
The Nanny Diaries
ByEmma McLaughlin andNicolaKraus
TheInterview
Every season of my nanny career kicked off with a round of interviews so surreally similar that I'd often wonder if the mothers were slipped a secret manual at the Parents League to guide them through. This initial encounter became as repetitive as religious ritual, tempting me, in the moment before the frontdoor swungopen,either tokneelandgenuflector say, "Hit it!"
No other event epitomized the job as perfectly, and it always began and ended in an elevator nicer than most NewYorkers'apartments.
Thewalnut-paneledcar slowlypulls me up,like a bucketin a well, toward potential solvency.As I near the appointed floor I take a deep breath; the door slides open onto a small vestibule which is the portal to, at most, two apartments. I press the doorbell. Nanny Fact: she always waits for me to ring the doorbell, even though she was buzzed by maximum security downstairs to warn of my imminent arrival and is probably standing on the other side of the door. May, in fact, have been standing there sincewe spokeonthetelephonethreedays ago.
The dark vestibule, wallpapered in some gloomy Colefax and Fowler floral, always contains a brass umbrella stand, a horse print, and a mirror, wherein I do one last swift check of my appearance. I seem tohavegrownstains onmyskirtduring thetrainridefrom school,butotherwise I'm pulledtogether. win set,floralskirt,andsomeGucci-knockoffsandalsI boughtintheVillage.
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She is always tiny. Her hair is always straight and thin; she always seems to be inhaling and never exhaling.Sheisalways wearing expensivekhaki pants, Chanelballet flats, a FrenchstripedT-shirt, and a white cardigan. Possibly some discreet pearls. In seven years and umpteen interviews the I'm-mom!casual-in-my-khakis-but-intimidating-in-my-$400'shoes outfit never changes. And it is simply impossible to imagine her doing anything so undignified as what was required to get her pregnant in thefirstplace.
Her eyes go directly to the splot on my skirt. I blush. I haven't even opened my mouth and already I'm behind.
She ushers me into the front hall, an open space with a gleaming marble floor and mushroom-gray walls. In themiddle is a roundtablewith a vase of flowers thatlookas if they mightdie, but never dare wilt.
This is my first impression of the Apartment and it strikes me like a hotel suite. mmaculate, but impersonal. Even the lone finger painting I will later find taped to the fridge looks as if it were ordered from a catalog.(Sub-Zeros with acustom-colored panelaren't magnetized.)
She offers to take my cardigan, stares disdainfully at the hair my cat seems to have rubbed on it for goodluck,andoffersme a drink.I'm supposedto say, "Waterwouldbelovely,"butam oftentemptedto ask for a Scotch, just to see what she'd do. I am then invited into the living room, which varies from baronial splendor to EthanAlien interchangeable, depending on how "old" the money is. She gestures me to the couch, where I promptly sink three feet into the cushions, transformed into a fiveyear-old dwarfed by mountainsof chintz. Shelooms above me, ramrod straightin a very uncomfortable-looking chair,legscrossed,tightsmile.
Now we begin the actual Interview. I awkwardly place my sweating glass of water carefully on a coaster that looks as if it could use a coaster. She is clearly reeling with pleasure at my sheer Caucasianness.
"So,"shebeginsbrightly, "how didyou come totheParentsLeague?"
This is the only part of the Interview that resembles a professional exchange. We will dance around certain words, such as "nanny" and "child care," because they would be distasteful and we will never, ever, actually acknowledgethat we are talking about my working for her. This is the Holy Covenant of the Mother/Nanny relationship: this is a pleasure. ot a job. We are merely "getting to know each other," much as how I imagine a John and a call girl must make the deal, while trying not to kill the mood.
The closest we get to the possibility that I might actually be doing this for money is the topic of my baby-sitting experience, which I describe as a passionate hobby,much like raising Seeing Eye dogs for theblind.As theconversation progresses I become a childdevelopment expert. onvincing bothof us of my desire to fulfill my very soul by raising a child and taking part in all stages of his/her development; a simple trip to the park or museum becoming a precious journey of the heart. I cite amusing anecdotes from past gigs, referring to the children by name?I still marvel at the cognitive growth of Constance with each hour we spent together in the sandbox." I feel my eyes twinkle and imagine twirling my umbrella a la Mary Poppins. We both sit in silence for a moment picturing my studioapartmentcrowdedwith framedfinger paintings andmydoctorates from Stanford.
She stares at me expectantly, ready for me to bring it on home. "I love children] I love little hands and little shoes and peanut butter sandwiches and peanut butter in my hair and Elmo. love Elmo?and sand in my purse and the "Hokey Pokey". an't get enough of it!. nd soy milk and blankies and the endless barrage of questions no one knows the answers to, I mean why is the sky blue? And Disney! Disneyismysecondlanguage!"
We canbothhear "AWholeNewWorld"slowlyswelling inthe
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background as I earnestly convey that it would be more than a privilege to take care of her child. t wouldbeanadventure.
She is flushed, but still playing it close to the chest. Now she wants to know why, if I'm so fabulous, I would want to take care of her child. I mean, she gave birth to it and she doesn't want to do it, so why would I? Am I trying to pay off an abortion? Fund a leftist group? How did she get this lucky? She wants to know what I study, what I plan to do in the future, what I think of private schools in Manhattan, what my parents do. I answer with as much filigree and insouciance as I can muster, trying to slightly cock my head like SnowWhite listening to the animals. She, in turn, is aiming for more of a Diane-Sawyer-pose, looking for answers which will confirm that I am not there to steal her husband, jewelry,friends,or child.Inthatorder.
Nanny Fact: in every one of my interviews, references are never checked. I am white. I speak French. Myparentsarecollegeeducated.I haveno visible piercings and havebeentoLincoln Centerinthelast twomonths. I'm hired.
She stands with newfound hope. "Let me show you around ..."Although we have already met, it's time
for theApartment to playits role tofull effect.As we pass througheachroomit seems tofluff itself and shimmy to add shine to the already blinding surfaces. Touring is what this Apartment was born for. Each enormous room leads to the next with a few minihallways just big enough for a framed original so-and-so.
Nomatter if shehasaninfantor ateenager. hereisnever atraceof achildtobefoundontheTour. In fact, there's never a trace of anyone. ot a single family picture displayed. I'll find out later that these are all discreetlytuckedintosterlingTiffanyframesandclusteredartfully in acornerof theden.
Somehow the absenceof a pair of strewn shoesor an openedenvelope makes it hardto believe thatthe sceneI am beingledthroughisthree-dimensional; itseems like aPotemkin apartment. I
consequentlyfeel ungainly andunsure of how todemonstrate the appropriateawe thatis expectedfrom me,withoutsaying, "Yes'm, it's awl soawflyluverly,shoreis,"in a thickcockneyaccentandcurtsying.
Luckily she is in perpetual motion and the opportunity does not present itself. She glides silently ahead of me and I am struck by how tiny her frame seems against the dense furnishings. I stare at her back as shemoves fromroomtoroom,stoppingonlybrieflyineachtowaveherhandaroundin acircleandsay theroom's name,towhichI nodtoconfirmthatthis is,infact,thediningroom.
Two pieces of information are meant to be conveyed to me during the Tour: (1) I am out of my league, and (2) I will be policing at maximum security to ensure that her child, who is also out of his or her league, does not scuff, snag, spill, or spoil a single element of this apartment. The coded script for this exchange goes as follows: she turns around to "mention" that there really is no housekeeping involved and that Hutchison really "prefers" to play in his room. If there were any justice in the world this is the point when all nannies should be given roadblocks and a stun gun.These rooms are destined to become the burden of my existence. From this point on, ninety-five percent of this apartment will be nothing more than a blurred background for chasing, enticing, and point-blank pleading with the child to "Put theDelftmilkmaid down!!" I am alsoabouttobecomeintimatewith moretypesof cleaningfluidthanI knew there were types of dirt. It will be in her pantry. tocked high above the washer-dryer. hat I discover peopleactually importtoiletbowlcleanser fromEurope.
We arrive inthekitchen.It isenormous.With a fewpartitions itcouldeasilyhouse a familyof four. She stops to rest one manicured hand on the counter, affecting a familiar pose, like a captain at the helm about to address the crew. However, I know if I asked her where she keeps the flour, a half hour of rummaging throughunusedbakingutensils wouldensue.
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NannyFact: shemaypouranawfullotof Perrier inthis kitchen,butshenever actuallyeatshere. Infact,
over the course of the job I never see her eat anything. While she can't tell me where to find the flour, shecanprobablylocatethelaxatives inhermedicinecabinetblindfolded.
The refrigerator is always bursting with tons of meticulously chopped fresh fruit separated into Tupperware bowls and at least two packs of fresh cheese tortellini that her child prefers without sauce. (Meaning there is never any in the house for me, either.) There is also the requisite organic milk, a deserted bottle of Lillet, and Sarabeth's jam, and lots of refrigerated ginkgo biloba ("for Daddy's memory"). The freezer is stocked with Mommy's dirty little secret: chicken nuggets and popsicles.As I peer into the fridge I see that food is for the child; condiments are for the grown-ups. One pictures a family meal in which parents meekly stick toothpicks into a jar of Grace's sundried tomatoes while childgorgeson a feastof freshfruitandfrozendinners.
"Brandford's meals are really quite simple," she says, gesturing to the frozen food as she closes the freezer door. Translation: they are able to feed him this crap in good conscience on the weekends because I will be cooking him four-course macrobiotic meals on the weeknights. There will be a day to come when I stare at the colorful packages in the freezer with raw envy as I resteam the wild rice from CostaRicaforthefour-year-old's maximumdigestive ease.
She swings open the pantry (which is big enough to be a summer home for the family of four who could live in the kitchen) to reveal an Armageddon-ready level of storage, as if the city were in perpetual danger of being looted by a roving band of insanely health-conscious fiveyear-olds. It is overflowing with every type of juice box, soy milk, rice milk, organic pretzel, organic granola bar, and organic raisin the consulted nutritionist could think up. The only item with additives is a shelf of Goldfishoptions, includinglow saltandthenot-so-popularonion.
There isn't a single trace of food in the entire kitchen big enough to fill a grown-up hand. Despite the myth of "help yourself," it will take a few starving evenings of raisin dinners before I discover THE TOP SHELF, which appears to be trip wired and covered with dust, but contains the much-coveted gourmet housegifts thathave beenleftfor deadby women who seechocolateas a grenadein Pandora's box. Barneys' raisinettes, truffles from Saks, fudge from Martha's Vineyard, all of which I devour like crack-cocaine in the bathroom to avoid the crime being recorded by a possible security camera. I picture the footage being played on Hard Copy: "Nanny caught in the act. eady with delusions of entitlement. reakscellophanewrapperon '92 EasterGodivas."
It is at this point that she begins the Rules. This is a very pleasing portion of the event for any mother because it is "a chance to demonstrate how much thought and effort has gone into bringing the child this far. Shespeakswith a raremixtureof animation, confidence,andawesome conviction. heknows this much is true. I, inturn, adoptmymost eager,yet compassionate expressionasif tosay "Yes, please tell me more.'m fascinated" and "How awful it must be for you to have a child allergic to air." So beginstheList:
Allergictodairy.
Allergictopeanuts.
Allergictostrawberries.
Allergictopropane-basedshellac.
Some kindof grain.
Won't eatblueberries.
Will onlyeatblueberries. liced.
Sandwichesmust becut horizontallyandhavecrusts.
Sandwichesmust becut inquarters andhaveNOcrusts.
Sandwichesmust bemadefacingeast.
Shelovesricemilk!
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Hewon't eatanythingstartingwith theletterM.
All servingsaretobepre-measured. O additionalfoodis
permissible.Alljuiceistobewatereddownanddrunkoutof a sip glass over
thesinkor inthebathtub(preferablyuntilthechildis
eighteen).Allfoodistobeservedon a plasticplacematwithpapertowel
beneathbowl,bib onat all times.Actually, "if you couldgetLucien nakedbeforeeating andthen
hose her down afterward, that would be perfect." NO food or drink within two hours of bedtime. NO additives. NOpreservatives. NOpumpkin seeds. NOskins of anykind.NOraw food.NOcookedfood. NOAmericanfood.
and . . . (voicedropsto apitchonlywhalescanhear)NOFOODOUTSIDETHEKITCHEN/
I am nodding gravely in agreement. This makes total sense. "Oh, my God, of course," I find myself saying.
Thisis PhaseI of bringingme intothefold,of creatingtheillusionof collusion. "We're inthis together! Little Elspethisourjointproject!Andwe're goingtofeedhernothingbutmungbeans!" I feelasif I am nine months pregnant and just finding out my husband plans to raise the child in a cult. Yet I am somehow flattered that I am being chosen to participate in this project. Completion Phase II: I am succumbingtotheallureof perfection.
Thetourproceedstothefarthestpossibleroom. Thedistanceof
the child's room from the parents' room always runs the gamut from far away to really, really far away. In fact, if there is another floor this room will be on it. One has the image of the poor threeyear-old awakening from a nightmare and having to don a pith helmet and flashlight to go in search of her parents'room, armedonly with a compass andfiercedetermination.
The other telltale sign that one is moving into the Child Zone is the change in the decor from muted, faux Asian to either a Mondrian scheme of primary colors or Bonpoint, Kennedy pastels. Either way Martha has been here. ersonally. But the effect is oddly disquieting; it's so obviously an adult's conception of a child's room, as evidenced by the fact that all the signed first edition Babar prints are hungatleastthreefeetabovethechild's head.
After having received the Rules I am braced to meet the boy in the bubble. I expect to see a full-out intensive care unit complete with a Louis Vuitton IV hookup. Imagine my shock at the ball of motion that comes hurtling across the room at us. If it's a boy the movement is reminiscent of the Tasmanian Devil, while a girl tends toward a full-tilt Mouseketeers sequence, complete with two pirouettes and a grandjete.Thechildis sentintothisroutinebysomePavlovian responsetothemother's perfume asshe roundsthecorner.Theencounterproceedsasfollows:(1) Child (groomedwithinaninchof his/herlife) makes a beeline directly for mother's leg. (2)At the precise moment the child's hands wrap around her thigh the mother swiftly grabs the child's wrists. (3) And she simultaneously sidesteps out of the embrace, bringing the child's hands into a clappingposition in frontof thechild's face,and bends down to say hello, turning the child's gaze to me. Voila. And thus the first of many performances of what I like to call the "Spatula Reflex." It has such timing and grace that I feel as if I should applaud, but insteadmove directlyintomyPavlovian responsesetoffbytheirexpectantfaces. I drop tomyknees.
"Whydon't you twogettoknoweachother a little ..."Thisis THE NANNY DIARIES
the cue for the PlayWith-Child portion of the audition. Despite the fact that we all know the child's opinion is irrelevant I nevertheless become psychotically animated. I play as if I'm Christmas and then some until the child has been whipped into a foaming frenzy of interaction, with theadded stimulant of a rare audience with mother. The child has been trained in the Montessori approach to fun. nly one toy is pulled from its walnut cubicle at a time. I over-compensate for the lack of normal childhood chaos by turning into a chorus of voices, dance steps, and an in-depth understanding of Pokemon. Within moments the child is asking me to go to the zoo, sleep over, and move in. This is the mother's cue to break in from where she has been sitting with her mental clipboard and Olympic score cards on the edgeof thechild's bed toannouncethatit is "Time to saygoodbye toNanny. Won't it be funto play with Nannyagain?"
The housekeeper, who has been folded into a child-size rocking chair in the corner this entire time, offers up a dejected storybook, making a meek attempt to match my display of fireworks and delay the inevitable crash.Within secondsthere is a replayof a slightly more sophisticated version of theSpatula Reflex,this time encompassing amaneuvering of both motherandmyself outside theroom,punctuated by a slammed door, all in one seamless motion. She runs her hands through her hair as she leads me backintothesilenceof theapartmentwith along,breathy "Well..."
She hands me my purse and then I stand with her in the foyer for at least half an hour, waiting to be dismissed.
"So, do you have a boyfriend?" This is the cue for the PlayWith-Mother portion of the audition. She is in for the night. here is no mention of a husband's imminent arrival or plans for dinner. I hear about her pregnancy, Lotte Berk, the last Parents' Night meeting, the pain-in-the-ass housekeeper (left for deadintheChildZone),thewilydecorator,thestringof nannydisasters beforeme,
andthenurseryschoolnightmare. Completion PhaseIII: I am actually excitedthatI am notonlygetting a delightfulchildtoplaywith,I'm getting anewbestfriend!
Not to be outdone, I hear myself talking. rying to establish my status as a person of the world; I name-drop, brand-drop, place-drop. Then self-consciously deprecate myself with humor so as not to intimidate her. I become aware that I am talking way, way too much. I am babbling about why I left Brown,whyI leftmylastrelationship. otthatI'm aleaver no,no,no! I picksomething, I stickwith it! Yessiree! Did I tell you about my thesis? I am revealing information that will be dragged up repeatedly for months in awkward attempts to make conversation. Soon I am just bobbing my head and saying "Okay-ay!" while blindly groping for the doorknob. FinaRyshe thanks me for coming, opens the door, andletsmepress fortheelevator.
I am caughtmid-sentenceastheelevator doorstartstoclose,forcingme toshovemybaginfrontof the electronic eye so I can finish a meaningful thought on my parents' marriage. We smile and nod at one another like animatrons until the door mercifully slides closed. I collapse against it, exhaling for the firsttime inanhour.
Minuteslater thesubwaybarrels downLexington,propellingmetowardschoolandbacktothegrindof myown life. I slump against theplastic seat,imagesfromthepristine apartmentswimming inmyhead. Thesesnapshotsare sooninterruptedby a man or woman. ometimes both. hufflingthroughthecar begging for change while gripping their worldly possessions in a shredded shopping bag. Pulling my backpackup ontomylap,mypostperformance adrenalinelevelingout,questionsbegintopercolate.
Just how does an intelligent, adult woman become someone whose whole sterile kingdom has been
reduced to alphabetized lingerie drawers and imported French dairy substitutes? Where is the child in
thishome?Whereis thewoman inthismother?
Andhow,exactly, am I tofitin?
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Ultimately, there would come a turning point in every job when it seemed that the child and I were the
only three-dimensional people running around on the blackand-white marble chessboards of those
apartments. Makingitinevitablethatsomeonewouldgetknockeddown.
Lookingback,itwas asetup tobeginwith.Theywantyou.You wantthejob.
Buttodoit wellis toloseit.
Hitit.
Then, with a long, loud sniff,thatseemed to indicatethatshe had made up her mind, shesaid:"l'U. take
theposition."
"For all theworld,"asMrs. Bankssaidtoher husbandlater, "asthoughshewere doingusanhonour."
. ARYPOPP1NS
"Hi, this isAlexis atthe Parents League. I'm just calling to follow up on theuniform 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"offher listof threeitems.
She returns her attention to me. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting. With the school year starting we're just
crazed."Shedraws a bigcirclearoundtheseconditemonherlist, "papertowels." "CanI help you?" "I'm here to put up an ad for a nanny, but the bulletin board seems to have moved," I say, slightly confusedasI've beenadvertising heresinceI wasthirteen.
"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 thecentral room, where mothers perch at Knoll desks fielding inquiriesaboutthePrivate Schools. Beforemesitsthefull
THE NANNY DIARIES range of Upper East Side diversity. alf of the women are dressed in Chanel suits and Manolo Blahniks, half arein six-hundred-dollarbarnjackets,lookingasif theymightbe askedtopitch anAqua Scutumtentatanymoment.
Alexis gestures to the bulletin board, which has displaced a MaryCassattproppedagainst 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 sonatBuckley?You looksofamiliar. I'mAlexis?
"Hi,"I say. "I'm Nan.Actually,I tookcareof theOleasongirls. I thinktheylived nextdoor-toyou."
She arches an eyebrow to give me a once-over. "Oh...Oh, Nanny, that's right," sheconfirms for herself, beforeretreatingbacktoherdesk.
I tune out the officious, creamy chatter of the women behind me to read the postings put up by other nanniesalsoinsearchof employment.
Babysitter needchildren
verylikekids
vacuums
I lookyour kids
Manyyearswork
You callme
The bulletin board is already so overcrowded with flyers that, with a twinge of guilt, I end up tacking myadover someone else's pink paper festoonedwith crayon flowers, but spend a few minutesensuring thatI'm onlycoveringdaisies andnoneof her pertinentinformation.
I wish I could tell these women that the secret to nanny advertising isn't the decoration, it's the punctuation. t's all in the exclamation mark. While my ad is a minimalist three-by-five card, without so muchas a smiley faceon it, I liberally sprinklemy advertisement with exclamations, ending eachof mydesirabletraitswith thepromise of a beamingsmile andunflaggingpositivity.
NannyattheReady! ChapinSchoolalumna available weekdayspart-time!
Excellentreferences!Child DevelopmentMajoratNYU!
TheonlythingI don't haveis anumbrellathatmakesme fly.
I do one last quick check for spelling, zip up my backpack, bidAlexis adieu, and jog down the marble stepsoutintotheswelteringheat.
As I walk down ParkAvenue theAugust 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. lankies and bears are tucked intobackstroller pockets. I chuckletomyself atthechild who waves awaytheofferof a juicebox 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. ooms androoms androoms.Andtheyareempty. Therearepowderrooms anddressingrooms andpiano rooms and guest rooms and, somewhere above me, but I won't say where, a rabbit named Arthur has sixteenfeetsquareall tohimself.
I cut across Seventy-second Street, passing under the shade of the blue awnings of the Polo mansion, andturnintoCentral Park.
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Pausinginfrontof theplayground,where a fewtenaciouschildrenaretryingtheir bestdespitetheheat,
I reachinmybackpackfor a small bottle of water. ustassomethingcrashesintomylegs. I lookdown
andsteadytheoffendingobject,anold-fashionedwoodenhoop.
"Hey, that's mine!" A small boy of about four or so careens down the hill from where I see he's been posingfor aportrait withhis parents. His sailorhattopplesoffintothepatchygrass asheruns.
"That's myhoop,"heannounces.
"Are yousure?" I ask.Helooksperplexed. "It couldbe awagonwheel."I holdit sideways. "Or a halo?"
I holditabovehis blondhead. "Or a reallylargepizza?" I holditouttohim,gesturingthathecantake it.
He's smilingbroadly atme ashegraspsitinhis hands.
"You, silly!" Hedrags itbackupthehill, passinghis motherasshestrolls downtoretrievethehat.
"I'm sorry," she says, brushing dust off the striped brim as she approaches me. "I hope he didn't bother
you."Sheholdsherhandout toblockthesunfromher paleblueeyes.
"No,notatall."
"Oh,butyourskirt? Sheglancesdown.
"No bigdeal," I laugh,dustingoffthemarkthehoopleftonthefabric. "I workwith kids, soI'm usedto
beingbangedup."
"Oh, you do?" She angles her body so her back is to her husband and a blond woman who stands off to
thesideof thephotographerholding a juiceboxforthe boy. His nanny,I presume. "Aroundhere?"
"Actually,thefamily moved toLondonover thesummer,so?
"We're ready!" thefathercalls 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 wouldbegreat,becauseI have afull courseloadthissemester?
19
"What's thebest waytoreachyou?"
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, beforeadjustingtheheadbandinher long,darkhair.
"Wonderful." She smiles graciously. "Well, it was a pleasure to meet you. I'll be in touch." She takes a fewstepsup thehill andthenturnsaround. "Oh,howsillyof me.'m Mrs. X."
1 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,standssquarelyinthemiddle,hishandontheboy's head,assheslidesinbesidethem.
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 myway across thepark.
My grandmother greets me in her entryway in a linen Mao Tse-tung outfit and pearls. "Darling! Come in. 1 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 buffetof amenities.
"Maybe just acoldwashcloth?"
"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 howthe small lights of theantique 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 wouldleadwith all of mylovely Frenchguests.
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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 cooldownimmediately.
"Haveyoueaten?" sheasks.
"I hadbreakfast."
"Whataboutlunch?"
"It's onlyeleven, Gran."
"Is it? I've beenup since four.ThankGodforEuropeor I'd havenoonetotalkto till eight."
I smile. "Howhaveyoubeen?"
"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. had it done atArden's this morning?what do youthink?Tootoo?" Shewigglesher coraltoes.
"Gorgeous,very sexy. Okay,asmuchasI wouldlovetospendtherestof thedayinhereI've gottodrag myself downtown and make my offering to the Tuition Gods." I turn off the sink and shake my hands dramatically over thebasin.
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 staffatNYU.
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,SocialSecuritynumber,proof of myaddress,therightforms, orsimply don't exist."
"My, my, my." Sheopensthefridge. "Bourbon?"
"Orangejuicewouldbegreat."
"Kids." She rolls her eyes and points me to her old air conditioner sitting on the floor. "Darling, let me
getthedoormantohelpyoucarryit."
"No, Gran, I got it," I say, trying valiantly to heave the machine into my arms before slamming it back downonthetile. "Yeah,okay,I thinkI'm goingtohavetocome backlaterwith Joshandgetthis." "Joshua?" she asks with a raised eyebrow. "Your little blue-haired friend? He weighs five pounds
soakingwet."
"Well, unlesswe wantDadthrowinghis backoutagain,that'sabout all I havetochoosefromintheboy department." "I chant for you every morning,darling," shesays, reachingfor a glass. "Come on. Let me whip you up
someEggsBenedict."
I glanceup at theold Nelson wall clock. "I wish I hadtime, but I've gotta get downtown before the line attheregistrarisaroundtheblock." She gives me a kiss on both cheeks. "Well, then bring that Joshua by at seven and I'll feed you both a
propermeal. ou're disappearing!"
Joshgroansandrollsslowlyontohis backfromwherehehasnearly
blacked out after dropping the air conditioner outside my front door. "You lied to me," he wheezes.
"You saiditwasonthethirdfloor." "Yeah?" I say, shakingoutmylowerarms whileleaningback
againstthetop stair.
