In 221, Constance Campbell mentally calculated her weekend wages as she wiped the kitchen counters before bed. If she added her hourly wage to the holiday pay, she might earn enough to pay off a few niggling bills that troubled her. She shook her head. If the Doctor and the Judge would consent to pay her off the books, Constance would earn that much more money. But the Judge hoped for higher office someday, and had learned from watching Zoe Baird on C-Span; Constance’s wages were paid through a service called NannyPay.
The smell of the vinegar that Constance used on the steel sink and refrigerator filled the kitchen. She opened the sliding door that led to the deck and looked at the big house at the side of the yard. From the deck, still warm under her sandals from the heat of the day, she could see bumps in the slate roof, gaps where grackles nested every spring. Caroline named them Mr. and Mrs. Bird after a book, The Best Nest, that Constance read to her each naptime since she was a baby. Six years old now, Caroline recited the words aloud with her nanny, and always gripped a stuffed animal during “the exciting part,” when Mr. and Mrs. Bird were separated from one another.
The balmy springtime air hinted at rain and made Constance restless. She liked Orange Heights Avenue, loved Caroline, and found the Doctor and Judge easy bosses. Still, she longed to see more of this world. When the Doctor and Judge emailed her their itineraries – this weekend, they were in Nova Scotia for a wedding – she longed to travel not with them, but instead of them. Sure, they took Constance along when Caroline traveled with them, but that wasn’t the same. That was simply babysitting in an unfamiliar place, more difficult and less convenient than home, with all the challenges of finding chicken nuggets and fat-free milk in a new town. What Constance wanted, as she shook her cleaning rag over the side of the deck, was freedom, a few days or weeks of unaccountability.
“I want to be off this leash,” she said aloud to the night air. Constance watched the neighbor boy from 217 walk his mongrel dog past the big house, the dog’s tags jangling in the silence. “You do too, I expect,” she said in the dog’s direction.
From an open window upstairs, Constance heard her name.
“Constance, Constance, come now,” called Caroline.
Constance sighed and rushed up the stairs. Another bad dream. The child was plagued with nighttime visions of adults coming to steal her from the bed. The tall faceless figures that Caroline saw in her dreams disappeared during the daytime. Constance wondered if the dreams were hazy memories of her earliest months in China, when her birthmother entrusted the child to an orphanage. Or were the night terrors simply that? Simply the worries and fears that this sunny child didn’t seem to feel during the day.
By the time Constance reached her, Caroline had fallen into a deep sleep again. Constance rearranged the line of stuffed animals in front of the door – Caroline called them her “dream barrier” – and pulled the sheets tighter around her charge.
She noticed that, with new neighbors in the big house, light shone into Caroline’s room and made shadows on her bed and floor. Bunny and Bear, the two sentinels at either end of the line of stuffed toys, were spotlighted. Constance pulled Caroline’s sheer princess curtains tighter across the windows, and backed slowly out of the room. The kitchen cleanup waited, and it was a good moment to browse airfares online in the Doctor’s study.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Chapter 3: Rohit's Fortune
Chapter 3: Rohit's Fortune
Rohit listened for the familiar sounds of his father, Neil, preparing for bed. He heard the shuffle of his father’s leather-soled slippers – he parked his shoes at the door everyday of his life – up and down the stairs of number 213 Orange Heights Avenue. Before bed, his father opened and closed every door, checking the locks twice. Then he climbed slowly up the stairs, pausing at the landing to turn off the hall light and went into his bedroom, half a flight of stairs above Rohit’s room.
When Rohit heard the bedsprings wheeze, he rose from his bed and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He tried to flatten the clump of dark hair that had dried standing up, and he practiced a friendly smile. “Hi, Dad,” he said to the mirror.
He walked up the six stairs that led to his parents’ bedroom holding a sheaf of white paper behind him. His father greeted him by raising his eyes above a copy of Fortune Magazine and smiling.
“Rohit,” he said. “I thought you were asleep in there, so I didn’t greet you. You are happy that you’ll have Mammi back tomorrow.”
Rohit nodded. “What time does her flight get in?” he asked, though he knew already.
“Noon,” replied his father. “So by the time she gets through customs with your grandparents and their dozen suitcases, you’ll be home from school already. Maybe you’ll make us dinner, eh?” Neil smiled.
