At Livingston Academy, Rohit slouched against the wall. He moved slowly along the hallway between classes, as if the swirling crowd of students around him weren't there, or as if he had a timetable unconnected to their tightly-scheduled days. He watched the tiny loops of yarn that made up his sweater catch on the rough cement between the wall's smoother panels and wondered if he could create enough friction with his sleeve to create a fire. He consider the possibility, wondering what the punishment would be for starting a fire in a crowded hallway with a sweater. What if no one got hurt? What if the only victim was the sweater? Rohit sighed deeply and walked even slower to his Humanities class.
With Jairaj visiting, it seemed unlikely that the conversation at home would turn to school and Rohit and his future happiness at Columbia High School. Even as a child, Rohit realized that such changes meant conversation with his parents, his father making decisions quickly, his mother crafting a list of pros and cons, weighing the options carefully. She planned even the smallest outings, researching all the possibilities, and contingency plan was one of her favorite expressions. Rohit sighed again. Perhaps he shared these characteristics; how else could he explain his irritation at his cousin's surprise visit?
Rohit stopped beside a trophy case full of bronze golfing figures and rubbed his sweater against the wall again, back and forth, back and forth, as he thought about his cousin. Rohit's earliest memories were of BA flights to India, and climbing onto the suitcases his parents packed carefully weeks ahead of their trips. His mother hoarded Clinique and jeans chosen to match relatives' measurements, while his practical father gathered Advil and granola bars, both for himself, both staples of his daily life. Nearly every summer the family traveled to Lahore, and they had squeezed shorter trips -- for weddings and birth ceremonies -- into shorter school holidays. Rohit sometimes returned dazed by jet lag and puzzled when his classmates talked about Thanksgiving turkeys, while his memories were of crowds and dancing.
Friends and classmates asked, "How was India?" or said, "Tell me about the Taj Mahal." It was only last summer, after years of nagging, that Rohit finally visited the Taj Mahal. His weeks spent in India sometimes felt like a parade of relatives, though he was the parade forced to march through a dozen sitting rooms, drinking hundreds of cups of tea.
He read the Harry Potter series of books in India, after resisting the trend for years, and completed all seven in a week. Another summer brought him Dickens, leather-bound volumes from a great-uncle's collection. Last year, he barrelled through the Hitch-Hiker's Guide series. When he thought of India, he felt the thin, humidity-soaked pages under his fingers, and saw the angular print on the page. The British spellings intrigued him; how could people speaking the same language agree to disagree on spelling, but limit the possible spellings to two? Why could favorite and favourite be correct, but no other version of the same word? And why the favorite child in every single sitting room, dance hall, and kitchen not him, but Jairaj? Why did Jairaj, who seemed to have the attention of all of India, come to New Jersey for more?
"Loud," Rohit said. "Big. Attention-sucking."
"Same to you," said Julian, nudging him from behind with his backpack."What are you doing out here? Scottland's gonna yell at you."
"I don't care," said Rohit, knowing even as he said it that he sounded like a child. "I don't like that teacher anymore."
Julian stared at his friend and waited.
"My mother told her that my cousin is visiting from India, and wants to come to school. So she --" Rohit gestured towards the classroom door with his shoulder, "invited him to talk to the class. About India."
Rohit saw that Julian didn't understand. "My cousin is a huge pain in the -- " he added.
"So?" asked Julian. "You get extra credit if you bring someone in. Remember how I made my grandmother come when she visited from Bruges? Extra quiz grade, buddy, can't miss."
"But Jairaj is loud," protested Rohit. "And he's boring. India is boring. We spent the whole fall doing India. Boring."
Julian shrugged. "Kylie brought in her cousin from Canada, which is like next to upstate New York. That's boring," he said. "Anyway, we gotta get in there."
Rohit followed his friend to the classroom door, aware that they were entering late. Julian held the door open for Rohit. As Rohit passed, his friend asked, loud enough for the class to hear, "What happened to your sweater? It looks like you were chewing on it."
Rohit didn't reply. The teacher turned to them. Instead of a reprimand, she greeted them gleefully. "A cousin from Lahore, Rohit. How lucky you are. How lucky we are." She turned to the class to include them in the luck. "And Rohit's cousin made a powerpoint of his whole life -- and you, yes, pictures of you, Rohit."
Rohit looked at the floor and then at his classmates as the teacher talked on about the anticipated pleasures of powerpoint and baby photos. This must be bad, he thought, looking around the room. They weren't even laughing at him; the rest of the class looked as mortified as he felt.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Chapter 19: Here's to you, Mrs. Robin
Emma's teacher smiled at the group of waiting kindergarteners. "We have the grand finale in the poetry festival," she told them with the air of magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. "The whole evening leads up to us."
Emma looked around the classroom at the other five and six-year-olds, all of whom looked awed. Jeremy looked like he might cry, while Annabel was already waving her hand in the air.
"Can I have the big part?" asked Annabel. "In Beauty-and-the-Beast-on-Broadway --" she pronounced this as if were one long word -- "there was a beautiful princess in the grand finale." She paused to inhale. "In Disney-Princess-Fantasia-on-Ice there was a finale with all of the princesses." Annabel looked around the class almost, Emma thought, as if she were challenging the bunch of them. "I could be the beautiful princess," Annabel said.
"Thank you, Annabel," said the teacher. "The whole group will be the finale, in fact."
There was a nervous silence as the children waited.
"We're reciting a poem called 'The Butterfly Ball," and -- yes, Annabel, I see you hand -- we'll all be animals," said Mrs. Robin.
"Is that because your name is Mrs. Robin?" asked Ethan, which Emma thought was a good question. He forgot to raise his hand, she noticed.
"I won't be an animal in the poem," explained the teacher. "I'll be the director animal." She laughed, and the class laughed with her politely.
It was clear to Emma what was going through her classmates' minds. Which animal would each child be? Would there be a selection process? A food chain of kindergarten animals, where the most powerful in the class would select first. Would costumes be involved? And, of course, who would be the butterfly?
Repeating after the teacher, the children said, "If I can't find a a dress that's smaller than small, then I can't go to the butterfly ball."
"Hmmm," said Mrs. Robin. "Not bad for the first day, but it's almost as if you're all thinking about something else. That part is the chorus that we'll repeat over and over. Then each animal or pair of animals has a special line."
Pair of animals, thought Emma. A new worry.
Emma looked around the classroom at the other five and six-year-olds, all of whom looked awed. Jeremy looked like he might cry, while Annabel was already waving her hand in the air.
"Can I have the big part?" asked Annabel. "In Beauty-and-the-Beast-on-Broadway --" she pronounced this as if were one long word -- "there was a beautiful princess in the grand finale." She paused to inhale. "In Disney-Princess-Fantasia-on-Ice there was a finale with all of the princesses." Annabel looked around the class almost, Emma thought, as if she were challenging the bunch of them. "I could be the beautiful princess," Annabel said.
"Thank you, Annabel," said the teacher. "The whole group will be the finale, in fact."
There was a nervous silence as the children waited.
"We're reciting a poem called 'The Butterfly Ball," and -- yes, Annabel, I see you hand -- we'll all be animals," said Mrs. Robin.
"Is that because your name is Mrs. Robin?" asked Ethan, which Emma thought was a good question. He forgot to raise his hand, she noticed.
"I won't be an animal in the poem," explained the teacher. "I'll be the director animal." She laughed, and the class laughed with her politely.
It was clear to Emma what was going through her classmates' minds. Which animal would each child be? Would there be a selection process? A food chain of kindergarten animals, where the most powerful in the class would select first. Would costumes be involved? And, of course, who would be the butterfly?
Repeating after the teacher, the children said, "If I can't find a a dress that's smaller than small, then I can't go to the butterfly ball."
"Hmmm," said Mrs. Robin. "Not bad for the first day, but it's almost as if you're all thinking about something else. That part is the chorus that we'll repeat over and over. Then each animal or pair of animals has a special line."
Pair of animals, thought Emma. A new worry.
Chapter 18: Stats and a Long Shot
Back home after driving the neighborhood looking for Ann and Dylan, Joe sat down in front of his computer to ponder Match.com. In less than a day, the personal ad that Cole crafted yielded almost 200 replies from women of every age and stage.
"How am I supposed to choose?" he asked Daisy, as NewsRadio88 played behind him. He scanned the listings and found photos of women dressed formally, casually, even hardly dressed. He looked at their names: Smiley, GingerCat, OrangeTabby, MostlyHappy.
He glanced down at his sleeping dog. "I guess the cat ones are out," he said. "That's a problem right there." He moved to delete a listing labelled FancyCat, but hesitated.
"Cole would tell me that I'm looking for reasons to limit this list," said Joe aloud. "He would be right."
Walking to the kitchen, where he poured a cup of coffee from the pot on the counter, Joe picked up the Star-Ledger and glanced at the sports pages. It was the habit of a lifetime; he had written a good bit of what he read, and knew the scores already, but couldn't resist. Derek Jeter homered against the A's, and Joe mentally calculated the player's batting average.