Helifts hisheadaninchoffthefloor. "Nan,thatwassix flights.
Twoflights afloor,whichmakesthistechnically,like,thesixth
floor."
"You helpedmemove outof thedorm?
"Yeah,whywasthat? Oh,right,becauseithasanel-e-va-tor."
"Well, thegoodnews isthatI'm notplanningonmovingout of
here, ever. Thisis it. You canvisit meup herewhenwe're oldand gray."I wipethesweatoffmyforehead. THE NANNY DIARIES "Forget it.'ll be hanging out on your front stoop with the rest of the blue hairs." He drops his head
backdown.
"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
scorchingair blowpast usintothehallway.
"Charlenemust haveclosedthewindowsbeforesheleftthismorning,"I say.
"And left the oven on," he adds, stepping behind me into the tiny entryway that also does double duty
as akitchen.
"Welcome to myfully equippedcloset. Can I toast you a bagel?" I drop mykeys next to thetwo-burner
stove.
"Whatare youpayingforthisplace?" heasks.
"You don't wanttoknow,"I say, aswepushtheair conditioneracrosstheroomtogetherinlittleshoves.
"So,where's thehotroommate?" heasks.
"Josh,not all stewardessesarehot. Somearethematronlytype."
"Is she?" Hestops.
"Don't stop." We resume pushing. "No. he'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!"Joshcries outingreetingtomycat,who's sprawledoutonthewarmwoodenfloorindespair.
He lifts his gray, furry head half an inch and meows plaintively. Josh straightens up and wipes his
foreheadwith thebottomof his Mr. BubbleT-shirt. "Wheredoyouwantthissucker?"
I pointtothetopof thewindow.
"What?You a crazylady."
"It's a trickI learnedontheAvenue, 'so asnotto interferewith theview.'Thosewithoutcentral air goto
greatlengthstohideit, darling,"I explainasI kickoffmysandals.
"Whatview?"
"If yousmooshyourfaceagainst thewindowandlookleftyoucanseetheriver."
"Hey, you're right." He pulls back from the glass. "Listen?this whole Josh-heaving-heavy-machinery!
up-to-balance-on-sheetof-glass-thing,notgonnahappen,Nan.I'm getting a beer. Comeon, George." Heheadsbackto the "kitchen"and Georgestretchesup tofollow him. I usethemoment aloneto grab a clean tank top out of an open box and pull off mysweatyone.As I crouchbehind theboxes to change I catch sight of the red light from my answering machine blinking in a frenzy from the floor. The word "full" glaresup atme.
"Runningthat900 numberagain?" Joshreachesover theboxtohandme aCorona.
"Practically. I put my ad up for a new position today and the mummies are restless." 1 take a swig of mybeerandslidedownbetweentheboxestohit 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 wantyoutoknowthatI'm veryinvolved."
"Well, that'sjustobvious, Mimi," Joshsays, slidingdowntojoinme.
"HithisisAnnSmithl'mlookingforsomeonetowatchmyfiveyearold!sonhe'snotroublereallyandwerunaveryrelaxedhousehold?
"Ouch."Joshputshis handsuptoshieldhimself andI forwardtothenextmessage.
"Hi. I'm Betty Potter. I saw your ad at the Parents League. I have a fiveyear-old girl, Stanton, a three!
yearold boy, Tinford, a ten-month-old, Jace,andI'm lookingforsomeonewhocanhelp me,
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sinceI'm pregnantagain.Nowyoudidn't mentionyourfeeinthead,butI've beenpaying six."
"SixAmericandollars?" I askthemachine,incredulously.
"Hey, Betty, I know a crack-whore down in Washington Square Park who'd do it for a quarter." Josh
swigshis 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
moreaboutthetypeof job you're looking for. We have a girl. aitlin. ut she's lookingtocuther hours
andyoumadequiteanimpressiononour son,Grayer. Lookforwardtotalkingtoyou.Bye."
"She soundsnormal. Call her."
"You think?" I ask as the phone rings, making us both jump. I pick up the receiver. "Hello," I say in
instantnannymode,tryingtoconveyutmost respectabilitywith twosyllables.
"Hello". y mothermatchesmydeep,fancytone?how'dtheair-conditioner mission turnout?"
"Hey."I relax. "Fine?
"Wait, hold on." I hear a scuffle. "I have to keep moving Sophie. he'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. nd now she's sitting on all the research forthegrant."
I take a sip of beer. "How's thatcoming?"
"Ugh, it's toodepressing. ell me something cheerful." Since the Republicanstook office mymother's CoalitionforWomen's Sheltersgets evenlessmoneythanitusedto.
"I gotsomefunnymessagesfrommummies-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 atthreeinthemorningworrying if thelittle princesshas tapdancingor a jamsessionwith the DalaiLama?
"Mom. Mommm. haven't eveninterviewedyet. Besides,I'm
notgoingtobeworkingasmanyhoursthisyear,becauseI havemythesis."
"Exactly!That's exactly it. You have your thesis, just like last yearyou hadyour internship and theyear before that you had your field study. I don't understand why you won't even consider an academic job. You shouldask yourthesisprofessor if youcanassist him. Oryoucouldworkintheresearchlibrary!"
"We have been over this a million times." I roll my eyes at Josh. "Those jobs are so competitive. r. Clarkson has a graduate student on full fellowship assisting him. Besides, they only pay six dollars an hour. efore taxes. Mom, nothing I do with my clothes on is going to pay this well until I get my degree."Joshshimmies andpulls offanimaginarybra.
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 payingforutilities. "DoI havetogive youtheRealEstateTalk 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 paycheck." She can't imagine that one would ever wake at threeA.M. in a cold sweat, wondering if the shipment of oil-free toner had remembered to put on its Nighttime Pull-Ups.
"Mom, I enjoyworkingwith kids. Look,it's toohottoargue."
"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 sheranofftoCannes."
And I do think about it, while Josh and I listen to all the messages again trying to find the mother who soundsleastlikelytodojustthat.
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ThefollowingMondayonmywaytomeetMrs. XI make a quickstop atmyfavoritestationerystoreto 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-skinnedwoman,whonodsemphatically backatthem.
"Baa-llleeeet? Do-you-un-der-stand!" the woman next to me rudely shouts to her nodding companion aswewait forthelighttochange. "OnMondaysJosephinahasBaaaaaa-lleeeeeeet!"
I smile sympathetically at the uniformed woman to show solidarity. No bones about it, training just plainsucks.Anditsuckssignificantlyharder,dependingonwho you're workingfor.
Thereare essentially threetypes of nannygigs. TypeA, I provide "couple time" a few nights a weekfor people who work all day and parent most nights. Type B, I provide "sanity time" a few afternoons a weekto a woman who mothersmost days andnights. Type C,I'm broughtinasone of a cast of manyto collectively provide twenty-four/seven "me time" to a woman who neither works nor mothers.And her days remain a mysterytousall.
"Theagencysaidyoucancook.Canyou? Cook?" aPucci-cladmotherinterrogatesonthenextcorner.
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 sobsfor,atmost,fifteenminutes,andbeforeyouknowitwe're bondingover Play-Doh.
TheType B mother may not work in an office, but she logs enough hours with her child to recognize it forthejob itisand,fol!
lowinganafternoonof hangingaroundtheapartmenttogether,her kidsare all minefortheseconddate.
"Nowthedrycleaner's number isonthereandthefloristandthecaterer."
"Whataboutthedoctorforthechildren?" theMexicanwoman nexttomeasks quietly.
"Oh. I'll getyouthatnextweek."
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 totakethelongestpossibleroutetogettinginsync.
I pushopentheheavyglassdoorof thepatisserieandseeMrs. Xalreadyseated,goingover her ownlist.
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. Wouldyoulikesomecoffee?"
"That sounds perfect, thank you," I say, taking a seat with my back to the wood-paneled wall and smoothingthedamasknapkinontomylap.
"Waiter,anothercafeau laitandcouldyoubringus abreadbasket?"
"Oh,youdon't needtodothat," I say.
"Oh, no, it's the best. That way you can pick what you want." The waiter brings over a Pierre Deux basketbrimming with breadsandlittlejarsof jam. I helpmyself to a brioche.
"They have the best pastry here," she says, taking a croissant. "Which reminds me, I prefer that Grayer
stayawayfromrefinedflour."
"Of course,"I mumble,mouthfull.
"Didyouhave aniceweekend?"
I quicklyswallow. "Sarah. y bestfriendfromChapin. ada
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little farewell party last night before everyone goes back to school. Now it's just me and the California
people. hohaveoff till October! Tell Grayer togotoStanford,"I laugh.
Shesmiles.
"So,why'd youtransferfromBrown?" sheasks,pulling oneclawoffhercroissant.
"They had a stronger child development program at NYU," I reply, trying to tread lightly here, in case
I'm talkingto a steadfastBrownalum, choosingnottomentionthehumanexcrement intheloungenext
tomyroom, oranyother of themyriad of charminganecdotesI couldshare.
"I reallywantedtogotoBrown,"shesays.
"Oh?"
"But I won a scholarship to UConn." She drops the croissant to play with the diamond heart dangling
fromher necklace.
"That's great," 1 say, trying toimagine a time whenshewouldhaveneeded ascholarship todoanything.
"Well, I'm fromConnecticut,so..."
"Oh!Connecticut'sbeautiful,"I say.
She glances down at her plate. "Actually, it was New London so ... Well, after graduation I moved here
torunGagosian. heartgallery."Shesmiles again.
"Wow. hatmust havebeenamazing."
"It was a lot of fun," she says, nodding, "but you can't really do it when you have a child. t's a full-
time life,parties, trips, a lotof shmoozing, a lotof latenights?
A woman in dark Jackie O sunglasses accidentally bumps our table as she passes, causing the china
saucerstoteeterprecariouslyonthemarble.
"Binky?" Mrs. X asks,reachinguptotouchthewoman's arm asI steadythecups.
"Oh, my God. Hi, I didn't even see you there,"the woman says, lowering her dark glasses. Her eyes are
swollen anddamp fromcry!ing. "I'm sorryI couldn't come toGrayer's birthdayparty. Consuelasaidit wasfabulous."
"I've beenmeaningtocall," Mrs. Xsays. "Is thereanythingI cando?"
"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. hat'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 togetmyfacialsatBabyGap?"
"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."
"Noneof themdo,"Mrs. Xsays,tappingher listforemphasis,while I stareintentlyatmybrioche.
"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. onsuela 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 placeand,with anair kiss, disappearsthroughthecrowdawaitingtables.
"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 seeus together and get the sensethatI'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 lunchinthepark andyet not overwhelmhim. Then
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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 transitionwith heratthis point."
"Of course,"I say, trying toabsorb itall, thebrioches,thebriefing,Binky. "Thankyouforbreakfast."
"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.'m sure he gets tired of boring old Mom!"
"Grayer seemsgreat," I say, recallinghis giggles inthepark.
"Well, hehashis littlethings,likeanykid,I suppose."
I gather my bag, glancing down and noticing her lavender silk heels for the first time. "God, those are beautiful!AretheyPrada?" Iask, recognizingthesilver 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, followingher outof thecafe.
"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 justgottenusedtowearingflats."
"No,they're great.You shoulddefinitely keepthem."
Shesmiles, delighted,assheslidesonhersunglasses.
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 andplump, dimpledhandsshelooksmuchlike afour-year-oldherself.
"Hi,Grayer!" I say, smilingdownatthetop of his blondhead.He's wearing a littlewhite oxfordbutton!down Poloshirt, untuckedon oneside, containingthe evidence of a morninghard atwork: finger paint, whatlookslikeglue,andonelonemacaroni. "Howwasschooltoday?"
"Grayer, you remember Nanny? You two are going to have lunch at the playground!" his mother prompts him.
Heslumpsagainsther legandglares atme. "Go away."
"Honey, we can have snack together, but Mommy has an appointment.You two are going to have such a goodtime!Nowhop inyourstroller andNannywill give yousnack."
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. elikes todothat.Andpleasekeephimawayfromthedrinkingfountainbytheclock."
"Urn, what should I do if he needs to use the bathroom? Where should he go?" I ask as we pass under thedustywoodenarchesof theSixty-sixth Streetplayground.
"Oh,anywhere."
I'm justabouttoaskfor a littleclarification onthepeeingthingwhenher cellphonerings.
"Okay, Mommy's gotta go," she says, snapping her Startac closed. Her departure is like the suicide drills from gym class. very 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 ather watchandwith a"NowMommy's goingtobelate" isgone.
We sit on the only empty bench in the shade, while he sniffles, and eat our sandwiches, which have some sortof vegetable spreadin themand, I think,unbologna.As he raises his sleeve towipe his nose I notice for the first time, dangling from beneath his untucked shirttails, what appears to be a business cardpinnedtohis beltloop.
I reachout. "Grayer,what'swith the?
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"Hey!" He swats my hand away. "That's my card." It's dirty and bent and has clearly been around the block afew times,butI thinkI canmakeout Mr. X's nameinfadedtype.
"Whosecardis 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
nannyasif tosay"Oh,that?That's justourtonguegame!"
Once I'm on the subway to school I pull out the blue folder, which has my pay envelope paper-clipped
inside.
MRS. X
721PARKAVENUE,APT. 9B
NEWYORK, N.Y., 10021
DearNanny,
Welcome! Theattachedis acopyofGrayer. scheduleofafter-schoolactivities. Caitlinwillshow
you theroutine, but I. sureyou. ebeentomostoftheseplacesbefore! Letmeknowifyouhave
anyquestions.
Thanks,Mrs. X
p.s. ?I. ealsoincludeda listof somepossiblefunactivities
p.p.s. I reallyprefer itif Grayer doesn. nap intheafternoons
I glanceatthescheduleandshe's right.'m aveteran of every activity onthelist. 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 astheircaregivers singnurseryrhymes in a circle.) 5-5:45: Mommy & Me,92ndStreetY onLexington (Asthenameimplies,mothersareexpectedtogo.Nevertheless, half of the groupisnannies.)
TUESDAY 4-5:00: Swimming lesson atAsphalt Green, 90th Street and East EndAvenue (One emaciated woman in aChanelswimsuit andfive nanniesinmuumuus all pleadingwith toddlersto "Getinthewater!")
WEDNESDAY 2-3:00: Physical educationatCATS,ParkAvenueat64thStreet (Deepinthebowels of acold, dankchurchthatsmells likefeet,thoroughly choreographedgamesforthepint-sized athlete.)
5-5:45: Karate,92ndStreetY onLexington
(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: Pianolessonathome with Ms. Schrade("Music" tobetorturedby.)
5-6:00: FrenchClass,AllianceFrancaise,60thStreetbetweenMadisonand
Park
(Standardafterschoolactivities conductedinanotherlanguage.)
THE NANNY DIARIESFRIDAY
1-1:40: Ice skating,The Ice Studio, Lexington between 73rd and 74th Street (Coldas fuck. nd damp.
Struggle through a thirty-minute "Changeof Terror," sharp metal blades flying everywhere, sochildren cangetoniceforfortyminutesandcome backouttochangeagain.) I will letyouknowwhenheisscheduledforthe: Optician Orthodontist Orthodicfittings Physical therapist Ayurvedic practitioner Intheeventof a class cancellationthefollowing "nonstructured"outingsare permissible: TheFrick TheMet TheGuggenheimSoho TheMorganLibrary TheFrench CulinaryInstitute TheSwedishConsulate OrchidRoomof theBotanicalGarden NewYork StockExchangeTradingFloor
TheAngelika(PreferablytheGerman Expressionistseries,butanything
with subtitleswill 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 livedin with a family whose father slipped a few hundred dollars under her door whenever his wife dranktoomuchand "caused ascene."It's like
waiting tables. oujustnever knowwhenthecustomer mightbeoverwhelmed withappreciation.
"Caitlin? Hi, I'm Nanny,"I say. Mrs. X toldme thatmycolleague is blond andAustralian, which makes her fairlyeasy topick outamid theseaof facesthathavehadworkdoneandthefacesthatare doingthe work.I recognizeherfrom theXes'photosessioninthepark.
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 alreadyin 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, butscreechesto ahaltwhenheseesme,his enthusiasmvisibly drainingoutthroughhis Keds.
"Grayer, Nanny'11 be coming to the park with us this afternoon. on'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,buthegetsover itfineoncehe's hadhis snack."
"I'm sure."
It is chaos around us aschildren are snackedand play dates are made. I'm impressed by the finessewith whichsheworksGrayer fromsnacktostrollertogood-byes. Hemaintainsscreamingconversationwith 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 takingnotes. "Righthandonstroller handle,lefthandpulldownsweater,twostepsleftandsquat."
We headtoward theparkastheychatter away. Shepropelshim
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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 yourbestfriendatschool?"I ask.
"Shut up, stupidhead," he says, kicking out at my shins. I walk the remainder of the way well outside his fieldof 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 alotof friendshere.
"So whatdoyoudoduringtheweek?" sheaskssuspiciously.
"I'm asenioratNYU,"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 takingthetrain?" ShelookspointedlyatmeasI starebackatherinconfusion.
Thenit is suddenlyclearto both of us whywe aren't meant to discuss the "transition." I'm not the pinch hitter,I'm thereplacement.A sadnessflickersover herfeatures.
I reachtochangethesubject. "So,what's with thecard?"
"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 withoutit."Sheblinks a fewtimes andthenturnsaway.
We make it full circle back to the sandbox where another family, who I assume from their matching shell suitsandoverwhelming zestforlifearetourists,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 agroup sand-castleproject.
I consider taking a playground poll as to whether I should "get out" and, if I choose not to, does this, in fact,makeme a"badwoman"?
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, butgive upwhenhelookspleadinglyintomyeyes, moaning "STOaaaooop."I walkto a bench.As I watch themplayI haveto handit to her. She has perfectedthemagic act thatis child care, creating the illusionof aneffortlessrelationship; shecouldbehis mother.
Eventually, Caitlin drags him over to me with a Frisbee in hand. "Well now,Grayer, whydon'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 himandhecatchesitandthrowsitbackto her. It seemstotakehours,thishaltingcircuit thatcomes to a full stop whenever contact is required between him and me. He simply denies thatI 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 setoursightsjust alittletoohigh.
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Three days later, just as I bend over to pick up the grubby little sneaker Grayer has hurled into the Xes' marbleentryway,thefrontdoorslamsbehindmewith a loudbang.I jerkupright,still holdinghis shoe.
"Shit."
"I heard you! You said 'Shit.' You said it!" Muffled sounds of a gleeful Grayer make their way through theheavydoor.
I steadymyvoice andreachfor a low, authoritative octave. "Grayer,openthedoor."
"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 tongueoutatme.
Okay, options. Option One, knock on crotchety-matron-acrossthe-way's door. Right, what am I going todothen?CallGrayer?Invite himover fortea?Hislittle fingerssweepoutbeneaththedoor.
"Nanny, try to catch my fingers! Do it! Do it! Come on, catch "em!" I concentrate every muscle on not steppingonthem.
Option Two, go down to the doorman and get extra keys. Right. By the time he finishes describing this toMrs. Xnoteven JoanCrawfordwouldhireme.
"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. "Goingtogetinthetub."
"GRAYER!" I scream before I catch my breath. "Don't walk away from this door. Ummm, I have a surprise out here for you." OptionThree, 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, andthedoorman 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 doormanhandsoffthepackagehe's beencarrying anddisappearsbackintotheelevator.
I holdupGrayer's shoe.
Asif for astudioaudience,Mrs. Xwhipsouther keys andproceedstoremedythesituation. "Well,then.
Let's get this door open!" She laughs and unlocks the door. But she swings it open a little too quickly andcatchesoneof Grayer's fingers.
"AHHhhhhhh.Nannybroke my hand!AAAAAHhhhhh. y hand is broke. Get out of HEERRrrreeee!
GooOOOOoooo!"Hethrowshimself ontothefloor,sobbing,lostingrief.
Mrs. X bendsdown,asif abouttoholdhim,thenstraightensup.
"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 reachcarefully inside thedoorway and put his shoe
downinexchangeformybackpack.
I clearmythroat. "Hejustthrewhis shoeandI?,
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 bereturning,butI'm sureyouhavethehangof everything bynow."
I close their door and am alone again in the now familiar vestibule. I wait for the elevator and listen to
Grayer scream. I feelasthoughthewholeworldisstickingits tongueoutatme.
"Keep yournoseoutof it,NannyDrew."Myfatherslurpsthelastdropsof his wontonsoup. "You never
know. MaybethisCaitlin hadanotherjob linedup."
"I didn't reallyget thatsense..."
"You likethekid?"
"Minusthelocking-me-outpart. eah,okay."
"So, then, you're not marrying these people. You're just working there. hat?. ifteen hours a week?"
Thewaiter places aplateof fortunecookiesbetweenusandtakesthecheck.
THE NANNY DIARIES
"Twelve." I reachfor a cookie.
"Right. Sodon't getyourknickersin a twist."
"ButwhatdoI doaboutGrayer?"
"They're always a little slow to warm up at first," he says, speaking from eighteen years of experience
asanEnglishteacher. Hegrabs acookieandtakesmyhand. "Come on,let's walkandtalk.Sophiewon't be able to keep her legs crossed much longer." We weave out of the restaurant and head over to West EndAvenue.
I putmyarm throughhis asheslipshis handsintohis blazerpockets.
"Glinda-the-Good-Witchhim," hesays,chewinghis cookiethoughtfully.
"Caretoelaborate?"
Heshootsme a look."I wasfinishingmycookie.Areyoupayingattention?"
"Yes."
"Because this is good stuff." 1 stand, waiting, with my arms crossed. "In essence, you are Glinda. You
are lightand clarity and fun. He is an inanimateobject, a toaster who happensto have a tonguehanging out. If he goes too far again.'m talking the door-locking routine, physical violence, or anything that putshimindanger. ABOOM!WickedWitchof theWest!Twopointfourseconds. ouswoopdown in front of his face and hiss that he must never do that again. ver. It is not okay. And then, before he canbataneyelash, backtoGlinda.You lethimknowhecanhavefeelings,butthatthereare boundaries.
And that you'll let him know when he has pushed too far. Trust me, he'll be relieved. Now, wait here while 1get theSophster."
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 myheadinher brownandwhitefur.
"I'll walkher,Dad."I give him a hugandtaketheleash. "It'll begoodtobearoundsomeoneunderthree feetwho doesn't talkback."
"Andwhoonlysticksouther tongueforbiologicalnecessity!" hecalls 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 againandshe's gone.
I crane my head, trying to locate the woman, to be sure if it was Caitlin. But the other side of Park Avenueisnowempty,savefor a maintenanceman polishing a brass hydrant.
"Not you!" Grayer draaaaags himself all the way across the courtyard, as if he were marching toward certaindeath.
"Hey,Grayer. Howwasschool?"
"Yucky."
"Yucky?Whatwasyuckyaboutit?" 1 unpinthehomework, pass offthejuice.
"Nothing."
"Nothingwasyucky?" Buckleinstroller,unwrappears.
"I don't wanttotalktoyou."
I kneel in front of the stroller and look him squarely in the eyes. "Look, Grayer, I know you don't like me verymuch."
"I HATEYOU!" I am light. I am clarity. I am wearing a big,pinkdress.
"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 knowyoumissCaitlin." Hefreezesatthesoundof her nameandI catchhis foot
THE NANNY DIARIES
firmly in my hand. "It's okay to miss Caitlin. Missing her shows that you love her. But being mean to
me hurts myfeelings and I knowCaitlin would never want you to hurt anyone's feelings. So, as long as
we're together,let's havefun."Hiseyes arelikesaucers.
As we headout of the courtyard the rainthat's been threatening all morning finally breaks and I have to
pushGrayer backup to721ParkAvenueasif I'm intheStroller 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 exposedher childtopneumonia.
"I sure am wet.Areyouwet,Grayer?"
"I suream. I sure am wet."He's smiling, buthis teetharestartingtochatter.
"We're gonna get you rightupstairs and into a hot bath. Ever had lunchinthe bath, Grayer?" I steer him
intotheelevator.
"Wait! Holdit!" a malevoice shoutsfromaroundthecorner.
I slamthestrollerintomyankletryingtoangleitawayfromthe door. "Ow,sh. ot!"
"Hey, thanks," he says. I look up from my ankle. The rain has plastered his brown, chin-length hair and
frayedblueT-shirt tohis six-foot frame. Oh,my.
Astheelevator closes hecrouchesdowntospeakdirectly tothestroller. "Hey,Grayer!Whassup?"
"She's wet."Grayer pointsbehindhim.
"Hi,wet girl.AreyouGrayer's girlfriend?" Hesmiles atme,tuckinghis damphairbehindhis ear.
"He's notsureif he's readytomakethatkindof commitment," I say.
"Well, Grayer,don't lether getaway."If youtriedtocatchme,I promise I wouldrunvery slowly.
We arrive attheninthfloorwaytoosoon. "Have a greatafternoon,guys," hesaysaswe getout.
"You, too!" I cry asthedoorslidesclosed.Whoareyou?
"Grayer,whois he?" Stroller unclasped,wetshirtoff.
"Helives upstairs. Hegoestobigboy's school."Shoesoff,pantsoff,grablunchbag.
"Oh,yeah?Whichone?" Follow nakedtushtobathroom, turnontap.
He thinks for a moment. "Where the boatsgo.With the lighthouse."Okaaay.Two syllables, soundslike
...
"Harbor?" I query.
"Yeah, he goes to Harbard." Hello, I can totally do Boston, especially with the shuttle. We could
alternateweekends... Jesus!EARTHTONANNY,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
themoment. ."Grayer,doyouhave anickname?"
"What's anickname?"
"Aname thatpeoplecallyouthatisn't Grayer."
"Myname isGrayer X. That's myname."
"Well, let's think of one." 1 pop him in the tub and pass him his organic peanut butter and quince jelly
sandwich.He wiggleshis toes in thewater ashe munchesthesandwichandI cantell it feelsfabulously unorthodoxtohim. I lookaroundthebathroomandmyeyes landonhis blueSesameStreet toothbrush. "WhataboutGraver?" I ask.