“Dad, Baba, I want to talk to you before Mammi gets back,” Rohit said with sudden seriousness. He continued speaking as his father nodded and put aside his magazine.
“The bill for school came last week and the bill for CTY is here too,” he began, pulling the papers from behind his back. His father reached for the bills, but Rohit continued to speak.
“This is a lot of money, especially in a bad economy,” he said, gesturing at Fortune Magazine. “And I know that you need to send more money to India now for the aunts and uncles.”
“This is not your concern, son,” said Neil. “It’s my responsibility to pay for school and the camp at Johns Hopkins.”
Neil frowned. His father spoke with such conviction that it was hard to argue with him. “Here’s the thing, though, Dad,” he stammered. “I don’t want to go to Horton Academy anymore. I want to public school. I want to walk there and walk home like the other kids in the neighborhood and I want to learn film-making in the classes they have.”
“Have you told your mother this?” asked Neil.
“She knows,” said Rohit sadly. “Oh, she knows. But she wants me to go to a good college, right? So I have this list of acceptances from Columbia High School and this other list from Horton Academy. A lot of kids in this town are going to good colleges it looks like, and if you want to do film, like me, this is a better place to be in high school.”
He handed the lists of college acceptances to his father without speaking. Rohit watched Neil push his reading glasses further up his nose to study the lines of print.
“Rice University,” his father said finally. “Four Columbia High School students accepted in 2008. That’s where I went.”
Rohit nodded silently, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He knew his parents’ educational history well. Neil moved to the United States at age 16, spent a year at Deerfield Academy, before graduating from Cornell. He studied medical physics at Rice, finishing his dissertation just days before Rohit was born. His mother, Sarita, was educated in India and England; she worked part-time – “on a consultant basis,” she called it – as an architectural draftsman.
“So what is it with film that we are talking about, Rohit?” asked his father, looking hard at his son.
“I want to be a documentary filmmaker, Baba, going around the world and even just the town and showing people what’s going on. I want to film what’s really there for people to see,” Rohit replied. He walked across the forest green carpet to look at the window at the new neighbors’ car. “Look out there,” he told his father. “There’s everything out there and somebody just needs to, like, put a frame around it.” He stood staring out the window for a long moment.
“Fine,” said his father, folding the papers neatly lengthwise.
“What?” asked Rohit. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you are asking me not to spend thirty thousand dollars a year on tuition and to allow you to do what you choose,” answered his father. “That’s fine. You must finish out the year, including the summer session.” He raised his hand against Rohit’s protest. “Then, if your mother says yes, you will attend Columbia High School in the fall.”
“What will Mammi say?” asked Rohit.
“We will surprise her with the strength of our resolution,” answered his father. “She has a surprise for you too.”
“I know,” nodded Rohit. “She collected newspaper articles about the Indian elections for me to take to school. I think she forgot that we’re learning about ancient Rome this year.”
“A democracy is a democracy, whether young or old,” said his father. “But that’s not the surprise. You have a big surprise for Mammi, but her surprise for you is even bigger.”
Rohit looked at his father, willing him to say more. His father smiled.
“You must give your old father a hug,” said Neil, “then to bed for us both. Tomorrow will be a big day.”
Rohit looked out the window once more at the big house on the block. Then he turned away to hug his father and post his news on Facebook for the whole world to read.
When Rohit heard the bedsprings wheeze, he rose from his bed and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He tried to flatten the clump of dark hair that had dried standing up, and he practiced a friendly smile. “Hi, Dad,” he said to the mirror.
He walked up the six stairs that led to his parents’ bedroom holding a sheaf of white paper behind him. His father greeted him by raising his eyes above a copy of Fortune Magazine and smiling.
“Rohit,” he said. “I thought you were asleep in there, so I didn’t greet you. You are happy that you’ll have Mammi back tomorrow.”
Rohit nodded. “What time does her flight get in?” he asked, though he knew already.
“Noon,” replied his father. “So by the time she gets through customs with your grandparents and their dozen suitcases, you’ll be home from school already. Maybe you’ll make us dinner, eh?” Neil smiled.
“Dad, Baba, I want to talk to you before Mammi gets back,” Rohit said with sudden seriousness. He continued speaking as his father nodded and put aside his magazine.
“The bill for school came last week and the bill for CTY is here too,” he began, pulling the papers from behind his back. His father reached for the bills, but Rohit continued to speak.
