Fall
Then, with a long, loud sniff, that seemed to indicate that she had made up her mind, she said:"l'll take the position."
"For all the world,"as Mrs. Banks said to her husband later, "as though she were doing us an honour."
-MARY POPPINS
CHAPTER ONE
Nanny for Sale
"Hi, this is Alexis at the Parents League. I'm just calling to follow up on the uniform guidelines we sent over . .." The blond woman volunteering behind the reception desk holds up a bejeweled finger, signaling me to wait while she continues on the phone. "Yes, well, this year we'd really like to see all your girls in longer skirts, at least twenty inches. We're still getting complaints from the mothers at the boys' schools in the vicinity... GREat. Good to hear it. Bye." With a grand gesture she crosses the word "Spence" off her list of three items.
She returns her attention to me. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting. With the school year starting we're just crazed." She draws a big circle around the second item on her list, "paper towels." "Can I help you?"
"I'm here to put up an ad for a nanny, but the bulletin board seems to have moved," I say, slightly confused as I've been advertising here since I was thirteen.
"We had to take it down while the foyer was being painted and never got around to moving it back. Here, let me show you." She leads me to the central room, where mothers perch at Knoll desks fielding inquiries about the Private Schools. Before me sits the full range of Upper East Side diversity-half of the women are dressed in Chanel suits and Manolo Blahniks, half are in six-hundred-dollar barn jackets, looking as if they might be asked to pitch an Aqua Scutum tent at any moment.
Alexis gestures to the bulletin board, which has displaced a Mary Cassatt propped against the wall. "It's all a bit disorganized at the moment," she says as another woman looks up from the floral arrangement she's rearranging nearby. "But don't worry. Tons of lovely girls come here to look for employment, so you shouldn't have any trouble finding someone." She raises her hand to her pearls. "Don't you have a son at Buckley? You look so familiar. I'm Alexis-"
"Hi," I say. "I'm Nan. Actually, I took care of the Oleason girls. I think they lived next door-to you."
She arches an eyebrow to give me a once-over. "Oh... Oh, Nanny, that's right," she confirms for herself, before retreating back to her desk.
I tune out the officious, creamy chatter of the women behind me to read the postings put up by other nannies also in search of employment.
Babysitter need children
very like kids
vacuums
I look your kids
Many years work
You call me
The bulletin board is already so overcrowded with flyers that, with a twinge of guilt, I end up tacking my ad over someone else's pink paper festooned with crayon flowers, but spend a few minutes ensuring that I'm only covering daisies and none of her pertinent information.
I wish I could tell these women that the secret to nanny advertising isn't the decoration, it's the punctuation-it's all in the exclamation mark. While my ad is a minimalist three-by-five card, without so much as a smiley face on it, I liberally sprinkle my advertisement with exclamations, ending each of my desirable traits with the promise of a beaming smile and unflagging positivity.
Nanny at the Ready! Chapin School alumna available weekdays part-time!
Excellent references! Child Development Major at NYU!
The only thing I don't have is an umbrella that makes me fly.
I do one last quick check for spelling, zip up my backpack, bid Alexis adieu, and jog down the marble steps out into the sweltering heat.
As I walk down Park Avenue the August sun is still low enough in the sky that the stroller parade is in full throttle. I pass many hot little people, looking resignedly uncomfortable in their sticky seats. They are too hot even to hold on to any of their usual traveling companions-blankies and bears are tucked into back stroller pockets. I chuckle to myself at the child who waves away the offer of a juice box with a flick of the hand and a toss of the head that says, "I couldn't possibly be bothered with juice right now."
Waiting at a red light, I look up at the large glass windows that are the eyes of Park Avenue. From a population-density point of view, this is the Midwest of Manhattan. Towering above me are rooms-rooms and rooms and rooms. And they are empty. There are powder rooms and dressing rooms and piano rooms and guest rooms and, somewhere above me, but I won't say where, a rabbit named Arthur has sixteen feet square all to himself.
I cut across Seventy-second Street, passing under the shade of the blue awnings of the Polo mansion, and turn into Central Park.
Pausing in front of the playground, where a few tenacious children are trying their best despite the heat, I reach in my backpack for a small bottle of water-just as something crashes into my legs. I look down and steady the offending object, an old-fashioned wooden hoop.
"Hey, that's mine!" A small boy of about four or so careens down the hill from where I see he's been posing for a portrait with his parents. His sailor hat topples off into the patchy grass as he runs.
"That's my hoop," he announces.
"Are you sure?" I ask. He looks perplexed. "It could be a wagon wheel." I hold it sideways. "Or a halo?" I hold it above his blond head. "Or a really large pizza?" I hold it out to him, gesturing that he can take it. He's smiling broadly at me as he grasps it in his hands.
"You, silly!" He drags it back up the hill, passing his mother as she strolls down to retrieve the hat.
"I'm sorry," she says, brushing dust off the striped brim as she approaches me. "I hope he didn't bother you." She holds her hand out to block the sun from her pale blue eyes.
"No, not at all."
"Oh, but your skirt-" She glances down.
"No big deal," I laugh, dusting off the mark the hoop left on the fabric. "I work with kids, so I'm used to being banged up."
"Oh, you do?" She angles her body so her back is to her husband and a blond woman who stands off to the side of the photographer holding a juice box for the boy. His nanny, I presume. "Around here?"
"Actually, the family moved to London over the summer, so-"
"We're ready!" the father calls impatiently.
"Coming!" she calls back brightly. She turns to me, tilting her delicately featured face away from him. She lowers her voice. "Well, we're actually looking for someone who might want to help us out part-time."