Hemullsitover,his headcockedtooneside,his SeriousThinkingFaceon,thennods. "We'll tryit." Lord,hawmyheadaches!Whata headhaveI!Myback a t'otherside. h,myback,myback!Beshrew yourheartforsendingmeaboutTo catchmydeathwithjauntingupanddown!
. HENURSE,ROMEOANDJULIET CHAPTER TWO Multitasking Nanny,
While you. e on your play date withAlex today, please askAlex. mother who catered her lastdinner?tellherIthought Cajun?infusedAsianwas astrokeofgenius. Justtoletyouknow,theparentsareDIVORCING. Sosad. PleasemakesureGrayerdoesn. sayanythingawkward. I. lswingbyAlex. at4:30 totakeGrayer tohis orthodist. Seeyouthen?
"Nanny? Nanny?!" Mrs. X's disembodied voice calls out to me as I jog up the block toward the nursery
schoolcourtyard.
"Yes?" I say, spinningaround.
"Thisway."Thedoorof a LincolntowncarpopsopenandMrs. X's manicuredhandflagsmeover.
"I'm sogladyou're here,"I say, leaningdowntowhereshe's
seatedamid hershoppingbagsintheplushdarkness. "BecauseI needtoaskyou?
"Nanny,I justwanttoreiteratethat I'd likeyoutoalways getheretenminutesearly."
"Of course."
"Well, it's elevenfifty-five."
"I'm reallysorry. wastryingtofindGrayer's class list. I'm notsurewhichAlex?
But she's already busy rooting around in her purse. She pulls a small leather-bound notepad out of her
hobo bag. "I want to talk with you briefly about a party I'm throwing at the end of the month for the Chicago branch of Mr. X's company." She uncrosses and recrosses her legs, the lavender Prada shoes making an arc of bright color against the dark interior of the town car. "All the top executives will be there. t's a veryimportanteveningandI wantittobeperfectformyhusband."
"Soundslovely,"I say, unsurewhyI'm beingapprisedof thisfete.
ShelowershersunglassestomakesurethatI havetakeninevery word.
ShouldI bringmyformal weartothedry cleaner's?
"So, I may need you to run a few errands for me this month. It's just that I'm so overwhelmed with the
preparations and Connie's absolutely no help. So if there's anything I need I'll just leave you a note. t
reallyshouldn'tbemuch."
We both hear the heavy clank of the double doors opening behind me followed bythe growing swell of
children's laughter.
"I better run, if he sees me he'll just get all upset. Let's go, Ricardo!" she calls to the driver and he pulls
outbeforeshe's even gotherdoorclosed.
"Wait, Mrs. X,I neededtoaskyou a question?I callafter theretreatingtaillights.
TherearefourAlexandersandthreeAlexandrasinGrayer's class.
THE NANNY DIARIES
I know. I checked. And now that Mrs. X has sped off I'm still at a complete loss as to which one is
supposedtobeourescortfortheafternoon.
Grayer,however,seems toknowexactlywho ourdateis.
"It's her. I have a play date with her," he says, pointing across the courtyard at a little girl hunkered
downover somethingintriguingatgroundlevel. I grabGrayer andmakeourwayover.
"Hi,Alex. We have aplaydatewith youthisafternoon!" I enthusiastically informher.
"Myname's Cristabelle.Alexis wearing ashirt,"shesays, pointingover atthirtyshirt-wearingchildren.
Grayer looksup atmeblankly.
"Grayer,Mommy saidyouhave a playdatewithAlex,"I say.
He shrugs. "How about Cristabelle? Cristabelle, want to have a play date?"Apparently, one play date's
asgoodasanother.
"Grover, it's not Cristabelle, sweetie. But we can have a play date with Cristabelle another day. Would
you like that?" The little girl huffs off. At the age of four she seems already to know thatif the date has
tobepostponedit probablyisn't goingtohappen.
"Okay,Grayer,think.Didn't yourmomsayanything toyouthismorning?"
"She saidI havetouse moretoothpaste."
"Alex Brandi, does that ring any bells?" I ask, trying to rattle off the names I remember from the class
list.
"Hepicks his nose."
"AlexKushman?"
"She spitsKool-Aid."Hecrackshimself up.
I sigh, looking out across the crowded courtyard. Somewhere in this chaos is another pair who shares
our plan. I get a flash of us?airport-reception style. e in a chauffeur's cap, Grayer on my shoulders,
holding abigsignthatsays "ALEX."
"Hi, I'm Murnel."An older, uniformed woman appears before us. "This isAlex. Sorry, we had a bit of
troubletearingourselves
away from the blue goop." I notice some of it still clinging to her nylon jacket. "Alex, say hello to
Grayer,"shesaysin athickWestIndianaccent.
Afterproperintroductionswepushour chargesover toFifthAvenue. Like little oldmen inwheelchairs, theyrelaxbackintheirseats,lookaboutandoccasionallyconverse. "MyPowerRangerhas a subatomic machinegunandcancutyourPower Ranger's headoff."
Murnel and I are comparatively quiet. Despite the fact that we share the same job title, in her eyes I probably have more in common with Grayer, as there are at least fifteen years and a long subway ride fromtheBronxbetweenus.
"Howlongyoubeentakingcareof him?" Shenods downinthedirectionof Grayer's stroller.
"Amonth.Howaboutyou?"
"Oh, nearly three years now. My daughter looks after Alex's cousin, Benson, up on Seventy-second.
You knowBenson?"sheinquires.
"I don't thinkso.Isheis intheir class?"
"Benson's a girl." We bothlaugh."Andshegoestoschoolacross thepark.Howoldareyou?"
"Just turnedtwenty-one inAugust."I smile.
"Ooh, you're my son's age. I should introduce you. He's real smart, just opened his own diner out by
LaGuardia.You got aboyfriend?"
"Nope, haven't met one lately who isn't more trouble than he's worth," I say. She nods in agreement.
"Thatmust notbeaneasythingtodo. pen a restaurant,I mean."
"Well, he's a real hard worker. Gets it from his mother," she says proudly, bending over to pick up the
drainedjuiceboxAlexhas tossedintothestreet. "Mygrandson's hardworking,too,andhe's only seven.
He's doingrealwell inhisclasses."
"That's great."
THE NANNY DIARIES
"My neighbor always says he's so good about doing his homework. he stays with him in the
afternoonstillmydaughtercangethome fromBenson,roundnine,usually."
"Nanny!I wantmorejuice!"
"Please,"I say, reachingintothestrollerbag.
"Please,"Grayermumbles asI passhim asecondjuicebox.
"Thankyou,"I correcthimandMurnelandI exchangesmiles.
I'm thelast of our crew towalkthroughAlex's front door. Thereis very little in this neighborhoodthatI
haven't seen, but I'm completely unpreparedfor the large strip of duct tape runningdown the middle of
thefronthall.
According to New York State law, if one spouse moves out the other can claim abandonment and will most likely get the apartment. Some of these places go for fifteen to twenty million, forcing years of bitter cohabitation while each spouse tries to wear down the other by, for example, bringing in their half-nakedexerciseinstructor/lover tolive.
"Okay, now you boys can play anywhere on that side," she says, gesturing to the left side of the
apartment.
"Nanny, why is there a stripe? I fix Grayer with a quick Look of Death as I unbuckle his stroller and
thenwait untilAlex isbehindme toraisemyfingertomylipsandpointtothetape.
"Alex's mommy anddaddyareplaying a game,"I whisper. "We'll talkaboutitathome."
"Mydad's notsharing,"Alexannounces.
"Now who wants grilled cheese?Alex, go show Grayer your new photongun,"Murnel says as theboys
run off. Sheturns towardthekitchen. "Makeyourself athome," shesays, rollingher eyes atthetape.
I wanderintotheliving room,whichis fauxLouisXIV meetsJackieCollins,with anice,wide stripeof
electrical tapedownthemiddletogiveit thatcertainjenesaisquoi. I sitdownonwhatI hope
is the Switzerland area of the couch and instantly recognize the work of Antonio. He's the assistant to
one of the most popular decorators and will, for a minor consideration, pop by frequently to "plump"
yourpillows. Heis,inessence, a professionalpillow plumper.
I trytoheavethetwenty-pound copyofTuscanHomes,thecurrentcoffeetablebookof choice,intomy
lap without bruising myself.After a few minutes of flipping through pictures of villas, I become aware
of a littlenoserestingonthearmof thecouch."Hey,"I quietlyacknowledgethenose.
"Hey," he replies, coming around the couch to slump face-first onto the cushion next to me, his arms
outstretched.
"What's thestory?" I ask, lookingdownathis back,sosmall againstthewide blackvelvet stripes.
"I wassupposedtobringmytoys."
"Huh."
He climbs up into my lap, snuggling under Tuscan Homes, and helps me turn pages. I feel the softness of his hair under my chin and give his ankle a gentle squeeze. I'm not feeling incredibly motivated to getthis playdatebackontrack.
"Lunch!" we hear called from behind us. "What are you all doing in there? Alex!" Murnel calls off towardhis room. We standup.
"I forgottobringmytoys," Grayer offers. Murnelputsherhandsonherhips.
"That boy. Come on, Grayer, we'll get this straightened out." Grayer and I follow her past the kitchen where something is buzzing loudly. "Hold on, hold on," she says with a sigh. She goes directly to the intercom, asmall boxabove atrayladenwith grilled-cheesesandwichesandslicedfruit.
Shepressesthebutton. "Yes, ma'am?"
"Hasthemotherfuckercalled?" awoman's voice cracklesoutof thewall.
"No,ma'am."
"Goddammit! EversincehefrozemyfuckingcardsI'm supposed
THE NANNY DIARIES
to get a fucking check. How hard is that? I mean, how am I supposed to feed Alex? Fucker. Did you pickup myLaMer?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Murnel picks up the tray and we follow her silently down toAlex's room. I am the last one in. Half the room is completely bare, a line of model cars down the middle serving as impromptu duct tape, and Alex, shirtless and shoeless, paces in front of a stockpile of all his earthly possessions. He halts and looksupatus.
"I toldthefuckerhehastobringhis owntoys."
Nanny,
Please call the caterers and double-check what kind of utensils and linens they. l be bringing forMrXparty. Pleaseseethattheydropoff all thelinensinadvancesoConniecanrewashthem.
Grayer has his St David. interview today, after which I. l be running to a meeting with the florsi. SoMrXwilldrivebyanddropGrayerofftoyouatprecisely1:45ontheNorth-Westcornerof Ninety-fifthandPark.
Please be sure to be standing as close to the curb as possible so that the driver can see you. Please get there by 1:30 just in case they. e early. I. sure this goes without saying, but Mr X shouldnot havetogetoutof the car.
In themeantime, I. l needyoutostartassemblying thefollowingitems forthegiftbags.
Exceptforthechampagne,youshouldbeabletofindmost of theseatGraciousHome.
AnnickGoutalSoap
Piper Heidsieck,small bottle
Morroccoleathtertravelpictureframe,redorgreen
MontBlanc pen?small
LAVENDARWATER
Seeyouat6!
I reread the note, wondering if I'm supposed to pull out my magic decoder ring to figure out how many
of eachitemshewantsmetobuy.
She doesn't answer her cell, so I decide to call Mr. X's office after getting his number off the phone list
postedinsidethepantrydoor.
"What?" heanswers after onering.
"Urn, Mr. X,it's Nanny?
"Who?Howdidyougetthis number?"
"Nanny. I lookafter Grayer?
"Who?"
Unsure how to clarify without seeming impertinent, I barrel on. "Your wife wants me to pick up the
stuffforthegiftbaskets fortheparty?
"Whatparty?Whatthehellareyoutalkingabout?Whoisthis?"
"Onthetwenty-eighth? For theChicagopeople?"
"Mywife toldyoutocall me?" Hesoundsangry.
"No.I justneededtoknowhowmanypeoplearecoming andI couldn't?
"Oh,forcrissake."
Myearfillswith dial tone.
Right.
THE NANNY DIARIES
I walk over to Third, trying to figure out how many of each thing I'm I supposed to buy, as if it were a
logic puzzle. It's a sitdown dinner, so it ) can't be a ton of people, but it must be more than, say, eight, or so, if| she's having caterers and renting tables. I think she's renting three tables j and they probably seatsix or eight each, so that'll be eighteen or twenty-1 four $? either I show up empty-handed tonight or I pick a number. I
Twelve.
I stoP \*nfrontof theliquorstore. Twelve. Thatfeelsright.
I lu^ tt16 twelve bottles of Piper Heidsieckto GraciousHome, a -1 housewa?es store, whose twoinitial
branches are bizarrely right across I Third A^611116 fr. each other. They carry everything from luxury: items atluxuryprices toeveryday householditems atluxury prices. 1All so a woman canwalk in, buy a ten-dollar bottle of cleanser, and 1 walk out with a cute shopping bag, feeling as if she's had somefun.
I staft pulling out picture frames and clearing out all their soap, but ?? I have nO idea what or where lavenderwateris. I lookdownatthelist.
.Like theotherwomen I've workedfor,I'm
sure she used all caps without thinking, threw the underline in as an afterthought' but, to me, she's screaming. It's as if, suddenly,her life depends on LAVENDERWATER or MILK or EDAMAME. I'm tempted to put mV hands up to my ears as their heads rise out of the notepaper, like something from Terminator2, screaming, "CLORQXfI f .'.'"
I cofnrnence combing the shelves in pursuit of lavender water and find that Caswell-Massey only makes freesia water, but she definitely wanted lavender. Crabtree and Evelyn have lavender drawer liners, but that's clearly not it. Roger and Gallet make a lavendef soaP an^ Rigaud, I'm informed, "doesn't do lavender."Then finally, on the very bottom shelf of another wall, with Grayer scheduled to drop and roll out of the town car in exactly five minutes, I see The Thymes Limited Lavender Home FragranceMist,Parfum d'Ambiance.Thishas gottobeit; it's the
onlywatery-type lavenderythinghere. I'll take it. Makethattwelve.
Nanny, I. not sure where I gave you the impression that it was appropriate for you to bother my husband. I spoke with him and we. e setting you up with a cell phone, so the net time you. e in doubt we. appreciateitif youjustcall me. JustineatMrX. officewillgiveyouthecorrectheadcount. Butitwilldefinitelybecloserto thirtythantwelve. Also, please find a moment today to exchange whatever you bought yesterday for Lavender LinenWaterbyL. ccitane. (We onlyneedonebottleasit. a cleaningtool,not a partyfavor)
"Hi,Mom?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm talkingtoyouon acellphone. Know why?"
"'Causeyou're oneof themnow?"
"No. Because I'm so not one of them I can't be trusted to perform even the simplest task, say, pick out
lavenderwater."
"Lavender what?"
"You pouritinyour ironanditmakesyourrentedtableclothssmell likethesouthof France."
"Useful."
"AndI am beingmadetofeelincompetentover thiswh?"
"Bud?"
"Yeah?"
"Nocomplaining fromthecute-girl-withher-own-cell-phone."
"Fiiine."
THE NANNY DIARIES
"Love ya. Bye."
The girl with her own cell phone calls her best friend, Sarah, at Wesleyan. "Hi, you've reached Sarah,
impressme. Beep?
"Hey,it's me.Atthis verymoment 1 am walking downthestreet andtalkingtoyou.Just like1 couldon
a train, a boat, or even from the makeup floor at Barneys, because ... 1 got a cell phone. She gave me a
cellphone!See,that's not aperkyouget as a professor's assistant. Bye!"
ThenI ringGrandma. "SorryI'm notheretochat,buttellmesomethingfabulousanyway. Beep?
"Hi, Gran, c'est moi. I'm out on the street talking to you on mybrand-new cell phone. Now all I need is
a Donna Karan bikini and we can hit the Hamptons. Woohoo! Talk to you later! Bye!" And then home
tocheckmymessages. "Hello?" myroommate's voice answers. "Charlene?" I ask. "Yes?"
"Oh,I wasjustcalling tocheckmymessages.""You don't haveany."
"Oh,okay,thanks.Guesswhat?I'm onmynewcellphone!Shegaveme a cellphone!"
"Didshetellyouwhatkindof callingplanshegotyou?" Charleneasksflatly.
"No, why?" I scramble to check Mrs. X's notes. "Because nonplan calls cost seventy-five cents a
minute and cell phone bills are itemized, incoming and outgoing, so she'll know exactly who you've
beentalkingtoandwhatitcosther?
"Gottagobye?Andthusmybrief loveaffairwith mycellis broughtto ascreechinghalt.
Mrs. X starts ringing constantly with new requests for the dinner party. In rapid succession I buy the
wrong-coloredgift bagsforthepresents, thewrongribbontotiethebagsclosed,andthewrong
shade of lilac tissue paper to stuff them with. Then, in a stunning crescendo, I buy the wrongsized
placecards.
Usually when she calls she refuses to talk to Grayer, despite his desperate pleadings from the stroller,
because "it would just confusehim."Andthenhe cries. Sometimes shecalls just totalk toGrayer. Then
I pushthestrollerashelistens earnestlytothecellphone,asif hewere getting astockreport.
Wednesdayafternoon:
Ring. ". . . theimpactonthecerebellum . . ." Ring. ". . . canbechartedherein . . ." Ring.
"Hello?" I whisper,crouchingdownwith myheadbeneaththedesk.
"Nanny?"
"Yes?"
"It's Mrs. X."
"Um, yeah,I'm inclass."
"Oh! Oh. Well, the thing is, Nanny, the paper hand towels you picked out for the guest bathroom aren't therightshadeof toile . . ."
Nanny,
I. l be coming by at three with the car to pick up Grayer for his portrait. Please bathe him, brush his teeth, and dress him in the outfit I. e lefton the bed, but be carefulnot to let him wrinkle it. Give yourself enough time to get him ready, but not so much that he has a chance to get messy. Maybeyoushouldstartat1:30.
Also, here are some handouts from last night. Parents League meeting:. ommy, Are You Listening? ?Communication and Your Preschooler.? I. e highlighted applicable passages ?let. discuss!
After theportrait we. lbegoingtoTiffany. topick out agift forGrayer. father.
One would think that the customer service mezzanine at Tiffany's would have enough chairs to accommodate all of us, their adoring public. However, soft lighting and fresh flowers do little to offset thefactthatit's morecrowdedinherethanJFKonChristmas Eve.
"O, you're making marks on the wall with your sneakers. Stop it," I say. We've been waiting for Mrs. X's name to be called so she can get the gold watch engraved that she'll be presenting to Mr. \ at the party. It's beenover half anhourandGrayer isreally startingtogetantsy.
She grabbed a seat when we came in, but suggested that I "keep an eye on Grayer," who, she insisted, should remain "where he'll be more comfortable". n the lounge chair that is his stroller. I tried standing against the wall for a while, but as soon as the blonde with the Fendi handbag plopped herself onthefloortostudyherTownandCountryI slid down.
Mrs. X has beenperma-attached to her cell phone, soI'm keepingthe aforementionedeye, and hand, on Grayer. The very same Grayer who has taken to using his saddle shoes to push off from the cream paisley wallpaperinordertoseehowfarbackhecanrollbeforehittingsomeone. "Nanny,letgooo."
"Grover, I've asked you three times to stop. Hey, let's play I Spy. I spy something green? I spy cheek implants.
He struggles to reach down to where myhand is now serving as a brake on the right stroller wheel. His face is getting red and I can see he is nearly ready to explode. She took him to pose for portraits after school let out and we've been stuck running errands for the party ever since. After being in school all morning,frozeninsmiles
all afternoon,andthenliterally strappedin,hecan't beblamedforhitting his limit.
"Come on, this oneis hard. I spysomethinggreen. Betchacan't findit." I tightenmygrip on thestroller wheel as he hurls himself over the front bar, then gets snapped back by the straps, his resolve to free himself hardening. People standing near us shuffle away as much as the crowd will allow. I keep a smile on my face as my fingers get pinched into the carpet. Starting to feel a little like James Bond holding the ticking bomb, I assess potential escape routes to a less public venue for his impending tantrum. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two?
"I. WANT. TO. GET. OUT!" Hethrustshimself forward toemphasize eachword.
"XI Mrs. X, we'll see you now at desk eight."A girl my age (with whom, at this moment, I would trade positions inan absoluteheartbeat)motionsforMrs. Xto followher tothelongrow of mahoganydesks aroundthecorner.
"LETGO. I wanttoget out!I don't wanttoplay! I don't wantthestroller!"
Mrs. X pauses as she rounds the corner to place her right handover the speaker of her cell. She turns to me, beaming, and whispers as she points to Grayer. "Emoting. He's emoting to communicate his boundaries1."
"Right," I mouth back as I reach to loosen the stroller straps before he hurts himself. She disappears down the dark blue hall as I wheel our Emoting Grayer to the stairwell where he will be able to communicate thoseboundarieswhilehis father's newwatchgetstheattentionitdeserves.
Nanny,
The caterers will be setting up the tables this afternoon, so please keep Grayer out of their way. Theheadof theChicagoofficewill becomingbytodotheseatingarrangement.
I was wondering if you couldthrow something together for Grayer. dinner, sinceI won. be hometilleight. HelovesCoquillesSt. Jacques. AndIthinkwehavesomebeetsinthefridge. That shouldbesimple. Seeyouat 8.
Alsodon. forgettodohisflashcards.
Thanks abunch!
Coquillessaywhat?!Whateverhappenedtomacandcheesewith asideof broccoli?
In desperate search of a cookbook I pull open the teak cupboard doors, trying not to mark the trompe d'oeil walls, but there isn't a single cookbook to be found, not even the token joy of Cooking or Silver Palate.
She owns what I estimate, based on a Christmas stint at Williams-Sonoma, to be over $40,000 in appliances, yet everything continually looks as though it's just been unpacked. From the La Cornue Le Chateau custom color stove with electric and gas ovens that start at $15,000, to the full set of Bourgeat copper cookware for $1,912, everything is of the best quality. But the only appliance that looks broken in is the Capresso C3000 espresso machine that retails for $2,400.And, no, for that price, it does not findyou aman.I asked.
I open all the cabinets and the drawers, trying to familiarize myself with the equipment, as if holding eachWiisthofknifemighttellme thesecrettotheSt. SomethingI'm supposedtobepreparing.
Mysearchfor a recipeleads me out to her office where I find nothingbut a marked-up Neiman Marcus catalogandConnie,theXes'housekeeper,onher kneesscrubbingthedoorknobwith atoothbrush.
"Hi,doyouknowwhereMrs. Xkeepshercookbooks?" I ask.
"Mrs. X don't eat and shedon't cook." She redips the toothbrushin a jar of polish. "She got you cookin' fortheparty?"
"No?just dinnerforGrayer?"
"Can't seewhat's sospecialaboutthisparty. Shehateshaving
people here. We had, maybe, three dinners since she been here." She nods her head as she deftly scrubs aroundthekeyhole. "There's abunchof booksinthesecondguestroom. rythere."
"Thanks."
I continue roaming from room to cavernous room until I get to the guest suite. I skim the titles in the
floorto-ceiling bookcase:
WhyShouldYouHavetheBaby?Stress andtheFertility Myth
They'reYourBreastsToo:TheNewWetNurseGuide
SoonerorLater WeAllSleepAlone:GettingYour In/antThroughthe
Night
TakingtheBiteOutofTeething
The Zen ofWalking. very Journey Begins with a First Step The Idiot's Guide to Potty Training The
Benefitsof theSuzukiMethodonYourChild's Left Brain
Development
The BodyEcology Diet forYourToddlerMaking theMost ofYour Four-Year-OUHow to PackageYour
Child;ThePreschoolInterview Makeitor Breakit:NavigatingPreschoolAdmissions
.. . And everything else you could possibly imagine in this genre to fill up four bookshelves right up
through:
City Kids Need Trees; The Benefits of a Boarding School Education The SATs. etting the Scene for
theRestofYourChild's Life
I standinsilencewithmymouthopen,forgetting,for afull moment,thecoquilles andbeets. Huh.
"I'm really concerned that you're going to fail out of school and be making other people dinner for the
restofyourlife!Thisis a redflag
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here, Nan. Now,if memory serves, you signed onto provide child care forthis woman.That's all, right?
Isshepaying youanymoreforthisextra service?"
"No.Mom, thisisnot agoodtime tobehaving?
"I mean,youshouldspend adaydownhereattheshelterkitchen.Getsomeperspective."
"Okay,thisis not agoodtime tobehaving?
"At least you'd be helping people who really need it. Maybe you should just pause for a second, look insideyourself,checkin?MOM!" I tightenmychintokeepthephonefromslippingoutfromunderone ear as I grip a boiling pot of beets in my hands. "I can't really look inside myself right now, because I am justcallingtofindhowtopreparecoquillessaywhat,fortheloveofChrist!"
"I'm helping," Grayer says, a small hand coming up over theedge of thecounter, groping for the paring
knifeI've justputdown.
"Gottago."
I lungefortheknife,sendingtwentycoquilles flyingontothefloor.
"Cool! It's just like the beach, Nanny! Don't pick 'em up, leave 'em. I'm gonna go get my bucket." He
scampers out of the kitchen as I drop the knife in the sink and crouch to collect the mollusks. I pick up
one, thenanother,but as I grab for the thirdthe first slides out of myhand, across thefloor,and directly
into a gray snakeskin high heel. I jerk up to see a redheaded woman in a gray suit standing squarely in
thedoorway.
Grayer comes skipping around the corner holding his sand bucket, but freezes behind her when he sees myface.
"I'm sorry,canI helpyou?" I stand,motioningforGrayer tocome tome.
"Yes," shesays, "I'm hereto do theseatingarrangement." Shesaunters past me intothekitchen, pulling
offherHermes scarfandtyingitaroundthehandleof herslate-grayGuccibriefcase.
Shekneelstoretrieve a coquilleandturnstohandittoGrayer. "Didyoulosethis?" sheasks.
