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
Showing posts with label South Orange. Show all posts
Showing posts with label South Orange. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Thursday, June 4, 2009
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.
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.
“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.
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