"Really? Part-time would be GREat, because I have a full course load this semester-"
"What's the best way to reach you?"
I rummage through my backpack for a pen and a scrap of notebook on which I can scribble down my information. "Here you go." I pass her the paper and she discreetly slips it in the pocket of her shift, before adjusting the headband in her long, dark hair.
"Wonderful." She smiles graciously. "Well, it was a pleasure to meet you. I'll be in touch." She takes a few steps up the hill and then turns around. "Oh, how silly of me-I'm Mrs. X."
I return the smile before she goes back to take her place in the contrived tableau. The sun filters through the leaves, creating dappled sunshine on the three figures. Her husband, in a white seersucker suit, stands squarely in the middle, his hand on the boy's head, as she slides in beside them.
The blond woman steps forward with a comb and the little boy waves to me, causing her to turn and follow his gaze. As she shields her eyes to get a better look at me I turn and continue on my way across the park.
My grandmother GREets me in her entryway in a linen Mao Tse-tung outfit and pearls. "Darling! Come in. I was just finishing my tai-chi." She gives me a kiss on both cheeks and a solid hug for good measure. "Honey, you're damp. Would you like to shower?" There is nothing better than being offered Grandma's buffet of amenities.
"Maybe just a cold washcloth?"
"I know what you need." She takes my hand, weaving her fingers through mine, and leads me to her guest powder room. I've always adored how the small lights of the antique crystal chandelier illume the rich peach chintz. But my favorite part is the framed French paper dolls. When I was little I would set up a salon under the sink, for which Grandma would provide real tea and topics for the discussions I would lead with all of my lovely French guests.
She places my hands under the faucet and runs cool water over my wrists. "Pressure points for distributing fire," she says as she sits down on the toilet seat, crossing her legs. She's right; I begin to cool down immediately.
"Have you eaten?" she asks.
"I had breakfast."
"What about lunch?"
"It's only eleven, Gran."
"Is it? I've been up since four. Thank God for Europe or I'd have no one to talk to till eight."
I smile. "How have you been?"
"I've been seventy-four for two months, that's how I've been." She points her toes like a dancer and slightly lifts the hem of her pants. "It's called Sappho-I had it done at Arden's this morning- what do you think? Too too?" She wiggles her coral toes.
"Gorgeous, very sexy. Okay, as much as I would love to spend the rest of the day in here I've got to drag myself downtown and make my offering to the Tuition Gods." I turn off the sink and shake my hands dramatically over the basin.
She hands me a towel. "You know, I don't remember having a single conversation like the ones you describe when I was at Vassar." She is referring to my endless history of tete-a-tetes with the administrative staff at NYU.
I follow behind her into the kitchen. "Today I'm prepared. I've got my Social Security card, my driver's license, my passport, a Xerox copy of my birth certificate, every piece of mail I've ever received from NYU, and my letter of acceptance. This time I won't be told I don't go there, haven't completed the last semester, haven't paid my tuition from last year, haven't paid my library fees, don't have the correct ID number, Social Security number, proof of my address, the right forms, or simply don't exist."
"My, my, my." She opens the fridge. "Bourbon?"
"Orange juice would be GREat."
"Kids." She rolls her eyes and points me to her old air conditioner sitting on the floor. "Darling, let me get the doorman to help you carry it."
"No, Gran, I got it," I say, trying valiantly to heave the machine into my arms before slamming it back down on the tile. "Yeah, okay, I think I'm going to have to come back later with Josh and get this."
"Joshua?" she asks with a raised eyebrow. "Your little blue-haired friend? He weighs five pounds soaking wet."
"Well, unless we want Dad throwing his back out again, that's about all I have to choose from in the boy department."
"I chant for you every morning, darling," she says, reaching for a glass. "Come on. Let me whip you up some Eggs Benedict."
I glance up at the old Nelson wall clock. "I wish I had time, but I've gotta get downtown before the line at the registrar is around the block."
She gives me a kiss on both cheeks. "Well, then bring that Joshua by at seven and I'll feed you both a proper meal-you're disappearing!"
Josh groans and rolls slowly onto his back from where he has nearly
blacked out after dropping the air conditioner outside my front door. "You lied to me," he wheezes. "You said it was on the third floor." "Yeah?" I say, shaking out my lower arms while leaning back against the top stair.
He lifts his head an inch off the floor. "Nan, that was six flights.
Two flights a floor, which makes this technically, like, the sixth floor."
"You helped me move out of the dorm-"
"Yeah, why was that? Oh, right, because it has an el-e-va-tor."
"Well, the good news is that I'm not planning on moving out of here, ever. This is it. You can visit me up here when we're old and gray." I wipe the sweat off my forehead.
"Forget it-I'll be hanging out on your front stoop with the rest of the blue hairs." He drops his head back down.
"Come on." I pull myself up by the banister. "Cold beers await." I unlock all three locks and open the door. The apartment feels like a car that's been sitting in the hot sun and we have to step back to let the scorching air blow past us into the hallway.
"Charlene must have closed the windows before she left this morning," I say.
"And left the oven on," he adds, stepping behind me into the tiny entryway that also does double duty as a kitchen.
"Welcome to my fully equipped closet. Can I toast you a bagel?" I drop my keys next to the two-burner stove.
"What are you paying for this place?" he asks.
"You don't want to know," I say, as we push the air conditioner across the room together in little shoves.
"So, where's the hot roommate?" he asks.
"Josh, not all stewardesses are hot. Some are the matronly type."
"Is she?" He stops.