"Not bad," he murmured, then shook his head when he read of the Mets' fielding errors.
A quantifier by nature, Joe tallied the losses and wins in his mind, keeping track of the local teams' scores so far in the season. Swallowing the coffee, he returned to his desk and looked again at the website before him.
"Stats," he murmured. "That's what I need. Stats will show the way."
And taking a pen and piece of graph paper, he began labelling columns across the length of the paper. He turned it sideways to copy the names. TabbyKat led the list.
"How am I supposed to choose?" he asked Daisy, as NewsRadio88 played behind him. He scanned the listings and found photos of women dressed formally, casually, even hardly dressed. He looked at their names: Smiley, GingerCat, OrangeTabby, MostlyHappy.
He glanced down at his sleeping dog. "I guess the cat ones are out," he said. "That's a problem right there." He moved to delete a listing labelled FancyCat, but hesitated.
"Cole would tell me that I'm looking for reasons to limit this list," said Joe aloud. "He would be right."
Walking to the kitchen, where he poured a cup of coffee from the pot on the counter, Joe picked up the Star-Ledger and glanced at the sports pages. It was the habit of a lifetime; he had written a good bit of what he read, and knew the scores already, but couldn't resist. Derek Jeter homered against the A's, and Joe mentally calculated the player's batting average.
"Not bad," he murmured, then shook his head when he read of the Mets' fielding errors.
A quantifier by nature, Joe tallied the losses and wins in his mind, keeping track of the local teams' scores so far in the season. Swallowing the coffee, he returned to his desk and looked again at the website before him.
"Stats," he murmured. "That's what I need. Stats will show the way."
And taking a pen and piece of graph paper, he began labelling columns across the length of the paper. He turned it sideways to copy the names. TabbyKat led the list.
Naming Names
Names are important to writers. Yes, I know the old Shakespeare line about "What's in a name?" Indeed, I teach Romeo and Juliet every year, and that line bugs me each time. Shakespeare, it seems to me, is a master of choosing names with meaning, names that resonate with their characters' intentions. An example? Sure, Romeo means pilgrim and in that same scene, R&J meet and speak a sonnet together. You remember from high school the "Hand to hand is holy palmers' kiss" line, when he wants to kiss and she offers a hand instead. And talk about an eponym -- how about old mercurial Mercutio? But I digress...
Joe and Cole Atkinson have names that represent a generation gap. Joe is a traditional name; he's probably Joe Junior, in fact, and broke tradition by choosing the name Cole. I suspect that it was a family name from his wife's side. It's cool, which suits Cole. He can carry off an individual name with no problem. He likes signing cards "Cole" and knowing that the recipient will be certain that it's he.
The Amin family is next in line for name revision. I like Neil's name, but I'm not satisfied with Rohit and Surya. Rohit, though it means 'red,' which matters for this story might be more of a Rohan. And Surya needs a name with a bit more surprise to it, as she is a character who has a few tricks up her sleeve. Jairaj is well-named, especially since he will work hard to become the center of our attention.
Thanks for reading!
Joe and Cole Atkinson have names that represent a generation gap. Joe is a traditional name; he's probably Joe Junior, in fact, and broke tradition by choosing the name Cole. I suspect that it was a family name from his wife's side. It's cool, which suits Cole. He can carry off an individual name with no problem. He likes signing cards "Cole" and knowing that the recipient will be certain that it's he.
The Amin family is next in line for name revision. I like Neil's name, but I'm not satisfied with Rohit and Surya. Rohit, though it means 'red,' which matters for this story might be more of a Rohan. And Surya needs a name with a bit more surprise to it, as she is a character who has a few tricks up her sleeve. Jairaj is well-named, especially since he will work hard to become the center of our attention.
Thanks for reading!
Chapter 17: The Dumbwaiter Mystery
For the second time in a week, and again in her pajamas, Naomi found herself plied with tea and biscuits by the neighbors. She was exhausted from the waves of anxiety that she felt in the basement, but exhilarated after its release on her psyche and her stomach. She couldn't eat cookies quickly enough as she sat in Surya's kitchen, hands still shaking as they clutched a mug of Five Roses tea.
"Thank you," she said again, looking at Surya. "Thank you for getting us out."
"It was nothing," said Surya. "And it was my father's doing. I'm sorry he had to leave so quickly, but a cousin was driving him to Best Buy this morning and nothing would deter them from browsing for large, useless electronics." Surya grinned to show Naomi that she was joking.
Naomi nodded and smiled. She glanced at the tea cup in front of her.
"You must wonder what we were doing in there," she said at last.
"Were you looking for something in particular? Or perhaps getting to know the house?" asked Surya, taking a sip of her tea.
"I was following that old woman," explained Naomi. "It seemed kind of like she was seeing things, kind of remembering things very vividly. It was strange, but sort of exciting." She looked up from her tea. "There's not a whole lot of mystery in life," she said. "I don't mind a little Nancy Drew."
She paused. "You have a son, right?" Naomi continued. "Do you know who I mean by Nancy Drew? I know boys don't usually read those books."
"Of course," replied Surya. "I read them in India, when my cousins brought them in the summer. Along with the Agatha Christie. Did you know that Nancy Drew's creator lived in Orange Heights?"
Naomi looked skeptical, but Surya spoke confidently. "Oh, yes," she continued. "Edward Stratemeyer and his daughters started the company, moved it to Orange, and wrote many of those books." She rose and walked to her refrigerator. Pulling the town calendar from the wall, she returned to the table and opened it to May.
"Look," said Surya, pointing at a photo of the town's Village Hall with a large clock in its cupola. "They say that Stratemeyer drove past this every day on his way to the writing factory in Orange. When he thought of Nancy Drew and crafted a mystery for her, he took inspiration and named the first book Mystery of the Old Clock."
Naomi considered this. Could Stratemeyer have been to her house? Did he find Nancy's inspiration elsewhere?
"The Mystery of the Old Dumbwaiter," she said aloud, then laughed, embarrassed.
Surya looked at her. "Don't forget to mention the china," she said. "Your dumbwaiter was filled with china, enough for a large party. But somehow it was forgotten, left there for decades. What happened?" She stood to refill their cups with hot water. "That, to me, is the mystery."
Naomi rose and opened her mouth to speak again.
"No more thanks," said Surya. "But when the time is right, I will go down to that basement with you and see what other mysteries we uncover."
"Thank you," she said again, looking at Surya. "Thank you for getting us out."
"It was nothing," said Surya. "And it was my father's doing. I'm sorry he had to leave so quickly, but a cousin was driving him to Best Buy this morning and nothing would deter them from browsing for large, useless electronics." Surya grinned to show Naomi that she was joking.
Naomi nodded and smiled. She glanced at the tea cup in front of her.
"You must wonder what we were doing in there," she said at last.
"Were you looking for something in particular? Or perhaps getting to know the house?" asked Surya, taking a sip of her tea.
"I was following that old woman," explained Naomi. "It seemed kind of like she was seeing things, kind of remembering things very vividly. It was strange, but sort of exciting." She looked up from her tea. "There's not a whole lot of mystery in life," she said. "I don't mind a little Nancy Drew."
She paused. "You have a son, right?" Naomi continued. "Do you know who I mean by Nancy Drew? I know boys don't usually read those books."
"Of course," replied Surya. "I read them in India, when my cousins brought them in the summer. Along with the Agatha Christie. Did you know that Nancy Drew's creator lived in Orange Heights?"
Naomi looked skeptical, but Surya spoke confidently. "Oh, yes," she continued. "Edward Stratemeyer and his daughters started the company, moved it to Orange, and wrote many of those books." She rose and walked to her refrigerator. Pulling the town calendar from the wall, she returned to the table and opened it to May.
"Look," said Surya, pointing at a photo of the town's Village Hall with a large clock in its cupola. "They say that Stratemeyer drove past this every day on his way to the writing factory in Orange. When he thought of Nancy Drew and crafted a mystery for her, he took inspiration and named the first book Mystery of the Old Clock."
Naomi considered this. Could Stratemeyer have been to her house? Did he find Nancy's inspiration elsewhere?
"The Mystery of the Old Dumbwaiter," she said aloud, then laughed, embarrassed.
Surya looked at her. "Don't forget to mention the china," she said. "Your dumbwaiter was filled with china, enough for a large party. But somehow it was forgotten, left there for decades. What happened?" She stood to refill their cups with hot water. "That, to me, is the mystery."
Naomi rose and opened her mouth to speak again.
"No more thanks," said Surya. "But when the time is right, I will go down to that basement with you and see what other mysteries we uncover."
Chapter 16: 108 years, 10 months, and 9 days
While Eileen waited for Shannon to be pulled from a meeting at her school, and Surya walked through neighbors' yards in search of Ann and Dylan, Naomi found herself following the old woman and the little boy through the hall of her own house.
