work shirt with paint-splattered jeans. They were holding piles of presents all wrapped decadently in striped paper and abundant ribbons.
The kids tried their best to look happy.
“I must admit,” said Auntie Harrigan as she pulled the kids in for a hug, “I’m not used to such glum reactions when you kids see me. Did I forget someone’s birthday? Miss an important dance concert or basketball game?”
The kids shook their heads; then, one by one, they told her the story of the Beiderman and the move. Auntie Harrigan, who had already heard about their impending move from Papa, sat herself down on a cardboard box full of packed books and listened to every word. After the kids finished, there was a prolonged period of silence while Auntie Harrigan chewed on her lip, deep in thought. The kids watched her, hoping she might have the perfect solution for them.
Finally, Auntie Harrigan sighed. “I’m sorry, kids. I wish I knew how to help you. But I’m very, very proud of you. I think those nice things you did for Mr. Beiderman were meaningful to him, even if it doesn’t seem like it.”
The kids nodded, unbelieving.
Auntie Harrigan stood up and clapped her hands. “If it’s going to be the last Christmas Eve dinner here, we better make it really, really great. Your mom told me that you ladies”—she smiled at the twins—“are cooking for us tonight! What a treat!”
Oliver mimed gagging motions that everyone ignored.
The twins went back to dinner preparations while Auntie Harrigan taught the other kids how to draw armadillos. Franz, excited about the visitors and the general chaotic state of the apartment, could not keep still. After he drooled on her drawing multiple times, Laney took charge. “Franz, come!” she said sternly, jabbing her finger at the floor next to her.
Franz ignored her—he only answered to Hyacinth. Paganini, however, bolted from his shoebox and skidded to a stop at Laney’s feet.
“Good boy!” Laney said to her bunny, thrilled.
Auntie Harrigan’s jaw dropped. “Does that bunny know commands?”
Oliver scoffed. “That bunny? His brain is the size of an acorn!”
Laney looked like she was either going to protest or burst into tears, but she was saved from both when Mama entered the living room with an announcement.
“I just got off the phone with Miss Josie,” Mama called out. “Change of plans. We’re going to gather in their apartment for dinner. We thought it would be easier, given . . .” Mama gestured at the mess of boxes stacked in unstable piles throughout the living room.
Auntie Harrigan accompanied Mama to the second floor to help set up, while Papa and Uncle Arthur carried up a long folding table, followed by a dozen folding chairs. Laney put Paganini in his carrier, detained only briefly by Mama, who unsuccessfully tried to make a case that Paganini would be more comfortable at home. The twins went to their room to change clothes.
When Uncle Arthur came down to retrieve more chairs, he caught Oliver examining the food.
“What’s the verdict?” he asked.
Oliver knew Uncle Arthur was referring to Oliver’s running tally of the twins’ edible versus inedible meals (the twins were currently at a 43 percent success rate).
“I’m scared to try it,” Oliver replied, poking at a piece of blackened vegetable.
“C’mon, how bad could it be? When I was little, your grandma made us eat fried rabbit livers with pepper jelly. You kids have it easy. We got blackened vegetables on the good days.”
Oliver dipped the ladle into the beef stew. “I won’t tell Laney and Hyacinth that you’re a rabbit killer if you eat this bite of stew. And no spitting it out.” He held the ladle up to his uncle. “Double dog dare.”
“Ha!” Uncle Arthur scoffed. “Easiest dare ever.” He took the ladle from Oliver and tipped it into his mouth. There was a pause as his mouth adjusted to the taste; then he sprinted to the sink and spit it out. “Salty! Need . . . water,” he gasped, gulping water directly from the faucet spout. When he recovered, he turned to Oliver. “You win.”
“At least the bread’s from Castleman’s,” Oliver offered.
“Bread and water for dinner,” said Uncle Arthur. “How Dickensian.”
So much for their last Christmas Eve in the brownstone.
Twenty
Isa and Jessie changed silently in their bedroom and tossed their food-splattered clothes into the laundry hamper. Outside, the wind swooshed and whistled. Isa left the room with her violin in hand, and Jessie found herself alone with her thoughts.
Isa’s angry words from the previous day kept running through her head. Do you have the right to make decisions for me? We are not the same.
Jessie recalled the tears running down her sister’s face at the idea of Benny taking another girl to the dance. Did Isa really like Benny? What if Isa and Benny didn’t reconcil
e before they moved?