"Don't stop." We resume pushing. "No-she's hot, but I don't like you assuming she's hot. She flew to France or Spain or something this morning," I huff as we round the corner to my end of the L-shaped studio.
"George!" Josh cries out in GREeting to my cat, who's sprawled out on the warm wooden floor in despair. He lifts his gray, furry head half an inch and meows plaintively. Josh straightens up and wipes his forehead with the bottom of his Mr. Bubble T-shirt. "Where do you want this sucker?"
I point to the top of the window.
"What? You a crazy lady."
"It's a trick I learned on the Avenue, 'so as not to interfere with the view.' Those without central air go to GREat lengths to hide it, darling," I explain as I kick off my sandals.
"What view?"
"If you smoosh your face against the window and look left you can see the river."
"Hey, you're right." He pulls back from the glass. "Listen- this whole Josh-heaving-heavy-machinery-up-to-balance-on-sheet-of-glass-thing, not gonna happen, Nan. I'm getting a beer. Come on, George."
He heads back to the "kitchen" and George stretches up to follow him. I use the moment alone to grab a clean tank top out of an open box and pull off my sweaty one. As I crouch behind the boxes to change I catch sight of the red light from my answering machine blinking in a frenzy from the floor. The word "full" glares up at me.
"Running that 900 number again?" Josh reaches over the box to hand me a Corona.
"Practically. I put my ad up for a new position today and the mummies are restless." I take a swig of my beer and slide down between the boxes to hit play.
A woman's voice fills the room: "Hi, this is Mimi Van Owen. I saw your ad at the league. I'm looking for someone to help me look after my son. Just part-time, you understand. Maybe two, three, four days a week, half-days or longer and some nights or weekends, or both! Whenever you have time. But I just want you to know that I'm very involved."
"Well, that's just obvious, Mimi," Josh says, sliding down to join me.
"HithisisAnnSmithl'mlookingforsomeonetowatchmyfiveyearold-sonhe'snotroublereallyandwerunaveryrelaxedhousehold-"
"Ouch." Josh puts his hands up to shield himself and I forward to the next message.
"Hi. I'm Betty Potter. I saw your ad at the Parents League. I have a five-year-old girl, Stanton, a three-year-old boy, Tinford, a ten-month-old, Jace, and I'm looking for someone who can help me, since I'm pregnant again. Now you didn't mention your fee in the ad, but I've been paying six."
"Six American dollars?" I ask the machine, incredulously.
"Hey, Betty, I know a crack-whore down in Washington Square Park who'd do it for a quarter." Josh swigs his beer.
"Hi, it's Mrs. X. We met in the park this morning. Give me a call when you get a chance. I'd like to talk more about the type of job you're looking for. We have a girl-Caitlin-but she's looking to cut her hours and you made quite an impression on our son, Grayer. Look forward to talking to you. Bye."
"She sounds normal. Call her."
"You think?" I ask as the phone rings, making us both jump. I pick up the receiver. "Hello," I say in instant nanny mode, trying to convey utmost respectability with two syllables.
"Hello"-my mother matches my deep, fancy tone-"how'd the air-conditioner mission turn out?"
"Hey." I relax. "Fine-"
"Wait, hold on." I hear a scuffle. "I have to keep moving Sophie-she's determined to sit two inches from the air conditioner." I smile at the image of our fourteen-year-old springer spaniel with her ears blowing out behind her like the Red Baron. "Move it, Soph-and now she's sitting on all the research for the grant."
I take a sip of beer. "How's that coming?"
"Ugh, it's too depressing-tell me something cheerful." Since the Republicans took office my mother's Coalition for Women's Shelters gets even less money than it used to.
"I got some funny messages from mummies-in-need," I offer.
"I thought we discussed this." Her lawyer voice is back. "Nan, you take these jobs and within days you're up at three in the morning worrying if the little princess has tap dancing or a jam session with the Dalai Lama-"
"Mom. Mommm-I haven't even interviewed yet. Besides, I'm not going to be working as many hours this year, because I have my thesis."
"Exactly! That's exactly it. You have your thesis, just like last year you had your internship and the year before that you had your field study. I don't understand why you won't even consider an academic job. You should ask your thesis professor if you can assist him. Or you could work in the research library!"
"We have been over this a million times." I roll my eyes at Josh. "Those jobs are so competitive-Dr. Clarkson has a graduate student on full fellowship assisting him. Besides, they only pay six dollars an hour-before taxes. Mom, nothing I do with my clothes on is going to pay this well until I get my deGREe." Josh shimmies and pulls off an imaginary bra.
My mother lucked out with a research assistant position that she held on to for all four years of her undergraduate work. However, that was when housing near Columbia cost as much as I am currently paying for utilities. "Do I have to give you the Real Estate Talk again, Mom?"
"Then, for the love of God, be a makeup girl at Bloomingdale's. Just punch in your time card, look pretty, smile, and get your pay-check." She can't imagine that one would ever wake at three A.M. in a cold sweat, wondering if the shipment of oil-free toner had remembered to put on its Nighttime Pull-Ups.
"Mom, I enjoy working with kids. Look, it's too hot to argue."
"Just promise me you'll think about it this time before you take a job. I don't want you graduating on Valium because some woman with more money than she knows what to do with left you her kid while she ran off to Cannes."
And I do think about it, while Josh and I listen to all the messages again trying to find the mother who sounds least likely to do just that.