“This is a lot of money, especially in a bad economy,” he said, gesturing at Fortune Magazine. “And I know that you need to send more money to India now for the aunts and uncles.”
“This is not your concern, son,” said Neil. “It’s my responsibility to pay for school and the camp at Johns Hopkins.”
Neil frowned. His father spoke with such conviction that it was hard to argue with him. “Here’s the thing, though, Dad,” he stammered. “I don’t want to go to Horton Academy anymore. I want to public school. I want to walk there and walk home like the other kids in the neighborhood and I want to learn film-making in the classes they have.”
“Have you told your mother this?” asked Neil.
“She knows,” said Rohit sadly. “Oh, she knows. But she wants me to go to a good college, right? So I have this list of acceptances from Columbia High School and this other list from Horton Academy. A lot of kids in this town are going to good colleges it looks like, and if you want to do film, like me, this is a better place to be in high school.”
He handed the lists of college acceptances to his father without speaking. Rohit watched Neil push his reading glasses further up his nose to study the lines of print.
“Rice University,” his father said finally. “Four Columbia High School students accepted in 2008. That’s where I went.”
Rohit nodded silently, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He knew his parents’ educational history well. Neil moved to the United States at age 16, spent a year at Deerfield Academy, before graduating from Cornell. He studied medical physics at Rice, finishing his dissertation just days before Rohit was born. His mother, Sarita, was educated in India and England; she worked part-time – “on a consultant basis,” she called it – as an architectural draftsman.
“So what is it with film that we are talking about, Rohit?” asked his father, looking hard at his son.
“I want to be a documentary filmmaker, Baba, going around the world and even just the town and showing people what’s going on. I want to film what’s really there for people to see,” Rohit replied. He walked across the forest green carpet to look at the window at the new neighbors’ car. “Look out there,” he told his father. “There’s everything out there and somebody just needs to, like, put a frame around it.” He stood staring out the window for a long moment.
“Fine,” said his father, folding the papers neatly lengthwise.
“What?” asked Rohit. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you are asking me not to spend thirty thousand dollars a year on tuition and to allow you to do what you choose,” answered his father. “That’s fine. You must finish out the year, including the summer session.” He raised his hand against Rohit’s protest. “Then, if your mother says yes, you will attend Columbia High School in the fall.”
“What will Mammi say?” asked Rohit.
“We will surprise her with the strength of our resolution,” answered his father. “She has a surprise for you too.”
“I know,” nodded Rohit. “She collected newspaper articles about the Indian elections for me to take to school. I think she forgot that we’re learning about ancient Rome this year.”
“A democracy is a democracy, whether young or old,” said his father. “But that’s not the surprise. You have a big surprise for Mammi, but her surprise for you is even bigger.”
Rohit looked at his father, willing him to say more. His father smiled.
“You must give your old father a hug,” said Neil, “then to bed for us both. Tomorrow will be a big day.”
Rohit looked out the window once more at the big house on the block. Then he turned away to hug his father and post his news on Facebook for the whole world to read.
Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Shannon Geary missed Naomi’s wave, from where she crouched in the basement of 215 Orange Heights Avenue. While Naomi watched her husband sleep, Shannon pulled a t-shirt from the dryer and folded its arms behind the body. She placed it on top of the growing pile of clean clothes. She repeated the process until the dryer was empty and slammed the door. Behind her, as she carried the laundry basket to the stairs, the door slowly squeaked open. Seeing it, Shannon placed her basket on the stairs, crossed the room, and kicked the door into place. She inhaled deeply, forced her face into a smile and climbed the stairs to the kitchen.
“Clean clothes,” she announced to her mother, Ann, her older sister, Maureen, and nephew, Dylan. Ann looked up from yesterday’s crossword puzzle, Maureen from the Want Ads, but Dylan stayed focused on his usual task. With dark blue-handled scissors, he cut coupons from Sunday newspaper circulars. He finished clipping the edges from a coupon for yogurt before he looked up at his aunt.
As always, Shannon was taken aback by Dylan’s surprising blue eyes. “Black Irish,” is how Ann described the combination of Dylan’s dark hair, pale skin, and eyes, but Shannon simply thought Dylan unique.
“Seventy-five cents off on Dannon,” he told her gravely. “Double at Pathmark is one dollar and fifty cents. Triple coupon days at A&P means two dollars and twenty-five cents.”
