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.