The following Monday on my way to meet Mrs. X I make a quick stop at my favorite stationery store to stock up on Post-its. Today my Filofax only has two Post-its: a tiny pink one imploring me to "BUY MORE POST-ITS" and a GREen one reminding me that I have "Coffee, Mrs. X, 11:15." I pull off the pink one and toss it in the trash as I continue heading south to La Patisserie Gout du Mois, our appointed meeting place. As I cut across to Park I begin passing chic women in fall suits, all holding sheets of monogrammed stationery in their bejeweled hands. Each one walks in tandem with a shorter, dark-skinned woman, who nods emphatically back at them.
"Baa-llleeeet? Do-you-un-der-stand!" the woman next to me rudely shouts to her nodding companion as we wait for the light to change. "On Mondays Josephina has Baaaaaa-lleeeeeeet!"
I smile sympathetically at the uniformed woman to show solidarity. No bones about it, training just plain sucks. And it sucks significantly harder, depending on who you're working for.
There are essentially three types of nanny gigs. Type A, I provide "couple time" a few nights a week for people who work all day and parent most nights. Type B, I provide "sanity time" a few afternoons a week to a woman who mothers most days and nights. Type C, I'm brought in as one of a cast of many to collectively provide twenty-four/seven "me time" to a woman who neither works nor mothers. And her days remain a mystery to us all.
"The agency said you can cook. Can you? Cook?" a Pucci-clad mother interrogates on the next corner.
As a working woman herself, the Type A mother will relate to me as a professional and treat me with respect. She knows I've arrived to do my job and, after a thorough tour, will hand me a comprehensive list of emergency numbers and skedaddle. This is the best transition a nanny can hope for. The child sobs for, at most, fifteen minutes, and before you know it we're bonding over Play-Doh.
The Type B mother may not work in an office, but she logs enough hours with her child to recognize it for the job it is and, following an afternoon of hanging around the apartment together, her kids are all mine for the second date.
"Now the dry cleaner's number is on there and the florist and the caterer."
"What about the doctor for the children?" the Mexican woman next to me asks quietly.
"Oh. I'll get you that next week."
Suffice it to say that the quirk factor sharply increases as one moves along the spectrum from A to C. The only thing predictable about training with a Type C mother is that her pervasive insecurity forces everyone to take the longest possible route to getting in sync.
I push open the heavy glass door of the patisserie and see Mrs. X already seated, going over her own list. She stands, revealing a lavender knee-length skirt, which perfectly matches the cardigan tied around her shoulders. No longer in her youthful white shift, she looks older than she did in the park. Despite her girlish ponytail I'm guessing she's in her early forties. "Hi, Nanny, thanks so much for meeting me early. Would you like some coffee?"
"That sounds perfect, thank you," I say, taking a seat with my back to the wood-paneled wall and smoothing the damask napkin onto my lap.
"Waiter, another cafe au lait and could you bring us a breadbasket?"
"Oh, you don't need to do that," I say.
"Oh, no, it's the best. That way you can pick what you want." The waiter brings over a Pierre Deux basket brimming with breads and little jars of jam. I help myself to a brioche.
"They have the best pastry here," she says, taking a croissant. "Which reminds me, I prefer that Grayer stay away from refined flour."
"Of course," I mumble, mouth full.
"Did you have a nice weekend?"
I quickly swallow. "Sarah-my best friend from Chapin-had a little farewell party last night before everyone goes back to school. Now it's just me and the California people-who have off till October! Tell Grayer to go to Stanford," I laugh.
She smiles.
"So, why'd you transfer from Brown?" she asks, pulling one claw off her croissant.
"They had a stronger child development program at NYU," I reply, trying to tread lightly here, in case I'm talking to a steadfast Brown alum, choosing not to mention the human excrement in the lounge next to my room, or any other of the myriad of charming anecdotes I could share.
"I really wanted to go to Brown," she says.
"Oh?"
"But I won a scholarship to UConn." She drops the croissant to play with the diamond heart dangling from her necklace.
"That's GREat," I say, trying to imagine a time when she would have needed a scholarship to do anything.
"Well, I'm from Connecticut, so ..."
"Oh! Connecticut's beautiful," I say.
She glances down at her plate. "Actually, it was New London so ... Well, after graduation I moved here to run Gagosian-the art gallery." She smiles again.
"Wow-that must have been amazing."
"It was a lot of fun," she says, nodding, "but you can't really do it when you have a child-it's a full-time life, parties, trips, a lot of shmoozing, a lot of late nights-"
A woman in dark Jackie O sunglasses accidentally bumps our table as she passes, causing the china saucers to teeter precariously on the marble.
"Binky?" Mrs. X asks, reaching up to touch the woman's arm as I steady the cups.
"Oh, my God. Hi, I didn't even see you there," the woman says, lowering her dark glasses. Her eyes are swollen and damp from crying. "I'm sorry I couldn't come to Grayer's birthday party. Consuela said it was fabulous."
"I've been meaning to call," Mrs. X says. "Is there anything I can do?"
"Not unless you know a hit man." She pulls a handkerchief out of her Tod's purse and blows her nose. "That lawyer Gina Zuckerman recommended couldn't help at all. It turns out all our assets are actually in Mark's company's name. He's getting the apartment, the yacht, the house in East Hampton. I'm getting four hundred thousand flat-that's it." Mrs. X swallows and Binky continues tearfully. "And I have to supply complete receipts for every penny of child support spent. I mean, really. Am I supposed to get my facials at Baby Gap?"
"That's appalling."
"Then the judge had the nerve to tell me to go back to work! He has no idea what it means to be a mom."
"None of them do," Mrs. X says, tapping her list for emphasis, while I stare intently at my brioche.
