Chapter 9: There is always a sticky wicket

From next door, Constance heard the slam – bang! – and scrape of the Amin family’s front door opening and closing. She stood in the front hallway, ready to put away Emma’s shoes in the hall closet, and listened.

“Where do you keep the sledgehammer?” she heard in accented English, precise, clipped vowels and cadence, not yet influenced by slurred American speech.

‘Where do you keep the sledgehammer?” she repeated aloud, wondering if her accent – so strong when she arrived from Tobago – had altered in New Jersey.

Emma appeared from where she was hiding behind an oak paneled door that led to the living room. “What kind of hammer?”

“Nothing, baby,” answered Constance. “Let’s hurry your lunch along and then get you to the bus stop.”

Emma was in the afternoon session of kindergarten at Marshall School, and lived just far enough away to take a bus. Getting Emma to the bus stop was motivation for the morning’s obligations, whether to hurry through the grocery store or to eat vegetables at lunch. Emma darted to the kitchen and slid into her accustomed seat at the table. She waved her hands at Constance to show that they were clean and waited for her meal.

As Emma chattered through her chicken nuggets and steamed carrots, recounting the adventures of Felicity and Nellie, her favorite American Girl dolls, in the playroom, Constance heard thuds and the scrape of metal from outside. The sounds seemed closer now, as if they were outside the kitchen window.

“Can I just tell at show and tell?” asked Emma. “I want to tell them that two fire trucks came to my house almost today.”

“Yes,” said Constance after some thought. “I am certain that you can simply tell and not show.”

As the child and her nanny left the house for the corner bus stop, Emma explaining in great detail what the class would want to know about the fire engines, they stopped to stare at the narrow patch of grass between their yard and the Amins’ yard.

In just the hours since the fire engine came and left, a building project was underway. Grass had been removed, and a layer of dirt in the shape of a rectangle was laid bare.

“Ooh,” said Emma. “What is it? Is it for our house?”

Rohit, whom Constance recognized as the kid next door, stood leaning on a rake, looking sullen. His face, hands and shirt were covered in dirt, and bits of grass stuck out of his hair. He gestured at another boy. Though he resembled Rohit, this boy was, well, the only word Constance could think of to describe him was “dapper.” Dressed in a red shirt and khaki shorts, wearing shiny loafers and work gloves, he beamed at Constance and Emma.

He bounded towards them, right hand outstretched. “Hello,” he said. “Call me Jay. My cousin and I are building a cricket pitch.”

Emma smiled back, dazzled by the new neighbor. “I like crickets,” she said finally. “And grasshoppers.”

Jay exchanged a smiled with Constance over Emma’s head.

“Tell the boy your name,” Constance prodded her charge.

“I am Emma,” said the girl. “And this is Constance. We already know Rohit. Is this a game?”

“Yes,” Jay replied at the same instant that Rohit answered, “No.”

“It is the king of sports,” continued Jay with a reproving glance at this cousin. “I will show you how to keep score. It’s not a game for girls.”

Constance opened her mouth to protest; she knew from her friend Marva that a women’s league was starting in Orange on Sundays, but Emma spoke first.

“Are those lines supposed to be straight?” she asked, pointing at the rectangle.

“Time for the bus, Emma,” said Constance, giving the girl’s hand a squeeze. “We will see the boys later.”

Constance had no doubts on that score; the cricket pitch was far from finished, and Rohit was leaning on that shovel as if he couldn’t walk without it.

“I don’t think Mommy will like that,” said Emma in a whisper. “It’s too close to our house.”

“Hmmm,” replied Constance, who agreed. She had also wondered, when she saw the project, exactly where the property line between their house and Rohit’s house was, and how close one could build a cricket pitch. She had no doubt that the Judge would have some thoughts on this project, and she would find some ruling in the law – there is always something – that argued against a cricket pitch in the side yard of house in a neighborhood zoned for one-family residential use. There is always something, thought Constance. There is always a sticky wicket.

Chapter 8: Lost and Found

Naomi roused herself quickly, especially once she realized that she was sitting on a plastic lawn chair in front of a neighbor’s house with a small child staring at her.
“Is that lady dead?” she heard the little girl ask her nanny.