“That’s a lot of money, Dylan,” said Shannon.
“We don’t eat that yogurt crap,” said Ann, stabbing the crossword puzzle with a pen. “Shannon, where’s my pens? I can’t write with the damned thing.”
“Ma, that’s a perfectly good pen,” answered Maureen mildly, flipping the pages of the newspaper.
“It’s Papermate,” replied her mother. “I can’t use a Papermate. Not in my whole life. Give me a Bic, any day.” She tossed the pen to the floor. The cap rolled to Shannon’s feet.
“Remember how you wanted those pens last time we were in CVS, Ma? You said they don’t make Bic like they used to, remember? It was the day we saw Aunt Judy and went to the wake for the Monsignior,” Shannon said, prodding her mother’s memory.
“I don’t think so,” said Ann, looking suddenly confused.
Shannon closed her eyes and took a deep cooling breath, as she had learned in yoga class. She opened her eyes to see Dylan passing a tiny slip of paper along the table to where Ann’s fists were clenched.
“Fifty cents off on Flair,” he whispered. “Double at Pathmark for a dollar. A dollar fifty at A&P, Granny.”
Shannon watched her mother’s fist close over the small piece of paper and Dylan’s hand. She took another cooling breath and found her eyes filled with tears.
“The new neighbors are here,” she began cheerfully. “I saw the truck leave.”
The family turned towards 219, as if they could see through it through the walls.
“We used to take a pie to neighbors,” announced Ann. “Take a pie, Maureen.”
Maureen and Shannon exchanged a glance. “Maybe after my shift, Ma,” said Maureen, folding the newspaper and standing. “I’m getting ready to go to work now, Dylan.”
Dylan looked gravely at his mother. “Is it dark in the emergency room where you work?”
“No, it’s very bright,” she answered with equal gravity. “The parking lot is dark, though.”
Silently, he handed her a coupon for batteries. “Only twenty-five cents,” he said. “Fifty cents at Pathmark or seventy-five cents at A&P.”
Shannon watched her sister lean down to kiss her son’s forehead.
“You’ll tuck him in?” asked Maureen. Shannon nodded and walked her sister to the front door.
“I hope you have a quiet shift,” said Shannon, speaking through the screen door.
“Holiday weekend? Not likely. Grill burns, lawnmower accidents, too much beer and sun is usual for Memorial Day,” answered her sister. Maureen smiled at Shannon. “I hope you have a quiet shift here.”
“Very funny,” said Shannon, closing the door firmly and sliding the bolt.
“Dylan, time for bed,” she announced. “Ma, I’ll be down to help you after I get Dylan in bed. But you can watch Golden Girls until I’m done upstairs. It’s on channel 7.” Shannon clicked the remote control on the tiny kitchen television until she found the show. She raised the volume slightly, knowing that her mother would raise it higher and higher until Shannon rushed back down the stairs to turn off the canned laughter.
Dylan waited for her at the door to his bedroom, one of four rooms on the top floor of the house. He held out a circular to her. Target, she noticed, from two weeks ago.
As Dylan wrapped his light covers around his feet and legs, Shannon placed Bear in his arms. When Dylan was ready, she read aloud to him.
“Spring fling of values,” she read. “Buy one, get one free on women’s, men’s, and children’s sandals. Some exclusions apply. Discount is on higher priced item. Not all shoes are eligible for this offer.”
The little boy opened his eyes. “Aunt Shannon, buy one, get one free is like half-price. If you buy shoes for five dollars each, but one is free, each pair costs two dollars and fifty cents. Each shoe costs one dollar and twenty-five cents.”
Shannon smiled at her nephew. Nothing is free, she thought. Ask me about that and I’ll tell you a few stories.
Shannon turned the pages of the circular softly, reading aloud slowly and quietly in her preschool teacher voice, until Dylan was lulled into sleep. She stood and stretched, pulling the curtains of his windows closed. Shannon looked at 219, the big house on the block that had been dark for months. Without curtains, a few of its windows glowed into the night.
“Be nice to Dylan,” Shannon said aloud in the direction of the house. “I don’t care what else you do, yuppies or whatever you are, just leave him be.”
From downstairs, Shannon heard the roar of artificial laughter. She followed it to find her mother and put her to bed for the night.