Helooksupatme. "It's okay,Grove,"I say, reachingoutandtakingitfrom her. "Hi,I'm Nanny."
"Lisa Chenowith, general manager of the Chicago office. And you must be Grayer," she says, setting
herbriefcasedown.
"I'm helping,"hesays,usinghis buckettoscoopup theremainingseafood.
"I coulduse a helper."Shesmiles downathim. "Areyoulookingfor a newjob?"
"Sure,"hemumblesintohis bucket.
I dump the shells in the colander and turn off the stove. "If you just give me a minute, I'll show you to
thediningroom."
"Are youcookingfortheparty?" sheasks, gesturingtothesinkoverflowing with pans.
"No. t's his dinner," I say, scrapingburnedbeets outofthepot.
"Whatever happenedtopeanutbutter andjelly?" shelaughs,puttingher briefcasedownonthetable.
"Nanny,I wantpeanutbutter andjelly."
"Sorry, didn't mean to start a revolution," she says. "Grayer, I'm sure whatever Nanny is making you
will bedelicious."
"Actually, pb & j sounds perfect," I say, pulling out the peanut butter from the fridge. Once I've seated Grayer in his booster seat at the banquette I lead her to the dining room, where the long walnut table hasbeenreplacedbythreeroundones.
"Well, well," she murmurs as she steps in behind me. "She had them set up a whole day early. hat must have cost thousands." We both look down at the lavender-scented tables, festooned with shining silverware, sparklingcrystal, andgilt-edged chargerplates. "I'm sorryI won't behere."
"You won't?"
"Mr. X wants me back in Chicago." She smiles at me, then turns her attention to the rest of the room, admiring thePicassoover themantelandtheRothkoabovethesideboard.
I follow hertothelivingroomandthenthelibrary. Shetakesin
THE NANNY DIARIES
each jewel-toned room as if appraising it for auction. "Beautiful," she says, fingering the raw silk drapes, "but a littleoverdone, don't you
think?"
Unaccustomed as I am to being asked my opinion in this household, I reachfor the right words. "Um ... Mrs. X has very definite tastes. Actually, since you're here, would you mind telling me if this looks okay?" I ask,bendingbehind Mr. X's desktoretrieve agift bag.
"Whatis it?" sheasks, pullingher hairover her shouldertopeer
inside.
"It's a gift bag for the guests. I wrapped them this morning, but I'm not sure if I did it right, because I couldn't find the right tissue paper and the ribbon Mrs. X wanted was out of stock? "Nanny?" She cuts me off. "Is anyoneonfire?" "Sorry?" I say, takenaback.
"They're justgiftbags. For a bunchofoldgeezers,"shelaughs, "I'm surethey're perfect. elax."
"Thanks, it just seemed like it was pretty important." She glances over my shoulder at the shelf of family pictures behind me. "I'm just going to check in with the office and then I'll do the place cards. Is Mrs. X coming backsoon?""Nottill eight."
She picks up the phone and bends over the mahogany desk to peer at a framed picture of Mr. X with Grayer atophis shouldersatthefootof a skislope.
"NAN-NY,I'M FIIII-NISHED!"
"Okay, well, let me know if you need anything else," I say from the doorway as she slips off her black pearlearringanddials. "Thankyou!" shemouths,giving me a thumbs-up.
Nanny,
As aruleI don. likeGrayertohavetoomanycarbohydratesbeforebed. TonightI. eleft all hisfoodalreadymeasuredoutonthecounter. Ifyoucouldjustputthebeets,thekale,andthekohlrabi inthesteamerfortwelve minutesthatshouldbeperfect, butpleasetrytostayoutofthecaterers?way.
You should probably give Grayer his dinner in his room. Actually, I might need to bring my dinner guests through when I give the tour. So it. probably best for you both to take your plates intohis bathroomwhileyoueat?in caseofspills.
p.s. I. counting on you to stay until Grayer is asleep and make sure that he doesn. intrude on the meal.
p.p.s. I. lneedyoutopickupGrayer. Halloweencostume tomorrow.
"Martini, straight up. o olive." Having steamed Grayer's dinner intoan unrecognizablemush, burned myhandintheprocess, andnearlyscaldedGrayer several times,thenhavingto dineatop his toiletseat, I am truly ready to "take the edge off." I shift on the bar stool, wondering if, perhaps, I could work for that redhead from Chicago. ove to Illinois, try on investment banking, and spend my days preparing herpb & j.
I reach into my bag for my pay envelope and fish out a twenty for the bartender. It's thicker this week and I count over three hundred in cash. I realize that while I'm exhausted and probably on my way to somesort ofsubstance-abuseproblem, theupsideofworkingthreetimesas manyhours as I'd agreedto is that I'm making three times as much money. It's only the second week of the month and the rent is alreadycovered.Andthereisthatpair ofblackleatherpantsI've hadmyeye on ...
THE NANNY DIARIES
I justneed half an hour of quiet before I can go home to Charleneand her hairy pilot boyfriend. I don't wanttotalk,1 don't wanttolisten,andI mostdefinitely donotwanttocook.1 mean,goodGod,having your hairy boyfriend sleep over when you share a studio apartment. Not okay. Not okay at all. I am countingthedays untilshe's slottedfortheAsiaroute.
"Yo, yo, check this out!" The blond homeboy in the Brooks Brothers ensemble motions for his "posse" tocheckouthis PalmPilotatthecornertable. Classic.
Normally, I avoid Dorrian's and its preppy clientele like the clap. But it was directly on my path home and the bartender makes a terrific martini. And 1 did have to "take my edge off." Besides, off-season is usuallypretty safe,oncethey all returntoschool.
I count five white baseball hats huddled over their friend's new toy. Despite only being in college, they all have portable cellular devices of some kind or another hanging off their yuppy utility belts. The years change, the corduroy jackets of the seventies giving way to the flipped-up collars of the eighties, theplaidshirts ofthenineties, andtheGore-Texofthenewmillennium,but theirmentalityis asageless asthered-checkedtablecloths.
I am so riveted that I automatically follow their gaze when they turn to the door. In keeping with the tenor of my day, who should walk in but my very own Harvard Hottie, sans chapeau blanc. And he knows them. Ugh. I take a long swig as the vision I'd been savoring of him healing children in Tibet morphsintooneofhimin a suitontheflooroftheNewYork StockExchange.
"Is that good? You like that?" Oh God, there's one standing right next to me. Roll 'em up, kids, roll 'em up.
"What?" I ask, noting his South Carolina baseball hat, which proudly proclaims COCKS across the frontinthree-inchcrimson letters.
"Maaar-tiii-niiis. Pretty hard stuff, don't you think?" he says a little too close to my face and then
screamsover myhead, "Yo! Get
off your asses and give me a hand with these drinks, you lazy bitches!" H. H. comes over to assist with
thebeertransport.
"Hey,Grayer's girlfriend, right?" Hesmiles broadly.
Heremembered! No,badNanny. Stockexchange,stockexchange.Yet I can't helpnoting a comparative
lackofgadgetsadorninghis Levi's.
"I'm happy to report that he's out for the count after one reading of Goodnight Moon." I smile back in
spiteof myself.
"I hopeJoneshereisn't giving you ahardtime."Jonescracksup attheunintendeddoubleentendre. "He
canbe abit much,"hesays,glaringover myshoulderatJones. "Hey,youshouldjoinus."
"Yeah,I'm kindoftired."
"Please, just for a quick drink." I eye the group skeptically, but I'm swayed as his hair falls in his eyes
whenhepicksup thepitchers.
I follow him over and they make room for me to sit down.A round of boisterous introductions ensue in
whichI am compelledtoshakeevery clammy handatthetable.
"Howdoyouknowour boy, here?" onehatasks.
"'Causewe all gowayback?
"Back in the day." They bob their heads like chickens, repeating "back in the day" about a thousand
times.
"Theythinktherewas aday," H. H. saysquietly,turninghis headtome. "Sohow's workgoing?"
"Work!"Theearsof a hatprickup. "Where doyouwork?"
"Are youinananalyst program?"
"No?
"Are you amodel?"
"No,I'm ananny."There's anaudiblestir.
"Dude!" oneguysays,punching H. H. ontheshoulder.
"Dude,younever toldusyouknew ananneehhh."
I realize from their glazed smiles that they've just cast me in every nanny-themed porn film ever
screenedintheirfrathousebasements.
"So,"thedrunkestbegins, "isthedadhot?"
THE NANNY DIARIES
"Hashehitonyou?"
"Urn,no.I haven't met himyet."
"Is theMomhot?" anotheroneasks.
"Well, I don't thinkso?
"Whataboutthekid?Isthekidhot?Hasheever made apass atyou?"They all speakatonce.
"Well, he's four,so?Thereis a hardnesstotheirtonethatdispels anyillusionofgood-naturedfun.I turn
to the gentleman who brought me over here, but he seems frozen, blushing deeply with his brown eyes
downcast.
"Are anyofthedads hot?"
"Right. If you'll excuseme?I standup.
"Come on". ones stares me down?you're trying to tell us you never fucked any of the dads?" My last
nervesnaps.
"How original of you. You want to know who the dads are? They're you in about two more years.And they're not fucking the nanny. They're not fucking their wives. They're not fucking anyone. Because they get fat, they go bald, they lose their appetites and drink, a lot, because they have to, not because they want to. So enjoy yourselves, boyz. 'Cause back in the day is gonna be lookin' real good. Now pleasedon't get up."MyheartpoundsasI pullonmysweater,grabmybag,andwalkout thedoor.
"Hey,holdon!" H. H. catchesup tomeas I stormacross thestreet. I turn,waiting for himtotellme that they all have terminal cancer and a reign of terror was their last request. "Look, they didn't mean anything bythat."Whichhedoesn't.
"Oh."I nodathim. "Sotheytalktoevery girl likethat?Or justtheoneswhoworkintheirbuildings?"
He crosses his bare arms and hunches up against the cold. "Look, they're just friends from high school.
I mean,I barelyhangoutwith themany?
TheBadWitchcomes flying out. "Shameonyou."
Hestammers, "They're justreallydrunk?
"No.They're justreallyassholes."
We stareateachother andI waitforhimtosaysomething, butheseemsparalyzed.
"Well," I finally say, "it's been a long day." I'm suddenly utterly exhausted and keenly aware of pulsing
painfromtheburnonmyhand.
I forcemyself nottolookbackasI walkaway.
Nanny,
Thepartywas agreatsuccess. Thankyousomuchforyourhelp.
Theseshoes reallyare toomuch forme and MrX doesn. careforthecolor. Ifthey. eyour sizeyou. ewelcome tothem, otherwisepleasetakethemtoEncoreresaleshoponMadisonand84th. I haveanaccount.
By the way, have you seen the Lalique frame that was sitting on Mr X. desk? The one with thepictureofGrayerwithhisfatherfromAspen? Itseemstobemissing. Canyoucallthecaterers andseeiftheytookithomebyaccident?
I. lberecuperatingatBliss, somyphonewill beofffortherestof theafternoon.
PRADA! P-R-A-D-A. As in Madonna. As in Vogue. As in, watch me walk off in style, you khaki-wearing, pager-carrying, golf-playing, Wall Street Joumai-toting, Gangsta-Hip-Hop-listening, Howard Stern?worshiping,whitehat-backward-sporting,arrogantjerk-offs!
Nana also troubled Mr. Darling in another way. He had some' times a feeling that she did not admire him.
. ETERPAN
ea
Afterpickingupsomesmall pumpkins todecorateonthewayhome fromschool,Grayer andIreturnto the apartment just in time for me to sign an invoice for over four thousand dollars. Grayer and I follow in awe as a deliveryman wheels a pair of six-foot wooden crates through the kitchen and deposits them in the front hall. After lunch, we play Guess What's in the Crate. Grayer guesses a dog, a gorilla, a monster truck, and a baby brother. I guess antiques, newbathroom fixtures, and a small cage for Grayer (althoughI keepthatonetomyself).
I leave Grayer in the capable hands of his piano teacher at four-fifteen and return, as instructed, at five o'clock. I'm dressed like a grown-up for the Halloween party at Mr. X's office in my new leather pants and secondhand Prada shoes. I let myself in, only to come face-to-crate with a frenzied Mrs. X, who's trying topryoneopenwith a butcherknifeand a toiletplunger.
"Do you want me to call the super?" I ask, carefully angling myself past her. "He might have a crowbar."
"Oh,myGod,couldyou?" shepantsup fromwhereshe's crouchedonthefloor.
I gointothekitchenandbuzzthesuperontheintercom,whopromises tosendup thehandyman.
"He's onhis way. So,urn,what'sinthere?"
Shehuffsandpuffsassheworksatthecrate, "I had. gh?replicasofMufasaandSarabicostumes. w, dammit!. rom the Broadway production of The Lion King... unh. ustom made." She's going red in theface. "For thisstupidparty,argh."
"Wow, that's great.Where's Grayer?" I ask tentatively.
"He's waiting so you both can get dressed! We've got to hurry?we all need to be changed and ready to leavebysix."All? As the service doorbell rings I turn and walk slowly down the long hall to Grayer's room, where he's
had the good sense to hide from his plunger-wielding mother. I apprehensively push back the door to reveal not one, but two Teletubby costumes half lifting offGrayer's bed, like partially deflated balloons fromtheMacy'sThanksgivingDayparade.
DearGod.Shemust bekidding.
"Nanny, we're gonna match!" If I wanted to get dressed up in bizarre costumes I could be making way
moremoneythanthis.
With a long sigh I begin to wrestle Grayer into his yellow costume, trying to convince him it's just like
putting on feet pajamas, only rounder. I can hear Mrs. X running through the apartment. "Do we have
anypliers? Nanny,haveyouseenthepliers?Thecostumes arewired intothecrate!"
"Sorry!" I shouttoward thedirectionofher voice,whichchangesconstantly,like a passingsiren.
Thud.
Moments later she bursts into the room looking like a mud hut, headdress askance. "Do I wear makeup
with this?DoI wearmakeup with this?!"
"Um, probablyjustsomeneutraltones?Maybe thatnicelipstickyouworetolunchtheotherday?"
"No, I meansomething, you know .. . tribal?" Grayer looks up athis mother in complete bewilderment,
his eyes wide.
"Mommy,is thatyourcostume?"
THE NANNY DIARIES
"Mommy's not finishedyet, honey. Let Nannydoyour makeup,soshecanhelp me."Sherunsout. Mrs.
X has bought us Cray-Pas face paint so I can transform us into Inky Blinky and Tiggy Wiggy or whatever thehell they're called. Butas soonas I startinonGrayer's facehe gets a massive attack of the faceitchies.
"Laa-Laa, Nanny. I'm Laa-Laa."Heraisesbothmittedhandstohis nose. "You'reTinkyWinky?
"Grov,pleasedon't touchyourface. I'm tryingtomakeyoulooklike aTeletubby."
Themudhutrushesbackin. "MyGod,helooksawful!Whatareyoudoing?"
"Hekeepsmushingit,"I trytoexplain.
She looks down at him, straw stalks trembling. "GRAYER ADD/SON X, DO NOT TOUCH YOUR
FACE/"Andshe's offagain.
Hischinstartstoquiver. emaynever touchhisfaceagain,ever.
"You lookreallycool, Grove,"I saysoftly. "Let's justgetthis done,okay?"
Henodsandtilts hischeektomesoI canfinish.
"Is itnagumamatoto?" sheshoutsfromthehall.
"Hakunamatata!" we shoutback.
"Right!Thankyou!" shereplies. "Hakunamatata,hakunamatata."
ThephoneringsandI canhearheronthehallextension, strainingtosoundcalm. "Hello?Hello,darling.
We're nearlyready . . . ButI?. . . Right,but I got thecostumes you wanted . . . No, I...Yes, I understand,
it's justthatI... Right,no,we'll berightdown."
Slow footsteps on themarble floor toward Grayer's wing, then the headdress reappearsaround the door
frame. "Daddy's running a little late, so he's just going to swing by in ten minutes and pick us up
downstairs, okay? I'll needeverybody inthefronthall inninemin!
utes." Nine minutes (of slithering myself into this stinky, cumbersome purple albatross and smearing
my skin in white lard) later and we reassemble awkwardly around the crates in the front hall. mall
yellow Laa-Laa,largepurpleasshole,andMrs. X in a dignified Jil Sanderpantsuit.
"Is ittoowarmformymink?" sheasks,adjustingmyhoodsothepurpletriangle,thesizeof a shoebox,
stands "straight."
It requires both of the Xes' doormen's hands on my haunches to shove me in the limo at the Xes' feet. I
scrambleup ontotheseatasthedriver startsthecar.
"Where's mycard?" Grayer asks,justaswe pullawayfromthecurb.
I can't tell if it's becauseof thelayer of neoprene over myearsor if I'm just in shock,but Grayer's voice
seems tobecoming fromveryfaraway.
"My card. Where is it? Wheeeerrrre!" He begins to rock back and forth like a weeblewobble on the
limousineseatweshareacross fromhis parents.
"Nanny!" Mrs. X's tonesnapsmeback. "Grayer,tellNannywhatyou're feeling."
I angle mybody on theleather seatin Grayer's direction, as thepurplebubblearound myheadobscures
all peripheral vision. Uh, yes? His face is red beneath his makeup and he's out of breath. He scrunches
his eyes androars, "NANNY!I DON'T HAVE MYCARD."Christ.
"Nanny,healways hastohavethatcardpinnedtohis clothes?
"I'm sosorry."I anglemygirth tohim. "Grayer,I'm sorry."
"MyccaaaAAARRrrdd!"Grayer bellows.
"Hey," adeep,disembodiedvoice commands. "That's enoughof that." Miiiiiiisssstttter Eeeexxxxxxx,at
lastwe meet.
The whole limo holds its breath. This man of mystery, who has, for the most part, eluded me and, I
daresay,therestof myriding
THE NANNY DIARIES
companions for the past two months, deserves a full freeze-frame. He sits facing me in a dark suit and
very expensive shoes. Actually, he's facing the Wall Street Journal, which fully obscures the rest of
him?up to the shiny receding hairline, spotlit by the reading light inches from his head. There's a cell
phone wedged beneath his ear, to which he seems only to be listening. "Hey" is his first utterance since
we all gotin. Or, insomecases,wereshovedin.
Sitting there behind his paper he is, without question, the CEO of this family. "What card?" he asks his
paper. Mrs. X looks pointedly at me and it is evident that Grayer's meltdown falls into my domain,
whichalternates betweenmiddlemanagementandcleaningstaff.
Thus we make a right onto Madison and head back uptown to 721, where the doormen are only too
happytohave ashotatpullingmyarms andlegstoextract mefromthelimo.
"Wait righthere,guys," I say, onceupright, "I'll bebackin a minute."
I get upstairs, spend ten sweaty minutes rummaging through Grayer's room, forcing me to reapply my
Cray-Pas, locateTheCard inthelaundryhamper,and am readytorockandroll. (Roll,mostly.)
Theelevator dooropensand,ofcourse,therestands H. H.,myHarvardHottie.
Hisjaw drops.
Justkillme.
"What?You never saw aHalloweencostume before?" I bristle, lumberinginwith myheadheldhigh.
"No!Um, well,it's, it's Octobertwenty-third, but?
"So??!!"
"I ummmm, yeah,yes Ihave, I? hestammers.
"He-llo! Are you ever not speechless?" I attempt to shimmy so that I can face the wall. Of course, in
thisfive-by-seven boxI makeit all oftwodegreesawayfromhim. Heisquietfor a moment. "Look,I'm reallysorryfortheother
night. Sometimes thoseguys canberealassholes when theydrink.I knowthat's no excuse,but,I mean, they're justoldfriendsfromhighschool?
"And?" I saytothewall.
"And ..." Heseemsstumped. "Andyoushouldn't judgemebasedononedrunkennightatDorrian's."
I shimmy back to facehim. "Um, yeah. hat's one drunken night when your buddies from 'back in the day' called me a ho. Listen, sometimes I hang out with friends whose politics I don't agree with, but onlyup to apoint. If,oh, say, gangrapewere ontheagendafortheevening, I wouldspeakup!"
"Well!"
"Well?"
"Well, for someone who didn't like it when snap judgments were made about you, it's pretty
hypocritical ofyoutojudgeme soquicklybasedontheirbehavior."
"Fair enough." I take a deep breath and try to straighten to my full height. "Let me clarify, I'm judging
youonthefactthatyoudidn't step intoshutthemup."
He looks back at me. "Okay, I should've said something. I'm sorry things got so out of hand." He tucks
his hair behindhis ear. "Listen, come out with me tonightand let me make it up to you.I'm hangingout
with some college friends. t's a whole different crowd, I promise." The door slides open and both a
woman in a cashmere wrap and her standard poodle glare with annoyance because there is no room for
themaroundmycostume. Thedoorslidesclosed.I realizeI haveonlytwomorefloorstoacquiesce.
"Obviously, I have a really decadent affair ahead of me." I gesture with one three-fingered hand to my
purpletorso. "ButI cantrytostop byaroundten."
"Great! I'm not sure exactly where we're going. We were thinking of Chaos, or The Next Thing, but
we'll definitely beatNightingale's till eleven."
THE NANNY DIARIES "Well, I'll try to make it." Despite the fact that I am not completely clear where, in his list of
destinations, I should aim to make it to.The doors open to the lobby and I attempt a sexywaddle to the
car,tryingtoremember toleadwith myhips.
I wait until H. H. is safely around the corner and then, after one last ass-push from the doormen, we are
on our way. I take a little bit of pleasure from the fact that Mrs. X is forced to lean across and pin the
cardonGrayer herselfasshehastheuseof all tenofherfingers.
"Honey, 1 finally found out who the Brightmans used to book their safari? she begins, but Mr. X
gestures to the phone and shakes his head. Not to be outdone she pulls her Startac out of her Judith
Leiberpumpkinclutch anddials. Thepuffy,primary-coloredsideof thecarsits inprolongedsilence.
"... I don't thinkher decoratordid averygoodjob..."
"... takeanotherhardlookatthosenumbers?
"... andmauve?"
".. .atthatAPR?Is henuts?"
"... bamboofor akitchen!"
"... buybacktenbillionover thenextthreeyears..."
I lookdownatGrayerandpokehisyellow tummy with apurplefinger. Helooksup andpokesme back.
I squeezehis feltchub,he
squeezesmine.
"So." Mr. X flips his phone closed with a loud click and looks at me. "Do they have Halloween in
Australia?"
"Um, I, uh, think they have something calledAll Souls' Day, but, um, 1 don't think people dress up or,
uh,trick-or-treat,traditionally,"1 answer.
"Honey,"Mrs. X intercedes. "ThisisNanny.Shetookover from
C-a-i-t-1-i-n."
"Oh,right,right,of course.You're prelaw?"
"I wanttositnexttoMommy!" Grayer suddenlybursts out.
"Grove,staynexttomeandkeepmecompany,"I say, looking
down.
"No!I wanttositnexttoMommy now."
Mrs. X looks over at Mr. X, who has retreated back behind his paper. "We don't want to get your fun makeup onMommy's coat?staywith Nanny,sweetie."
After a few more rounds,he finally tuckersout andthefour of ussit insilenceas thecarglides down to the very bottom of the city, where the dense, narrow streets of Lower Manhattan give way to the imposing towers of the Financial District. The neighborhood appears deserted, except for the funereal lineoftowncarsformingoutside Mr. X's company.
Mr. and Mrs. X slide out and march ahead of us into the building, leaving Grayer and me unassisted to maneuveroursphericalbodiesoutofthecarandontothesidewalk.
"Nanny,saythreeand I'll push!Saythree,Nanny! SAY IT!"
With his little feet in my backside and my face nearly on the sidewalk it's no wonder he can't hear me whenI scream, "Three!"
I smush my face to the left to see Grayer sticking his lips out the crack in the window. "Didja say it, Nanny?Didja?"
I can sense a flurry of activity behind my enormous haunches, accompanied by snippets of the mastermind atwork. "Okay, nowI'm Rabbit... and you .. . you're Pooh ... and ... are youcounting?... and
... after all the honey ... stuck in the tree. HAT'S THREE, NANNY, on THREE!" He could be constructing acatapult outofcocktailnapkinsbacktherefor all I know?
WHOMP!
"I didit!Nanny,I didit!"
I right myself, reach down with my three-fingered hand for his, and we waddle with pride toward the entrance. Mr. andMrs. X havekindly heldtheelevator forusandwe rideup totheforty-fifthfloorwith
anothercouplewhosechildrencouldn't attend. "Homework."
We all step out into a cavernous reception area, which has been transformed into a Tim Burton film. hemarblewalls arecoveredincut-out batsandfakecobwebs,every inchoftheceilingdrips in
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streamers, spiders, and skeletons. Thereare numerous bar tables strategically placed at regular intervals aroundtheroom,eachaglowwith a hand'carvedpumpkin centerpiece.
It seems as thoughevery unemployed actor in thetristate area has been called in to entertain the troops. At the reception desk Frankenstein pretends to answer phones, Betty Boop walks by with a tray of drinks, and Marilyn is singing "Happy Birthday, Mr. President" to a cluster of Mr. X's colleagues in the corner. Grayerlooksaroundwith a bitof trepidationuntilGarfield comes bywith a trayof peanutbutter andjellysandwiches.
"You can take one. Go ahead, Grayer," 1 encourage him. He has some trouble with the gloves on, but managestosecureoneandmunches,slowlymushinghis bodytighteragainstmyleg.
The far wall is a breathtaking, floorto-ceiling view of the Statue of Liberty. I seem to be the only one appreciating it, but then I'm also one of the few nannies with a visible face.Apparently Mrs. X was not alone in her concept for the evening; all the nannies are in huge rented costumes at least three feet in circumference; the child is a small Snow White, nanny is a large Dwarf, the child is a small farmer, nanny is a very large cow, the child is a small Pied Piper, nanny is a large rat. However, the winners, hands down, are the Teletubbies. I exchange wan smiles across the room with two Tinky Winkys from Jamaica.