“Hush,” said the nanny. “See, her eyes are opening.”

The girl looked doubtful and, Naomi thought, a touch disappointed, as she was hurried away by her nanny.

“Here’s water for you,” said another neighbor briskly. “Start with that and we’ll get some food into you in a minute or two.”

“I’m fine,” said Naomi, rising slightly and trying to wave away the water. A wave of sweat and nausea threatened to overtake her and she sank back into her chair. “This happens to me sometimes.”

The neighbor nodded and grasped Naomi’s wrist. She felt for a pulse and stared at her watch.

“You see, we just moved here and then the fire trucks came. I quit my job recently; it was fundraising for a non-profit, so I didn’t make a lot of money, and I didn’t know if I could handle the commute,” gabbled Naomi. “The recession hit many non-profits hard, no surprise, and I worked for the Juvenile Foundation. We support research for kid diseases— How’s my pulse?”

“It’s okay,” said the neighbor. “Maybe a little high. My name is Maureen Caprio. I’m a nurse up the hill there at the hospital, so you’re lucky you fainted on my lawn.” Maureen smiled at Naomi.

Naomi saw that most of the neighbors had retreated to their porches, where they had a good view of the smoking oven, the fire trucks, and her.

“Do you think I’m sick? Is something wrong with me?” asked Naomi in a rush. “I, I, I,” she stammered. “This happens a lot, where I sweat and get sick and see black spots in front of my eyes. My heart pounds and I fidget. But then it’s over.”

“I’m not a doctor,” said Maureen. “But it sounds like a panic attack. Is that possible?’
Naomi straightened her spine as she had been coached to do in yoga. “Certainly not. I don’t panic. In fact, I’m known for rolling with the punches, no matter what comes along.” She forced herself to laugh, throwing back her head extravagantly.

“Okay, then,” replied Maureen. “Here’s a sandwich and some tea. My mother is bringing it out now.”

Naomi and Maureen watched the older woman climb down the front steps slowly, carrying a paper plate and a mug. She handed both to Naomi.

“Ma, this is our neighbor…” Maureen paused, at a loss, looking at Naomi.

“Naomi. My name is Naomi Nootbahr Roth,” she answered quickly.

“And this is my mother, Ann Geary,” said Maureen. “Ma, Naomi’s fine. She just felt a little woozy for a minute.

The older woman smiled broadly at Naomi. “May all your troubles be little ones,” she said, reaching out to pat Naomi’s abdomen.

“Oh, that’s not it,” said Naomi in embarrassed confusion. “We’re not ready for that, if ever. No, anything but that.”

As the two women looked at Naomi with the same expression of puzzlement on their faces, the Fire Captain approached.

“You can go back in now,” she told Naomi. The smoke is out of the kitchen and we found out what the problem was.” The Captain unfolded a newspaper headlined “South Orange Bulletin Reports on Hoboken Blizzard,” dated 1941. Inside the newspaper was a small leather-bound book labeled “accounts” and a sheaf of airmail letters, their envelopes still a faded blue.

Naomi reached for the bundle, but Ann’s hand grabbed it first. “So that’s where all this went,” she said. “I have been looking for them.”

This time, the puzzled expression was shared by Naomi, Maureen and the firefighter, as Ann turned the little book to page one and began to read aloud.

Naomi's 911 Call

Dispatch Operator: 911, where's your emergency?

Caller: (panting) It’s a kitchen fire in my new house,...I forget how to get here. I don’t know the number, Orange Heights Avenue...I just got here and it burned itself up.

Dispatch Operator: Is anyone in the house? Are you safe?

Caller: (long pause) I’m fine, thanks. I’ll go wait for the fire truck in front of my house.

Dispatch Operator: I'm sending help now. Stay away from the building and stay on the line until someone comes. Can you hold on for a minute?

Dispatch Operator (to fire station): We have a report of a kitchen fire in progress on Orange Heights Avenue. No one's in the house.

Fire Station Operator: We're on the way.

Chapter 7: Is that a siren?