Shannon Geary missed Naomi’s wave, from where she crouched in the basement of 215 Orange Heights Avenue. While Naomi watched her husband sleep, Shannon pulled a t-shirt from the dryer and folded its arms behind the body. She placed it on top of the growing pile of clean clothes. She repeated the process until the dryer was empty and slammed the door. Behind her, as she carried the laundry basket to the stairs, the door slowly squeaked open. Seeing it, Shannon placed her basket on the stairs, crossed the room, and kicked the door into place. She inhaled deeply, forced her face into a smile and climbed the stairs to the kitchen.
“Clean clothes,” she announced to her mother, Ann, her older sister, Maureen, and nephew, Dylan. Ann looked up from yesterday’s crossword puzzle, Maureen from the Want Ads, but Dylan stayed focused on his usual task. With dark blue-handled scissors, he cut coupons from Sunday newspaper circulars. He finished clipping the edges from a coupon for yogurt before he looked up at his aunt.
As always, Shannon was taken aback by Dylan’s surprising blue eyes. “Black Irish,” is how Ann described the combination of Dylan’s dark hair, pale skin, and eyes, but Shannon simply thought Dylan unique.
“Seventy-five cents off on Dannon,” he told her gravely. “Double at Pathmark is one dollar and fifty cents. Triple coupon days at A&P means two dollars and twenty-five cents.”
“That’s a lot of money, Dylan,” said Shannon.
“We don’t eat that yogurt crap,” said Ann, stabbing the crossword puzzle with a pen. “Shannon, where’s my pens? I can’t write with the damned thing.”
“Ma, that’s a perfectly good pen,” answered Maureen mildly, flipping the pages of the newspaper.
“It’s Papermate,” replied her mother. “I can’t use a Papermate. Not in my whole life. Give me a Bic, any day.” She tossed the pen to the floor. The cap rolled to Shannon’s feet.
“Remember how you wanted those pens last time we were in CVS, Ma? You said they don’t make Bic like they used to, remember? It was the day we saw Aunt Judy and went to the wake for the Monsignior,” Shannon said, prodding her mother’s memory.
“I don’t think so,” said Ann, looking suddenly confused.
Shannon closed her eyes and took a deep cooling breath, as she had learned in yoga class. She opened her eyes to see Dylan passing a tiny slip of paper along the table to where Ann’s fists were clenched.
“Fifty cents off on Flair,” he whispered. “Double at Pathmark for a dollar. A dollar fifty at A&P, Granny.”
Shannon watched her mother’s fist close over the small piece of paper and Dylan’s hand. She took another cooling breath and found her eyes filled with tears.
“The new neighbors are here,” she began cheerfully. “I saw the truck leave.”
The family turned towards 219, as if they could see through it through the walls.
“We used to take a pie to neighbors,” announced Ann. “Take a pie, Maureen.”
Maureen and Shannon exchanged a glance. “Maybe after my shift, Ma,” said Maureen, folding the newspaper and standing. “I’m getting ready to go to work now, Dylan.”
Dylan looked gravely at his mother. “Is it dark in the emergency room where you work?”
“No, it’s very bright,” she answered with equal gravity. “The parking lot is dark, though.”
Silently, he handed her a coupon for batteries. “Only twenty-five cents,” he said. “Fifty cents at Pathmark or seventy-five cents at A&P.”
Shannon watched her sister lean down to kiss her son’s forehead.
“You’ll tuck him in?” asked Maureen. Shannon nodded and walked her sister to the front door.
“I hope you have a quiet shift,” said Shannon, speaking through the screen door.
“Holiday weekend? Not likely. Grill burns, lawnmower accidents, too much beer and sun is usual for Memorial Day,” answered her sister. Maureen smiled at Shannon. “I hope you have a quiet shift here.”
“Very funny,” said Shannon, closing the door firmly and sliding the bolt.
“Dylan, time for bed,” she announced. “Ma, I’ll be down to help you after I get Dylan in bed. But you can watch Golden Girls until I’m done upstairs. It’s on channel 7.” Shannon clicked the remote control on the tiny kitchen television until she found the show. She raised the volume slightly, knowing that her mother would raise it higher and higher until Shannon rushed back down the stairs to turn off the canned laughter.
Dylan waited for her at the door to his bedroom, one of four rooms on the top floor of the house. He held out a circular to her. Target, she noticed, from two weeks ago.