A couplewith asmallWoodstockandlargeSnoopyintowcomes over tous.
"Darling,youlookfabulous!" says thewifetoMrs. X,ormaybe Grayer.
"HappyHalloween,Jacqueline,"Mrs. Xreplies,givingher anair kiss.
Jacqueline, wearing a tiny pink pillbox hat with her blackArmani, barrels on to Mr. X. "Darling, you're notincostume, youbadboy!" Herown betrothediswearing a captain's hatwith his pinstripedsuit.
"I'm dressedas a lawyer,"Mr. Xsays. "Butreally,I'm aninvestmentbanker!"
"Stop!" Jacqueline says, giggling. "You're such a stitch!" She looks down at Laa-Laa and Woodstock. "You little darlings should go check out the games area. t's fabulous!" I look over at Snoopy, who's listing under the weight of the giant head. "We got a much better company this year to organize the wholething.TheydidBlackstone's 4thof JulyBungeeJump andCocktails."
"I heard that was lovely. Mitzi Newmann's gotten addicted. She had a free-fall bridge installed in Connecticut. Go ahead, Grayer," Mrs. X encourages. He stares up at all the macabre mayhem and doesn't lookentirely convincedthathewantstobeseparatedfromhisparentsrightnow.
"Go on,sport,and ifyou're good, I'll takeyoutoseetheexecutive diningroom," Mr. Xsays, prompting Grayer tolookup atme.
"Where Daddy has lunch," I explain. I take his hand and follow our Peanuts teamto the children's area, which is cordoned off with a little picket fence. As Barbie opens the gate I look at her. "Good idea," I say, "let's keepout thegrown-ups."
The whole twenty-foot area is rilled with activity tables and games that seem mostly to involve throwing things. (A miscalculation on someone's part, I think, as a small Big Bird goes down.) I notice veryquicklythatthegrown-up drink traysaren't circulatinginhereandleanoutover thefencetoswipe a little relief. Occasionally parents swing by, like maitre d's, to ask if the child is enjoying him/herself andremark, "Amarshmallow ghost! Ooooh,scary!", thenturnbacktoeachothertoadd, "You justhave no idea what our renovation is costing. t's really staggering. But Bill wanted a screening room."And theyshrug,rolltheireyes, andshaketheirheads.
Mrs. X has come in with Sally Kirkpatrick, a woman I recognize from Grayer's swimming class, to watch her three-foot Batman try to obliterate his ring-toss opponents. I come up behind them to check inaboutbedtime.
THE NANNY DIARIES "Your newgirl's reallygoodatgetting Grayerinthepool,"Mrs. Kirkpatricksays. "Thanks, I wish I could take him, but Tuesday's my day at the Parents League and with ice skating on
Fridays and French on Thursdays and CATS on Wednesday I need one day to do something for
myself."
"I know, I'm so busy. I'm on four different committees this season. Oh, can I put you down for a table
fortheBreastBall?"
"Of course."
"So whathappenedtoCaitlin?Your newgirldidn't seemtoknow."
"Sally,itwas a nightmare. I'm luckyI foundNannywhenI did! Caitlin, whosework I never foundtobe
exemplary, by the way, but I put up with it, because, well, one does. Anyway, she had the nerve to ask for the last week ofAugust off after I already gave her the first two weeks of Januarywhen we went to Aspen."
"You're kidding."
"Well, I justfeltshewastryingtotakecomplete advantageofme?
"Ryan,playfair. hatwaslolanthe's ring,"SallyshoutsatherBatman.
"ButI positively didnotknowwhattodo,"Mrs. Xcontinues,sippingPerrier.
"So youfiredher?" Sallyasks, eagerly.
"First I talkedto a professionalproblemconsultant?
"Oh,who'd youuse?"
"BrianSwift."
"I hearhe's great."
"He was fantastic. elped me put the whole thing into perspective. He made it clear that my authority
as house manager had been called into question and I had to bring in a replacement to drive the point
home."
"Brilliant. Don't let me forgetto get his number from you. I'm having suchproblems with Rosarita. The otherdayI askedherto
runup to Midtown to pick up a few things while Ryan was inhockey class and shesaid she didn't want tobecauseshedidn't thinkshe'd haveenoughtime togetback.I mean,doesshethinkI don't knowhow longittakestogetaround?"
"I know,it's appalling.Afterall, whenthekids areinclass they're justsittingthere,onourdime. I mean, really."
"So,areyoudonewith all yourinterviews?" Sally asks.
"Well, we have Collegiate on Tuesday, but I'm not sure if I want him on the West Side," Mrs. X says, shakingherhead.
"But it's such a good school. We'd be thrilled if Ryan got in there. We're hoping the violin gives him an edge."
"Oh,Grayerplays thepiano. hadnoideathatwasimportant," Mrs. Xsays.
"Well, itdependsonhis level. Ryan's alreadycompetingregionally..."
"Oh,I see.That's fantastic."
Apprehensiveof what I mightsaytoMrs. X atthis moment on two vodkatonics,I tiptoebackwardand spot Grayer, still slinging beanbags like a pro, which leaves me free to grab another drink and observe the grown-up side of the room. Everyone is dressed in black, the men are tall, the women slim, they all standwith theleftarmfoldedacross theirabdomen,thelefthandsupportingtherightelbowsotheright hand can wave a drink around as they talk.As the pumpkin centerpieces slowly burn down they begin to cast long shadows of bankers and banker wives and everyone is starting to look to me like a Charles Addamscartoon.
I realizeI'm getting woozyfrom theheatand thealcohol, but mypurple posterior doesn't fit into anyof the pint-size plastic chairs. So I sit on the floor a few feet away from the cupcake table where Grayer has stationed himself while his pitching arm recovers. There is so much commotion around us from the Busby Berkeley staff of hired activity folk that I must consciously fix my stare on Grayer while he decorateshis fourthcupcake. I leanmyheadagainstthe
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wall andwatchwith prideasheassertively grabs sprinklesandsilver balls, whileother childrenwait for their nannies, crouched beside them, to hand over tubes of frosting as if their charges were about to performsurgery.
Eventually, Grayer's frostingfrenzyslows andheis leftstaringwith glossy eyes attheblackandorange cardboard centerpiece, his gooey hands motionless atop the table. Little beads of sweat are forming on his face. e must be boiling in that costume. I crawl over and whisper in his ear, "Hey, Buddy, why don't you take a break from all that cake making and come hang out with me for a bit?" He drops his foreheadonthetable,narrowlymissing his candycornmasterpiece.
"Come on, Grove," I say, slippinghim intomyarms andshufflingback tothewall onmyknees. I unzip
his hoodanduse anapkintowipe thedrippingmakeup fromhis foreheadandfrostingfromhis hands.
"I gotta bob for an apple," he mumbles as I lay him down with his head resting on the white rectangle ofmycostumed lap.
"Sure,justcloseyoureyes for a fewminutesfirst."
I take a swigfrom mynewestdrink, lettingtheroomsoften abit moreasI fanusbothwith aprospectus left beneath a nearby cabinet. Grayer's body becomes heavy as he drifts off. Closing my eyes, I try to picture myself in this room at some important business-type thing, but can't seem to conjure anything otherthanleading aboardmeetingasTmkyWinky.
I must keep nodding off, because I start to dream about Mrs. X, in a mink Laa-Laa costume, trying to convince me that 1 really should let her speak to H. H.'s posse about the whole "hothing" as "setting boundaries" is "her middle name."Then Mr. X dances in to the tune of "Monster Mash," pulling off his head to reveal that he is actually my Harvard Hottie, demanding to be taken to the bathroom. I jolt awake.
"Nanny,I gotta pee." "MonsterMash"blaresdownonus. I
locate a clock under the cobwebs. Nine goddamn thirty. Okay, so it's. hat? Twenty minutes up the FOR, ten to get out of this thing, and another twenty to get downtown to Nightingale's? He'll still be there,right?
"Okay!Let's getthis showontheroad.Let's find a bathroomandgetmoving!"
"Nanny, slow down." I pick up my dragging Grayer and sling him onto my purple hump as I dart betweenthedownedandwounded,whoareeither mid-or post-sugarcrash.
"Coming through, coming through. Have you seen the bathroom?" I inquire of a five-foot Indian woman in a Barney costume trying to placate a screaming three-foot Barney who can't seem to bite a doughnut off a string and has taken the matter directly to heart. She points over her shoulder at a line winding endlessly around the corner. I look around for out-of-the-way potted foliage, preparing a speechabouthowthisis "just liketheplayground."
Grayer pointsbehindme. "The bathroomisthat way, inmydaddy's office."
I plop him down, instructing him to lead the way, "like someone is chasing us." He takes off down the deserted corridor with his hands between his legs. It's darker and quieter than the room we have just escaped, and I speed-walk to keep Grayer in sight. Halfway down the hall he pushes a door open and I runtocatchup, practicallyrollingover him whenhefreezesinthedarkeneddoorway.
"Well, hello there, Grayer." A woman's voice startles us. Mr. X flips on the lamp as she comes around the desk in black fishnets, leotard, and a bowler hat. I recognizeher instantly. "Hello, Nanny," she says, tuckingherlooseredhair underthehat.
Grayer andI arespeechless.
Mr. X steps out from behind the desk, readjusting himself and surreptitiously wiping lipstick from his mouth. "Grayer,sayhello."
"I love your costume," she says brightly before Grayer can even speak. "See, I'm 'Chicago' because that's ourbiggestmarket!"
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"She's notwearinganypants,"hesaysquietly,pointingather nettedlegsandlookingup atme.
Mr. X swiftly picks up Grayer without looking at any of us, including Grayer, and with a "Time to call it a night,sport. Let's findyourmother" headsbacktowardtheparty.
"Um, we had to find a bathroom. Grayer has to go," I call after them, but he doesn't look back. I turn to Ms. Chicago,butshe's alreadypastme,clickingdownthehallintheoppositedirection.
Fuck.
I sitdownontheleathercouchandslump myfaceinmyhands.
I don't wanttoknowthisI don't wanttoknowthisI don't wanttoknowthis.
I grab ashooterfromthedesertedtrayof chilledvodkashotsonthecoffeetableanddownit.
Thankfully, within minutes the Xes and I are flying up the FDR and Grayer has completely passed out with his headinmylap.I suspecttheremaybe a stainontheseatwhenwegetout,but, hey, we were all adequatelywarned.
Mr. X leanshis headback againsttheleatherupholstery andcloses his eyes. I crackthewindow aninch to let some fresh air blow over me from theEast River. I am a little drunk.Yeah, I'm a little more than a little drunk.
Inthedistantbackground,I hearthetentative chatter ofMrs. X. "I wastalkingtoRyan's motherandshe says Collegiate is one of the top schools in the country. I'm going to call tomorrow and set up an interview forGrayer. Oh,andshetoldmethatsheandBenaretaking a houseinNantucketthissummer.
It turns out thatWalling-ton and Susan have summered there for the last four years and Sally says it's a delightfulbreak from the Hamptons. She said it's so pleasantjust to get awayfrom theMaidstone every once in a while, so the children can experience some diversity. And Caroline Horner has a house up there. Sally saidBen's brotherisgoingtoParis thissummer,
soyoucouldtakehis membership attheirtennisclub.AndNannycouldcome, too!Wouldn't youliketo joinusfor a fewweeksontheoceanthis summer,Nanny?It will besorelaxing."
Myearsperkup atthesoundofmynameandI findmyself respondingwith unmitigated enthusiasm.
"Totally. Relaxing and fun. F-U-N. Bring it on!" I say, trying to give a purple thumbs-up, as I imagine me, the ocean, my Harvard Hottie. "Naaantucket. wim, sand, and surf. I mean, what's not to love? Sign . . . me . . . up." Beneath my half-closed eyes I see her look at me quizzically before turning to the snoring Mr. X.
"Well, then." She pulls her mink up close around her and speaks to the city racing by outside the window. "Thatsettles it. I'll calltherealtortomorrow."
A half hour later my cab whizzes back down the FDR in the opposite direction toward Houston Street as I checkfor tracesof greasepaintin mycompact. I leanforward to catch a glance atthecabbie's clock andtheglowinggreenlettersreadback10:24.Go,Go,Go.
My heart starts to race and the adrenaline sharpens my senses considerably; I feel the bump of each potholeandcansmell thelastpassenger's cigarette.Thecombinationof thesurrealtenoroftheevening, the numerous drinks I have consumed, the leather pants I'm poured into, and the promise of a potential hookup with Harvard Hottie all add up to a lot of pressure. I am, in no uncertain terms, on a mission. Whatever reservations I had, political, moral, or otherwise, have melted past my lace underwear and intomyPradashoes.
The cab pulls up at Thirteenth Street, on a particularly seedy stretch of SecondAvenue, and I toss the driver twelve bucks and jog inside. Nightingale's is one of those places I vowed never to set foot in again after I graduated from high school. The beer's served in plastic cups, drunk men armed with darts makegettingsafelytothe
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bathroom achallenge,and,ifyoudomakeit,thedoordoesn't close. It istheproverbialShit Hole.
It takes all of two secondsforme toswing myheadaroundand seethatthereis noHarvard Hottie tobe found.Think.Think.Theywere goingtostartatChaos. "Taxi!"
I leap out on the corner of West Broadway and take my place on line behind a clump of people who have actually come here voluntarily. I'm waved behind the ropes with a clique of scantily clad girls, while afrustrated throngofguys trytotakeononeofthebouncers.
"Let's seesomeID."
I pull open my purse and hand the six-eight bouncer a juice box, HotWheels, and HandiWipes, before uncoveringmywallet.
"That'll be twenty bucks." Fine. Fine! I throw him two hours in a Teletubbies outfit and make my way up a darkened staircase lined with inappropriate blackand-white photographs of naked women with trumpet lilies. The bass beat from the house music is like aural rape and as I'm propelled along by the bump-ba-bump it reminds me of the old cartoons where Tom's music would bounce Jerry right out of his matchboxbed.
I startwending myway intothe crush of people, lookingfor?what? Brown hair, a HarvardT-shirt? The crowd is a mishmash oftourists andNYUstudentsfrom Utahandgayguys. hebalding, marriedones from the Island. nd they all went shopping on Eighth Street. It's not an attractive crowd. The strobe makes it feel as if they're flashing in front of me, like my own private slide show?ugly person, ugly person,uglyperson.
I trytomakemywayonto thedancefloor,forwhich I pay a price. Not onlyis thecrowd unattractive, it is supremelyuncoordinated.Butenthusiastic. Uncoordinatedandenthusiastic, a lethalcombination.
I maneuver carefully through the flailing limbs toward the bar at the far end of the room, making an efforttostayinmotion. ou're
only vulnerable to "unwelcome advances" if you stand still or, heaven forbid, dance, in which case you areguaranteedtohaveanunfamiliar pelvis pressedfirmly againstyour asswithin seconds.
"Martini, straightup, noolive." I need a littlepick-me-up toputtheedgebackon.
"Martinis? Pretty hard stuff, don't you think?" Oh, my God. t's Mr. COCKS. I thought H. H. was hangingoutwith his collegefriendstonight. "Isthatgood?You likethat?"
"WHAT?I CAN'THEARYOU!" I mouthasI startscanningover his whitehatfor H. H. inthecrowd.
"MARTINIS! HARDSTUFF!!" Right.
"SORRY! NOT A WORD!" I don't see him anywhere, which means I'm going to have to remind Hard
Martini over hereaboutDorrian's.
"HARD!!!" Sure,big guy. Whateveryousay.
"LISTEN,WEMETAT DORRIAN'S.'M LOOKINGFORYOURFRIEND!"
"RIGHT,THENAAAANNNEEEEHHH."Yep, that's me.
"IS HEHERE?" I shout.
"THENANNNEEEHHH."
"YEAH,I'M LOOKINGFORYOURFRIEND!IS ... HE... HERE?"
"RIGHT, YEAH, HE WAS HERE WITH SOME OF HIS COLLEGE BUDDIES, BUNCH OF ART
HOUSEPUSSIES,THEYWENTTOSOMEFUCKINGART GALLERYPOETRYTHING?
"THENEXTTHING?"I shoutintohis ear,hopingtopermanently deafenhim.
"YEAH, THAT'S IT. BUNCH OF BIDDIES IN BLACK TURTLENECKS DRINKING FUCKING
IMPORTEDCOFFEE?
"THANKS!"AndI'm off.
I getoutsideintothecoldair andlookwith reliefatthe
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bouncer as he undoes theropes. I takeout mywallet and do an inventory. Okay,I can walk it in tenand
savethemoney,butthese
shoesare?
"Hello?" I look over to see . .. me, in flannel pajamas, on Charlene's futon, watching educational
television with George. "Hello? Can we talk for a second here? You got up at five-thirty this morning.
Did you even eat a full meal today? When was the last time you had a glass of water and your feet are
killing you."
"So?" I askmyself asI puffalongSpringStreet.
"Sooo, you are tired, you are drunk, and, if you don't mind my saying, you're not looking all that great.
Gohome. Evenifyoufind
him?
"Look, you flannel-wearing, couch-warming, lo mein-eating loser, you are sitting at home alone. 1
know from sitting home, okay? My feet are bleeding, I'm down with that, I cannot fully inhale due to
the leather pants, and there is a permanent lace indentation up the crack of my ass. ut I deserve this date! This date will happen because I still have greasepaint behind my ears. I've earned this! What if I can't find him . .. ever again7. What if he never finds me? Sure, I want to be home, I want to be on the couch,butI needtohookupfirst! I havetherestof mylifetowatchTV!"
"Yeah,youdon't reallyseem all that?
"Well, of course not! Who would be at this hour? It's not about that! I have to win. He has to see me in myleatherpants. ecannot, cannot,cannotgotobedtonightwith thelast imagehehas of me beingin a hugepurpleTeletubbycostume! Outof thequestion.Goodnight."
I harden my resolve and turn onto Mercer, heading up to the bouncer. n art gallery with a bouncer, don't evengetme started.
"Sorry,lady,we're closedfor aprivate functiontonight."
"But. ut. utI? I'm dumbfounded.
"Sorry,lady."Andthatisthat.
"Taxi." I bum a cigarette off the driver and exhale as the city goes by in reverse. I honestly think, years fromnow,taxi rideslikethiswill bethedefiningmemory ofmyearlytwenties.
I mean,really,ifyouwantedtoseeme,commit to aplace!
I flicktheashoutthewindow. It's thewholeBuffet Syndrome?forNewYork Cityboys Manhattanis an all-you-can-eat. Why commit to one place when there might be a cooler one around the corner? Why commit toonemodel,when a better/taller/thinner onecouldwalkinthedooratanymoment?
So, in order to avoid having to make a choice, a decision, these boys make a religion of chaos. Their lives become governed by this bizarre need for serendipity. It's a whole lot of "We'll just see what happens."AndinManhattanthatcouldbehangingoutwith KateMossatfourA.M.
So,ifI "happen"torunintohimthreeweekendsin a rowthenI mightendup a girlfriend.Theproblem, then, is that their reverence for anarchy forces those of us lucky enough to "happen into" relationships with them to become the planners. r nothing would happen. We become their mothers, their cruise directors. heirnannies.Anditrunsthegamut from H. H. notbeingabletocommit tooneclubforone eveningto Mr. Xalways beinglate,beingearly,ornotbeingthereatall.
I take a drag of my borrowed Parliament and think of Lion King costumes, fishnets, and leather pants, the hours of planningpoured into this night. The cab pulls into Ninety-third Street and I fish for the last of my crumpled twenties.As the cab drives awaythe city suddenly seems very quiet. I stand there for a moment on the sidewalk. he air is bracingly cold, but it feels good. I sit down on the steps of my building and look over at the dim lights of Queens, winking at me across the East River. I wish I had anothercigarette.
I getupstairs andunbuttonmypants,kick offmyshoes,reach
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for water, for pajamas, for George. And on the ninth floor of the electric porcupine that is New York City, Mrs. X is still sitting wide awake in the upholstered chair across from the beige bed, watching as the covers rise and fall with each snore, while somewhere Ms. Chicago unpeels her fishnets and gets intobedalone.
HolidayCheerat$10 anHour
I turnthekeyandleanintotheXes'heavyfrontdoor,ashasbecomemyhabit,but itonlyswingsopen a footbeforegettingstuck.
"Huh,"I say.
"Huh,"Grayer echoesbehindme.
"Something's blocking the door," I explain as I reach my arm around and begin to grope blindly to identifytheobstructingobject.
"MOOOOMMMMMM! THE DOOR WON'T OPENNNN!!!" Grayer, wasting no time, uses his own approach.
I heartheslideof Mrs. X's stockingfeet. "Yes, Grayer,Mommy's coming. I simply couldn't carry all my elfing past thedoor inone trip."She pulls the door openand is revealed,knee deep inpiles of shopping bags on the foyer floor. ucci, Ferragamo, Chanel, Hermes, and endless silver boxes with purple ribbon, the signature Bergdorf's holiday wrap. She holds what must have been the offending item, a large Tiffany blue package, under her arm and greets us. "Can you believe people actually get engaged this time of year? As if there isn't enough to do, I also had to run all the way to Tiffany's to pick up a sterling serving tray. They should at least have had the decency to wait till January. t's just one more month,really. I'm sosorry,Grayer,thatI couldn't come toyourparty. I'm sureyouhad a wonderfultime with Nanny!"
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I put my backpack down in the coat closet and slip off my boots before crouching to help Grayer with his jacket. He gingerly protects the ornament we have just spent the past three hours constructing with his classmates (and their nannies) at his school's Family Christmas Party. He drops to the floor so I can pulloffhis wet boots.
"Grayer constructed quite the masterpiece," I say. "He's really a wizard with Styrofoam and glitter!" 1 lookupatherasI placehis boots onthemat.
"It's a snowman. His name is Al. He has a cold so he has to take lots of vitamin C." Grayer describes StyrofoamAl asifannouncinghimasthenextguestonLetterman.
"Ah."Shenods,shiftingtheTiffany's packagetoherhip.
"Why don't you go look for a spot for Al to hang out?" I help him up and he shuffles off toward the living roomwith his artwork heldinfrontof himlike a Fabergeegg.
I standup,brushmyself off,andfaceMrs. X,readytogive the report.
"I wish you could have seen him this morning. He was totally in his element! He loved the glitter. And hereallytookhis time with making it. You knowGiselleRutherford?"
"Jacqueline Rutherford's daughter? Of course. h, her mother is too much.When it was her turn to do snack she brought in a chef and set up an omelette bar in the music corner. I mean, really. The rule is youaresupposedtocome with thesnackprepared.Tell me,tellme."
"Well, Ms. Giselle insisted that Grayer do his snowman according to her color scheme. range, becauseshe's spendingthisChristmas inSouthBeach."
"Oh,howtacky."Hereyes arewide.
"She pulled Al right out of Grayer's hands and he landed smack in the middle of her orange glitter. I thought Grayer would lose it, but he just looked up at me and announced thatAl's orange specks were simply crumbs from all thevitamin Chehadtotakeforhis cold!"
"I thinkhejusthas a knackforcolor."Shebeginstoorganizeher bags. "So,howare finalsgoing?"
"I'm inthehome stretchandcan't wait tobedone."
Shestandsup andarches her back a little, making a fearful crackingsound. "I know,I'm justexhausted! It seemslikethelist justkeepsongrowing every year. Mr. Xhas ahugefamilyandsomanycolleagues. And it's already thesixth. I cannotwait for Lyford Cay. Cannotwait. I'm exhausted."She gathers up her bags. "Whenareyouoffuntil?"
"January twenty-sixth," I say. Just two more weeks to go and then I have a whole month off from schoolandyou.
"You should go to Europe this January. Do it while you're still a student, before you have Real Life to worryabout."
Oh, so maybe my pending Christmas bonus will cover a plane ticket to Europe? Six hours in a Teletubbycostume says I'm worthit.
Shecontinues. "You shouldseeParis whenit's snowing,there's nothingascharming."
"Except Grayer, of course!" We laugh together, as I try to sell her on her own child. The phone rings, interruptingus.
Mrs. X grabs a few more bags in each hand, tightens her arm around the Tiffany's package, and heads back toward her office. "Oh, Nanny, the tree's been set up. Why don't you and Grayer go down to the basement andbringuptheornaments?"
"Sure!" I call after her asI walk tothe living room. Thetree is a magnificentDouglasfir thatlooks asif it were growing rightout of thefloor. I closemyeyes and inhalefor a secondbefore addressingGrayer, who's having an animated exchange withAl, the lone tree decoration teetering on the very tip of a low branch.
"Hey, looks like your man Al is getting ready to jump." I reach for the bent paper clip serving as Al's lifeline.
"DON'T! He doesn't want you to touch him. Only me," he instructs. We spend the next fifteen tedious minutesrelocatingAl
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while ensuring that only Grayer's hands do all the work. I stare up at the many feet of bare greens towering above us and wonder if anyone would notice if the rest of the Xes' ornaments didn't make it onthis year.Attheratewe're going,itmightconceivablytakeGrayerwell
intohis twenties.
I lookdownathimashewhisperstoAl. "Okay,buddy,"I say, "let's gotothebasement andbringup the rest of your ornaments so they can keep Al company. They'll be there to talk him down if he gets too closetotheedgeagain." "To thebasement?" "Yup. Let's go."
"1 got toget mystuff.Got togetmyhelmet andbelt.You go tothedoorNanny, I'll meetya ... got toget theflashlight.. ." Herunstohis roomasI ringfortheelevator.
Grayer glides back out into the vestibule just as the elevator door opens. "Oh, my God, Grove!All this for the basement?" He puts one sock-covered foot down to stop his skateboard in front of the elevator door. His bicycle helmet sits slightly askew and he has shoved a huge flashlight into his waistband, along with a yo-yo and what looks to be a monogrammed washcloth from his bathroom. "Okay, let's go,"hesays with completeauthority. "I'm thinkingwe shouldatleastbewearingshoesforthis
adventure."