Naomi rose from bed when the phone rang at ten o’clock. She had woken earlier to drop Ben off at the train station; he wearing a suit and rushing, she in pajamas and bleary with sleep, and she returned to bed while she waited for coffee to brew. Now, missing the call, she stumbled down to the kitchen and smelled the burned brew. She turned off the coffee maker and studied the room. The kitchen was large, even filled with packed boxes of their belongings, and it seemed bright and airy on a spring morning. But Naomi knew that May’s breezes would become December drafts in the big, unheated room. With windows on two sides, a stairway that led to the second floor, and a counter bisecting the room, there were obstacles to Naomi’s vision of the perfect kitchen. Considering the refrigerator parked along the only wall with a working outlet, Naomi pulled from a box the binder where she stored “wish pictures,” photos torn from magazines that showed the house she wanted. She posted pictures of a few perfect kitchens on the oven door beside her, using scraps of packing tape torn from a half-opened box. Naomi’s binder was a secret to most people who knew her, though few would have been surprised to learn of it. Since she was 13 years old, Naomi kept a scrapbook of the life she wished to lead. The scrapbook began as a school project, when Mrs. Rubin asked the class to cut out pictures of household items and describe them using the adjectives of first-year French. Sitting cross-legged on the bed in her side of the bedroom she shared with her sister Eliza, Naomi found another life in the pages of the L. L. Bean catalog and advertisements from The New Yorker. She cut and taped photos of jewelry and appliances into the scrapbook labeled “Mimi Nootbaar” in glitter glue, but what she preferred were pictures of well-dressed adults laughing and talking. Sometimes the adults were pictured on a balcony with a sparkling skyline in the background, but more often they were surrounded by lush greenery and lavish homes. These ads for wine and condo developments – and occasionally for the whole of Dubai – didn’t influence her few purchases, but they gave her an aspiration. Naomi continued to cut and paste through college, replacing one filled scrapbook with another. When she graduated, she learned – thanks to the “shelter” magazines that she read avidly – that keeping a notebook of decorating ideas was a tip straight from the pros; Martha Stewart had done so for decades. Naomi replaced the scrapbook with a sturdy binder and began collecting photos again, now filling in details of granite prices and appliance suppliers. “Finally,” she murmured. “The photos come out of the book.” Parking the binder on a counter next to the oven, Naomi opened the double-door refrigerator. Naomi found a loaf of bread behind a bottle of wine. Taking four slices from the loaf, she placed them on the rack in the oven to toast. She rinsed out the coffee pot, and refilled it with fresh water. Carefully measuring coffee into a filter, she turned the machine on. Satisfied, she pushed her red hair out of her eyes and began to make a list on a blank page in the binder. “Room 1: Kitchen,” she wrote. “To Do:” She walked to the windows and peered out at the back yard. “Area 2,” Naomi wrote. “Back Yard. To Do:” The garage, which even to Naomi’s unpracticed eye seemed to tilt slightly to the left, was “Area 3” on the list. “It’s not really sagging, though, is it?” she said aloud. “That house inspector was just a pessimist.” In barefeet and carrying her binder, Naomi stepped outside to study the garage. She walked carefully through the long grass, looking for the stone path that the realtor had assured her was there. When she reached the garage, she leaned down, her pajamas gaping in front and reminding her that it was time to shower and get dressed, and studied the foundation. “But what should I see?” asked Naomi aloud. “God, what an annoying noise. I hope that’s not a regular feature of the neighborhood,” she said, as she became aware of a penetrating squeal behind her. She turned to see smoke wafting out of the kitchen door. The smoke was still a thin grey curtain through which she could see, so Naomi rushed into the room to find the oven door spewing heavy black clouds of smoke that threatened to choke her. The smoke detector that the house inspector had insisted be replaced was squealing above her head. Grabbing her cell phone from the counter, she called 911. “It’s a kitchen fire in my new house,” she told the dispatcher. “I forget how to get here. I don’t know the number, Orange Heights Avenue,” she said in confusion. “I just got here and it burned itself up.” “Is anyone in the house? Are you safe?” asked the voice on the other end of the phone. “I’m fine, thanks,” said Naomi, calmer. “I’ll go wait for the fire truck in front of my house.” As she walked around the side of the house, Naomi wondered if she had ever strung those words together before: “I’ll go wait for the fire truck in front of my house.” The sound of the sirens reached her, drowning the blare of the smoke detectors, and growing louder and closer by the second. By the time the first truck reached Orange Heights Avenue, Naomi’s neighbors were opening their front doors. When the second truck pulled up in front of Naomi’s house, blocking the Atkinsons’ driveway, she saw that a small crowd had gathered in front of the white Colonial with red shutters. “Is anyone in the house?” asked the first firefighter. When Naomi shook her head, the firefighter gestured to the crew to follow him into the house. As she stood on the sidewalk, Naomi gave a tiny wave to the small girl dressed in pink with pigtails and a stuffed bunny who was standing in front of her house. The girl smiled and looked up at her nanny, a tall young woman with beads in her hair who was talking to the mailman. An older woman in a sari walked slowly with an older man wearing sandals towards the fire truck, while a tall middle-aged man dressed a tie and jacket emerged from the gray split-level talking into a cell phone. The first crew of firefighters had entered the house and the Captain now approached Naomi. “You’re the owner?” she asked. Naomi nodded. “The house is okay. Looks like the insulation between the wall and the oven failed at the same time the appliance overheated. We’re taking the oven out now,” explained the Captain. Naomi nodded mutely and watched a pair of masked and gloved firefighters carrying her smoking stove to the street. There it sat and smoldered until the Captain sprayed a white substance on it that covered and cooled it. “You have a lot of smoke in there, so we set up fans, but no permanent damage,” reported the Captain. Naomi nodded again, staring at the stove. She felt a familiar sinking feeling in her stomach and a sudden coldness in her hands and feet. She knew what to do and tried hard to move her arms and legs, but the pounding of her heart rooted her to the sidewalk. The roaring in her head sounded like an ocean wave and she wavered. Before she hit the ground, Naomi felt a pair of arms around her waist. She turned to face the gloved and masked firefighter. Naomi shrieked -- I’m not even dressed, she thought in an instant -- and fainted, her knees collapsing on the way down to the sidewalk.