Ann paused only to open the door to the basement and walked down. Naomi wanted to call out, to warn her of the rickety stairs or tell her where the light switch was, but Ann walked confidently down the stairs. Waiting only for Naomi and Dylan to reach her, Ann kept walking. She passed the laundry area, where Naomi and Ben had installed large red energy-efficient appliances. She passed the mountain of empty boxes, moving cartons that they had unpacked but not yet flattened or recycled.
Ann walked to what Naomi consider the edge of the basement, where the cement floor gave way to packed dirt with, Naomi hoped, some building material underneat. It disturbed her to think of the house resting on the bare earth, though Ben reminded that all houses did, at the very bases. This part of the basement was dark, and shards of coal and -- what is all of this stuff? -- rested on the floor. Naomi wished her slippers were shoes and she glanced at Dylan's feet. Sneakers with socks. Good.
For the first time, Naomi spoke. "Um, thanks for showing this to me. Could we go back up now?"
Ann hardly looked at her when she replied. "We're going in there."
Naomi and Dylan looked at where Ann pointed. Naomi saw three doors so old and dirty that it looked like they had been carved from the earth. She remembered that the house inspector couldn't reach them easily and had generally advised against opening them. Naomi hadn't argued, happy for them to stay closed forever.
To her surprise, the first door opened easily when Ann turned the doorknob. She, Naomi and Dylan peered into a small room, hardly larger than a closet, lined with shelves. The shelves were lined with newspapers. Naomi peered at the date on one. "1902," she said wonderingly. "August 12, 1902."
Behind her, Dylan murmured. "108 years, 10 months, and 9 days ago."
Despite the dirt and the uneasy feeling that she was surrounded by spiders, Naomi felt a thrill from scalp to dirty slippers. This was an old house, that had lived when Victoria was on the throne.
"What was this for?" asked Naomi.
"They told us not to play in it, but we did," said Ann, replying but not answering. "They used it some, though, for storage. Mary kept her butter here -- oh, she knew it was old-fashioned but she liked the old ways best, didn't she -- and the plates that came out at Christmas. You remember how they came down here to the summer kitchen, just behind that second door, when it was too hot upstairs. And remember the noise the coal made, when they delivered it and it fell down the chute?"
Ann was looking from Dylan to Naomi, asking for agreement or confirmation of her memories that they couldn't give. Naomi felt confused but also curious about the old woman's memories of the house.Ann rambled on, now talking not to the others but to herself or someone in imagination.
"I remember pulling the dumbwaiter myself more than once," she said, now moving behind the door and opening what looked like a large cupboard.Dylan and Naomi both caught their breaths in surprise. When Ann pulled the door, it opened to reveal a wooden shelf loaded with dishes, the dumbwaiter halfway up the shaft, like an elevator caught between floors. Ann pulled a frayed rope and it responded with a loud growl.
"Them's the wheels," said Ann knowledgeably. "Gotta get them boys with the oil can." As she pulled harder on the rope, she leaned on the door of the small room and it closed behind her. She pulled again, and the dumbwaiter reached its floor.
Naomi was torn between opening the door of the room and studying the contents of the dumbwaiter. She disliked small spaces and closed doors, and only concentration and habit made airplane bathrooms and elevators possible for her. She felt the first stirrings of panic; sweat broke out under her arms and her stomach clenched. She began to fidget with her hands and feet, and her ears felt like they were filling with water. Taking a deep breath, as dozens of yoga instructors over the years had told her to do, Naomi reached for the doorknob, which fell off in her hand. She pulled the door, the heavy wooden door that had been closed for years, and it stayed stubbornly shut.
Naomi felt the panic grow, as it reached her head. I'm in here forever, she thought. I will be found in here years later. I will faint now and this boy and old lady will do nothing. There will be pain and I will disappoint Ben. But just as the mental record began to replay, with the worst-case scenarios growing even more dire, Naomi felt Dylan's hand touch the back of her right wrist. So softly that she could barely hear him, she heard counting.
"Help me count," he whispered.
"What are we counting?" she asked, trying desperately to focus on Dylan, on numbers, on anything that would stave off the panic.
"Count the bricks," he said, nodding at the wall. "Count with me."
Naomi swallowed and obeyed, aware only of numbers and of Dylan's hand, now patting hers. She reached for his other hand, and felt better, as if the wave of panic was slowing, maybe even receding. Ann still stared at the china in front of her, lost in a reverie of decades past.
When Naomi had counted to 212 with Dylan, she felt calmer. "I forgot," she told him. "I have a cell phone. But I don't know if it will get a signal here."
Without speaking, he took it from her and pressed buttons. As he tried to find a signal, Naomi heard noises from outside. She heard the squeal of the garbage truck's brakes and the honk-honk of Walter, the UPS delivery man, telling someone on the block that he had a delivery. For an instant, she imagined shouting, and realized that no one would hear her. For another minute, she considered putting Dylan in the dumbwaiter and sending him upstairs. Yes, her anxiety was retreating.
"Don't worry," said Dylan gravely, looking hard at her. "My mother will come." He handed back the cell phone, useless without a signal.Naomi felt a stab of anxiety, but Dylan again took her hand. "Count more," he said, and she joined him in counting bricks in the wall behind them.
Naomi noticed that the noises were growing louder, as if someone was walking in the house above them. "Should we shout?" she asked Dylan.
"Yeah, let's shout."But he walked past her and past his grandmother and pulled the ropes of the dumbwaiter. The creaking was louder this time, and the other noises in the house ceased. Then they heard the rush of feet. Dylan pulled again, and the noises came closer until they could hear voices on the other side of the door.
"Dylan? Ma?" called a voice.
"We're all here," said Naomi. "We can't open the door."
Naomi heard a scream and then a scrabbling noise at the door. Another voice, accented and precise, was louder and spoke authoritatively.
"Eileen, this will not work. My father will open the door. Will you fetch the older gentleman from my house? Please tell him we need him to bring tools and come quickly."
Naomi heard the sound of footsteps above them again, and then, even before she had time to panic, she heard more footsteps. She held Dylan's hand, amazed at his ability to stand and wait.The door to the basement creaked, and she heard muttered voices on the other side. Finally -- was it minutes or hours? -- the door swung not open, but off. A short man, clearly Surya's father by the resemblance, held the door and Surya clutched screws and hinges.
In the instant before speech, before Eileen clutched her son and mother, and Surya hugged her father, Naomi felt a wave not of panic but of deep emotion, of gratitude, of triumph over anxiety, of lovefor this house and the little boy next to her. Tears rolled down her face, washing down the accumulated dirt of 108 years, 10 months, and 9 days.
Chapter 15: I Know Your Ways
Eileen woke to find the house empty, the kitchen a mess of toast crumbs and scattered cereal. She stretched and turned off the television, a real-life judge still braying advice to an audience that wasn't there. She looked in the back yard and then the front before she began to worry.
"Ma," she called. "Dylan." She tightened the belt of her robe and walked all the way around the house, even peering into the garage and shed, calling all the way.
Across the street, Surya stepped out onto her small front porch. "Do you need some help?' she called in her clipped syllables. Mutely, Eileen nodded.
Without speaking, Surya stepped back into her house and called something over her shoulder. She crossed the street to Eileen with car keys and a cell phone in her hand.
"My mother doesn't usually leave the house," said Eileen in a rush. "And Dylan is done with school. Usually he goes with my sister -- you know how she's a teacher at his school -- but she has meetings. So I thought he'd just watch tv with my mother until I woke up." Her words ended in a frantic sob.
"I know," said Surya calmly. "I know your ways."
Eileen looked at Surya as if she had never seen her before. Growing up in a neighborhood, living most of her life in the same house, Eileen had become accustomed to neighbors who moved in, fixed up a house, moved on, and were replaced by new neighbors who repeated the process. She paid attention long enough to learn their names and identify intruders, but she had never considered that the neighbors might pay attention to her.
"I will knock on every door in the neighborhood and look in their yards," said Surya. "And I will ask Joe, who is often home in the mornings, to drive around the next few blocks. I think you should stay here in case they reappear." Eileen nodded. "This is my phone number," said Surya, pulling a card from her pocket. "Give me yours."
Eileen dictated the digits of her home and cell phone numbers. "Should I call 911?" she wondered aloud. "Let me call my sister at work first. Maybe she knows something." Surya patted her on the elbow and left, knocking first on Joe Atkinson's door. Eileen saw him open the door, still wearing running clothes from his earlier exercise. She watched him listen to Surya, then -- just as she had done -- reach behind him for keys and close the door. He, too, tapped digits into a cell phone and drove away. As Eileen watched him drive slowly along the street, clearly scanning the yards, tears filled her eyes. She turned back to the house to find her phone and call Shannon at work, hoping that, even as she walked slowly to her front door, her own phone would ring with news that her son and mother, neither quite of this world or prepared for its challenges, were safe, somewhere, looked after and well.
