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.

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!

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.



haeshkdsa

Good Neighbors; 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.

A Distant, Dirty Place

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. 

Surya's studio, photos on the wall

Photos of Surya's hometown. She has them on the wall of her studio next to the drawings.








Thanks to...
Bombay Diaries: Bandra Fort, Band Stand - a photo tour

Coffee? Tea? Jairaj?

 

Sorry about the delay; I had no working A key on the computer.  It forced me to use complex locutions to spell words without the letter (as in that sentence), but it's not a great way to tell a story.

 

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 hear."

 

"To bug me," muttered Rohit, and his mother pretended not to hear him.

 

"Jairaj has a few tendencies that make 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

OrangeHotCouponMama (aka Eileen) exchanges coupons online.

OrangeHotCouponMama (aka Eileen) exchanges coupons online. She puts the money into a special account that she breaks into twice a year, once for Dylan's birthday and once to go down the shore in August.

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.

Author's note: Internet Searches Turn Up Gold

So I forgot the web address of this blog and I tried to google it. What a surprise to find it linked to a site that specialized in concrete and masonry. The first chapter begins with a look at Naomi's retaining wall, which will soon require a few masons to solve its shifting problem. Perhaps she can consult the website and hire those folks. The internet is a funny thing...

This is a picture of Daisy, the dog

This is a picture of Daisy as a puppy and now, as a full-grown dog.

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.

Caroline has Felicity and Nellie (which I have myself!)

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.

Chapter 10: Zoned for Cricket?

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 Caroline’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.

Caroline 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.”

Caroline was in the afternoon session of kindergarten at Marshall School, and lived just far enough away to take a bus. Getting Caroline to the bus stop was motivation for the morning’s obligations, whether to hurry through the grocery store or to eat vegetables at lunch. Caroline 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 Caroline 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 Caroline. “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, Caroline 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 Caroline. “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 Caroline.

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

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

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

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

“I am Caroline,” 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 Caroline spoke first.

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

“Time for the bus, Caroline,” 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 Caroline 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.

This is what Jairaj and Rohit are creating. They removed rocks and big branches from the area first. Jairaj brought the equipment with him in one of the 14 suitcases.

Rohit's School Uniform

This is the "summer" uniform, worn untilSeptember 15th and from May 15th on.


Winter means a button-down shirt and tie.
This kid actually likes to dress up, so they put him on the front cover of the application. Rohit calls him a "creeper."

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, instantly 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: The TP Episode

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

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.
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.