"If I had known he was going to go this far, I would have just turned a blind-" Binky's voice breaks and she purses her glossy lips together to clear her throat. "Well, I've gotta run-Consuela has another 'appointment' for her hip replacement." She speaks with venom. "I swear, it's the third one this month. I'm really losing patience with her. Anyway, GREat to see you." She pushes her sunglasses back into place and, with an air kiss, disappears through the crowd awaiting tables.
"Well..." Mrs. X stares after her, her face locked briefly into a grimace before returning her attention to me. "Well, let's just go over the week. I've typed this all up for you, so you can review it later. We'll walk over to school now, so Grayer can see us together and get the sense that I'm trusting you with him. That should relax him. He has a play date at one-thirty, so that'll give you just enough time to have lunch in the park and yet not overwhelm him. Then tomorrow you and Caitlin can both spend the afternoon with him, so you can get a sense of his routine and he can see the authority being shared between you. I'd appreciate it if you didn't discuss the transition with her at this point."
"Of course," I say, trying to absorb it all, the brioches, the briefing, Binky. "Thank you for breakfast."
"Oh, don't mention it." She stands, pulling a blue folder that says "Nanny" out of her Hermes bag and sliding it across the table. "I'm so glad Tuesdays and Thursdays fit into your class schedule. I think it'll be GREat for Grayer to have someone young and fun to play with-I'm sure he gets tired of boring old Mom!"
"Grayer seems GREat," I say, recalling his giggles in the park.
"Well, he has his little things, like any kid, I suppose."
I gather my bag, glancing down and noticing her lavender silk heels for the first time. "God, those are beautiful! Are they Prada?" I ask, recognizing the silver buckle.
"Oh, thank you." She turns her ankle. "Yes, they are. You really like them?" I nod. "You don't think they're too ... loud?"
"Oh, no," I say, following her out of the cafe.
"My best friend just had a baby and her feet went up a whole size. She let me pick out what I wanted, but I... I don't know." She glances down at her shoes in consternation as we wait for the light. "I guess I've just gotten used to wearing flats."
"No, they're GREat. You should definitely keep them."
She smiles, delighted, as she slides on her sunglasses.
Mrs. Butters, Grayer's teacher, smiles at me and shakes my hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you." She looks down adoringly. "You are going to love Grayer, he's a very special little boy." She pats her corduroy apron dress, which fits loosely over her puffed-sleeve blouse. With her round, dimpled cheeks and plump, dimpled hands she looks much like a four-year-old herself.
"Hi, Grayer!" I say, smiling down at the top of his blond head. He's wearing a little white oxford button-down Polo shirt, untucked on one side, containing the evidence of a morning hard at work: finger paint, what looks like glue, and one lone macaroni. "How was school today?"
"Grayer, you remember Nanny? You two are going to have lunch at the playground!" his mother prompts him.
He slumps against her leg and glares at me. "Go away."
"Honey, we can have snack together, but Mommy has an appointment. You two are going to have such a good time! Now hop in your stroller and Nanny will give you snack."
As we approach the playground he and I both listen attentively to the long list of Grayer's Likes and Dislikes: "He loves the slide, but the monkey bars bore him. Don't let him pick anything up off the ground-he likes to do that. And please keep him away from the drinking fountain by the clock."
"Urn, what should I do if he needs to use the bathroom? Where should he go?" I ask as we pass under the dusty wooden arches of the Sixty-sixth Street playground.
"Oh, anywhere."
I'm just about to ask for a little clarification on the peeing thing when her cell phone rings.
"Okay, Mommy's gotta go," she says, snapping her Startac closed. Her departure is like the suicide drills from gym class-every time she gets just a few feet farther away, Grayer cries and she scurries back, admonishing, "Now, let's be a big boy." Only once Grayer is in complete hysterics does she look at her watch and with a "Now Mommy's going to be late" is gone.
We sit on the only empty bench in the shade, while he sniffles, and eat our sandwiches, which have some sort of vegetable spread in them and, I think, unbologna. As he raises his sleeve to wipe his nose I notice for the first time, dangling from beneath his untucked shirttails, what appears to be a business card pinned to his belt loop.
I reach out. "Grayer, what's with the-"
"Hey!" He swats my hand away. "That's my card." It's dirty and bent and has clearly been around the block a few times, but I think I can make out Mr. X's name in faded type.
"Whose card is that, Grayer?"
"You know." He pounds his forehead, exasperated by my ignorance. "My card. Jeez. Push me on the swings!"
By the time we're done eating and I've given him a few pushes it's time for us to walk over to his play date. I wave as he runs into the apartment. "Okay, bye, Grayer! See you tomorrow!" He screeches to a halt, turns around, sticks his tongue out at me and then runs off. "Okay, have fun!" I smile at the other nanny as if to say "Oh, that? That's just our tongue game!"
Once I'm on the subway to school I pull out the blue folder, which has my pay envelope paper-clipped inside.
MRS. X
721 PARK AVENUE, APT. 9B
NEW YORK, N.Y., 10021
Dear Nanny,
Welcome! The attached is a copy of Grayer's schedule of after-school activities. Caitlin will show you the routine, but I'm sure you've been to most of these places before! Let me know if you have any questions.
Thanks, Mrs. X
p.s. - I've also included a list of some possible fun activities
p.p.s. I really prefer it if Grayer doesn't nap in the afternoons
I glance at the schedule and she's right-I'm a veteran of every activity on the list.
MONDAY
2-2:45: Music lesson, Diller Quaile, 95th Street between Park and Madison (Parents pay an astronomical sum for this prestigious music school where four'jear'olds usually sit in stone-cold silence as their caregivers sing nursery rhymes in a circle.)