"Nah,don't need 'em."Herolls insideandthedoor closes behindbothof usbeforeI cancatch it. "It's so cool down there, Nanny. Oh, man, oh, man." He nods his helmeted head in anticipation. Grayer has taken to peppering his commentary with "oh, mans" as of late, thanks to Christianson, a four-year-old of remarkable charisma who has a good foot in height over the rest of his classmates. In fact, when Al first made impact with the fateful orange glitter both Giselle's and Grayer's first utterance was a simultaneous "Oh,man."
The elevator stops at the lobby and Grayer rolls ahead of me, propelling himself with one foot, while keeping both hands on his waistband so that his packed pants don't succumb to gravity. By the time I catch up, he's already gotten Ramon to lead the way to the caged service elevator. "Ahh, Mr. Grayer. You musthaveimportantbusiness downthere,huh?"
Grayer isbusyadjustinghis toolsandoffersonly adistracted "Yup."
Ramonsmiles inhis directionandthenwinksconspiratoriallyatme. "He's veryserious,our Mr. Grayer. You got a girlfriend yet, Mr. Grayer?" The elevator jerks as we reach the basement. He slides the gate open and we step out into the bright, cold corridor, rich with the aroma of dryer sheets. "Cage 132. own to the right. Be careful now, don't get lost, or I'll have to come find you..." He winks again and, with a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows, pulls the door closed, leaving me beneath a dangling lightbulb.
"Grayer?" I yell downthecorridor.
"Nanny! I'm waiting. Come onnnn!" I follow his voice around the maze of floorto-ceiling cages lining the walls. Some are more packed than others, but each has the requisite luggage, ski equipment, and random pieces of bubble-wrapped furniture. I round the bend and see Grove lying on his stomach atop his skateboard under a sign that says 132, pulling himself along the wired wall by his hands. "Oh, man, it's gonna be so fun when Daddy comes home and does the tree. Caitlin gets us started and Daddy does thehigh-ups andwehavehotchocolateinthelivingroom."
"Soundspretty cool. Here, I have thekey," I say, holdingit out toward him. He jumps up anddown as I unlock the cage and then proceeds to deftly make his way in around the boxes. I let him lead as he's clearly madethistrekbeforeandI wouldn't know astoragelockerfromanEasy-Bakeoven.
I sitdownonthecoldcementandleanbackonthecagedoor
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facing that of the Xes. My parents used to daydream about storage space, sitting with both feet up on the trunk packedto bursting with our summer clothes thatserved as our coffee table. On occasion, we'd allow ourselves to talk about what we could do with one extra closet. uch as a family in Wyoming mightfantasizeaboutwinning thelottery.
"Do you know what you're looking for, Grove?" I call into the piles, as I haven't heard anything in a few minutes. Loud clanging noises break the silence. "Grayer! What's going on in there?" I start to standupashis flashlightcomes rollingoutofthedarknessandstopsatmyfeet.
"Just getting my stuffout, Nanny! Turn the light on me, I'm going to get the blue box!" I click the high beam on and point it into the cage as directed, illuminating two dirtied socks and a little khaki rear end tunnelingintothemiddleofthepile.
"Are yousurethat's safe,Grayer? I thinkmaybe I should ..."What,crawlinbehindhim?
"I got it. Oh, man, there's lotsa stuff back here. My skis! These are my skis, Nanny, for when we go to Aspirin."
"Aspen?"
"Aspen. Found it! Going to pass 'em out. Get ready. You get ready, Nanny, here they come." He is far into the boxes. I hear fumbling and then a glass ball comes flying out of the darkness at me. I drop the flashlight and catch it. It is handblown and has a Steuben mark on it, along with a red hook. Before I canlookup anotheronecomes flying out.
"GRAYER!FREEZE!" Withtheflashlightrollingaround onthe floor,casting a weird lighton Grayer'boxes, I realize I've been letting Mickey Mouse run the show. "Back it up, mister, back it right on up.sIt's yourturntoholdtheflashlight."
"Noooooo."
"Gray-er!" It's theWickedWitchvoice.
"FINE!" Hetunnelsbackout.
I handhimtheflashlight. "Nowlet's trythisagain,onlythis timeyou'll bemeand I'll beyou."
When we get back up to the apartment Grayer marches ahead to establish a plan of attack while I gingerlysettheboxofornamentsdowninthefronthall.
"Nanny?" I hear asmall voice callforme.
"Yes, G?" I follow him into the living room where a flamboyant JohnnyCash is on a ladder, decorating
Grayer's tree.
"Passme thatboxof doves," hesays, noteven turningtolookatus. Grayer andI, standingsafelybythe
door, survey the living room floor, which is littered with doves, gold leaves, Victorian angels, and
stringsofpearls.
"Get down.Mydaddoesthehigh-ups."
"Holdon asec,Grayer,"I sayasI pass offthebirds tothemaninblack. "I'll berightback."
"You better get down or my daddy's gonna be mad at you," I hear Grayer challenge as I knock on Mrs.
X's officedoor.
"Come in."
"Hi, Mrs. X? Sorry to bother you? The room, ordinarily pristine, has been taken over by her "elfing"
andstacksandstacksofChristmas cards.
"No, no, come in. hatis it?" I open mymouth. "Have you met Julio? Isn't he a genius? I'm so luckyI
gothim. eisthethetreeexpert.You shouldseewhathedidattheEgglestons. twasjust
breathtaking."ttj\_?
"While I've got you, can I ask? Is a plaid taffeta skirt just too cliche for a Scottish Christmas party? I
can't decide?
UT\_\_\_)>
"Oh!You shouldsee. boughtthecutesttwinsets todayforMr.
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X's nieces. I hope they're the right color. Would you wear winter-weight cashmere pastels?" She pulls
out aTSEshoppingbag. "I mightexchangethem?
"I was just wondering," I cut in, "Grayer was really looking forward to decorating the tree. He said it
was something he did with Caitlin last year and I was wondering if maybe I could just get him a small treeforhisroomthathecouldhang acoupleofornamentson, justforfun? "I really don't think it would be a good idea to be traipsing needles all over that part of the house." She
searchesfor asolution. "If hewants atreeactivity,whydon't youtakehimtoRockefellerCenter?"
"Well...Yeah, no,yeah,that's a greatidea,"I sayasI openthedoor.
"Thanks.'m justsooverwhelmed!"
When I get back in the living room Grayer is holding a silver baby spoon on a string and tapping on
Julio's ladder. "Hey! Howaboutthis?Wheredoesthis go?" heasks.
Julio looks down in disgust at the spoon. "That doesn't really gel with my vision? Grayer's eyes start to
well up. "Well, ifyoumust. Intheback.Onthebottom."
"G,I've got a plan.GrabAl, I'll getyourcoat."
"Grandma,Grayer. Grayer,this isGrandma."
My grandmother crouches down in her black satin pajama pants, her pearls clicking together as she
extends her hand. "Pleased to meet you, Grayer. And darling, you must beAl." Grayer blushes deeply.
"Well, arewedoingChristmas orwhat?Everybody inwhowantsrugelach."
"Thanksso much,Gran. We were in desperate needof a surface to decorate."The doorbellrings behind
usasI reachtotakeoffGrayer's coat.
"Asurface!Don't beridiculous."Shereachesover Grayer's head
to open the door and there stands a huge tree with two arms wrapped around it. "Right this way!" she
says. "Now, Grayer," she whispers, "you cover Al's eyes. It's all about the surprise." We kick off our
boots and follow closely behind them into the apartment. I've got to hand it to her. he has the
deliverymanplaceitsquarelyinthemiddleof thelivingroom. Sheseeshimoutandreturnstojoinus.
"Grandma,youreallydidn't havetogeta?
"If you're going to do something, darling, then do it all the way. Now, Grayer, let me hit the special effects and we'll get this soiree started." Grayer holds his hands carefully over Al's eyes as my grandmother turns on Frank Sinatra?Can't find Bing," she mouths?and hits the lights. She's lit candles all about the room, setting a beautiful glow around our family pictures, and as Frank croons "The Lady Is aTramp,"it's breathtaking.
SheleansdowntoGrayer. "Well, sir, wheneveryou're ready,I believeAl shouldmeethis tree."We both make drum-roll noises as Grayer takeshis hands offAl's eyes and asks him exactly where he wouldlike tohangoutfirst.
An hour later the two of us are lounging on cushions beneath the green boughs, sipping hot chocolate, while GrayerrelocatesAl atwhim.
"So,how's thedramawith your H. H.?"
"I can't get a read on him. I want him to be different from those boys, but there's really no good reason whyhewouldbe. Ofcourse,if1 never seehimagainit's prettyirrelevant."
"Keep ridingtheelevator, dear. He'll showup.So,howarefinals going?" sheasks.
"OnlyonemoreandI'm done. It's beeninsane. heXeshavebeenout atChristmas partiesevery night. I only study after Grayer goes to sleep, which, ultimately, is probably better than trying to concentrate over thesoundsof Charleneandherhairyboyfriend?Shelooksatme. "Don't evengetme started."
"Well, justdon't wearyourself out. It's notworthit."
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"I know. Butthebonusisboundtobegoodthisyear. he's mentionedParis."
"Ohlala,tresbien."
"Nanny, Al wants to know why Daddy isn't doing the high-ups," Grayer asks quietly from behind the tree. I lookover ather,unsurehowtoanswerhim.
"Grayer". hesmiles atme reassuringly?hasNantoldyouaboutwassailing?"
Heemerges. "Whatdidyousay?" Hecomes up closetoherandputshishandonher knee.
"Wassailing, darling.Whenyou wassail. ou make Christmas! You, little Grayer,are the very best gift you can give. All you do is knock on someone's door, someone you want to share the joy of Christmas with, and when they open it you sing your heart out. Wassailing. ou've got to try it!" He lies down nexttomeandwe lookup throughthebrancheswithour headstogetheron apillow.
"Grandma, you showme. Sing something," hesays. I turnmyheadandsmile at her. Fromwhere we lie sheseems tobeglowingassheleansagainstthechaisesurroundedbycandles. Shebegins tosingalong with her Frank to "The Way You LookTonight." Grayer closes his eyes and I fall just a little bit more in lovewith her.
A weeklater,inexcitedpursuit of Mr. X, Mrs. Xand Grayer marcheagerly aheadof me along thesame corridor I chased Grayer down at the Halloween party. Boughs of greens and twinkling colored lights nowhangwherefakecobwebshadbeen.
Mrs. X pushes Mr. X's heavyofficedooropen.
"Darling, come in." He stands, backlit by the setting sun, which pours in through the floorto-ceiling windowsbehindhis desk.I am immediatelystruckbyhis capabilitytoexuderelaxedpower inthis
roomwith thelightsonaswellas off. HelooksthroughmeinGrayer's generaldirection. "Hey,sport."
Grayer tries to hand off the bag of Christmas presents we've brought for the charity his father's companysupports,but Mr. Xhas alreadypickedup theblinkingphone.
I takethepresentsandleandowntounbuckleGrayer's togglecoat.
"Justine said something about cookies in the conferenceroom. Why don't you take Grayer down there? I have to take this call and then I'll join you," Mr. X instructs, his hand over the mouthpiece. Mrs. X drops her mink on the couch and we file back out toward the sound of Christmas carols coming from behindthedoubledoorsattheendofthehall.
Mrs. X is a sugarplumvision inherMoschinogreensuitwith redholly-berry trimandmistletoe buttons. To top it off, the heels of her shoes are miniature snow globes with a reindeer in one and Santa in the other. I am just grateful not to be dressed up as Frosty the Snowman, and wear my Christmas-tree pin with pride.
With a grand smile she pushes the doors open into the conference room, at the far end of which sits a small gaggle of women, whom I assume to be secretaries, opening a tin of cookies and playing Alvin andtheChipmunkson atapeplayer.
"Ooh, I'm sorry. I'm looking for the Christmas party," Mrs. X says, Stopping short at the head of the table.
"Would you like a cookie? I made them myself," a jolly-looking robust woman with Christmas-tree!
lightearringscalls back.
"Oh."Mrs. Xseems confused.
The doors swing open again, narrowly missing Grayer and me. I inhalesharplyas Ms. Chicagosteps in
tojoinour cluster. Shemaneuversaroundustogetto Mrs. X,her tightflannelsuitleaving littlemore to
theimaginationthanherHalloweencostume did.
"I heardtherewere cookies,"shesaysas asturdy-looking
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brunettecomes flyinginbehindher,pushingus all forwardagainstthetable.
"Mrs. X,"thebrunettesays,slightlyoutofbreath.
"Justine,MerryChristmas," Mrs. Xgreets her.
"Hi,MerryChristmas, whydon't youcome with metothekitchenandwe'll getsomecoffee?"
"Don't be silly, Justine." Ms. Chicagosmiles. "There's coffee right here." She walks over to the chrome
potandpulls out aStyro-foamcup. "Won't yougoseewhat's takingthemsolongwith thosenumbers?"
"Are yousureyoudon't wanttocome with me,Mrs. X?"
"Justine."Ms. Chicagoraisesaneyebrow andJustinewalksslowlybackoutthedoubledoors.
"Are weearly?" Mrs. X inquires.
"Earlyforwhat?" Ms. Chicagoasks, pouringtwocupsofcoffee.
"Forthefamily Christmas party."
"That's next week.'m surprisedyour husbanddidn't tellyou.Shame onhim!" Shelaughs,handingthe
coffee to her. Grayer squeezes past Ms. Chicago's exposed knees, swaggering down to the other end of
thetabletowowthesecretariesoutof acookie.
Mrs. X stammers, "Well,um, myhusbandmust havegottenthedatesconfused."
"Men,"Ms. Chicagosnorts.
Mrs. X shiftstheStyrofoamcuptoherlefthand. "I'm sorry,havewe met?"
"Lisa. Lisa Chenowith,"Ms. Chicagosmiles, "I'm ManagingDirectoroftheChicagobranch."
"Oh,"Mrs. Xsays, "nice tomeetyou."
"I'm so sorry I couldn't get to your dinner party. heard it was lovely. Unfortunately,that slave-driver
husband of yours insisted I hightail it back to Illinois." She tilts her head to the side and smiles
brilliantly like a canary-filledcat. "Thegift bags wereadorable?everyonejustloves thepens."
"Oh, good." Mrs. X raises her hand protectively to her collarbone. "You work with my husband?"And
with thatI decidetomakehelpingGrayer pickouttheperfectreindeercookiemypersonalmission.
"I'm heading up the team working on the Midwest Mutual merger. Isn't it awful? Well, I'm sure you
know."
"Truly,"Mrs. Xsays, buthervoice rises,betrayingher uncertainty.
"Getting them down to eight percent was such a coup. You must have had some sleepless nights over
that one," she says, shaking her Titian hair in sympathy. "But I told him if we push the sell date up and
savethemtheliquidationcosts, theymightbend. ndtheydid.Theybentrightover."
Mrs. X stands very straight, her hand clenched tightly around the Styrofoam. "Yes, he's been working
veryhard."
Ms. Chicagostruts to our end of the table, her lizard-skin pumps silenton theplush carpet. "Andyou're
Grayer. Doyouremember me?" shebendsdowntoinquire.
Grayer places her. "You don't wearpants." Oh,sweet Jesus.
Just then the door opens and Mr. X strides in, his broad frame towering in the doorway. "Ed Strauss is
onthephone. ewantstogoover thecontract," hecalls downthetabletoMs. Chicago.
"Fine," she says, smiling, as she walks slowly back up the room past Mrs. X. "Merry Christmas,
everybody."Asshereaches Mr. X sheadds, "It wassolovely tofinallymeet yourfamily."
Hisjaw clenched, Mr. Xcloses thedoorswiftly behindthem.
"Daddy, wait!" Grayer attempts to follow him out of the room, but the Dixie cup of grape juice slips
from his grasp, staining both his shirt and the beige carpet a deep purple. Mercifully, we all turn our attention to the spill, gathering paper napkins and seltzer. Grayer stands whimpering while multiple manicuredhandsdab athis front.
"Nanny, I'd really appreciate it if you kept a closer eye on him. Just get him cleaned up.'ll be waiting inthecar,"Mrs. X instructs,placingheruntouchedcupofcoffeeonthetable,likeSnowWhite
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putting down the apple. When she looks back up she has pasted on a beaming smile for the secretaries.
"See you all nextweek!"
The next afternoon, having finished his lunch, Grayer announces our plans as he climbs down from his
boosterseat.
"Wassailing."
"What?"
"I want to wassail. I'm going to make my own Christmas. I knock on the door, you open it, and I sing
my heart out." I'm amazed that he's retained this from our visit over a week ago, but my grandmother
doeshave awayofnestling herselfintopeople's memories.
"Okay,whatdoorwouldyoulikeme tostandbehind?" I ask.
"My bathroom," he says over his shoulder as he heads off with purpose toward his wing. I follow him
andpositionmyself inthebathroomasdirected.A few momentslaterI hearhislittle knock.
"Yes," I say, "who's there?"
"NANNY,youarejustsupposedtoopenthedoor!Don't talk,justopenit!"
"Right. Ready when you are." I sit back on the toilet seat and start checking my hair for split ends,
sensingthatthisgamemaybeslowtogetofftheground.
Again, asmall knock.I leanforward andnudgethedooropen,almost knockinghimover.
"NANNY,that's mean!You're tryingtopushme!I don't likethat. Startover."
Eleven knocks later, I finally get it right and am rewarded with a screaming rendition of "Happy
Birthday" thatshakesthewindow-pane.
"Grover, why don't you try a little dancing while you wassail?" I ask when he finishes. "Really wow 'em?" I hopehemightquietdownifhehastodivert someenergytostayinginmotion. "Wassailing is not dancing, it is singing your heart out." He puts his hands on his hips. "Close the door
and I'll knock,"he says, asif suggestingthis routinefor thefirst time. We playwassailing forabout half an hour until I remember that Connie, the housekeeper, is here and sic Grayer on her. I hear him from across the apartment, screaming "Happy Birthday" over her roaring vacuum and after five rounds go backtocollectwhatisrightfullymine.
"Wanttoplaycars?"
"No.I wanttowassail. Let's gobacktomybathroom."
"Onlyifyoudance,too."
"Oh,man,oh,man,thereisNOdancingwhenI wassail!"
"Come on,mister,we're calling Grandma."
One short phone call later and Grayer is not only dancing and singing the actual "Here we come a
wassailing among the leaves so green," which is infinitely less painful, but I have been inspired with a
delicious plan.
As I give Grayer's wassailing outfit (green and red striped turtleneck, felt reindeer antlers, candy-cane
suspenders) a final once-over for "ultra wassailyness," Mrs. X comes bustling in, Ramon in tow, laden
with boxes.
Her cheeks are rosy, her eyes are glistening. "Oh, it is a zoo out there, a zoo! I nearly got into a fight
with awoman atHammacherSchlemmer. utthemdownover there,Ramon. verthelastScrewPull,
but I just let her have it, I thought there is no point descending to her level. I think she was from out of
town. Oh, I found the most darling wallets at Gucci. Does Cleveland understand Gucci? I wonder.
hankyou,Ramon.Oh,I hopetheylikethem?Grayerwhathaveyoubeenup to?"
"Nothing,"hesays, whilepracticinghis soft-shoebytheumbrella stand.
"Before lunchwe made unsweetenedcookies anddecoratedthemand thenwe've beenpracticing carols
andI readhimTheNightBeforeChristmas inFrench,"I say, tryingtojoghis memory.
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"Oh, wonderful. I wish someone would read to me." She takes off her mink and nearly hands it to
Ramon. "Oh,that's all, Ramon, thankyou."Sheclaps herhandstogether."So,whatareyouup tonow?"
"I wasgoingtoletGrayerpracticehis caroling?
"WASSAILING!"
". nsomeoftheelderly inthebuilding, whomightappreciatea littleholidaycheer!"
Mrs. X is beaming. "Oh,excellent!What a goodboy you areand that'll keep him o-c-c-u-p-i-e-d. I have
somuchtodo!Havefun!"
I letGrayerpress fortheelevator. "Which floor,Nanny?"
"Let's startwith yourfriendoneleven."
We have to buzz three times before we hear "Coming!" from inside the apartment.As soon as the door
opens it's apparent the hour and a half of "practicing" was well worth it. H. H. leans against the door
frameinfadedChristmas-tree boxersand a well-wornAndoverT-shirt, rubbingsleepout ofhis eyes. "HERE WE COME A-WASSAILING.'AMONG THE LEAVES SO GREEN.'.'/" Grayer is red faced, swaying backandforth,with his jazz handssplayedand antlers waving.For a splitseconditcrosses my mindthathemightliterally singhis heartout.
"LOVEAND JOY COME TO YOU.'.'.'" His voice ricochets around the vestibule, bouncing off every surfacesothatitsoundsasifhe's a chorusofemphatic wassailers.A wassailing riot. Whenit appearshe hasreachedhis conclusion, H. H. bendsdownandopenshis mouth.
"AND GOD BLESS YOU.'.'.'" This move mistakenly places him at ground zero to be blasted with the spitandsweatofGrayer's effort,whichisthenfollowedbyaneven louderfinale.
"Well, goodmorningtoyou,too,Grayer!" Grayer collapses onto the vestibule floor, panting to catch his breath. I smile beguilingly. Make no bonesaboutit;I am agirl with
a mission.I am heretoget aDate.A RealDatewith aplanand alocationandeverything.
"We're caroling?I begin.
"Wassailing," a small exasperatedvoice pipesinfromthefloor.
"Wassailing aroundthebuilding."
"CanI have acookienow?" Grayersits up,readytoberewardedforhis efforts.
H. H. turns into his apartment. "Sure. Come on in. Don't mind my pajamas." Oh, if you insist. We follow his boxer-clad body into what is essentially the Xes' apartment, only two floors higher, and one wouldnever guessthatwe wereeven inthesamebuilding.Thewallsinthefronthallarepainted adeep brick red and are decorated with National Geographic'tjpe blackand-white photographs between kilim
tapestries. There are sneakers lining the floor and dog hair on the carpet. We make our way into the
kitchenwherewe practicallytrip over ahuge,grayingyellow Lablying onthefloor.
"Grayer, you know Max, right?" Grayer hunkers down and with uncharacteristic gentleness rubs Max's
ears. Max's tail animatedly pounds the tiles in response. I look around; instead of the large island that
Mrs. X hasinthemiddleoftheroom,there's anold refectorytablepiledhighatoneendwith theTimes.
"Cookies? Anyone want cookies?" H. H. asks, brandishing a Christmas tin of David's cookies that he
has pulled from a teetering pile of holiday baked goods on the sideboard. Grayer runs over to help
himself andI forcemyself tofocus.
"Just one,Grover."
"Oh,man."
"Doyouwantmilkwith that?" Heheadstothefridgeandreturnswith a fullglass.
"Thankyousomuch,"I say. "Hey,Grayer,anything youwanttosaytoourhost?"
"Thanks!" hemumbles,his mouthfullof cookie.
THE NANNY DIARIES
"No,man,thankyou!It's theleastI candoafter such apowerful performance."Hesmiles over atme. "I
can't remember thelasttime someonesangtomewhenit wasn't mybirthday."
"1 cando that!I can do 'HappyBirthday'? Heputs his glass down on thefloor andplaces his hands into thejazzpositioninpreparation. "Whoa! We have done our fair shareof wassailing already? I put myhandout to shield us from another
round.
"Grayer,it's notmybirthdaytoday. ButI promise I'll letyouknowwhenitis."Teamwork,I love it.
"Okay. Let's go, Nanny. Got to wassail. Let's go now." Grayer hands H. H. his empty glass, wipes his
glovedhandacrosshis lips,andheadsforthedoor.
I stand up from the table, not really wanting to leave. "I'm sorry I never caught up with you that night;
theirpartyranreallylate."
"That's all right, you didn't miss anything.The NextThing was having a private party, so we just ended
up gettingpizzaatRuby's."AsintheRuby's thatis exactlytwentyfeetfrommyfrontstoop.Theirony.
"Howlongareyouhomefor?" I askwithoutbattinganeyelash.
"NA-NNY.Theelevator's here!"
"Just aweekandthenwegotoAfrica."
Theelevator doorwaiting,myheartpounding. "Well,I'm aroundifyouwanttohangoutthisweekend,"
I sayasI stepinbesideGrayer.
"Yeah,great," hesaysfromthedoorway.
"Great." I nodmyheadasthedoorslidesclosed.
"GREAT!" Grayer singsas a warm-up toour nextperformance.
Short of writing my number on a piece of paper and shoving it under his door, I leave 721 Park on FridaynightknowingthereisnowayI am goingtosee H. H. beforeheleaves forAfrica. Ugh.
1 O9
That night I make Sarah, who's home for Christmas vacation, accompany me to a holiday party being given downtown by some guys in my class. The whole apartment is festively decorated in glowing jalapeno-pepper lights and someone has glued a cutout of a large penis onto the picture of Santa in the living room. It takesless thanfive minutes to decide thatwe don't want a Bud Light from the bathtub, a fistful of corn chips from a filmy bowl, or to take any of the frat boys up on their gracious offers of quickoralsex.
We headJoshoffonthestairs.
"Nofun?" heasks.
"Well,"Sarahsays, "I lovetoplaystrip quartersasmuchasthenextgirl, but?
"Sarah!" Joshcries,giving her ahug. "Leadon!"
Several hours later find me doing a martini-sodden rendition of the wassailing story for Sarah in a corner booth at the NextThingwhile Joshhits on some fashionista atthe bar. "Andthen ... he gave him a cookie!Thatmust mean something, right?" We do an interpretive danceof every subtlenuance of the entire fiveminute exchange until we have completely wrung the encounter of any meaning it might possiblyhavehad. "So thenhesaid 'Great'andthenI said 'Great.'"