Chapter 14: A Distant, Dirty Plac
Sitting at her kitchen table -- a fancy name for a card table that she found in her mother's basement, moved to college, around the five boroughs of New York City and now to Orange Heights -- Naomi studied the sheaf of papers in front of her. Ben had been surprisingly calm about the news of the oven fire and Naomi's collapse in the neighbor's yard. Perhaps he was still in shock over the move, the growing pile of contractors' estimates that Naomi had collected, or simply the daily commute to his job near Wall Street.
"The other people on the train talk to me," he told her in surprise. "One guy, he remembered my name from one day to the next and we talked about the Knicks. People here are really friendly."
Naomi agreed, thinking about the kindness of the next door neighbors, who helped her when the kitchen caught on fire. She turned to look at the hole in the wall where the fiery oven had been.
"You should have eaten breakfast that day," Ben said, following her gaze. "Eat. Eat a lot," he reminded her, as he kissed her goodbye and left for the train.
Naomi agreed; breakfast, in the abstract, was a good idea. She scanned the line of cereal boxes. Special K, oatmeal, Golden Grahams, Cheerios, and poured a few flakes and o's of each into a bowl. She ate it dry with her fingers as she walked the large rooms of her new house. From the kitchen, stairs led to the second floor. A larger doorway led to the dining room, through a tiny butler's pantry lined with glass-fronted cabinets and a sink. It was this room -- hardly a room, she thought -- that sold her on the house. Naomi loved the past, and fell hard for evidence of its grandeur. A butler's pantry was just that.
She walked into the large dining room, an octagon of a room with a fireplace on one end and windows around three sides. High on the walls near the ceiling, she saw decorative plasterwork, swirls and whirls and bouquets of flowers, barely visible under layers of tan paint. The wood floor had a similar swirl pattern, darker wood among the light, near the edges of the room. She stepped over the iron grate that gave forth heat from the basement's ancient boiler and walked into a parlor.
The house had two parlors, each a mirror image of the other. The fireplaces on either end matched, and cracked mirrors that were part of their brickwork reflected the other room, over and over. Naomi parked her cereal on a mantle, and shoved the moving boxes that filled the rooms to the sides. With a clear space in the middle, she danced -- one half of a waltz -- from fireplace to fireplace. She caught a glimpse of herself, disheveled ponytail and pink pajamas, in the mirror but danced anyway.
It was only in such visions of the past that Naomi felt completely free of the panic that sometimes gripped her. She knew the signs of a panic attack; she recognized the twitching of her hands and feet, the sinking feeling in her stomach, the sudden tightness and lightness in her head. Usually, she was able to thwart the attack by taking action, moving, even chewing gum. Changing positions, even going from hot to cold, or cold to hot, running her hands under water, all these strategies helped her cope with crowds and noise and the inexplicable anxiety that threatened to take over her life. But what worked best was when Naomi could disappear into an imagined past that was far more elegant and graceful that life in greater New York City in 2009. Then she could live on two planes, the imagined life and the harsher reality.
What Naomi needed from the house was a setting for her imagined life story. And she intended to repay the house -- she already begun to think of it as a character -- by renovating the heck out of it, making it the showpiece of Orange Heights. She danced into the kitchen to retrieve the stack of estimates and carried them back into the parlors, flat in front of her, as if she were a butler carrying a tray.
The total of the estimates reached figures that stunned even Ben, who worked in finance and spoke the language of money. Naomi wondered where to begin work. Outside? Perhaps by sanding off the brown paint and choosing colors of the period, making this a true painted lady? Or inside, where the cavity in the kitchen waited to be filled by a new oven?
When Naomi was a senior in college, she learned that her father, a career Naval officer, would shortly be transferred to Oakland. "This is my last Christmas vacation in Hawaii," she told her guidance counselor. "I'm not spending it on college apps. I'm choosing one place, doing early decision, and that's the end of the story." She recalled that she had taken a dozen college brochures into the girls' bathroom, thrown them in the air, and watched them fall. Then first to land on the floor was the college of her choice.
"That worked," she said aloud, and climbed onto a moving box with the estimates in her arms. She tossed them in the air and watched them fall like snow around her.
"You were first," she said to one, climbing down from her box. At the same time, she noticed that the old woman from next door was peering in a front window. Next to her, a little boy gaped, his mouth open in surprise. With effort, Naomi smiled and walked to the front door.
"Hello," she said tentatively. "I was just...I'm sorry that I'm still in pajamas."
"Have you found the dumbwaiter yet?" asked the woman, looking past Naomi into the house. "I'm here to show you the house's secrets," she continued, walking into the hallway.
Naomi backed against the newel post of the stairs. "Um, okay," she said. "Could we get together later, maybe, and we can walk through it together."
"Now is good," said the woman -- was her name Ann? -- brusquely. "I don't have too long and, if you ask me, you're not busy."
The boy and the old woman walked into the house, past Naomi, as if they knew exactly where to go. Naomi stood gaping at them, until the little boy turned and gestured to her to follow.
"Come on," he hissed. "There are 1232 panes of glass in this house. Don't you want to count them too?"
Wordlessly, Naomi nodded and followed her neighbors into the dark basement of her aged house. At the last instant, for reasons she couldn't later explain, she grabbed a broom and a cell phone as if she were traveling to a distant and dirty place.
"The other people on the train talk to me," he told her in surprise. "One guy, he remembered my name from one day to the next and we talked about the Knicks. People here are really friendly."
Naomi agreed, thinking about the kindness of the next door neighbors, who helped her when the kitchen caught on fire. She turned to look at the hole in the wall where the fiery oven had been.
"You should have eaten breakfast that day," Ben said, following her gaze. "Eat. Eat a lot," he reminded her, as he kissed her goodbye and left for the train.
Naomi agreed; breakfast, in the abstract, was a good idea. She scanned the line of cereal boxes. Special K, oatmeal, Golden Grahams, Cheerios, and poured a few flakes and o's of each into a bowl. She ate it dry with her fingers as she walked the large rooms of her new house. From the kitchen, stairs led to the second floor. A larger doorway led to the dining room, through a tiny butler's pantry lined with glass-fronted cabinets and a sink. It was this room -- hardly a room, she thought -- that sold her on the house. Naomi loved the past, and fell hard for evidence of its grandeur. A butler's pantry was just that.
She walked into the large dining room, an octagon of a room with a fireplace on one end and windows around three sides. High on the walls near the ceiling, she saw decorative plasterwork, swirls and whirls and bouquets of flowers, barely visible under layers of tan paint. The wood floor had a similar swirl pattern, darker wood among the light, near the edges of the room. She stepped over the iron grate that gave forth heat from the basement's ancient boiler and walked into a parlor.
The house had two parlors, each a mirror image of the other. The fireplaces on either end matched, and cracked mirrors that were part of their brickwork reflected the other room, over and over. Naomi parked her cereal on a mantle, and shoved the moving boxes that filled the rooms to the sides. With a clear space in the middle, she danced -- one half of a waltz -- from fireplace to fireplace. She caught a glimpse of herself, disheveled ponytail and pink pajamas, in the mirror but danced anyway.
It was only in such visions of the past that Naomi felt completely free of the panic that sometimes gripped her. She knew the signs of a panic attack; she recognized the twitching of her hands and feet, the sinking feeling in her stomach, the sudden tightness and lightness in her head. Usually, she was able to thwart the attack by taking action, moving, even chewing gum. Changing positions, even going from hot to cold, or cold to hot, running her hands under water, all these strategies helped her cope with crowds and noise and the inexplicable anxiety that threatened to take over her life. But what worked best was when Naomi could disappear into an imagined past that was far more elegant and graceful that life in greater New York City in 2009. Then she could live on two planes, the imagined life and the harsher reality.
What Naomi needed from the house was a setting for her imagined life story. And she intended to repay the house -- she already begun to think of it as a character -- by renovating the heck out of it, making it the showpiece of Orange Heights. She danced into the kitchen to retrieve the stack of estimates and carried them back into the parlors, flat in front of her, as if she were a butler carrying a tray.
The total of the estimates reached figures that stunned even Ben, who worked in finance and spoke the language of money. Naomi wondered where to begin work. Outside? Perhaps by sanding off the brown paint and choosing colors of the period, making this a true painted lady? Or inside, where the cavity in the kitchen waited to be filled by a new oven?
When Naomi was a senior in college, she learned that her father, a career Naval officer, would shortly be transferred to Oakland. "This is my last Christmas vacation in Hawaii," she told her guidance counselor. "I'm not spending it on college apps. I'm choosing one place, doing early decision, and that's the end of the story." She recalled that she had taken a dozen college brochures into the girls' bathroom, thrown them in the air, and watched them fall. Then first to land on the floor was the college of her choice.
"That worked," she said aloud, and climbed onto a moving box with the estimates in her arms. She tossed them in the air and watched them fall like snow around her.
"You were first," she said to one, climbing down from her box. At the same time, she noticed that the old woman from next door was peering in a front window. Next to her, a little boy gaped, his mouth open in surprise. With effort, Naomi smiled and walked to the front door.