Chapter 6: TP

Rohit caught the 6:00 bus home from school on Tuesday. He could have taken the 3:30 bus, but he was nervous about seeing his mother before she had time to digest the news that he wouldn’t return to Horton Academy in the fall. He did half-hearted research on his Ancient World project from the time classes ended at 3:15 until the bus left campus. The “late bus” didn’t take a direct route to Orange Heights, but meandered through Short Hills and Livingston before dropping off Rohit and traveling onto Newark. Rohit had stayed on the bus before, when he was visiting his friend Jono, who lived in Newark, just a block from where the first cornerstone of the school was placed two hundred years earlier. That time, Rohit and Jono had stared out the bus windows first at the enormous houses and few people and then, as the bus reached its last stop, at buildings wedged close together teeming with people.

“I like places with a lot of people around like this,” he told his father, when Neil picked him up from Jono’s house. “It’s kind of weird when you don’t see any people. Like near school,”
“That’s because you’re Indian,” his father said with satisfaction, a comment that Rohit was certain his father had made on every possible occasion with the sole aim of driving Rohit crazy.
“What does that even mean?” he had asked his father that time, staring at Neil across the front seats of the Prius. “I never know what that means when you say it.”

“You’ve been to Mumbai and Juhu Beach. You know how it is there,” said his father, paying attention to traffic rather than to Rohit’s outrage.

“I don’t know how India is. All I ever see there are aunts,” muttered Rohit, in a voice so low his father could choose not to hear him.

Rohit remembered this conversation with embarrassment, as he stepped off the bus at his corner. He saw that his father’s car was parked in the driveway, a certain sign that he was home and that the garage was full of luggage. Eager to see his mother, Rohit ran along the block, pausing only to wave at the kid next door. Dylan was dressed in a tae kwon do uniform, counting the cement squares that made up the Belgian block curb in front of his house.