5-5:45: Mommy & Me, 92nd Street Y on Lexington
(As the name implies, mothers are expected to go. Nevertheless, half of the group is nannies.)
TUESDAY
4-5:00: Swimming lesson at Asphalt GREen, 90th Street and East End Avenue (One emaciated woman in a Chanel swimsuit and five nannies in muumuus all pleading with toddlers to "Get in the water!")
WEDNESDAY
2-3:00: Physical education at CATS, Park Avenue at 64th Street
(Deep in the bowels of a cold, dank church that smells like feet, thoroughly choreographed games for the pint-sized athlete.)
5-5:45: Karate, 92nd Street Y on Lexington
(Kids who quake with fear do fifty push-ups on their knuckles as a warm-up.The one class daddies attend.)
THURSDAY
2-2:45: Piano lesson at home with Ms. Schrade ("Music" to be tortured by.)
5-6:00: French Class, Alliance Francaise, 60th Street between Madison and Park
(Standard afterschool activities conducted in another language.)
FRIDAY
1-1:40: Ice skating, The Ice Studio, Lexington between 73rd and 74th Street (Cold as fuck-and damp. Struggle through a thirty-minute "Change of Terror," sharp metal blades flying everywhere, so children can get on ice for forty minutes and come back out to change again.)
I will let you know when he is scheduled for the:
Optician
Orthodontist
Orthodic fittings
Physical therapist
Ayurvedic practitioner
In the event of a class cancellation the following "nonstructured" outings are
permissible:
The Frick
The Met
The Guggenheim Soho
The Morgan Library
The French Culinary Institute
The Swedish Consulate
Orchid Room of the Botanical Garden
New York Stock Exchange Trading Floor
The Angelika (Preferably the German Expressionist series, but anything with subtitles will do.)
I shrug and open the envelope, thrilled to discover that despite only working two hours, she's paid me for the whole day. The Envelope is a major perk of being a nanny. Traditionally, we're kept off the books and dealt with strictly in cash, which always keeps me hoping she'll stick in an extra twenty. A girl I knew lived-in with a family whose father slipped a few hundred dollars under her door whenever his wife drank too much and "caused a scene." It's like
waiting tables-you just never know when the customer might be overwhelmed with appreciation.
"Caitlin? Hi, I'm Nanny," I say. Mrs. X told me that my colleague is blond and Australian, which makes her fairly easy to pick out amid the sea of faces that have had work done and the faces that are doing the work. I recognize her from the Xes' photo session in the park.
She looks up from where she sits on the school steps, sensibly outfitted in an Izod shirt and jeans, a sweatshirt tied round her waist. She's holding Grayer's apple juice in her right hand with the straw already in it. I'm impressed.
Just as she stands to return my GREeting, our charge and his classmates are released by his teacher and the courtyard becomes instantly animated. Grayer comes streaking through the crowd toward Caitlin, but screeches to a halt when he sees me, his enthusiasm visibly draining out through his Keds.
"Grayer, Nanny'll be coming to the park with us this afternoon-won't that be fun?" I sense from her tone that she isn't quite convinced we're in for a laugh riot. "He's always a bit cranky when school lets out, but he gets over it fine once he's had his snack."
"I'm sure."
It is chaos around us as children are snacked and play dates are made. I'm impressed by the finesse with which she works Grayer from snack to stroller to good-byes. He maintains screaming conversation with three of his classmates while getting a sweater put on, a Baggie opened, homework unpinned from his lapel, and a stroller strapped under him. She's like a puppeteer, keeping the play in motion. I debate taking notes. "Right hand on stroller handle, left hand pull down sweater, two steps left and squat."
We head toward the park as they chatter away. She propels him forward with ease, though he can't be a light load with his sand toys, school stuff, and backup supplies of snack.
"Grayer, who's your best friend at school?" I ask.
"Shut up, stupidhead," he says, kicking out at my shins. I walk the remainder of the way well outside his field of stroller vision.
After lunch Caitlin takes me around to meet the other nannies in the playground, most of whom are Irish, Jamaican, or Filipino. They each give me a quick, cold appraisal and I get the sense I won't be making a lot of friends here.
"So what do you do during the week?" she asks suspiciously.
"I'm a senior at NYU," I say.
"I couldn't figure out how she found someone who only wanted to work weekends." What? Weekends what?
She reties her ponytail while she continues. "I'd do it, but I wait tables on the weekends and, really, one needs a bit of a break by Friday. I thought they had a girl who worked weekends in the country, but I guess she didn't work out. Are you planning on driving out with them to Connecticut on Friday nights or taking the train?" She looks pointedly at me as I stare back at her in confusion.
Then it is suddenly clear to both of us why we aren't meant to discuss the "transition." I'm not the pinch hitter, I'm the replacement. A sadness flickers over her features.
I reach to change the subject. "So, what's with the card?"
"Oh, that grotty old thing." She swallows. "He carries it everywhere. He'll be wanting it pinned to his trousers and in his pajamas. It drives the Mrs. crazy, but he refuses to so much as put on his underpants without it." She blinks a few times and then turns away.
We make it full circle back to the sandbox where another family, who I assume from their matching shell suits and overwhelming zest for life are tourists, is playing.
"He's so cute. Is he your only child?" the mother asks in a flat Midwestern accent. I'm twenty-one. He's four.
"No, I'm his-"
"I told you to get out of here, you bad woman!" Grayer hurls his stroller at me, screaming at the top of his lungs.