Jessie looked around their bedroom. She thought about all the nights they had stayed up late, talking in whispers and using their pillows to muffle their laughter. Jessie saw Isa’s perfectly made bed and her own bed with its twisted sheets and rumpled blankets. In the corner of the room by the big window, there was a loose floorboard that the twins had pried up five years earlier when they were convinced that a treasure was hidden underneath. Now they used the space to stash Halloween candy before Mama confiscated it.
Jessie took a deep breath. She couldn’t fix the Beiderman problem. She couldn’t fix the moving problem. But she could try to fix the Benny problem.
Mr. Van Hooten, his violin case slung over his shoulder, blew into the brownstone right before dinner began, exclaiming over the severe weather. He whipped off his hat, revealing a head of unruly hair. He greeted the adults, hugged the kids, and kissed Franz right on the lips.
After numerous runs up and down the stairs to retrieve food and flatware and dishes, the table was finally set. Auntie Harrigan added her own contributions to the table: a glazed ham and a flourless chocolate cake. Miss Josie set out a pot of collard greens and Southern cornbread.
Gloom hung heavy over the dinner table as the kids sat themselves down for their final Christmas Eve dinner in the brownstone. Papa said the blessings and thanked everyone for coming. After a round of applause for the cooks—the twins looking like they were being sentenced to a year’s worth of dishwashing—everyone dug in.
Oliver made a point to avoid the beef stew when it was offered to him. He surreptitiously observed everyone else as they scooped large ladlefuls into their bowls. When no one spit it out, Oliver reached across the table to ladle a small amount of the stew into his bowl, then took a tentative sip. But wait! It tasted normal! What happened to all the salt?
Auntie Harrigan nudged his arm and winked. “Amazing what a little extra water and broth can do,” she whispered.
“Ahh,” Oliver said. He looked over at Uncle Arthur, who saluted Oliver with his soup spoon. “I guess this will bump up their edible meal percentage.”
Auntie Harrigan shrugged. “I do what I gotta do,” she responded.
A more morose Christmas Eve dinner had never been had among the Vanderbeekers. Every window rattled ominously against the wind, which increased in severity throughout the meal. The adults provided most of the conversation, and the kids offered one-word answers whenever a question was directed at them, with the exception of Laney, who offered a running commentary of every thought that went through her head.
Dinner was not a long affair; no one had an appetite. Finally, Mr. Jeet leaned over and whispered conspiratorially to Laney. When she nodded, Mr. Jeet called for everyone’s attention.
“We—have—a—special—treat—for—you,” Mr. Jeet announced. “Please—gather—around.”
Laney sought out Paganini from under the fronds of a potted palm tree. The jaunty bow tie she had tied around his neck earlier had vanished. Laney lured Paganini out with a few carrot pieces, then led him to the center of the living room.
“And now, grand presenting the famous Paganini!” She gestured to Paganini, who was grooming his ears. The puzzled audience looked at Paganini, unsure why they were doing so.
“We will now demonstrate Paganini’s smartness!” Laney announced. Oliver choked on the water he was drinking, and Uncle Arthur pounded on his back.
Laney walked over to the other side of the room, then said, “Paganini, COME!”
Paganini hopped over to Laney and sat up on his hind legs. The audience clapped and nodded in appreciation, impressed that Paganini was not hard of hearing, as previously believed.
“Good boy, Paganini!” Laney exclaimed, giving him a carrot.
“I knew there was something funny going on with that bunny,” Auntie Harrigan commented under her breath to Uncle Arthur.
When the applause quieted down, Laney began again. “And now, another trick!” She walked ten feet away from Mr. Jeet, and Paganini followed her. Mr. Jeet held an embroidery hoop one inch off the floor.
“Paganini—HOOP!” Mr. Jeet called out. Paganini zigzagged back over to Mr. Jeet and executed a clean jump through the hoop. Mama’s jaw dropped. A slow grin came over Papa’s face. Even Oliver was impressed.
When the room quieted, Laney gave another command. “Paganini, lie down!” Paganini flopped on his side, an ear hanging over his eye. The audience cheered.
“Last trick!” said Laney. Mr. Jeet leaned down and placed a toy piano on the floor in front of him.
“Paganini, play piano!” Paganini scrambled up from his prone position and hopped to the piano. Then he placed his front paws on the keyboard and pressed down, creating a discordant chord. And for that moment, the Vanderbeeker kids forgot their troubles and joined the adults in loud applause and cheers. Mr. Jeet and Laney stood up together and held hands, then took a deep bow.