“Your mother is home,” Dylan said when he reached his driveway. “She has another one like her and 14 suitcases. One of them is this big.” Dylan raised his hand above his head. “I saw 28 zippers on 14 suitcases, but some had one and others had three.”

“Cool,” said Rohit. “Let me catch you later, okay? I want to see my mom.”

And as he walked into the house through the garage, Rohit realized how much he truly did want to see his mother. Her trips to India, though infrequent and well-planned, changed the household. She left the freezer full of food and even the garbage cans had extra liners -- one for each day of her absence -- stored underneath the current bag, but the house smelled different. Once when he visited an aunt in Malabar Hill, Rohit knocked a glass jar from a table. The white cream inside spilled and filled the air with its scent.

“That smells like my mother,” he had said aloud in surprise.

“Of course,” said his aunt Megha. “That’s Nivea, the kind we buy in Europe, not in America.”
Rohit thought about his mother as he charged up the eight steps to the first floor.
“Ssh,” his father greeted him, tiptoeing into the living room from the kitchen. “They are all asleep. Long flight.”

Before Rohit could ask his father what he meant by “all” – his two grandparents would correctly be described as both, and his father spoke with great precision – his mother, Sarita, embraced him.

“You’re taller, Rohit. And your hair is long,” she said tearfully. Rohit hugged her back and then hugged her again. He smelled Nivea and the odd smell that attached to clothes worn on a long plane ride.

“You are too thin,” she scolded him. “Neil, did this boy eat while I was gone? There’s nothing in the freezer,” she continued, darting to open the top and bottom sections of the refrigerator. She dashed down the half flight of stairs to the area they called the “pantry,” where shelves and a large chest freezer held more food.

Rohit grinned at his mother and at his father. He was used to her darting and charging around after she returned from long trips, touching items in each room of the house as if the reestablish her claim on them. For the moment, he didn’t care where he went to school next year; he was simply happy to have his family at home.

Returning to the kitchen, his mother looked horrified. “Look,” she ordered her son and husband. They gazed at the cardboard tube in her hand. “This was the last of the loo rolls. We don’t have another square of toilet paper in the house.”

Rohit and his father exchanged a look, neither sure how to respond.

“We have tissues, Surya, many boxes of them. And I can assure you that they work equally well for the purpose,” said his father.

“No,” said Rohit’s mother, shaking her head from side to side. “That won’t do for guests. They have traveled a long way to visit us and I am certain that they expect toilet paper.”

Rohit was less certain; toilet paper wasn’t a universal need, as he knew from his own experiences traveling. “We have napkins, too,” he reminded his mother. “And there are paper towels on the counter right behind you.”

“Those will clog the pipes,” said his father reprovingly. “We must never flush those. They are too thick.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Rohit. “I guess I forgot that these last few days.”

His mother crossed the room and dialed a phone number from memory. She murmured into the phone for a moment before she hung up.

“The problem is solved for this evening,” she announced. “Rohit will run across the street and borrow toilet paper from the Atkinsons. Cole will be waiting to hand it you, so go now, quickly, Rohit, before someone wakes up and needs to use the lavatory.”

Rohit felt as if his feet and hands had turned to jelly. Walk across the street holding toilet paper? Ask Cole Atkinson, a junior and cool, for toilet paper? Let the neighbors know that they ran out of – or even admit to using – toilet paper? He couldn’t find the words to express his horror, but his mother didn’t wait. She nudged him towards the front door. “Rush, rush,” she said, pushing him a little harder towards the street.

“Is it dark out?” he asked.

“A big boy like you, going across the street,” she scolded. “It’s not dark.”

“I want it to be dark,” he muttered. “Do you have a bag?”

“Go now,” she said, closing the door behind him.

Rohit had no choice now but to cross the street and ring the Atkinsons’ doorbell. After a long moment, Cole answered, greeting him through the screen door. To Rohit, Cole looked even taller than usual. Rohit was suddenly aware that he was still wearing his school uniform, which could be described as dorky on a good day.

“Hi,” said Rohit. “Um, my mother called your dad.”