"Hello," she said tentatively. "I was just...I'm sorry that I'm still in pajamas."
"Have you found the dumbwaiter yet?" asked the woman, looking past Naomi into the house. "I'm here to show you the house's secrets," she continued, walking into the hallway.
Naomi backed against the newel post of the stairs. "Um, okay," she said. "Could we get together later, maybe, and we can walk through it together."
"Now is good," said the woman -- was her name Ann? -- brusquely. "I don't have too long and, if you ask me, you're not busy."
The boy and the old woman walked into the house, past Naomi, as if they knew exactly where to go. Naomi stood gaping at them, until the little boy turned and gestured to her to follow.
"Come on," he hissed. "There are 1232 panes of glass in this house. Don't you want to count them too?"
Wordlessly, Naomi nodded and followed her neighbors into the dark basement of her aged house. At the last instant, for reasons she couldn't later explain, she grabbed a broom and a cell phone as if she were traveling to a distant and dirty place.
Chapter 13: Coffee? Tea? Jairaj?
Early on Thursday morning, Surya sat down heavily at her kitchen table and drank what she thought was coffee from the mug in front of her. Still warm, the liquid in the coffee was dark brown as if her husband, Neil, had merely splashed the brew with skim milk. She nearly spit out the mouthful of coffee mixed with chocolate and what? She tasted a sharper flavor as well and sniffed the cup experimentally.
Was it alcohol? She didn't know for certain; as a non-drinker, she wasn't familiar with the flavors and tastes of liquor. There was plenty in the house, however; each year, at holiday time, Neil's clients and even grateful patients who wanted to share the wealth of recovery sent bottles and fruit baskets to the house. Surya unpacked the fruit, which the family ate, and bagged the chocolates, salted nuts and cookies that came in the baskets. She dropped the bags at Our Lady of Sorrows food pantry, where, a volunteer told her, the Godiva chocolates and Ghiradelli cookies were gone in minutes. The church food pantry, however, didn't accept alcohol. Surya usually gave it away to neighbors, but some always remained in the downstairs pantry.
Surya rose, then sat down again heavily in her chair. "It's jet lag," she told herself firmly, seeing her reflection in the metal bowl of a mixer on the counter. "Or I might be a little under the weather," she admitted. What she didn't want to tell her reflection was the truth, that she had bitten off more than she could chew by inviting three family members -- all accustomed to considerable household help -- to stay while she was preparing for the Orange Heights Artists Studio Tour on Sunday. In fact, that wasn't the whole problem.
Her parents were fine, easily entertained and busy visiting relatives and friends who were happy to pick them up for the day and sometimes keep them overnight. And the studio tour wasn't a problem either, on a practical level. Over the past year, Surya had begun to consider her art differently, as a passion or calling rather than a hobby. She drew in black, white, and shades of gray, sometimes with a tiny splash of pastel color, the scenes of her childhood. And when Surya had finished with Bandra, the suburb of Mumbai where she had lived as a child, she would begin representing Orange Heights in ink. Her studio was prepared for visitors, though she made a note to provide some refreshments. Samosas, she thought, scribbling the ingredients on a list in front of her.
No, it was Jairaj and Rohit who were overwhelming her, separately and together. Somehow, when she was in India, visiting her sister, Surya had forgotten the antipathy between the boys. Even if she had remembered this, she felt it was good for Rohit to know a cousin well, and to live with him as a brother. What she hadn't expected was Rohit's decision to change schools, nor the impact of a longterm houseguest on the discussion of that decision. Indeed, Jairaj was a handful.
Surya thought about her sister's complaints about servants, a convenient way to remind others of the ten people who worked for her.
"The servant problem," said Surya aloud, imagining herself talking about this on Orange Heights Avenue. But the servant problem existed; it was Jairaj, who didn't know life without them, and had few household skills and even less sense of finishing what he started. Surya stood and looked out the window.
Under the gray sky, the hole in the sideyard looked like a raw cavity. Jairaj and Rohit had begun building a cricket pitch, a project she applauded at first. But Rohit didnt' care, and Jairaj couldn't be bothered once the project became complicated. The little boy across the street had helped with measurements, but Surya fretted.
"Where exactly is the property line?" she said aloud. Even so, the cricket pitch was a small problem, one that could be fixed easily. Surya turned from the window when she heard the creak of the stairs. Rohit greeted her, hair tousled and wet from the shower. She kissed him and offered to make breakfast.
"Cereal's good," he replied, pulling a box of Count Chocula from a cupboard. She frowned disapprovingly, but handed him a bowl and a spoon. She sat down across from him at the table and took a flake of the cereal from his bowl.
"Just checking it for you," she said, when he looked at her. Surya cleared her throat, once Rohit was settled in his place at the table.
"Do you have an announcement?" he asked her, grinning.
"It's time to discuss your cousin," she began formally, undeterred by Rohit's grimace. "I realize that it's not easy right now."
Rohit stared at her. "Not easy?" he repeated. "That's the understatement of the year. He's impossible."
Surya began again. "I realize that you and he are very different."
"Different?" exploded Rohit, standing for a moment. "He's so loud and messy and big. And he's just, just always talking, and he's..." Rohit searched with his hands for an adjective. "He's so red. He's always like bright and red and craving attention, even from me, when I'm studying. He's just red."
Surya laughed. "The name Rohit means red, as you know," she said. "But I do understand. What I want, though, is to make sure you understand why he's here."
"To bug me," muttered Rohit, and his mother pretended not to hear him.
"Jairaj finds school and family life a bit difficult for him right now in India," said Surya formally, as if she had rehearsed this speech. "He needs to be somewhere that is a bit more accepting."
Rohit started at her in utter incomprehension. "He's hugely messy," Rohit said at last.
"That's true, but that's not what I mean," said Surya. "Right now the teen years are hard on Jairaj and his parents. So he is here to have a good experience, live abroad, and think about who he is."
Rohit exhaled, and looked at the clock. "Okay," he said finally. "But I wish he would keep his mess out of my room and stay off my computer. He's on Facebook and chat boards all the time, all the time," He stood. "The bus..."
Surya nodded, and saw her son to the door. She added a new worry to her list, as she wondered what Jairaj knew about internet safety. She considered waking him -- he had already been awake today, still on Indian time, and then fallen asleep again -- but stepped downstairs to the pantry to see if she had supplies to make samosas.
As she lifted a bag of durum flour, she saw that the bottle behind it had been opened, the decorative paper covering the cap torn roughly all the way around. She sniffed the liquor. Yes, this was in the coffee. Clutching the bottle grimly, she walked to the kitchen and placed it on the table.
Jairaj was awake again, leaning on the stove waiting for a kettle to boil. He looked a little frightened when he saw his aunt, though the expression on his face was fleeting.
"Your uncle will be most upset," began Surya, and then lost her train of thought. What could she say to this troubled child? What power could she have to change his ways? She took a deep breath and shook the bottle in her nephew's direction, and said the first thing that came into her head. "This, this is called Bombay Sapphire Gin," she said. "We don't call it that now. Mumbai. It's Mumbai, and you should know better."
Mistakes I Have Made...and Who Numbered this Crazy Street?
I did, of course! And I made some errors with names and numbers. I'll go back and fix them, but for those of you who wondered what's going on, here's some clarification:
Orange Heights Avenue is a dead-end street, but full of life.
Dead End is #219
Naomi & Ben Roth
215
Ann Geary (grandma)
Shannon Geary (her daughter, adult, preschool tchr)
Maureen (I wrote Eileen in the last post) Caprio
(daughter of Ann, mother of Dylan, ER nurse and couponer online)
Dylan Caprio, 6
directly across the street:
221
Constance Campbell (nanny)
Caroline Grayson-Block, 6
The Judge& the Dr(parents)
213
Joe Atkinson (sportswriter, father of Cole)
Cole, 16, attends CHS, athlete, pres of Umojaa Club
Daisy, their dog
223
Neil and Surya Poddar
Rohit, 14, Hampton Academy
Nana & Nanima, grandparents visiting
Jairaj "Jay" Mukherjee,
Rohit's cousin
Orange Heights Avenue is a dead-end street, but full of life.
Dead End is #219
Naomi & Ben Roth
215
Ann Geary (grandma)
Shannon Geary (her daughter, adult, preschool tchr)
Maureen (I wrote Eileen in the last post) Caprio
(daughter of Ann, mother of Dylan, ER nurse and couponer online)
Dylan Caprio, 6
directly across the street:
221
Constance Campbell (nanny)
Caroline Grayson-Block, 6
The Judge& the Dr(parents)
213
Joe Atkinson (sportswriter, father of Cole)
Cole, 16, attends CHS, athlete, pres of Umojaa Club
Daisy, their dog
223
Neil and Surya Poddar
Rohit, 14, Hampton Academy
Nana & Nanima, grandparents visiting
Jairaj "Jay" Mukherjee,
Rohit's cousin
Chapter 12: OrangeHotCouponMama
From where she sat at her kitchen table, Eileen heard raised voices and then silence. She looked up, as if she could better see, but the refrigerator door, partially open, and the mass of a moss-green couch blocked her view out the front door. She put down her scissors with a sigh and stood to close the refrigerator door. The heavy Velcro tape that was supposed to keep it shut had been pulled away again, and Eileen made a note on the list of jobs for Shannon to do next weekend.