As Dylan wrapped his light covers around his feet and legs, Shannon placed Bear in his arms. When Dylan was ready, she read aloud to him.
“Spring fling of values,” she read. “Buy one, get one free on women’s, men’s, and children’s sandals. Some exclusions apply. Discount is on higher priced item. Not all shoes are eligible for this offer.”
The little boy opened his eyes. “Aunt Shannon, buy one, get one free is like half-price. If you buy shoes for five dollars each, but one is free, each pair costs two dollars and fifty cents. Each shoe costs one dollar and twenty-five cents.”
Shannon smiled at her nephew. Nothing is free, she thought. Ask me about that and I’ll tell you a few stories.
Shannon turned the pages of the circular softly, reading aloud slowly and quietly in her preschool teacher voice, until Dylan was lulled into sleep. She stood and stretched, pulling the curtains of his windows closed. Shannon looked at 219, the big house on the block that had been dark for months. Without curtains, a few of its windows glowed into the night.
“Be nice to Dylan,” Shannon said aloud in the direction of the house. “I don’t care what else you do, yuppies or whatever you are, just leave him be.”
From downstairs, Shannon heard the roar of artificial laughter. She followed it to find her mother and put her to bed for the night.
Chapter 1
Naomi Nootbahr Roth strode through the front rooms of the new house, pausing to inspect the honey-colored floor and touching the glossy white paint of a doorway. She flung open the back door and walked down the creaking stairs that led to the yard. At the far end, she faced a crumbling retaining wall and deliberately turned her back on it. Instead, she faced the new house – well, new to her – and studied it. She frowned at recessed basement windows, old glass lined with chicken wire, studied the rippling glass of the first and second floor windows, and squinted into the sun to see the round windows of the attic.
“I’ll call it the garret,” she said aloud. “Or is that too much The Little Princess?” Naomi looked at the ivy that climbed the walls, and reached for a strand. It didn’t budge until she pulled harder and then it brought flakes of brown paint down with it onto her head.
“I don’t care,” she said aloud. “You’re my house and I’ll make you a showpiece, the talk of Orange Heights Avenue.” She leaned back against a thick willow tree and pictured the lawn tamed and the garage painted. A small garden trowel waited in the fork of two willow branches. She picked it up and tried to pull more ivy from the house with its rusty tines.
“It’s Goliath,” she heard her husband say, walking around the side of the house.
“It certainly is,” Naomi agreed. “But that makes me David. Might doesn’t beat right.”
Ben looked at her quizzically. “I mean the mover is here. You know, Goliath mover. The guys you hired to get us here from Brooklyn.”
Naomi followed Ben to the front of the house, where she watched a white moving truck negotiate the narrow street. Their house, number 219, was at the dead end, which she had described to the driver as a “cul-de-sac.” She watched the driver now, slowly backing up as Ben and another mover signaled to him to stop and go. Finally, the truck shuddered to a halt, not parked as much as simply stopped.
The driver and the other movers, dressed in identical t-shirts bearing the name Goliath, stood in front the house, staring up at its four stories and wiping sweat from their foreheads. Naomi looked at Ben, who was doing the same. Only his t-shirt, which said New York Athletic Club, was different. Even the expression of wonder mixed with a question about how many stairs the queen bed had to climb was the same.
When the truck was unloaded, the driver reversed the entire length of Orange Heights Avenue. The beer Ben had handed him was still in his hand, and Naomi shuddered to think what might happen if he shifted gears suddenly. From the safety of the broad front porch, she listened to the beep-beep-beep of the truck’s reverse gear until it died away. Naomi turned the doorknob of the house – her house! – and walked through the rooms slowly.
The basement was cool and damp, and she heard water running for Ben’s shower upstairs along with a worrisome thumping from the hot water heater. She walked deeper into the basement than she had previously, when visiting with the realtor, and found lumps of coal below a rusty metal chute. The basement floor seemed to end there, and only earth was below her feet. She imagined worms and bugs and suddenly the basement seemed dark. Naomi rushed upstairs to the second floor, where she found Ben lying flat on their bed, beer balanced on his chest.
“This is the house, Ben,” she told him. “This is where we’ll be forever. Just think of all we can do with it, how we’ll make it our home.”