“Dad?” called Cole back into the house. His father’s reply was garbled, and Cole stepped away from the screen door to better hear him.

“Here,” said Cole, looking puzzled when his father handed him four rolls of toilet paper, each individually wrapped.

Rohit opened the screen door and tried to grab all four at once. Inevitably, they fell and one rolled into the bushes beside the door. Cole helped him pick up the three rolls on the porch and then watched Rohit dive into the bushes for the fourth. As Rohit fumbled with the rolls once again, Cole stacked them in his arms.

They’re not all for me, Rohit wanted to say. I saw your team beat my school’s team this year. You play lacrosse really well. I don’t usually borrow toilet paper from people. But he was too embarrassed to say anything but a muttered “Thank you.”

Cole looked as if he might laugh. “Use it in good health,” he said instead, and watched Rohit walk back across the streets arms full of Scott toilet paper, the double rolls of 1000 two-ply sheets, in powder room pink.

Chapter 5: The Night is Young

In 217 Orange Heights Avenue, every light in the house was shining, or so it seemed to Joe Atkinson as he paced from room to room, circling back to his computer only when he had visited every other room on the first floor. The blinking cursor of his computer seemed to reproach him as he stood in front of the monitor willing words to come. Joe sat and typed, speaking aloud as he wrote. “Single African-American Male,” he muttered. “No, scratch that. Widowed African-American man.” Joe glanced up at a photo above his desk, a picture of himself, his wife Melanie, and Cole as an infant in front of the Sears Tower in Chicago. The photo, taken some 15 years ago, was of a past life, or so it felt to Joe. Since Melanie died of breast cancer in 1997, he and Cole had moved to Orange Heights, where he was raised, to be closer to family. Joe had changed jobs, leaving the Chicago Tribune for sportswriting at the Newark Star-Ledger. Now, nudged by Cole, he was hoping to make another change, from widowed and single to a man with an occasional Saturday night date. Cole walked into the room followed by Daisy, their pound dog. He hung up her leash and kicked off his sneakers. “How was your run?” asked Joe, shielding the computer monitor with his body. Cole was undeterred and leaned over his father’s shoulder. “Match.com, huh?” He scrolled down the screen. “This is all you have so far? Widowed African-American man. Did you know that you’re in the Men Seeking Men category?” Joe shook his head. “I’m not done yet with that ad. It’s a work in progress.” Cole leaned down to reach the keyboard. “You’re a writer, Dad. Don’t sweat it, just put who you are. Here, move over and let me help.” While his son typed, hunt-and-peck with his index fingers, Joe watched him and wondered when and how Cole had developed a confidence with women that he lacked. For the past year, Cole had been nagging him to meet women, warning that “I’ll be at college pretty soon and I don’t want to think of you heating up a Hot Pocket on your Saturday nights and forgetting to walk Daisy.” Joe was unconvinced until Valentine’s Day and the Umojaa Club fundraiser at the high school. Now a junior, Cole was Club President and chief fundraiser. He proposed selling roses on Valentine’s Day that students could have delivered to friends during homeroom. While the school buzzed about who was sending roses, Cole thought about who was receiving. To make sure that each girl in the junior class received at least one flower, Cole sent flowers to each of them, all 112, giving himself a ten percent discount for quantity. The fundraiser was a success, and Cole ever more popular. Girls he had never spoken to, but whose names he knew from studying the yearbook, smiled at him in the hallways and friended him online. Girls introduced him to friends from other schools, and Cole had been invited to six proms. Even so, Joe wasn’t moved to change his own situation until the man running the tuxedo rental shop in town made a comment. When Joe pulled a credit card from his wallet to pay for the fourth rental, the shop owner said, “That’s okay, I don’t need the card. I’m keeping you on file as a frequent flyer.” “It’s not for me,” said Joe. “But thanks. It’s for my son. He keeps getting invited to proms.” “Chip off the old block?” asked the owner, smiling and handing Joe a receipt. “That kid must be doing something right.” “I married my prom date,” Joe said. And it was true. Melanie was the girl he met in fourth grade, kissed as a freshman, and married when they finished college. But the storeowner had a point; Cole was doing something right, getting out in the world and socializing. Joe stepped away from the computer as his son clicked “Submit.” “Done,” said Cole, grinning with satisfaction. “Watch the emails come flying in.” “I didn’t get to see it first,” protested his father. “How can I find that listing? How do I change it?” “Give me twenty-four hours with it,” said Cole with a persuasive smile. “What harm can it do?” Suddenly weary of the whole project, Joe agreed. “School and work tomorrow,” he reminded his son. “Time for news and bed.” “The evening’s young,” said Cole, and when his father opened his mouth to argue, he held up his hands. “I’m not going out. I meant homework. French project.” “Bon soir, then,” said his father, walking up the stairs towards his bedroom. “And give that dog a drink of water. I’m tired of her drinking from the toilet all night long. We need to raise our standards around here if someone plans to be dating.” But Cole was lost already to his homework, and only nodded in reply. As he passed the bathroom, Joe put up the toilet seat. He knew where that dog would be drinking at two in the morning.