From upstairs, Eileen heard a shuffling and then silence. She exhaled with relief, pleased that Ann had not yet woken. When she came down, ready for a cup of tea and Archway oatmeal cookies, Eileen knew that Ann would want to see the newspaper. Eileen took a faded paper from a stack she kept in the pantry and slid it into a yellow plastic bag.
“Looks new enough,” she said softly to herself, returning to the table. In front of her were stacks of coupons, those that Dylan had cut out the night before, and those that she added to the pile. Counting them quickly, like a dealer shuffles cards, she arranged them in stacks of 20 and paper-clipped each pile.
Then she typed a password into a laptop computer and clicked the keys rapidly. She clicked on a bookmarked site, typed in “OrangeHotCouponMama,” her username, which she admitted was a poor choice, and then DYLAN, her password. Once on the site, she clicked busily, stuffing coupons into envelopes and copying addresses from the computer screen.
Only when she heard her mother laboring down the stairs, did Eileen turn off the computer and stash the coupons in a drawer next to the stove.
“Hey, Ma, how was your nap?” asked Eileen, rising to put the kettle on the stove. “I’ll get your tea right away.”
“You don’t do nothing for me,” replied her mother, not meeting her eyes. “You never did. Look at what happened today. You called the fire engines to come and take me away and they almost did. The lady fireman told me so.”
Eileen closed her eyes and sent a brief prayer for patience to St. Anne, Mary’s mother, chosen because she thought a woman might better understand.
“The fire engines were here for our new neighbor. Remember Naomi? The one in the purple pajamas?” Eileen spoke slowly with the exaggerated diction of a preschool teacher. Indeed, she imitated Shannon when she spoke to her mother, and envied Shannon’s patience with the very young – she taught three-year-olds – and with Ann.
Ann sat in Eileen’s chair at the table and looked confused. From the stove, where she hovered over the hot kettle, Eileen understood. She lifted her mother by one arm and coaxed her to her usual spot, where she could see out a window.
“I need my news,” said Ann abruptly. “No one here gives me the news paper.”
“Here it is,” answered Eileen, handing her mother the yellow bag. She watched her mother slide the newspaper from the bag and look wonderingly at it. While holding the kettle with one hand, Eileen reached for the bag with her other.
Ann read aloud from the front page. “Economic numbers strong. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie expecting twins. Missing tanker found off coast of Venezuela. Good weather expected to continue through the holiday weekend.” She turned to see Eileen dunking a tea bag into a mug and asked, “What holiday? It’s not Christmas now.”
“Probably a Canadian holiday, Ma,” said Eileen, serving her mother tea in a blue mug and cookies on a flowered napkin. “I put an ice cube in your tea to cool it. Let me take the paper while you eat.”
When Ann passed her daughter the newspaper, Eileen folded it and stashed in the pantry again. She sat across from her mother and smiled at her. Ann looked down at her snack, raising her head only to say, “Shannon’s home.”
An instant later, the doorbell rang. Eileen opened it to find Shannon, laden with yellow ShopRite bags and Dylan’s green backpack.
“Sorry,” said Shannon. “My keys are buried somewhere in my purse. How’s Ma today?”
“Pretty good,” answered Eileen. “She should be almost ready for bed when I leave for work.”
“No bad news then?” asked Shannon. “When she reads bad news in the paper, she won’t sleep.”
“No,” said Eileen, reaching for the grocery bags. “I keep giving her last summer’s paper, just before fourth of July when there’s no news anyway, and she doesn’t even notice.”
“Dylan’s across the street with Rohit,” said Shannon. “There’s some other kid there too and they need help measuring. Some tension about metric to English conversion. Perfect for Dylan.”
Eileen nodded. Her son, who was picked up and dropped off in front of their house by a small yellow school bus each day, was a child for whom words were difficult and numbers made sense. Abstract ideas of joy and freedom eluded him; he lived in a concrete world full of numbers that were his companions, his friends. It was difficult for Dylan to fill the silence between people unless numbers were involved. Whatever the metric problem, she hoped it would connect him to Rohit, whom she knew as a patient and precise boy.
Considering Rohit, Eileen smiled at herself in the mirrored wall of the living room. She knew that most mothers looked for other qualities in companions or babysitters for their sons. If Dylan were different, she might encourage him to play with an athletic kid or a sci-fi aficionado. But for Dylan, precision and accuracy were valued qualities.
Halfway between the front door and the kitchen, Eileen could see Dylan’s dark hair and yellow shirt from across the street. He was holding a yardstick – meter stick, she corrected herself – and crouching on the ground.
“Ei,” called her sister from the kitchen. “Ma says you didn’t make tea. Did you? And what about cookies?”
“She drank the tea and probably hid the cookies,” Eileen called back. “Check the cushion behind the chair. I found some there the other day.” She moved closer to the mirror to study her short hair. What about red, she asked herself, like the new neighbor’s hair, or Marilyn Monroe blonde? What would they say at the hospital if I walked in with a whole new look?
Eileen stepped away from the mirror and smiled at herself. “Not today,” she said. “Not because I can’t, just because I don’t want to.”
“Hey,” she said, walking towards the kitchen. “Let me tell you about the fire truck we saw today. And wait until Dylan hears about this one.” Eileen knew that she could tell the story at least twice more before work and her mother wouldn’t complain. Like the newspaper headlines, it would be new again, every time.
From upstairs, Eileen heard a shuffling and then silence. She exhaled with relief, pleased that Ann had not yet woken. When she came down, ready for a cup of tea and Archway oatmeal cookies, Eileen knew that Ann would want to see the newspaper. Eileen took a faded paper from a stack she kept in the pantry and slid it into a yellow plastic bag.
“Looks new enough,” she said softly to herself, returning to the table. In front of her were stacks of coupons, those that Dylan had cut out the night before, and those that she added to the pile. Counting them quickly, like a dealer shuffles cards, she arranged them in stacks of 20 and paper-clipped each pile.
Then she typed a password into a laptop computer and clicked the keys rapidly. She clicked on a bookmarked site, typed in “OrangeHotCouponMama,” her username, which she admitted was a poor choice, and then DYLAN, her password. Once on the site, she clicked busily, stuffing coupons into envelopes and copying addresses from the computer screen.
Only when she heard her mother laboring down the stairs, did Eileen turn off the computer and stash the coupons in a drawer next to the stove.
“Hey, Ma, how was your nap?” asked Eileen, rising to put the kettle on the stove. “I’ll get your tea right away.”
“You don’t do nothing for me,” replied her mother, not meeting her eyes. “You never did. Look at what happened today. You called the fire engines to come and take me away and they almost did. The lady fireman told me so.”
Eileen closed her eyes and sent a brief prayer for patience to St. Anne, Mary’s mother, chosen because she thought a woman might better understand.
“The fire engines were here for our new neighbor. Remember Naomi? The one in the purple pajamas?” Eileen spoke slowly with the exaggerated diction of a preschool teacher. Indeed, she imitated Shannon when she spoke to her mother, and envied Shannon’s patience with the very young – she taught three-year-olds – and with Ann.
Ann sat in Eileen’s chair at the table and looked confused. From the stove, where she hovered over the hot kettle, Eileen understood. She lifted her mother by one arm and coaxed her to her usual spot, where she could see out a window.
“I need my news,” said Ann abruptly. “No one here gives me the news paper.”
“Here it is,” answered Eileen, handing her mother the yellow bag. She watched her mother slide the newspaper from the bag and look wonderingly at it. While holding the kettle with one hand, Eileen reached for the bag with her other.
Ann read aloud from the front page. “Economic numbers strong. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie expecting twins. Missing tanker found off coast of Venezuela. Good weather expected to continue through the holiday weekend.” She turned to see Eileen dunking a tea bag into a mug and asked, “What holiday? It’s not Christmas now.”
“Probably a Canadian holiday, Ma,” said Eileen, serving her mother tea in a blue mug and cookies on a flowered napkin. “I put an ice cube in your tea to cool it. Let me take the paper while you eat.”
When Ann passed her daughter the newspaper, Eileen folded it and stashed in the pantry again. She sat across from her mother and smiled at her. Ann looked down at her snack, raising her head only to say, “Shannon’s home.”
An instant later, the doorbell rang. Eileen opened it to find Shannon, laden with yellow ShopRite bags and Dylan’s green backpack.
“Sorry,” said Shannon. “My keys are buried somewhere in my purse. How’s Ma today?”
“Pretty good,” answered Eileen. “She should be almost ready for bed when I leave for work.”
“No bad news then?” asked Shannon. “When she reads bad news in the paper, she won’t sleep.”
