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Bright morning sunshine drifted through the windows of the red brownstone on 141st Street, filling the kitchen with a soft glow. Eight-year-old Hyacinth stood on a step stool, dipping thick slices of raisin bread purchased that morning at Castleman’s Bakery into an egg, milk, and cinnamon sugar mixture. She wore a floral bandana wrapped around her hair and a dress she had made from two of Papa’s old striped work shirts. Oliver, age eleven, was managing frying pans on three burners with measured concentration, flipping sizzling french toast. He hadn’t brushed his hair in two days, so it was even wilder than normal. Mama had already left for work at the Treehouse Bakery and Cat Café, the cookie shop she owned and operated, and Papa sat on a stool by the stove supervising while drinking coffee, serving as fire warden and occasionally washing the dishes that piled up on the counter. Six-year-old Laney sat at his feet, brushing her rabbit Paganini’s ears with a sparkly doll comb. She wore pajamas, unicorn slippers, and six strands of beads around her neck. “Hello!” called Orlando, their upstairs neighbors’ grandnephew, letting himself in through the building door on the first floor. He was built like a football player and was fourteen years old, the same age as Isa and Jessie; he wore one of the nerdy science T-shirts that Jessie liked to give him on birthdays. This one said, “Never Trust an Atom, They Make Up Everything.” In Orlando’s arms was Billie Holiday, formerly known as New Dog, a pup with long legs and big ears that the Vanderbeekers had found outside their door that previous spring. Mr. Jeet and Miss Josie had adopted her, but the Vanderbeekers took her out for walks daily since going up and down stairs hurt Miss Josie’s knees. Mr. Jeet used a wheelchair exclusively to get around these days; he rarely went out except to go to doctor’s appointments. “You’re spoiling that dog,” Jessie said to Orlando. He shrugged as he put Billie Holiday down. Franz ran to greet her with a low howl, and Tuxedo scampered up and batted at her ears. “Billie Holiday doesn’t like the wood stairs,” Orlando said. “Too slippery.” Jessie pushed her glasses higher on her nose and turned to Isa, pointing a thumb over her shoulder toward Orlando. “See? Spoiled.” Isa gathered her long, straight hair over one shoulder and smiled. “Orlando is such a pushover when it comes to Billie Holiday.” Isa leaned down to feed George Washington, their orange tabby, while Laney scooped out a can of cat food for Tuxedo, yet another animal that had been left on their doorstep the past spring. The black-and-white kitten had been Laney’s favorite of the five that had been abandoned, and she had campaigned relentlessly to keep him until her parents finally gave in. The rest of the kittens had been adopted by other families, including their friend Herman’s. Because Herman’s parents did not allow pets in their home, the Vanderbeekers had coordinated for Herman’s cat, who he named Purl One, to live at the cat café. Purl One, who was named after knitting terminology, was the one permanent resident; eleven other adoptable cats lived there on a rotating basis. Herman took Purl One with him whenever he could, nestling her into a kangaroo-pouch cat carrier that strapped to his chest. Hyacinth had made the carrier for him, and the Vanderbeekers agreed that Purl One was the calmest cat they had ever met. There was no way George Washington or Tuxedo would put up with that treatment. “Get your french toast while it’s hot!” Oliver called from the stove, expertly flipping a piece of perfectly browned toast onto a platter next to the burners. Jessie grabbed the platter while Isa and Orlando set the table. As Laney waited, she pulled the fold of her turtleneck up and chewed on it, a habit she had recently acquired. Jessie hypothesized that this new habit had a direct relationship to their neighbor Mr. Jeet’s health decline over the last month. These days, Mr. Jeet spent most of his time in bed, and his periods of wakefulness had decreased significantly since the summer. “We’re going to the garden after breakfast,” Jessie told Orlando. “Want to come?” “We’ve got to leave food for the PM!” Laney said. Two weeks ago, the Vanderbeekers had discovered signs that someone had been sleeping in the shed they used to store their gardening tools, soil, and seeds. They hadn’t yet spotted the Person of Mystery, or PM, but hidden in a corner of the shed behind a stack of soil bags was a pile of clothes, neatly folded, plus a toothbrush, a worn Bible, and a rolled-up blanket. Worried that the PM was hungry, the kids had been leaving food next to the clothes. Each day the food was gone, so they figured whoever was staying there needed it. Mama and Papa had been on board with the plan as long as the kids visited the garden only when there was an adult they knew inside with them. This wasn’t difficult, because somebody they knew was always inside, tending