6/3/09

Chapter 4: Dream Barrier

In 221 Orange Heights Avenue, Constance Campbell mentally calculated her weekend wages as she wiped the kitchen counters before bed. If she added her hourly wage to the holiday pay, she might earn enough to pay off a few niggling bills that troubled her. She shook her head. If the Doctor and the Judge would consent to pay her off the books, Constance would earn that much more money. But the Judge hoped for higher office someday, and had learned from watching Zoe Baird on C-Span; Constance’s wages were paid through a service called NannyPay.

The smell of the vinegar that Constance used on the steel sink and refrigerator filled the kitchen. She opened the sliding door that led to the deck and looked at the big house at the side of the yard. From the deck, still warm under her sandals from the heat of the day, she could see bumps in the slate roof, gaps where grackles nested every spring. Emma named them Mr. and Mrs. Bird after a book, The Best Nest, that Constance read to her each naptime since she was a baby. Six years old now, Emma recited the words aloud with her nanny, and always gripped a stuffed animal during “the exciting part,” when Mr. and Mrs. Bird were separated from one another.

The balmy springtime air hinted at rain and made Constance restless. She liked Orange Heights Avenue, loved Emma, and found the Doctor and Judge easy bosses. Still, she longed to see more of this world. When the Doctor and Judge emailed her their itineraries – this weekend, they were in Nova Scotia for a wedding – she longed to travel not with them, but instead of them. Sure, they took Constance along when Emma traveled with them, but that wasn’t the same. That was simply babysitting in an unfamiliar place, more difficult and less convenient than home, with all the challenges of finding free-range chicken nuggets and fat-free milk in a new town. What Constance wanted, as she shook her cleaning rag over the side of the deck, was freedom, a few days or weeks of unaccountability.

“I want to be off this leash,” she said aloud to the night air. Constance watched the neighbor boy from 217 walk his mongrel dog past the big house, the dog’s tags jangling in the silence. “You do too, I expect,” she said in the dog’s direction.

From an open window upstairs, Constance heard her name.

“Constance, Constance, come now,” called Emma.

Constance sighed and rushed up the stairs. Another bad dream. The child was plagued with nighttime visions of adults coming to steal her from the bed. The tall faceless figures that Caroline saw in her dreams disappeared during the daytime. Constance wondered if the dreams were hazy memories of her earliest months in China, when her birthmother entrusted the child to an orphanage. Or were the night terrors simply that? Simply the worries and fears that this sunny child didn’t seem to feel during the day.

By the time Constance reached her, Emma had fallen into a deep sleep again. Constance rearranged the line of stuffed animals in front of the door – Emma called them her “dream barrier” – and pulled the sheets tighter around her charge.

She noticed that, with new neighbors in the big house, light shone into Emma’s room and made shadows on her bed and floor. Bunny and Bear, the two sentinels at either end of the line of stuffed toys, were spotlighted. Constance pulled Emma’s sheer princess curtains tighter across the windows, and backed slowly out of the room. The kitchen cleanup waited, and it was a good moment to browse airfares online in the Doctor’s study.