“No,” said Eileen, reaching for the grocery bags. “I keep giving her last summer’s paper, just before fourth of July when there’s no news anyway, and she doesn’t even notice.”
“Dylan’s across the street with Rohit,” said Shannon. “There’s some other kid there too and they need help measuring. Some tension about metric to English conversion. Perfect for Dylan.”
Eileen nodded. Her son, who was picked up and dropped off in front of their house by a small yellow school bus each day, was a child for whom words were difficult and numbers made sense. Abstract ideas of joy and freedom eluded him; he lived in a concrete world full of numbers that were his companions, his friends. It was difficult for Dylan to fill the silence between people unless numbers were involved. Whatever the metric problem, she hoped it would connect him to Rohit, whom she knew as a patient and precise boy.
Considering Rohit, Eileen smiled at herself in the mirrored wall of the living room. She knew that most mothers looked for other qualities in companions or babysitters for their sons. If Dylan were different, she might encourage him to play with an athletic kid or a sci-fi aficionado. But for Dylan, precision and accuracy were valued qualities.
Halfway between the front door and the kitchen, Eileen could see Dylan’s dark hair and yellow shirt from across the street. He was holding a yardstick – meter stick, she corrected herself – and crouching on the ground.
“Ei,” called her sister from the kitchen. “Ma says you didn’t make tea. Did you? And what about cookies?”
“She drank the tea and probably hid the cookies,” Eileen called back. “Check the cushion behind the chair. I found some there the other day.” She moved closer to the mirror to study her short hair. What about red, she asked herself, like the new neighbor’s hair, or Marilyn Monroe blonde? What would they say at the hospital if I walked in with a whole new look?
Eileen stepped away from the mirror and smiled at herself. “Not today,” she said. “Not because I can’t, just because I don’t want to.”
“Hey,” she said, walking towards the kitchen. “Let me tell you about the fire truck we saw today. And wait until Dylan hears about this one.” Eileen knew that she could tell the story at least twice more before work and her mother wouldn’t complain. Like the newspaper headlines, it would be new again, every time.
Chapter 11: Love vs Sports. And the winner is...
Tuesdays, like this one, were slow mornings for Joe. He rose from bed after Cole was long gone to school, and made coffee in the kitchen. Joe put Cole’s cereal bowl in the sink and the milk in the refrigerator as he thought about his day. As a sportswriter, weekends were full of competitions and games. Later in the week, he had press conferences to attend – this Thursday he would learn which athletes were selected Prep B Conference First Team – and on Friday, he saw his weekly sports commentary piece into print. Joe knew that many of his younger colleagues at the Star-Ledger longer for seniority to relieve them of covering local sports, but Joe still attended high school games, and brought Cole along to scout the competition for Columbia High School. In writing, Joe described such meets, games and matches as “athletic contests.” He knew this was a formal term for sports writing, but he felt that it accurately described high school events, where luck and chance were as significant as any player on the team.
Joe had known snow in April that favored the underdog Piedmont High School track team, slow runners accustomed to rough terrain, and seen a powerhouse Seton Hall Prep quarterback derailed by the loss of a lucky sweatband. Like any serious sports fan, he appreciated the artistry of a well-executed play, but the athlete in him reveled in the joy of amateur sports, games played by kids who still knew how to play.
Still dressed in his robe, Joe walked to the living room and pulled back the curtains.
“What the hell is that?” he asked Daisy, who ran to the front door and barked at him.
“I’m guessing that you made your mess on the sunporch,” he said to the dog. “And that you’re looking for a meal.”
Joe patted the dog and looked out the window again. “What kind of project is that kid doing now?” he asked the dog, looking across the street at Rohit, now leaning on the side of the house staring into a wheelbarrow. He remembered science projects of past years and thought about the four rolls of toilet paper that Rohit had borrowed last night. Could this big pile of dirt and uneven rectangle be a school assignment? From what Joe could see, Rohit and another kid who looked just like him were spending a morning that most kids had school throwing yard equipment and dirt around the property. Now he watched as they began to measure the bare patch of earth.
“That’s stupid,” he heard Rohit shout.
“No, it’s metric,” replied the other boy, just as loudly.
“Metric is lame. No one uses it. How should I know how long a meter is?” Rohit threw a rake at the wheelbarrow.
Joe opened the door to reprimand Rohit or, more truthfully, to better listen to the conflict.
“Hey,” he called to Rohit across the street. “What’s all this?”
The boy looked embarrassed. “It’s a cricket pitch. Or it’s going to be.” After a long pause, he continued. “This is my cousin, Jairaj.” He turned to the other boy. “That’s Mr. Atkinson.
Jairaj nearly bounded across the street in his enthusiasm. “Call me Jay,” he said. “I understand that we have you to thank for the superior quality loo rolls that my aunt provided.”
Joe shook the boy’s hand. “Your cousin’s trying to brain himself with that hoe, it looks like,” he said, nodding in Rohit’s direction.
“He may prefer not to discuss lavatory issues,” said the boy in a whisper that carried across the street. “Do you play cricket?”
Joe nodded. “Let me get dressed and come over there to see what you’re doing.” He closed the door on Jay’s enthusiasm and walked up to his bedroom. He picked up yesterday’s jeans from the floor, pulled the belt from his straps and heard the thud of his Blackberry hit the carpeted floor.
When he picked it up, Joe turned it on to hear a series of noises, ping, ping, ping. He looked at the email log. You have a message from Match.com read a list of emails. He scrolled down further to see more of the same.
“Holy…” he said aloud, sitting on the edge of his bed in surprise. 172 messages. He clicked on the first, then another and another. He found messages from 172 women, women who collected Lucille Ball stamps and stock options; who played tennis and poker; who worked in finance and family farms. The emails were a virtual catalog of women, a collection of talent and beauty and, above all, thought Joe, words. He wondered how many words had been spilled in response to his advertisement, and he wished briefly that he had seen Cole’s final draft.
He heard the sound of raised voices again from the street. For an instant the pull of women competed with a sport. Joe pulled on his jeans and a t-shirt and switched off the Blackberry.
“Daisy, we’re going out, across the street,” he called, as he and the dog left the house, pulling the door closed behind them.
Joe had known snow in April that favored the underdog Piedmont High School track team, slow runners accustomed to rough terrain, and seen a powerhouse Seton Hall Prep quarterback derailed by the loss of a lucky sweatband. Like any serious sports fan, he appreciated the artistry of a well-executed play, but the athlete in him reveled in the joy of amateur sports, games played by kids who still knew how to play.
Still dressed in his robe, Joe walked to the living room and pulled back the curtains.
“What the hell is that?” he asked Daisy, who ran to the front door and barked at him.
“I’m guessing that you made your mess on the sunporch,” he said to the dog. “And that you’re looking for a meal.”
Joe patted the dog and looked out the window again. “What kind of project is that kid doing now?” he asked the dog, looking across the street at Rohit, now leaning on the side of the house staring into a wheelbarrow. He remembered science projects of past years and thought about the four rolls of toilet paper that Rohit had borrowed last night. Could this big pile of dirt and uneven rectangle be a school assignment? From what Joe could see, Rohit and another kid who looked just like him were spending a morning that most kids had school throwing yard equipment and dirt around the property. Now he watched as they began to measure the bare patch of earth.
“That’s stupid,” he heard Rohit shout.
“No, it’s metric,” replied the other boy, just as loudly.
“Metric is lame. No one uses it. How should I know how long a meter is?” Rohit threw a rake at the wheelbarrow.
Joe opened the door to reprimand Rohit or, more truthfully, to better listen to the conflict.
“Hey,” he called to Rohit across the street. “What’s all this?”
The boy looked embarrassed. “It’s a cricket pitch. Or it’s going to be.” After a long pause, he continued. “This is my cousin, Jairaj.” He turned to the other boy. “That’s Mr. Atkinson.
Jairaj nearly bounded across the street in his enthusiasm. “Call me Jay,” he said. “I understand that we have you to thank for the superior quality loo rolls that my aunt provided.”
Joe shook the boy’s hand. “Your cousin’s trying to brain himself with that hoe, it looks like,” he said, nodding in Rohit’s direction.
“He may prefer not to discuss lavatory issues,” said the boy in a whisper that carried across the street. “Do you play cricket?”
Joe nodded. “Let me get dressed and come over there to see what you’re doing.” He closed the door on Jay’s enthusiasm and walked up to his bedroom. He picked up yesterday’s jeans from the floor, pulled the belt from his straps and heard the thud of his Blackberry hit the carpeted floor.
When he picked it up, Joe turned it on to hear a series of noises, ping, ping, ping. He looked at the email log. You have a message from Match.com read a list of emails. He scrolled down further to see more of the same.
“Holy…” he said aloud, sitting on the edge of his bed in surprise. 172 messages. He clicked on the first, then another and another. He found messages from 172 women, women who collected Lucille Ball stamps and stock options; who played tennis and poker; who worked in finance and family farms. The emails were a virtual catalog of women, a collection of talent and beauty and, above all, thought Joe, words. He wondered how many words had been spilled in response to his advertisement, and he wished briefly that he had seen Cole’s final draft.