“Encore, encore!” Papa shouted. Jessie took one of the flowers from the vase on the dining room table and tossed it at Laney’s feet. When Paganini tried to eat it, Mr. Jeet reached down to rescue the flower and handed it to Laney with a gallant nod. Laney curtseyed seven times before running to Mama and jumping into her arms.
There was such terrific noise following Paganini’s show that at first no one noticed the persistent banging on the ceiling, dull thuds that came in short spurts before starting again.
Mama leaned over to Papa. “Do you hear that noise?”
Papa, who was congratulating Mr. Jeet, paused to listen.
The banging began again. “I think it’s coming from upstairs,” Mama said uneasily.
Isa’s good mood after Laney’s bunny performance vanished. She glared at the ceiling as if she could beam lasers from her eyes and decimate the upstairs occupant. One by one, people began to glance upward.
“What’s that banging, Papa?” Laney asked.
“I think it’s Mr. Beiderman,” Miss Josie said apologetically. “He does that sometimes when people come over. I think we get a little . . . loud for him.”
Every single person in the room stared at her.
“Did you say Beiderman?” asked Mr. Van Hooten, a peculiar look on his face.
“He bangs on your ceiling?” said Mama, shocked.
“Down with the Beiderman!” shouted Oliver, fist raised high above his head.
Miss Josie lifted her hands helplessly, as if apologizing.
The room buzzed with indignation when the banging resumed, louder than ever.
Isa shot out of her chair. She grabbed her violin from the console next to the front entrance, jerked the door open, and took the stairs two at a time up to the Beiderman’s apartment. Isa could vaguely hear her family rush out behind her, but it didn’t stop her from pounding a fist on the door.
It opened with a terrific bang, as if the Beiderman had been waiting for Isa to arrive.
“WHAT?” the Beiderman roared. His eyes flashed and he loomed above Isa in his midnight-black clothes. The wind howled around the brownstone.
Isa, her usually tidy hair now an angry halo, pointed the tip of her violin bow one inch from the Beiderman’s cold heart.
“You.” Isa spoke in a low, dangerous voice. “You are a terrible, grouchy, horrible person. You are mean to Miss Josie and Mr. Jeet. You are making us move for no reason. And now you are ruining our last Christmas here.”
Isa pushed the hair off her shoulder and put her violin up, clenched her eyes shut, and crashed her bow onto the strings.
The piece was “Les Furies,” and Isa’s playing was harsh and unrelenting. It was as if she were dueling against her own fury and disappointment and frustration and loneliness. Around her the brownstone braced itself against the wind and against her rage.
She played because the Beiderman was cruel.
She played because she had disappointed her parents and failed her siblings.
She played because Benny hated her.
She played because they had to m
ove out of the home they loved.
She played because she was fighting with her sister and best friend, the person she loved most in the world.
She played because their mission had failed, and now there was nothing else she could do.
The music exploded through the brownstone, reverberating through the brick walls and making the air crackle. The brownstone shuddered and shook. Outside, the water wall was a frenzy of chimes knocking madly into each other, and the sounds of crashing metal. When it seemed as if the walls themselves would start to crumble, the tension eased. Almost imperceptibly, Isa’s violin gentled, as if coaxing “Les Furies” into submission. Then quietly, so quietly, her bow glided along the first note of “The Swan.” If “Les Furies” had cleansed her heart of her rage, “The Swan” opened up space for grace to enter in again.
The wind outside eased, and the brownstone groaned with relief.
Isa’s bow slowed as she came to the end of the piece, suspended over the last, ethereal high note. The sound continued to ring throughout the brownstone long after the bow had left the violin.
When Isa opened her eyes, she had forgotten where she was. The Beiderman stood in front of her, his face so pale, his skin almost looked translucent. Isa took down her violin and found herself reaching out to touch his arm. The Beiderman stepped back and lifted his head to look at her with miserable, watery eyes.
“I’m sorry,” the Beiderman rasped. He gazed at Isa and her violin for another long moment.
Then he closed the door in her face.
Twenty-One
Isa descended the staircase with heavy footsteps while her family and friends watched in silence. But the moment her feet touched the second-floor landing, she found herself embraced from all sides, by Hyacinth and Laney, by Oliver and Mr. Van Hooten, by her parents and Mr. Jeet and Miss Josie and Auntie Harrigan and Uncle Arthur.
The Vanderbeekers of 141st Street Page 13