their plot or taking a break from the city bustle. The gate wasn’t locked at night, so the person must have been coming after dark and leaving early in the morning. “I’ve been making him a scarf!” Hyacinth called to Orlando from the stove. “I wonder who he is,” Laney said. “I hope he finds a home soon.” “Yeah,” Oliver agreed as he flipped another piece of french toast. “That shed is so creepy. He must be really desperate.” “If you come,” Jessie said to Orlando, “you can help me record my findings.” Jessie had been working on a science experiment she had started earlier that month about the effectiveness of various fertilizers. She had lined up multiple pots of mums and marked them clearly with the varying amounts of nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium in their soil. One of them was planted in soil that had been mixed with compost made from the Vanderbeekers’ food scraps and discarded hay from Paganini’s litter box. Orlando shook his head. “I’ve got cross-country practice.” “Is running your favorite thing to do?” Laney asked. “Football is my favorite,” Orlando said. “But our high school doesn’t have a football team.” Laney looked at Orlando. “Do you like watching football?” Orlando nodded. “Which team are you voting for?” she asked him. Orlando choked on a piece of french toast. “‘Voting for’? Laney, if you’re going to be my friend, you’ve got to know sports terminology. First off, you don’t vote for a team. You’re a fan of the team.” Laney swung her legs under the table. “Okay, what fan are you?” “The Atlanta Falcons.” “Do they get a lot of home runs?” asked Laney. Orlando clutched his heart. “Oh man, Laney, we have a lot of work to do. Tomorrow night, you and me are watching some football. Be ready.” “Why don’t we watch now?” Laney asked. “I’ve got cross-country practice in half an hour. Mr. Beiderman is coming with me.” Mr. Beiderman was their third-floor neighbor and landlord. He had been a mysterious recluse until two years ago, when the Vanderbeekers had befriended him after he tried to kick them out of their apartment. Jessie swallowed a bite of french toast, then looked at Orlando. “Tell me again why Mr. B joined your high school running team? He’s like, old. As old as Papa.” “I can hear you,” Papa called from the sink. “He thought running with us would help him train for the marathon.” The New York City Marathon was like a citywide block party that happened the first Sunday of every November. It was for serious runners who raced to win money, but also for people who did it for fun. The Vanderbeekers loved watching the marathon every year and cheering on the runners. Because Harlem was located near the end of the course, many of the runners were exhausted by the time they ran past the Vanderbeekers and had leg cramps and needed encouragement. Isa squinted. “Do you think Mr. Beiderman can run all 26.2 miles of the course? When he was training over the summer, he was sort of . . . well, you know . . .” “Super out of shape?” Oliver offered from his spot at the stove. “He was out of breath running around the playground with me,” Laney reported. “I had to pat his back to help him breathe.” “How did he even qualify for the marathon? Don’t you have to be a really good runner?” asked Jessie. Orlando shrugged. “He’s running with a charity. Anyway, he’s not the worst runner on our crosscountry team. That would be Stanley.” “Doesn’t Stanley have asthma?” Jessie asked. “He does,” Orlando said. Finished with his french toast, he crunched into an apple he grabbed from the fruit bowl. “Are you running the marathon?” Laney asked Orlando. “Nope,” he said. “You have to be at least eighteen years old.” “I still can’t imagine Mr. Beiderman even trying a marathon,” Jessie mused. “I mean, this is the guy who didn’t leave his apartment for six years.” “I think he’ll be okay,” Orlando said. “I’ve been training with him a few mornings a week for a couple of months to help him get ready. On marathon day, my team will take turns running with him. Eight of us will be at different parts of the route, and we’ll each run a couple of miles.” “Can I run with him?” Laney asked. Orlando, done with his apple, started on a banana. “Nope. But when you’re older you can.” Laney watched Orlando eat the banana in three bites. “I’m already six.” “We don’t want you to be trampled,” Isa told her. “Remember how many runners there are? Over fifty thousand. But don’t forget that we’re organizing the Halloween Five-K Fun Run at St. Nicholas Park. You can even run in your costume if you want.” “I can’t wait for the fun run, but I’m going to run the real New York City Marathon one day where all those people cheer for you and call out your name if you write it big on your shirt,” Laney announced. “I’ll start training right away.” She pulled her turtleneck back up to her mouth, put her dishes in the dishwasher, and proceeded to run laps around the living room until she got so dizzy she fell down on the carpet and was rewarded by lots of dog kisses.