Blood rushes to my face as I retort with false confidence, "You ... silly!" The tourist clan focus intently on a group sand-castle project.
I consider taking a playground poll as to whether I should "get out" and, if I choose not to, does this, in fact, make me a "bad woman"?
Caitlin rights the stroller as if his throwing it were part of a fabulous game we're playing. "Well, looks to me like somebody has a bit of energy and wants me to catch him!" She chases him all over the playground, laughing deeply. He slides down the slide and she catches him. He hides behind the monkey bars and she catches him. There is a lot of catching overall. I start to chase her as she chases him, but give up when he looks pleadingly into my eyes, moaning "STOaaaooop." I walk to a bench. As I watch them play I have to hand it to her. She has perfected the magic act that is child care, creating the illusion of an effortless relationship; she could be his mother.
Eventually, Caitlin drags him over to me with a Frisbee in hand. "Well now, Grayer, why don't we teach Nanny the Frisbee game?" We stand in triangular formation as she tosses the Frisbee to me. I catch it and toss it to Grayer, who gracefully receives it by sticking out his tongue and turning his back to both of us. I pick up the Frisbee from where it has landed by his feet and toss it back to her. She throws it to him and he catches it and throws it back to her. It seems to take hours, this halting circuit that comes to a full stop whenever contact is required between him and me. He simply denies that I exist and sticks out his tongue at any effort to prove otherwise. We play on and on because she wants to make it right and thinks maybe she can wear him down to the point where he will at least toss me a Frisbee. I think we have all set our sights just a little too high.
Three days later, just as I bend over to pick up the grubby little sneaker Grayer has hurled into the Xes' marble entryway, the front door slams behind me with a loud bang. I jerk upright, still holding his shoe.
"Shit."
"I heard you! You said 'Shit.' You said it!" Muffled sounds of a gleeful Grayer make their way through the heavy door.
I steady my voice and reach for a low, authoritative octave. "Grayer, open the door."
"No! I can stick my fingers out at you and you can't see. I got my thung thitikin out, too." He's sticking his tongue out at me.
Okay, options. Option One, knock on crotchety-matron-across-the-way's door. Right, what am I going to do then? Call Grayer? Invite him over for tea? His little fingers sweep out beneath the door.
"Nanny, try to catch my fingers! Do it! Do it! Come on, catch "em!" I concentrate every muscle on not stepping on them.
Option Two, go down to the doorman and get extra keys. Right. By the time he finishes describing this to Mrs. X not even Joan Crawford would hire me.
"You're not even playing! I'm going to go take a bath. So don't ever come back here, okay? My mom said you don't ever have to come back." His voice gets quieter as he starts to move from the door. "Going to get in the tub."
"GRAYER!" I scream before I catch my breath. "Don't walk away from this door. Ummm, I have a surprise out here for you." Option Three, wait until Mrs. X gets home and tell her the truth: her son is a sociopath. But just as I settle on Option Three, the elevator door slides open and Mrs. X, her neighbor, and the doorman all step out.
"Nanny? Naaanny, I don't want your surprise. So go away. Really, really, go, get out of here." Well, at least we've all been updated. With a few "ahems" the neighbor lets herself into her apartment and the doorman hands off the package he's been carrying and disappears back into the elevator.
I hold up Grayer's shoe.
As if for a studio audience, Mrs. X whips out her keys and proceeds to remedy the situation. "Well, then. Let's get this door open!" She laughs and unlocks the door. But she swings it open a little too quickly and catches one of Grayer's fingers.
"AHHhhhhhh. Nanny broke my hand! AAAAAHhhhhh-my hand is broke. Get out of HEERRrrreeee! GooOOOOoooo!" He throws himself onto the floor, sobbing, lost in grief.
Mrs. X bends down, as if about to hold him, then straightens up.
"Well, looks like you really tuckered him out at the park! You can go on ahead. I'm sure you have a ton of homework to do. We'll see you Monday, then?" I reach carefully inside the doorway and put his shoe down in exchange for my backpack.
I clear my throat. "He just threw his shoe and I-"
At the sound of my voice Grayer lets out a fresh wail. "LEEAAAVVE! Ahhahhha." She stares down at him as he writhes on the floor, smiles broadly, and pantomimes that I should get the elevator. "Oh, and Nanny, C-a-i-t-l-i-n won't be returning, but I'm sure you have the hang of everything by now."
I close their door and am alone again in the now familiar vestibule. I wait for the elevator and listen to Grayer scream. I feel as though the whole world is sticking its tongue out at me.
"Keep your nose out of it, Nanny Drew." My father slurps the last drops of his wonton soup. "You never know. Maybe this Caitlin had another job lined up."
"I didn't really get that sense ..."
"You like the kid?"
"Minus the locking-me-out part-yeah, okay."
"So, then, you're not marrying these people. You're just working there-what?-fifteen hours a week?" The waiter places a plate of fortune cookies between us and takes the check.
"Twelve." I reach for a cookie.
"Right. So don't get your knickers in a twist."
"But what do I do about Grayer?"
"They're always a little slow to warm up at first," he says, speaking from eighteen years of experience as an English teacher. He grabs a cookie and takes my hand. "Come on, let's walk and talk. Sophie won't be able to keep her legs crossed much longer." We weave out of the restaurant and head over to West End Avenue.
I put my arm through his as he slips his hands into his blazer pockets.
"Glinda-the-Good-Witch him," he says, chewing his cookie thoughtfully.
"Care to elaborate?"
He shoots me a look. "I was finishing my cookie. Are you paying attention?"