“Did we pay those guys extra to move us on Memorial Day?” he asked with his eyes closed. “I tipped, but still, it sucks for them to drive back to Brooklyn in the holiday traffic.”
“Ugh,” she replied. “I’m never going back to Brooklyn again. Me and Brooklyn, that’s over.”
Ben opened his eyes and looked hard at Naomi. “Hon, we need to make this move work. This time it’s for real, right?”
She reached for his thigh, patted it and smiled. When his eyes closed again, she went to the window seat and gazed at the five houses that surrounded her on Orange Heights Avenue.
Her own house was the oldest and the tallest, the matriarch of the neighborhood, upright and Victorian. Two Colonial houses, as square and regular as if they’d been built with Legos, flanked her home, and a set of smaller split-levels followed.
“Hello, neighbors,” Naomi said, touching the windowpane with her hand open in greeting. Then she quickly wiped the glass clean with the hem of her t-shirt, until there was no trace of her wave left to see.
“I’ll call it the garret,” she said aloud. “Or is that too much The Little Princess?” Naomi looked at the ivy that climbed the walls, and reached for a strand. It didn’t budge until she pulled harder and then it brought flakes of brown paint down with it onto her head.
“I don’t care,” she said aloud. “You’re my house and I’ll make you a showpiece, the talk of Orange Heights Avenue.” She leaned back against a thick willow tree and pictured the lawn tamed and the garage painted. A small garden trowel waited in the fork of two willow branches. She picked it up and tried to pull more ivy from the house with its rusty tines.
“It’s Goliath,” she heard her husband say, walking around the side of the house.
“It certainly is,” Naomi agreed. “But that makes me David. Might doesn’t beat right.”
Ben looked at her quizzically. “I mean the mover is here. You know, Goliath mover. The guys you hired to get us here from Brooklyn.”
Naomi followed Ben to the front of the house, where she watched a white moving truck negotiate the narrow street. Their house, number 219, was at the dead end, which she had described to the driver as a “cul-de-sac.” She watched the driver now, slowly backing up as Ben and another mover signaled to him to stop and go. Finally, the truck shuddered to a halt, not parked as much as simply stopped.
The driver and the other movers, dressed in identical t-shirts bearing the name Goliath, stood in front the house, staring up at its four stories and wiping sweat from their foreheads. Naomi looked at Ben, who was doing the same. Only his t-shirt, which said New York Athletic Club, was different. Even the expression of wonder mixed with a question about how many stairs the queen bed had to climb was the same.
When the truck was unloaded, the driver reversed the entire length of Orange Heights Avenue. The beer Ben had handed him was still in his hand, and Naomi shuddered to think what might happen if he shifted gears suddenly. From the safety of the broad front porch, she listened to the beep-beep-beep of the truck’s reverse gear until it died away. Naomi turned the doorknob of the house – her house! – and walked through the rooms slowly.
The basement was cool and damp, and she heard water running for Ben’s shower upstairs along with a worrisome thumping from the hot water heater. She walked deeper into the basement than she had previously, when visiting with the realtor, and found lumps of coal below a rusty metal chute. The basement floor seemed to end there, and only earth was below her feet. She imagined worms and bugs and suddenly the basement seemed dark. Naomi rushed upstairs to the second floor, where she found Ben lying flat on their bed, beer balanced on his chest.
“This is the house, Ben,” she told him. “This is where we’ll be forever. Just think of all we can do with it, how we’ll make it our home.”
“Did we pay those guys extra to move us on Memorial Day?” he asked with his eyes closed. “I tipped, but still, it sucks for them to drive back to Brooklyn in the holiday traffic.”
“Ugh,” she replied. “I’m never going back to Brooklyn again. Me and Brooklyn, that’s over.”
Ben opened his eyes and looked hard at Naomi. “Hon, we need to make this move work. This time it’s for real, right?”
She reached for his thigh, patted it and smiled. When his eyes closed again, she went to the window seat and gazed at the five houses that surrounded her on Orange Heights Avenue.
Her own house was the oldest and the tallest, the matriarch of the neighborhood, upright and Victorian. Two Colonial houses, as square and regular as if they’d been built with Legos, flanked her home, and a set of smaller split-levels followed.
“Hello, neighbors,” Naomi said, touching the windowpane with her hand open in greeting. Then she quickly wiped the glass clean with the hem of her t-shirt, until there was no trace of her wave left to see.
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