He heard the sound of raised voices again from the street. For an instant the pull of women competed with a sport. Joe pulled on his jeans and a t-shirt and switched off the Blackberry.
“Daisy, we’re going out, across the street,” he called, as he and the dog left the house, pulling the door closed behind them.
Chapter 9: Guess who's coming to breakfast!
In the morning, after his grandparents had hugged him and measured him against his father’s height and rese
In the morning, after his grandparents had hugged him and measured him against his father’s height and resemblance to his mother, Rohit heard the sound of a bathroom door closing. He looked around the small kitchen and mentally checked off: Mammi, Baba, Nana, Nanima. Yet the sound of the upstairs bathroom door, its hesitation as it scraped over the wooden doorframe and made contact with the metal latch, was unmistakable.
Before he could ask the question, it was answered. His cousin Jairaj appeared in the doorway. When Rohit watched “Seinfeld” on television and watched the characters Jerry and Newman greet one another with a snarled acknowledgement, he had always been reminded of himself and Jairaj. His maternal cousin, Jairaj and Rohit shared a striking resemblance, having inherited from their mothers, who were sisters, dark straight hair that fell to their eyebrows. They were both tall and thin, though Jairaj was beginning to fill out and develop a bit more poise. He stood now framed by the doorway waiting to be recognized and greeted.
“Hey,” said Rohit, raising a hand in greeting. “How’s it going?”
Jairaj strode across the kitchen to embrace his cousin in what felt to Rohit like an hour-long hug. He had time enough to see his grandparents beaming at their two grandsons, his grandmother dabbing at her eyes with – could this get worse? – pink toilet paper.
“Jairaj is here to visit,” said his mother. “He’ll be here for the year, so he came this summer to get used to us, to become adjusted to the school.”
Rohit stepped away from his cousin and studied him. Dressed in a red striped robe with his straight hair and loafers, Jairaj looked like a character from Brideshead Revisited. Jairaj returned the stare, reminding Rohit that he had slept in yesterday’s shirt and gym shorts from a pile he kept under his bed. His feet were bare and he needed a shower. By contrast, Jairaj looked shiny, almost glossy, as their grandmother handed him a glass of orange juice.
“What do you mean, to the school?” Rohit asked.
“Jairaj will attend Columba High School next year,” replied his mother. “And he will live here like a brother to you. You have always wanted a brother,” she said. “He has always wanted a brother,” she repeated in Hindi to her parents.
“Their English is better than mine,” snapped Rohit. “Why are you speaking in Hindi?”
“Your Hindi could use some work,” said his father. “Jairaj will help you with your language skills.”
The group of adults surrounding Rohit nodded.
“I’ll help you with anything,” said Arjuna, waving his arms. “English, Higher Maths, Computer Science, French, Hindi, even History.”
“Yes, that’s so,” answered Rohit’s mother. “Rohit has a project due in Ancient History. You can assist and perhaps you can help make the presentation.” She turned to Rohit. “Arjuna writes plays, you know.”
It was only the presence of his grandparents that kept Rohit from retorting, but his mother read his face.
“I know how happy you must be that your cousin is here this year,” she said in a voice that told Rohit to manufacture some pleasure.
“Yeah, that’s true,” he said. “So, Jairaj, you got a sport?”
“I watch WWF,” answered Jairaj. “And I am on the first team, all-school cricket. Do you have cricket teams around here?”
I actually know the answer to this, thought Rohit, and that’s scary. “There’s a club at my school,” he mumbled. “And there’s women’s cricket in Orange, the town near here. But I don’t think you can get cricket stuff here, like those helmets.”
Jairaj bounced up and down while Rohit’s mother clapped. “This is part of the surprise,” she said. “I brought everything you will need to play cricket in the front yard. It’s in the garage, in the yellow suitcase.”
Rohit felt his stomach sink. “I’m hungry, I think,” he said. “Maybe later, okay?”
“No problem,” said Arjuna. “I have rested well, so I’ll set up the pitch.”
Rohit was saved from replying by the sound of a siren passing close to the house. His grandfather, who couldn’t resist a gadget or a machine, especially one that made noise, rushed to the front door, followed closely by his grandmother.
Jairaj went downstairs to gather the cricket equipment followed closely by Rohit’s mother.
Rohit stared at his father. “Some surprise,” he muttered. “Hey, Baba, don’t tell her about changing schools yet. I changed my mind.
But his father was already following his in-laws to see the second fire engine charge down Orange Heights Avenue. From downstairs, Rohit heard Jairaj explaining cricket scoring to his mother. Sighing extravagantly, he gave up on breakfast and went back to his room, slamming the door behind him.
In the morning, after his grandparents had hugged him and measured him against his father’s height and resemblance to his mother, Rohit heard the sound of a bathroom door closing. He looked around the small kitchen and mentally checked off: Mammi, Baba, Nana, Nanima. Yet the sound of the upstairs bathroom door, its hesitation as it scraped over the wooden doorframe and made contact with the metal latch, was unmistakable.
Before he could ask the question, it was answered. His cousin Jairaj appeared in the doorway. When Rohit watched “Seinfeld” on television and watched the characters Jerry and Newman greet one another with a snarled acknowledgement, he had always been reminded of himself and Jairaj. His maternal cousin, Jairaj and Rohit shared a striking resemblance, having inherited from their mothers, who were sisters, dark straight hair that fell to their eyebrows. They were both tall and thin, though Jairaj was beginning to fill out and develop a bit more poise. He stood now framed by the doorway waiting to be recognized and greeted.
“Hey,” said Rohit, raising a hand in greeting. “How’s it going?”
Jairaj strode across the kitchen to embrace his cousin in what felt to Rohit like an hour-long hug. He had time enough to see his grandparents beaming at their two grandsons, his grandmother dabbing at her eyes with – could this get worse? – pink toilet paper.
“Jairaj is here to visit,” said his mother. “He’ll be here for the year, so he came this summer to get used to us, to become adjusted to the school.”
Rohit stepped away from his cousin and studied him. Dressed in a red striped robe with his straight hair and loafers, Jairaj looked like a character from Brideshead Revisited. Jairaj returned the stare, reminding Rohit that he had slept in yesterday’s shirt and gym shorts from a pile he kept under his bed. His feet were bare and he needed a shower. By contrast, Jairaj looked shiny, almost glossy, as their grandmother handed him a glass of orange juice.
“What do you mean, to the school?” Rohit asked.
“Jairaj will attend Columba High School next year,” replied his mother. “And he will live here like a brother to you. You have always wanted a brother,” she said. “He has always wanted a brother,” she repeated in Hindi to her parents.
“Their English is better than mine,” snapped Rohit. “Why are you speaking in Hindi?”
“Your Hindi could use some work,” said his father. “Jairaj will help you with your language skills.”
The group of adults surrounding Rohit nodded.
“I’ll help you with anything,” said Arjuna, waving his arms. “English, Higher Maths, Computer Science, French, Hindi, even History.”
“Yes, that’s so,” answered Rohit’s mother. “Rohit has a project due in Ancient History. You can assist and perhaps you can help make the presentation.” She turned to Rohit. “Arjuna writes plays, you know.”
It was only the presence of his grandparents that kept Rohit from retorting, but his mother read his face.
“I know how happy you must be that your cousin is here this year,” she said in a voice that told Rohit to manufacture some pleasure.
“Yeah, that’s true,” he said. “So, Jairaj, you got a sport?”
“I watch WWF,” answered Jairaj. “And I am on the first team, all-school cricket. Do you have cricket teams around here?”
I actually know the answer to this, thought Rohit, and that’s scary. “There’s a club at my school,” he mumbled. “And there’s women’s cricket in Orange, the town near here. But I don’t think you can get cricket stuff here, like those helmets.”
Jairaj bounced up and down while Rohit’s mother clapped. “This is part of the surprise,” she said. “I brought everything you will need to play cricket in the front yard. It’s in the garage, in the yellow suitcase.”
Rohit felt his stomach sink. “I’m hungry, I think,” he said. “Maybe later, okay?”
“No problem,” said Arjuna. “I have rested well, so I’ll set up the pitch.”
Rohit was saved from replying by the sound of a siren passing close to the house. His grandfather, who couldn’t resist a gadget or a machine, especially one that made noise, rushed to the front door, followed closely by his grandmother.
Jairaj went downstairs to gather the cricket equipment followed closely by Rohit’s mother.
Rohit stared at his father. “Some surprise,” he muttered. “Hey, Baba, don’t tell her about changing schools yet. I changed my mind.
But his father was already following his in-laws to see the second fire engine charge down Orange Heights Avenue. From downstairs, Rohit heard Jairaj explaining cricket scoring to his mother. Sighing extravagantly, he gave up on breakfast and went back to his room, slamming the door behind him.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)