Saturdaymorning I wake with myshoes still on, a killer hangover, and only one dayto buypresents for myentire family,theXes,andthemanylittle peopleI've takencareof over theyears.TheGleasongirls have already sent over two glitter pens and a rock with my name painted on it.'ve got to get my act together.
I wolf down tomato sauce on toast, drink a liter of water, grab a double shot of espresso on the corner, andba-da-bing, I am alive with theHolidaySpirit.
AnhourlaterI emergefromBarnesandNobleJunior a good$ 150
THE NANNY DIARIES
lighter,prompting metodo a littlemathasI walkdownPark.ForgetParis, I'm goingtoneedthatstupid bonusjusttopayoffChristmas.
I walk down Madison to Bergdorf s to get a Rigaud candle for Mrs. X. It may be tiny, but at least she'll know it wasn't cheap.As I stand on line for the all-important stiver gift wrap I try to figure out what to get the four-year-old who has everything. What would make him really happy, short of his father actually making an appearanceto do the high-ups? Well... a night-light, because he's scared of thedark. Andmaybe abus-pass holderthatcouldkeepthatcardprotectedbeforeitcompletely disintegrates.
As I'm on Fifty-eighth and Fifth, the logical thing would be to cross the street to FAO Schwarz's
enormous SesameStreet sectiontofindhim a Grover night-light, butI can't, can't, can't.
I debate which would be faster, taking the train to a Toys "JI" Us in Queens or navigating a few thousand square feet of bedlam just a block away. Against my better judgment, I drag myself across Fifth to wait in line with the entire population of Nebraska in the cold for over half an hour before beingusheredintotherevolvingdoors by atalltoysoldier.
"Welcome to our world. Welcome to our world. Welcome to our world of toys," blasts relentlessly from mysteriously placed speakers, making it sound as if the eerie, childlike singing is coming from within my own head. Yet it cannot drown out the tortured cries of "But I waaaant it!! 1 neeeeed it!!" that also fill the air. Andthisisonly thestuffed-animalfloor.
Upstairs is total chaos; children are firing ray guns, throwing slime, sports equipment, and siblings. I look around at parents who share my "let's just get through this" expression and employees trying to makeittolunchwithoutsustainingseriousbodilyinjury. I slithertoSesameStreetCornerwhere alittle girl ofaboutthreehasprostratedherselfonthefloorandissobbingforinjusticeeverywhere.
iii
"Maybe Santawill bringyouone,Sally."
"NoooOOOoooOOOOoooOOOooooooooOOOoooooOOOO!"shehowls.
"CanI help you?" asks a salesgirlwearing aredshirtandglazedsmile.
"I'm lookingfor aGrover night-light."
"Oh, I think we sold out of Grover." The last half hour of standing in line says you didn't. "Let's take a look."Yes, let's.
We go to the night-light section where we are faced with an entire wall of Grover. "Yeah, sorry, those wentfast,"shesays, shakingherheadasshebeginstowanderoff.
"Yeah,thisisone,"I say, holdingitup.
"Oh,ishetheblueguy?"Yes, he's theblue guy. (Don't evenget mestarted!NooneatBarnesandNoble Junior had even heard of Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile. Come on, you work in a children's bookstore, it's not likeI'm askingforHustler.)
I take my place in line for gift wrap and use the opportunity to practice my transcendental meditation amid more childrenwrackedwithsobs.
On Monday morning Mrs. X pops her head into the kitchen while I'm cutting fruit. "Nanny, I need you to run an errand for me. I went to Saks to pick up the gifts for our help and, like a ninny, I forgot the bonus checks. So I've put handbags on hold and I'd like you to make sure that each check is put inside the right bag. Now, I've written it all down and the name of each person is on the outside of each envelope. Justine gets the Gucci shoulder bag, Mrs. Butters gets the Coach tote, housekeeper gets the LeSportsac and the Herve Chapeliers are for the piano and the French teachers. Make sure they gift!wrap everything andthenjustcomehome in a cab."
THE NANNY' DIARIES
"Noproblem," I say, excitedlyestimating where I fitinbetweenGucciandLeSportsac.
Tuesday afternoon Grayer has Allison over, an adorable Chinese girl from his class who will proudly
tellanyonewhoasks, "I havetwo
daddies!"
"Hello,Nanny,"shealways says,curtsying. "How's school?Love
yourshoes."Shejustkills me.
The phone rings as I'm rinsing out their hot carob mugs. "Hello?" I say, hanging the towel neatlyon the
ovendoor.
"Nanny?" I hear atentative whisper.
"Yes," I whisperback,becauseonedoes.
"It's Justine,from Mr. X'soffice. I'm sogladI gotyou.Canyoudome a favor?"
"Sure,"I whisper.
"Mr. X asked me to go pick out some things for Mrs. X and I don't know her size or what designer she
likes,or thecolors." Shesoundsgenuinelypanicked.
"I don't know," I say, surprised to find I don't have her measurements committed to memory. "Wait,
holdon."I gopickup theextensioninthemasterbedroom.
"Justine?"
"Yes?" shewhispers. Issheunderher desk?In theladies'room?
"Okay, I'm going in the closet." Her "closet" is actually a large chocolate-brown dressing room,
complete with a long velvet bench. Mrs. X's paranoia is such that I'm sure she's convinced I not only
snooparoundinhereon a dailybasis, butam, infact,wearingher underwearright now. Onthecontrary,
I'm in a cold sweat and debate putting Justine on hold again so I can call Mrs. X on her cell phone to
confirmthatshe's really,reallyfaraway.
Regardless,I startgentlyrifflingthemerchandiseandanswering
Justine's questions. "Size two ... Herrera, Yves Saint Laurent... Shoe size seven and a half, Ferragamo,
Chanel... Her purses are Hermes. o outside pockets and she hates zippers ... I don't know, pearls,
maybe? Shelikespearls."Andsoonandsoforth.
"You've been a lifesaver,"shegushes. "Oh,onemorething.IsGrayer doingchemistry?"
"Chemistry?"
"Yeah, Mr. Xtoldmetogobuyhim achemistrysetandsomeGuccislippers."
"Right."We bothlaugh. "The Lion King,"I say. "Heloves anything todowithTheLion King,Aladdin,
Winnie-the-Pooh.He's four."
"Thanks again, Nanny. Merry Christmas!" After clicking off I take one last look around at the tower of
cashmere sweaters, each one wrapped with tissue and individually stored in its> own clear drawer, the wall of shoes, each stuffed with a satin triangle, the racks of fall, winter, and spring suits, going from lightest to darkest, from left to right. I tentatively pull open a drawer. Each pair of panties, every bra, every pair of stockings, is individually packed in a Ziplock baggy and labeled: "Bra, Hanro, white," "Stockings,Fogal,black."
The doorbell rings and I jump about sixteen feet, panting with relief when I hear Grayer let Henry, Allison's father, in. I slide the drawer shut and walk calmly out to the hall, where a bemused Henry is watchingGrayer andAllisontrying totageachotherwith theirscarves.
"Okay, Ally, I have to get dinner started. Let's get it together." He finally catches her, steadying her
betweenhis kneestotieherscarf.
I handover hersmall lodencoatasHenrysecuresherhatandushersher intothevestibule.
"Saygoodbye toAllison,Grayer."I nudgehimandhewavesfreneticallywith bothhands.
"Goodbye, Gray-er. Thank you for a lovely afternoon! Au revoir, Nanny!" she cries as the elevator
opens.
THE NANNY DIARIES
"Thanks, Nan," Henry says, turning and accidentally swinging one ofAllison's boots right into another
memberof theXfamily.
"Oh!" Mrs. X flinches.
"I'm sosorry,"Henrysays,asAllisonburiesherheadinhis neck.
"No,please,I'm fine. Didyou all have agoodtime?"
"Yes!" Grayer andAllisonshout.
"Well," Henry says, "I better get back and start dinner. Richard'11 be home soon and I need to get the
ornamentsdown."
"Your nanny's dayoff?" sheaskswith a knowingsmile.
"Oh,wedon't have a nanny?
"You havetwodaddiestodothehigh-ups?" Grayer interruptshim.
"Mygoodness,"Mrs. Xsays quickly, "however doyoumanage?"
"Well, youknow,they're onlythisageonce."
"Yes." Shelooks a littlepinched. "Grayer,saygoodbye!"
"I alreadydid,Mommy.You're late."
Thedoorslidesshut.
Much later that night I ride down in the elevator half-asleep, entertaining the fantasy of walking along
the Seine humming "La Vie en Rose." It's twenty past twelve on the twenty-second. Only twenty-four
morehours togountil amonthoffandmoneyinmypocket.
" 'Night, James," I say to the doorman, just as he opens the door for H. H., rosy cheeked and carrying a
FoodEmporiumbag.
"Hey,there. Justgetoffwork?" heasks, smiling.
"Yup." Pleasedon't letme havesteamedchardbetweenmyteeth.
"Thatwassomefinewassailing.You trainhim?"
"Impressed?" I askcarefully withmyupperlip curleddown.
Enoughpatter,wheristhedate?
"Listen," he says, loosening his scarf, "are you doing anything right now, 'cause I just have to run
upstairs. Mymom's in aChristmas bakingfrenzyandweranoutof vanilla."
Oh.Now?
Okay,nowworksforme.
"Yeah, great."As thenumbers go from one toeleven and back again I quickly run tothebeveled mirror
andgroomlike a madwoman.I hopeI'm notboring.I hopehe's notboring.I trytoremember ifI shaved this morning. Ugh, I'll be so bummed if he's boring. And let's try not sleeping with him. Tonight. I'm applying afurtive swipeoflip glossastheelevatorapproaches "L."
"Hey,haveyoueatenyet?" heasksasJamesopensthedoor forus.
" 'Night, James," I call over my shoulder. "It depends on what you mean by eating. If you consider a
fistful of Goldfishand a fewdrytortellini amealthenI'm stuffed."
"Whatare youupfor?"
"Well."I thinkfor amoment. "Theonlyplaces with openkitchensrightnowarecoffeeshopsandpizza.
Takeyourpick."
"Pizzasoundsgood.Isthatokay?"
"Anything notinthisbuildingsoundsfabulous."
"Here, sit on myjacket," he says as he closes the empty pizza box.TheMetropolitan Museum steps are
coldandit's startingtoseep upthroughmyjeans.
"Thanks."I tuckhis bluefleeceundermeandlookdownFifthAvenueatthetwinklingholidaylightsof
theSlanhopeHotel. H. H. pullsthecontainerofBenandJerry's PhishFoodoutof a brownpaperbag.
"So what's itlikeworkingontheninthfloor?"
"Exhausting and weird." I look back at him. "That apartment has all the holiday warmth of a meat
lockerandGrayer has a loneStyrofoamsnowman hanginginhis closet, becauseshewon't let himputit anywhereelse."
"Yeah,she's always struckmeas alittle high-strung."
THE NANNY DIARIES
"You havenoidea,andwith theholidays it's likeworkingfor a drillsergeantwithADD?
"Come on,itcan't bethatbad."Henudgesme with his knees.
"Excuseme?"
"I usedtobaby-sit inthebuilding.You eatsomefood,playsome
games?
"Oh, my God. That is not my job at all. 1 spend more time with this kid than anybody" I slide an inch
awayfromhim onthestep.
"Whataboutontheweekends?"
"TheyhavesomebodyinConnecticut.They're only alonewith himforthedrive outandback. ndthey
do thatatnightsohe's asleep!There's nocoming together.I thoughtmaybe they were just waiting for a
holiday, but apparently not. Mrs. X is having Christmas by herself at Barneys, so she's been sending us
all over town,withtherestofAmerica, mindyou,justtogethimoutofthehouse."
"Butthere's somuchcoolstufftodowith akidthistime of year."
"He's four. He slept through the Nutcracker, the Rockettes scared the shit out of him, and he developed
some kind of weird heat rash while waiting for three hours to see Santa at Macy's. But mostly we just
standinlineforthebathroom. Everywhere. Not acabtobe
found,nota?
"Soundslikeyouhavedefinitelyearnedsomeicecream."He
handsme a spoon.
1 haveto laugh. "I'm sorry,you're thefirst grown-up without shoppingbags thatI've talkedto in a good
forty-eight hours. I'm just a little Christmased outatthemoment."
"Oh, don't say that. This is such an awesome time of year to be living in the city, all the lights and the
people." He gestures to the sparkling Christmas decorations on FifthAvenue. "It makes you appreciate thatwe're luckyenoughtolivehereyearround." I digintothecarton, tracing a swirl ofcaramel. "You're right. Upuntil twoweeksagoI wouldhavesaid
itwasmyfavoritetime ofyear."We pass thePhishFoodbackandforthandlookover atthe
wreathsintheStanhope's windowsandthelittlewhite bulbsburningontheawning.
"You seemlike a holidaykindofgirl."
I blush. "Well,ArborDayisreallywhenI go all out."
Helaughs.Oh,sweetGod,youarehot.
Heleansin. "So,doyoustill thinkI'm anasshole?"
"I never saidyouwereanasshole."I smile back.
"Just anassholebyassociation."
"Well..."AAAAAAHHH!!!!HE'S KISSINGME!!!!!
"Hi,"hesays softly,his facestill almost touchingmine.
"Hi."
"Canwe pleasestartover andputDorrian's really,reallyfarbehindus?"
I smile. "Hi,I'm Nan..."
"Nanny?Nanny!"
"Right.What?"
"Your turn. It's your turn." Poor G, this is the third time he's had to snap me back from the steps of the
Metwheremybrainhas takenuppermanent residence.
I move mygingerbreadmanfromanorangesquareto ayellow square. "Okay,Grove,butthisisthelast
gameandthenwe'vegottotryonthoseclothes." ^
"Oh,man."
"Come on, it'll befun.You cando a little fashionshowforme."Thebedis piledwith Grayer's wardrobe
from last summer and we need to figure out what, if anything, still fits so that he can be properly outfitted forhis vacation.I knowputtingtogether a resortwardrobeis hardlyhow hewantstospendhis lastafternoonwithme,butordersare orders.
Afterwe putawaythegame I kneelonthefloorandhelp himin THE NANNY DIARIES andoutandinandoutofshorts,shirts,swimming trunks,andtheworld's tiniest navyblueblazer. "Owww!Toosmall! It hurts!" His arm chubhas beencompressedlike a hot-dog bunwith a rubberband
aroundthemiddlebythelittle whiteLacoste tee.
"Okay, okay, I'm getting you out, be patient." I peel him out of the shirt and hold up a stiff Brooks
Brothersoxford.
"I don't like thatone so much,"he says, shakinghis head, then, slowly, "I think . . . it's ... too .. . small,"
hesays intently.
I look down at the buttons on the sleeve and the starched collar. "Yeah. I think you're right. ay too
small. You probably shouldn't wear it anymore," I say conspiratorially, folding the offending item and
puttingit ontherejectpile.
"Nanny, I'm bored." He puts his hands on either side of my face. "No more shirts. Let's play Candy
Land!"
"Come on, just one more, G." I help him into the blazer. "Now walk down to the end of the room and
back. et me see how gorgeous you are." He looks at me like I'm crazy, but starts to walk away,
lookingbackover his shoulderevery fewstepstomakesureI'mnot
up tosomething.
"Work it, baby!" I shout when he reaches the wall. He turns and eyes me warily until I whip out an
imaginary camera and pretend to take pictures. "Come on, baby! You're fabulous. Show it off!" He
takes his jazzhands pose at the end of the carpet. "Woohoo!" I catcall as if Marcus Shenkenberg had
justlosthis towel. Hegiggles,throwinghimself intotheshowaswemakepouty
lipsateachother.
"You're gorgeous, dahling," I say, leaning down to take off the blazer and kissing the air by both his
cheeks.
"You'll bebackreallysoon,right,Nanny?" Heshakeshis arm
free. "Tomorrow?"
"Here, let's look at the calendar again so you can see how fast it's going to go and you'll be in the
Bahamas?
1 19
"Litferrr Cay,"hecorrects.
"Right."We leanintolookattheNannyCalendarI made. "AndthenAspen,wherethere'll berealsnow
andyoucansledandmakesnowangelsand asnowman.You're goingtohaveanawesome time."
"Hello?" I hear Mrs. X call out. Grayer runs to the front hall and I take a moment to fold the last little
shirtandthenfollow him.
"Howwasyour afternoon?" sheasks brightly.
"Grayer was a very goodboy. etriedoneverything," I say, leaningagainst thedoorway. "The pile on
thebedisthestuffthatfits."
"Oh,excellent!Thankyousomuch."
Grayer is bouncing up and down in front of Mrs. X and pulling on her mink. "Come see my show!
Comeinmyroom!"
"Grayer,whathavewediscussed?Haveyouwashedyour hands?" sheasks,evadinghis grasp.
"No,"heanswers.
"Well, then, should you be touching Mommy's coat? Now, if you sit on the bench I have a surprise for
youfromDaddy."Sherummages throughhershoppingbagsasGrayerslumps ontothepaisleycushion.
Shepullsout abrightbluesweatsuit.
"Remember how you're going to big boy's school next year? Well, Daddy just loves Collegiate." She flips the sweatshirt around to reveal the orange lettering. I step forward to help Grayer pull it over his head.Shestandsbackwhile I rollthesleevesup intolittle doughnutsathis wrists.
"Oh, you are going to make your daddy so happy." Grayer, delighted, whips out his jazz hands and starts |g pose as he had done in the bedroom. "Honey, don't fling your arms about." She looks down at himinconsternation. "It's weird."
Grayer lookstome foranexplanation.
Mrs. X followshis gaze. "Grayer,it's time tosaygood-bye toNanny."
"I don't wantto."Hestandsinfrontofthedoorandcrosses his arms.
THE NANNY
I kneeldown. "It's onlyfor afewweeks,G."
"Noooooo!Don't go.You said we could play Candy Land.Nanny, you promised." The tears startto roll
downhis cheeks.
"Hey, you want your present now?" I ask. 1 go in the closet, take a deep breath, put on a big smile, and
pullouttheshoppingbagI broughtwithme.
"Thisis foryou,MerryChristmas!" I say, handingMrs. XtheBergdorf'sbox.
"You shouldn'thave,"shesays, settingitdownonthetable. "Oh,yes, wehavesomethingforyou,too."
I looksurprised. "Oh,no."
"Grayer, go get Nanny's present." He runs off. I pull the other box out of the bag. "And this is for
Grayer."
"Nanny, here's your present, Nanny. Merry Christmas, Nanny!" He comes running in holding a Saks
boxandthrustsitatme.
"Oh,thankyou!"
"Where's mine?!Where's mine?!" Hejumpsup anddown.
"Your mom has it and you can open it after I leave." 1 quickly pull on my coat as Mrs. X is already
holdingtheelevator.
"MerryChristmas," shesaysasI getin.
"Bye, Nanny!" hesays,wavingwildly,like amarionette.
"Bye, Grayer,MerryChristmas!"
I can't even wait till I get outside. I'm imagining Paris and handbagsand manytrips to Cambridge. First
I openthegifttag.
J Lonjui/,<J dan/1/IcruiAs^ vvtooi'via\* vtamXd/ do/ vitttKxudy u\*M>l
JCcA^" I ripthewrappingpaper,pulltheboxapart,andstartgrabbingfistfuls oftissue.
There's no envelope. Oh, my God, there's no envelope! I shake the box upside down. Tons of tissue
comes cluttering out andthensomething blackand furry falls totheelevator floor with a thud.I drop to
myknees,like adogover a bone. I reachdown, pushingthe
messI've madeasidetouncover mytreasureand .it's earmuffs. Onlyearmuffs.
Justearmuffs.
Earmuffs!
EARMUFFS!!
.and ... and
Mamnvy felt that she owned the O'Haras, body and soul, that their secrets were her secrets; and even a
hintof mysterywasenoughtosetheruponthetrailsorecklesslyas a bloodhound.
. ONEWITHTHEWIND
"Grandma's been looking all over for you so we can cut the cake," I say, stepping into my
grandmother's dressing room, where myfather has foundrespite from the joint NewYear's Eve/Fiftieth
BirthdayPartysheinsistedonthrowingforthe "onesonGodblessedher with." "Quick, close the door! I'm not ready yet. oo many of those people out there." Despite the many mingling artists and writers, the majority of attendees this evening are donning tuxedos, which is the onething,asmyfatherwill emphatically informyou,hedoes not wear. For anyone. Ever. "Whoare we, the goddamn Kennedys?" has been his thoughtful retort whenever my grandmother attempted to involve him in theplanning of this black-tie affair. I, on the other hand, never have to be asked twice to step into a gown and am all too eager for the rare occasions on which I can hang up my sweatpantsand headoutlike alady.
"Not to be too much of an enabler, but I come bearing gifts," I say, handing him a glass of champagne. Hesmiles and takes a longgulp, placing theglass down ontop of her mirrored dressing tablebesidehis propped-up feet. He drops the Times crossword he's been working on, motioning for me to sit. I plop ontotheplushcreamcar!
pet in a pile of black chiffon and take a sip out of my own flute, while muffled laughter and big band
musicwaftsin.
"Dad,youreallyshouldcome out. t's notsobad.Thatwriterguyishere,theonefromChina.Andhe's
noteven wearing atie?youcouldhangout withhim."
Hetakesoffhis glasses. "I'd ratherspendtime with mydaughter.How's itgoing,pixie?Feeling better?"
A fresh wave of rage washes over me, breaking the celebratory mood I've enjoyed for most of the evening. "Ugh, that woman!" I slump forward. "I worked, like, eighty hours a week for the past month and for what? I'll tell you for what. Earmuffs!" I sigh exasperatedly, looking out through my hair to wheretherowofblackkitten heels alongthewalltransitions into a colorfularrayofChineseslippers.
"Ah,yes. It's been a wholefifteenminutessincewehadthisconversation."
"Whatconversation?" mymotherasks assheslipsinthedoorwith a plateofhors d'oeuvresinonehand andanopenbottle ofchampagneintheother.
"I'll give you a clue," he says, wryly,while holding up his glass for a refill. "You wear them insteadof a hat."
"God!Are we back on this again? Come on, Nan, it's NewYear's Eve! Whydon't you take a nightoff?" Shefallsbackonthechaise,tuckingherstockingfeetup underher,andhandshimtheplate.
I sit up and reach for the bottle. "Mom, I can't! I can't let it go! She might as well have just spit in my fateandput a bowonmynose. Everyone knowsyouget a heftyChristmas bonus;it's justhowit's done. Whyelse wouldI have put insomuch extra time?Thebonus is for theextra, it's therecognition!Every stupidpersonthatworksforthemgotmoneyand a handbag!AndI got?
"Earmuffs,"theychime inasIpour myself anotherglass.
"You know what my problem is? I go out of my way to make it seem natural that I'm raising her son while she's atthemanicurist.
THE NANNY DIARIES
All the little stories I tell and the 'Sure, I'd be happy tos' make her feel like I live there. And then she forgetsthatI'm doing a job. he's totallyconvincedherself she's lettingme come over for a playdate!" I grab a bitof caviarfromDad's plate. "Whatdoyouthink,Mom?"
"I think you've got to confront this woman and lay down the law or let it go already. Honestly, you should hear yourself, you've been talking about this for days. You're wasting a perfectly good party on her, and somebody in this family, other than your grandmother, should take advantage of the band out thereanddance."Shelookspointedlyatmydadashepopsthelastcrabpuffinhis
mouth.
"I wantto!I wanttolaydownthe law, butI don't even know
wheretobegin."
"What's to begin? Just tell her that this is not working for you and if she wants you to continue as Grayer's nannythen a fewthingsaregoingtochange."
"Right," I say with a snort. "When she asks me how my vacation was I just launch into a diatribe? She wouldslap me."
"Well, then you're really in business," Dad pipes in. "Because you can sue for assault and none of us will ever havetoworkagain."
My mother, now fully involved, plows on. "Then you just smile warmly, put your arm around her and
say, 'Gee,youmakeithardtoworkforyou.'Let herknowin a friendlywaythatthisisnotokay
behavior."
"Mooommmm! You havenoideawho I'm working for. Thereisnoputtingyour armaroundthis woman. She's theIceQueen."
"All right. That's it. Throw her the mink," Mom commands. "It's RehearsalTime!" These rehearsals are the cornerstoneof myupbringingand have helpedme to practice everything from college interviews to breakingup with mysixth-grade boyfriend. Dadtosses me thestolethat's beenhangingnextto himand reachesover topourusanotherround.
"Okay,you're Mrs. X,I'm you.Hitit."
I clear my throat. "Welcome back, Nanny. Would you mind tak-ing my dirty underwear with you to Grayer's swimming class and scrubbing it while you're in the pool? Thanks so much, the chlorine just workswonders!" I pulltheminkup aroundmyshouldersandaffect afakesmile.
My mother's voice is calm and rational. "I want to help you. I want to help Grayer. But I need some help from you, so that I can keep doing my job to the best of my abilities.And this means that we need totrytogethertomakesurethatI am workingthehoursuponwhichwebothagreed."
"Oh,youworkhere?I thoughtwehadadoptedyou!" I raisemypinkytomymouthinmockalarm.
"Well, while it would be an honor to be related to you, I am here to do a job, and if I'm going to be able to keep doing it then I know you'll be more conscious of respecting my boundaries from now on." Dad clapsloudly. I fallbackonthefloor.
"That'll neverwork,"I groan.
"Nan, this woman's not God! She's just a person. You need a mantra. You need to go in there like Lao!tzu ... Saynotosayyes. Sayitwithme!"
"I say no to say yes. I say no to say yes," I murmur with her as I stare up at the floral wallpaper on the ceiling.
Just as we hit a fever pitch, the door flies open and music floods the room. I roll my head to see my grandmother,cheeksflushedtomatchher layers ofredsatin,leaningagainstthedoorframe.
"Darlings! Another masterpiece of a party and my son's hiding in the closet at his fiftieth, just like he did at his fifth. Come, dance with me." In a cloud of perfurrft, she sashays over to my father and kisses him on the cheek. "Come on, birthday boy, you can leave your tie and cummerbund here, but at least dance a mambowithyour motherbeforetheclockstrikestwelve!"