"Yes."
"Because this is good stuff." I stand, waiting, with my arms crossed. "In essence, you are Glinda. You are light and clarity and fun. He is an inanimate object, a toaster who happens to have a tongue hanging out. If he goes too far again-I'm talking the door-locking routine, physical violence, or anything that puts him in danger-BABOOM! Wicked Witch of the West! Two point four seconds-you swoop down in front of his face and hiss that he must never do that again-ever. It is not okay. And then, before he can bat an eyelash, back to Glinda. You let him know he can have feelings, but that there are boundaries. And that you'll let him know when he has pushed too far. Trust me, he'll be relieved. Now, wait here while I get the Sophster."
He disappears into our lobby and I look up between the buildings to the orange sky above. Within minutes Sophie bursts through the front door, pulling the leash in his hand taut as she waggles over, smiling up at me as she always does. I crouch down, wrapping my arms around her neck, and burrow my head in her brown and white fur.
"I'll walk her, Dad." I give him a hug and take the leash. "It'll be good to be around someone under three feet who doesn't talk back."
"And who only sticks out her tongue for biological necessity!" he calls after me.
I stand on the sidewalk outside Grayer's school on the following Monday. I'm ten minutes early, as per Mrs. X's strict instructions, so I flip through my Filofax and chart out the deadlines for my next two papers. A taxi comes to a screeching halt on the corner and I look up at the pandemonium of honking cars around it. Across the median a blond woman stands frozen under the shade of an awning. The cars move again and she's gone.
I crane my head, trying to locate the woman, to be sure if it was Caitlin. But the other side of Park Avenue is now empty, save for a maintenance man polishing a brass hydrant.
"Not you!" Grayer draaaaags himself all the way across the courtyard, as if he were marching toward certain death.
"Hey, Grayer. How was school?"
"Yucky."
"Yucky? What was yucky about it?" I unpin the homework, pass off the juice.
"Nothing."
"Nothing was yucky?" Buckle in stroller, unwrap pears.
"I don't want to talk to you."
I kneel in front of the stroller and look him squarely in the eyes. "Look, Grayer, I know you don't like me very much."
"I HATE YOU!" I am light. I am clarity. I am wearing a big, pink dress.
"And that's okay, you haven't known me very long. But I like you a lot." He starts to kick his leg out at me. "I know you miss Caitlin." He freezes at the sound of her name and I catch his foot firmly in my hand. "It's okay to miss Caitlin. Missing her shows that you love her. But being mean to me hurts my feelings and I know Caitlin would never want you to hurt anyone's feelings. So, as long as we're together, let's have fun." His eyes are like saucers.
As we head out of the courtyard the rain that's been threatening all morning finally breaks and I have to push Grayer back up to 721 Park Avenue as if I'm in the Stroller Olympics.
"Weeeeeeee!" he cries and I make race-car noises and steer sharply around puddles all the way home. By the time we get into the lobby we're both soaked and I pray Mrs. X isn't home to see how I've exposed her child to pneumonia.
"I sure am wet. Are you wet, Grayer?"
"I sure am. I sure am wet." He's smiling, but his teeth are starting to chatter.
"We're gonna get you right upstairs and into a hot bath. Ever had lunch in the bath, Grayer?" I steer him into the elevator.
"Wait! Hold it!" a male voice shouts from around the corner.
I slam the stroller into my ankle trying to angle it away from the door. "Ow, sh-oot!"
"Hey, thanks," he says. I look up from my ankle. The rain has plastered his brown, chin-length hair and frayed blue T-shirt to his six-foot frame. Oh, my.
As the elevator closes he crouches down to speak directly to the stroller. "Hey, Grayer! Whassup?"
"She's wet." Grayer points behind him.
"Hi, wet girl. Are you Grayer's girlfriend?" He smiles at me, tucking his damp hair behind his ear.
"He's not sure if he's ready to make that kind of commitment," I say.
"Well, Grayer, don't let her get away." If you tried to catch me, I promise I would run very slowly.
We arrive at the ninth floor way too soon. "Have a GREat afternoon, guys," he says as we get out.
"You, too!" I cry as the door slides closed. Who are you?
"Grayer, who is he?" Stroller unclasped, wet shirt off.
"He lives upstairs. He goes to big boy's school." Shoes off, pants off, grab lunch bag.
"Oh, yeah? Which one?" Follow naked tush to bathroom, turn on tap.
He thinks for a moment. "Where the boats go. With the lighthouse." Okaaay. Two syllables, sounds like ...
"Harbor?" I query.
"Yeah, he goes to Harbard." Hello, I can totally do Boston, especially with the shuttle. We could alternate weekends ... Jesus! EARTH TO NANNY, COME IN, NANNY.'
"Okay, Grayer, let's get you in the tub." I heave him over the edge, letting go of my Harvard Hottie for the moment. ."Grayer, do you have a nickname?"
"What's a nickname?"
"A name that people call you that isn't Grayer."
"My name is Grayer X. That's my name."
"Well, let's think of one." I pop him in the tub and pass him his organic peanut butter and quince jelly sandwich. He wiggles his toes in the water as he munches the sandwich and I can tell it feels fabulously unorthodox to him. I look around the bathroom and my eyes land on his blue Sesame Street toothbrush.
"What about Graver?" I ask.
He mulls it over, his head cocked to one side, his Serious Thinking Face on, then nods. "We'll try it."
Lord, haw my head aches! What a head have I! My back a t'other side-ah, my back, my back! Beshrew your heart for sending me about To catch my death with jaunting up and down!
OK