Herolls his eyes atthe restof us, but thechampagne has worn him down.He pulls offhis tie andstands up.
THE NANNY DIARIES
"Andyou,lady."Shelooksdownonme sprawledatherfeet. "Bring theminkandlet's boogie."
"Sorryto disappear,Gran. It's just this whole earmuffsthing." "Goodlord! Between your father and his tuxedo and you and your earmuffs, I don't want to discuss apparel with this family again until next Christmas! Upandat 'em, gorgeous,thedancefloor
awaits."
Momhelpsme tomyfeet,whisperinginmyearaswefollowthembacktotheparty. "See,notosayyes. Your dad's chantingitrightnow."
Many dances and bottles of champagne later I float back to my apartment in a bubbly haze. George slides up to my heels as soon as 1 unlock the door and I carry him back to my corner of the room. "HappyNewYear, George,"1 mumbleashepurrs undermychin.
Charlene left this morning forAsia and I am giddy with the three weeks of little freedoms this affords me.AsI kick offmyheels I seethelightonmyansweringmachineflashingin asoft blur. Mrs. X.
"What do you think, George, shall we risk it?" I bend over to let him down before pressing the "new message" button.
"Hi, Nan? Um, this is a message for Nan. I think this is the right number . .." H. H.'s slurred voice fills theapartment.
"Oh,myGod!" I scream,turningtocheckmyappearanceinthe
mirror.
"Right. So um, yeah.. . I'm just calling to say 'Happy New Year.' Um, I'm inAfrica. And. ait. hat time is it there? Seven hours, that's ten . .. eleven ... twelve. Right. So I'm with my family and we're aboutto headintothebush.And we've beenhaving some beers with theguides.And it's thelastoutpost with a phone . .. But I just wanted to say that I bet you had a hard week. See! I know how you've been workinghardandI justwantedyoutoknow,um ...
thatI know ... thatyou do ... workhard, thatis. Um, andthatyou have a happy NewYear. Okay, sothen. hopethisisyourmachine. Right. Sothat's all, justwantedyoutoknow.Um ... bye."
I stumble to my bed in utter euphoria. "Oh, my God," I mumble again in the darkness, before passing outwith agrin plasteredtomyface.
Ring.Ring.Ring. Ring.
"Hi,you've reachedCharleneandNan.Pleaseleave a message."Beep.
"Hi, Nanny,I hopeyou're in.I'm sureyou're probablyin.Well, HappyNewYear." I crackoneeye open. "It's Mrs. X. I hope you've had a good vacation. I'm calling because .. ." Jesus, it's^ight o'clock in the morning! "Well, there's been a change of plans. Mr. X apparently needs to go back to Illinois for work. AndI,well,Grayer's?we're all verydisappointed.So,anyway,we won't begoingtoAspenandI wanted to see what you're up to for the rest of the month." On New Year's Day! I stick my hand outside the covers andstartflailingforthephone. I unplugthereceiverandthrowitonthefloor.
There.
I pass outagain.
Ring.Ring.Ring. Ring.
"Hi,you've reachedCharleneandNan.Pleaseleave a message."Beep.
"Hi,Nanny,it's Mrs. X. I leftyou a messageearlier."I crackoneeye open. "I don't knowiM mentioned, but ifyou couldletmeknowtoday ..." Jesus,it's nine-thirtyinthemorning!OnNewYear's Day! I stick my hand outside the covers and start flailing for the phone and this time actually manage to pull the rightplugout.
Ahh,peace.
THE NANNY DIARIES
"Hi,you've reachedCharleneandNan.Pleaseleave a message."Beep.
"Hi, Nanny, it's Mrs. X," Jesus! It's ten o'clock in the morning! What is wrong with you people? This
time I can hear Grayer crying in the background. Not my problem, not my problem, earmuffs. I stick my hand outside the covers and start flailing for the answering machine. I find the volume. "Because youdidn't sayifyouhadanyplansandI justthought?Ahh,silence.
Ring.Ring.Ring. Ring.
WHATTHEFUCK?
Oh,myGod,it's mycellphone. It's mygoddamncellphone.
Ring.Ring.Ring. Ring.
Aaaahhhhh!I getoutofbed,butI can't findthesourceofthegoddamnringing.Such aheadache.
Ring.Ring.Ring. Ring.
It's under the bed. It's under the bed! I start trying to crawl under the bed, still in my evening dress, to
whereGeorgemade a soccergoalwith thecell. I extendmyarm,grab it,still ringing,andthrowitinthe
laundryhamper,dumpingeverything onthefloorinontopof it.
Ahah!!Sleep.
Ring.Ring.Ring. Ring.
I get out of bed, march over to the hamper, retrieve the phone, go in the kitchen, open the freezer door,
throwinthephone,andgobacktosleep.
I awake five hours later to a very patient George waiting at the end of my bed for breakfast. He tilts his head and meows. "Been on a bender?" he seems to ask. I pad to the kitchen in my very rumpled black chiffon to feed George and make some coffee. I open the freezer and see the green glow of the phone frombehindtheicetrays.
"Numberof callsreceived:12,"thefacereads. Oh,Lord.I make somecoffeeandgositonmybedtolistentothemessagesonmymachine. "Hi, again. Hope I'm not repeating myself. So, Mr. X has decided he won't be able to make it toAspen
and I really don't want to be out thereby myself. The groom and the groundsman live all the waydown the road and, well, I'd feel very isolated. So I'll be in the city. Anyway, I'd appreciate it if you could
come in a fewdays aweek.How's Mondayforyou?Let me know.Thenumber hereagainis?
I don't eventhinkor chant. I justreassemblethephoneanddialthenumberfortheLyford CayInn.
"Hello?"
"Mrs. X?Hi,it's Nanny.Howareyou?"
"Oh God, the weather here is just awful. Mr. X hasjbarely been able to play a round of golf and now
he'll be missing his skiing, as well. Grayer's been trapped inside the whole time, and they promised us someone full-time, like last year, but there's a shortage or something. I don't know what I'm going to do."I canhearPocahon-tasinthebackground."So,didyougetmymessage?"
"Yes." I bracemypoundingtemples betweenmythumb andpinkyfinger.
"You know,I think there's something wrong with your phone.You really should haveit looked at. I was
trying to call you all morning.Anyway, Mr. X is leaving today, but I'm staying the weekend and won't
bebackuntilMonday. Ourplanegetsinateleven, socouldyoumeet usattheapartmentatnoon?"
"Well, actually". armuffs?I already made plans since I wasn't supposed t?start back until the last
Mondayof themonth."
"Oh.Couldntyouatleastgive me aweekor two?"
"Well, thethingis?
"Can you hold on a moment?" It sounds like she's put her hand over the phone. "We don't have another
video." Mr. X sayssomethingI can't quitemakeout. "Well,playitforhimagain,"shehisses.
THE NANNY DIARIES
"Urn,Mrs. X?"
"Yes?"
I know we'll be having this conversation for the next thirty-six hours unless I reach for a small white
one. "I took your suggestion about Paris. So I can't start back until, let's see, two weeks from Monday. Until the eighteenth." No to say yes. "Also, we didn't really have time before you left to discuss how muchmoreanhour I'd begettingthis year."
"Uh-huh?"
"Well, typicallyI goup twodollarsevery January. I hopethat's not a problem."
"Well... No, no, of course. I'll talk to Mr. X. Also, I'd appreciate it if you could go by the apartment
tomorrow. ou know,while you're outandabout. ndrefill thehumidifiers."
"Um, I'm actuallygoingtobeontheWestSide, so?
"Great!Seeyouintwoweeks. Butpleasedoletmeknowif youcanstartanysooner."
James holds the door open as I pass. "Happy New Year, Nanny. What're you doin' back so soon?" He
seems surprisedtoseeme.
"Mrs. X needsherhumidifiers filled,"I say.
"Oh,doesshenow?" Hegives a wickedgrin.
The first thing I notice when I open the Xes' front door is that the heat is actually on. I step slowly into
the silence, feeling a bit like a thief. I am just slipping my arms out of my coat when Ella Fitzgerald's
"Miss Otis Regrets" comes blaringoutof thestereosystem.
I freeze. "Hello?" I call. I clutch my backpack and follow the wall into the kitchen, hoping to grab a
knife. I've heard about doormen in buildings like this using the apartments when the tenantsare away. I
swing openthekitchendoor.
There's anopenbottleof DomPerignononthecounter,pots are
131
bubblingonthestove. Whatkindofsickpersonstealsintoanapartmenttocook?
"It's not ready yet. Ce n'est pas fini," a man says in a thick French accent as he emerges from the maid's
bathroomdryinghis handsonhis checkedtrousersandadjustinghiswhite chef's coat.
"Whoareyou?" I ask over themusic,taking a step backwardtowardthe door. Helooksup.
"Qtti estvows?" heasks,puttinghis handsonhis hips.
"Um, I workhere.Whoareyou!"
"Je m'appelle Pierre. Your mistress hired me to faire le diner." He returns to chopping fennel. The
kitchenis a phantasmofproductivity anddelicious aromas. It's never lookedsohappy.
"Whyyoustandtherelike a fish?Go."Hewaves hisknifeatme.
I leavethekitchentogofindMrs. X.
I cannot believe she's back. Of course, why bother to call Nanny? Ooh no, it's not like I have anything
better to do than keep her oil paintings moist. Oh, oh, I am definitely not working tonight if that's her game. It's probably just one, big ruse to get me to work. She's probably got Grayer tied up in a net over thehumidifierandisplanningtodrophimonmyheadtheminuteI pourthewaterin.
"SHE RANTOTHE MANWHOHADLED HER SO FARASTRAY," the stereo blares, following me fromroomtoroom.
Well, fine. I'll justlether knowI camebylikeI saidI wouldandthenI'm outofhere.
"Hello?" I practicallyleap rightout ofmyskin.Theresheis,struttingoutof thebedroom, asilkkimono
tiedcarelessly ather waist,her emeraldearrings sparklinginthehalllight. Myheartjumps tomythroat.
It's Ms. icago.
"Hi," she says, as friendly as she was in the conference room three weeks ago. She glides past me, out
towardthediningroom.
"Hi," I say, scampering behind her, untying my scarf. I round the corner just as she throws open the Frenchdoors ontothedining
THE NANNY DIARIES
room,revealing atablesetfor a romantic dinnerfortwo.A hugebouquetofpeonies,thepurplyblackof squid ink, sits among a ring of glowing votives. She leans across the gleaming mahogany to straighten thesilverware.
"I'm justhereforthehumidifiers!" I call outover thestereo.
"Wait," she says, going over to the hidden control panel in the bookcase and expertly adjusting the volume, tone,andbass. "There."Sheturnstome,smilingplacidly. "Whatwere yousaying?"
"The humidifiers? Are, um, dry? They run out of... water? And the pictures, well, they can really, uh, suffer? If they're dry? I was just supposed to water them. Only once. Just now, today, 'cause that should lastthemtill... Okay! So, I'll justdothat,then."
"Well, thankyou,Nanny.I'm sure Mr. Xappreciatesthat,andI do, too."Sheretrievesher errantglass of champagnefromthesideboard.I kneelandunplugthehumidifier fromthefloor.
"Okay,then,"I grunt,heavingthemachineintomyarmsandlettingmyself outintothekitchen.
I refill all ten water tanks, schlepping them back and forth to the laundry room, while Ella keeps right on trucking from "It Was Just One of Those Things," through "Why Can't You Behave?" and "I'm Always True to You, Darlin', in My Fashion." My mind is reeling. This is not her house. This is not her family.Andthatmost definitelywasnot herbedroomthatshecameoutof.
"Are youdoneyet?" sheasks asI pluginthelastone. "BecauseI waswonderingifyoucouldruntothe shop for me."She follows me to thedoor asI grab mycoat. "Pierre forgotto get heavycream. Thanks." Shehandsme atwentyasI openthedoor.
I look down at the moneyand then at Grayer's little frog umbrella in the stand, the one thathas two big frog eyes that pop up when he opens it. I hold the money out to her. "I can't. have, um, an appointment, a doctorthing."I catch a glimpse of myself inthegiltmirror. "Actually ... I justcan't."
1 33
Her smile strains. "Keep it, then," she says evenly. The elevator door opens, while she attempts to look casualleaningagainstthedoorframe.
I putthebill downonthehalltable.
Her eyes flash. "Look, Nanny, is it? You run home and tell your boss that you found me here and all you'll be doing is saving me the trouble of leaving behind a pair of panties." She steps back into the apartment,lettingthedoorslamshutbehindher.
"Like, literally panties?" Sarah asks me the next day as she tries on yet another shadeof pink lipstick at theStilacounter.
"I don't know!DoI havetolookforthem? I feellikeI havetolookforthem."
"How much are thesepeople paying you? I mean, do you have a line? Is there a line they could cross?"
Sarahisfuriouslypuckering."Toopink?"
"Baboonbutt," I say.
"Try one of the plummy shades," the makeup artist behind the counter suggests. Sarah reaches for a tissueandstartsover. "Mrs. X iscomingbacktomorrow. I feellikethere's somethingI'm supposedtobedoing,"I say, leaning
againstthecounterinexasperation.
"Um, quitting?"
"No,outhereintherealworld,whereI payrent."
"TOOOOOTS!!!!!" Sarah and I freeze and look across the atrium to where two piles of shopping bags
are calling Sarah's highschool nifkname, which rhymes with "boots."The bags make their wayaround thebalconytowardus, partingtorevealAlexandraandLangly,twoofour classmatesfromChapin. SarahandI exchangeglances. Inhighschooltheylivedin
THE NANNY DIARIES Birkenstocks and followed the Dead. Nowthey standbefore us,Alexandra atnearly six feet and Langly atbarely five, inshearlingcoats,cashmere turtlenecks,and ashitload ofCartier.
"TOOTS!" they cry again as Alexandra envelops Sarah in a big hug, nearly clonking her on the head with oneofhershoppingbags.
"Toots,what's up?"Alexandraasks. "So,doyouhave aman?"
Sarah's eyelids lift. "No. Well, I mean there was someone, but..." She's starting to sweat, foundation
beadingonherbrow.
"I have a faaabulous man. e's Greek. He's soo gorgeous. We're going to the Riviera next week,"
Alexandracoos. "So,whatareyouup to?" sheasksme.
"Oh,sameold,sameold.Still workingwith kids."
"Huh,"Langlysays quietly. "What're yougonnadonextyear?"
"Well, I'm hoping to work with an afterschool program." Their eyes narrow, as if I had just switched
languages unexpectedly. "Focusing on using creative arts? As a tool for self-expression? And, um,
building community?" I am getting completely blank looks. "Kathie Lee's really involved?" I offer as a
last-ditch effortto ... what?
"Right.Whataboutyou?" Langlyalmost whisperstoSarah.
"I'm goingtoworkatAllure."
"Oh,myGod!!" theysqueal.
"Well,"Sarahcontinues, "I'm onlygoingtobeansweringthephones,but?
"No,that's awesome. I. Love.Allure,"Alexandrasays.
"Whatare youguys doingnextyear?" I ask.
"Following myman,"Alexandrasays.
"Ganja,"Langlysayssoftly.
"Well, we better run. e're meeting my mom at Cote Basque at one. Oh, Toots!" Sarah is once again
molestedbyAlexandraandtheyheadofftopokeattheirseafoodsalads.
"You're toofunny,"1 saytoSarah. "Allure?"
"Fuck 'em. Comeon, let's goeatsomewherefabulous."
1 35
We decidetotreatourselves to a chiclunchof redwineandrobiolacheesepizzasatFred's.
"I mean,wouldyouactuallyleaveyour underwearinsomeone's house?"
"Nan,"Sarahsays,shuttingme up. "I just don't understandwhyyoucare. Mrs. Xworks youlike a mule
andgaveyoudead-animal headgearfor abonus!Whatis yourloyalty?"
"Sarah, regardless of what kind of a whackjob employer she might be, she's still Grayer's mom and this
woman is having sex with her husband in her bed. And in Grayer's home. It makes me heartsick.
Nobodydeserves that.Andthatfreak!Shewantstoget caught!What's up withthat?"
"Well, if my married boyfriend was dawdling about leaving his wife I guess I might want him to get
caught,too."
"So,ifI tell,Ms. ChicagowinsandMrs. X willbedevastated. IfI don't tellit's humiliatingforMrs. X?
"Nan, this is not even within a million miles of your responsibility. You don't have to be the one to tell
her. Trustme. t's notinyour jobdescription."
"But if I don't and the panties are floating around and she finds out that way ... Ugh! How awful! Oh,
myGod,whatifGrayerfindsthem?She's soevil I betshe'd putthemsomewherehe'd findthem."
"Nan,get agrip.Howwouldheevenknowtheywere hers?"
"Because they're probably black and lacy and thonged and he might not get it now, but one day he'll be
intherapyand it'll justIdiilU him. Get yourcoat."
Sarah greets JcBh in the front hall with a glass of wine. "Welcome to Hunt the Panties!, where we play
for fabulous prizes, including earmuffs and a trip to the broom closet. Who's our first contestant?"
"Ooh,me,me!" Joshsays ashetakesoffhisjacket. I am onmy
THE NANNY DIARIES
hands and knees in the front hall closet, looking through every coat pocket and boot. Nothing. "Jesus,
Nan,thisplaceis amazing. t's likethefuckingMetropolitanMuseum."
"Yup, andaboutascozy,"Sarahsays,asI runfranticallyintothe
living room.
"We don't havetimetoshootthebreeze!" I callover myshoulder."Pick a room!"
"So,dowe getpointsforanyundergarments,or must theyhave a scarletA onthem?" Joshasks.
"Extrapointsforcrotchlessandedible."SarahexplainstherulesforthegameI am notfindingamusing.
"All right!" I say. "Listen up! We are goingto be methodical. We are going to startin the rooms thatget
the most use, where the panties would be uncovered the soonest. Joshua, you take the master bedroom, Mrs. X's dressingroom,andheroffice. SarahAnne!"
"Reportingforduty,sir!"
"Kitchen, library, maid's rooms. I'll take the living room, the dining room, the study, and the laundry
room. Okay?"
"WhataboutGrayer's room?" Joshasksme.
"Right. I'll startthere."
I turn on each light as I pass, even the rarely used overheads, illuminating the darkest corners of the
Xes'home.
"Nan, you can't say we didn't try," Josh says, passing me a cigarette as we sit by the recycling bins in
thebackstairwell. "She wasprobablybluffing,hopingyou'dtellMrs. Xsoshecanstartredecorating."
Sarah lights another cigarette. "Besides, whoever finds them in this apartment deserves to find them.
hey're so well hidden. Are you sure this woman works with Mr. X and not the CIA?" She passes me
backthelighter.
Joshisstill holdingtheporcelainPekingeserloghepickeduponhis search. "Tell me again."
"I don't know,two,maybethreethousanddollars,"Sarahsays.
"Unbelievable! Why? Why? What am I missing?" He looks down at the dog in complete disbelief.
"Wait, I'm gonnagogetsomethingelse."
"You better put that back exactly where you found it," I say, too tired to chase after him to be sure he does. "I'm sorry I made you waste your night looking for panties," I say, stubbing out the cigarette on themetalrailing.
"Hey," she says, putting her arm around my shoulder. "You'll be fine. The Xes have jewelry that has
jewelry. hey'll befine."
"WhataboutGrayer?"
"Well, hehasyou.Andyou've got H. H."
"Okay, I don't got nuthin'. I have an answeringmachine tape in my jewelry box and a plastic spoon I
carryaroundinraypurseas a souvenirandthatmightbeasfarasitgoes."
"Yeah,yeah,sure. CanI mentiontheplasticspoonatthewedding?"
"Honey, if we make it that far you can carry the plastic spoon at the wedding. Come on, let's get Josh
andwipeourfingerprintsonourwayoutofhere."
WhenI get hometheansweringmachineisblinking.
"Hi, Nanny, it's Mrs. X. I don't know if you've left for Paris yet. I couldn't reachyou on your cell phone
again. We may have to get you a new one with better coverage. I'm calling because Mr. X gave me a week at the Golden Door for Christmas. Isn't that wonderful? Lyford Cay is so awful and I still haven't recovered fromtheholidays.'m just exhausted,soI've decidedtogo nextweek. Mr. Xwill be around, but I was wondering if you'll be back, just so I can tell him you'll be available if he needs you. Just so we knowit's covered. I'll beinmyroomthis evening.Call me."
Myfirst instinctis tocallherandtellhernever toleaveher houseagain.
THE NANNY DIARIES
"Mrs. X?Hi,it's Nanny."
"Yes?"
I take a deepbreath.
"So,will thatwork?" sheasks.
"Of course,"I say, relieved thatsheisn't askingaboutmyhousecall.
"Great. So, I'll see you Monday morning. week from tomorrow. My flight's at nine, so if you could
arrive byseventhatwouldbegreat.Actually,we bettersaysixforty-five, justtobeonthesafeside."
I roll over for the eighth time in the last fifteen minutes. I'm so tired that my body feels weighted, but
every time I'm about to drift off, Grayer's hacking cough echoes through the apartment. I reach over to pulltheclockbacktowardmeandtherednumbersread2:36A.M. Jesus. I hit the mattress with myhandandroll ontomyback.Staring up atthe Xes'guestroom ceiling, I tryto
add up the few hours of sleep I've managed to get in the past three nights and the total makes me even heavier. I'm bone tired from spending twenty-four/seven keeping Grayer entertained as his mood has blackenedandfever risen.
When I arrived she greeted me at the elevator with a list in her hand, her bags already waiting in the limo downstairs. She just wanted to "mention" that Grayer had a "tiny bit of an earache" and that his medicinewasbythesink,alongwith his pediatrician's number?justincase."Andthekicker: "We really prefer thatGrayer notsitinfrontofthetelevision.You twohavefun!"
I knew "fun" was hardly going to be the word for it as soon as I found him lying on thefloor next to his
trafenset,listlessly rolling acabooseonhis arm.
"Anyideawhen Mr. Xwill behome tonight?" I hadaskedConnie,dustingnearby.
1 39
"Hope you brought your pajamas," she replied, wagging her head in disgust. I've come to look forward to Connie's arrival over the past few days; it's a relief to have another person in the apartment, even if she is only a whir of dusting and vacuuming. As the temperature has held steady at seven degrees Fahrenheit, we've been under house arrest since my arrival. This would have been bearable, ideal even, if H. H. hadn't had togo rightback up to schoolfor readingperiod. He said I could takeGrayer upstairs to pet Max, but I don't think either one of them is up to it. Grayer's "tiny" earache may have improved, buthis coughhas onlyworsened.
And, needless to say, his father has been completely MIA. e simply failed to return home my first night. Numerous phone calls to Justine have unearthed only the voice mail of a suite at the Four Seasons in Chicago. Meanwhile the reception desk at the spa is screening Mrs. X's calls as if she were Sharon Stone. I took Grayer back to the doctor this afternoon, but his only advice was for Grayer to finishthepinkamoxicillin andwait itout.
Another round of raspy coughs. e's even more congested now than he sounded at dinnertime. It's so dark and so late and this place is just so big that I'm starting to feel as if no one will ever come back to getus.
I get up, draping the cashmere throw around my shoulders like a cape, and shuffle over to the window. Pulling theheavychintzdrapestotheside,I let thestreetlightfromParkAvenuespill intotheroomand restmyforeheadagainst thecoldwindowpane.A cabpulls up tothebuildingacrossthestreetand a boy and girl stumble out. She's intall boots and a skimpy jacket, leaningagainst him asthey swerve past the doorman and into the building. She must be freezing. My forehead chills quickly from the glass and I pullback,touchingit withmyhand.Thecurtainfallsclosed,takingthelightwith it.
"Naaanny?"Grayer's small, scratchyvoice calls out.
"Yes, Grover, I'm coming." My voice echoes in the big room. I shuffle through the darkness of the apartment,lit upinweirdshadows
THE NANNY DIARIES
from passing cars outside. The warm glow of his Grover night-light greets me along with the whir of his Supersonic 2000 air filter. The minute I step through his doorway my stomach drops. e is not okay. His breathingis laboredandhis eyes arewatering.1 sitonthecornerofthebed. "Hey,sweetheart,
I'm here." I put my hand on his forehead. It's boiling. The moment my fingers touch him he starts to whimper.
"It's okay,Grover,you're justrealsickand I knowit's yucky."ButI don't knowanymore. His wheezing alarms me. "I'm going to pick you up now, Grover." I reach my arms under him, the cashmere wrap droppingtothefloor. Hestartstocry fully,themovementagitating himasI pullhim up tome. I gointo automaticpilot, runningthroughoptions.Thepediatrician.Theemergencyroom. Mom.
I carry him to the hall extension and lean against the wall for support as I dial. My mother answers on thesecondring. "Whereareyou?What's wrong?"
"Mom, I can't get intoit,but I'm with Grayer andhe's beensickwith anearinfectionandthiscoughand they've had him on antibiotics, but the cough keeps getting worse and I can't get a message through to Mrs. X because the receptionist says she's been in some sort of sensory-deprivation tank all day and he can't seem to breathe and I don't know if I should take him to the hospital because his fever won't go downandI haven't sleptintwonightsand? "Let me hearhimcough." "What?"
"Put the phone to his mouth so he can cough." Her voice is calm and steady. I hold the phone near Grayer's mouth and within a second he has erupted into a deep cough. I feel the vibrations of this effort
wherehis chestispressedtomine. "Oh, God, Mom, I don't know what to? "Nanny, that's the croup. H\*%has the croup.And you need to take a deepbreath.You maynot fallapartright now. Breathewith
me,in
I focusonhervoice,taking a deepbreathinforGrayerand
myself. "And out. Listen, he's okay. You are okay. He just has a lot of fluid in his chest. Where are you
rightnow?"
"Seven twenty-one ParkAvenue."
"No,whereintheapartment?"
"In thehall."
"Is this acordless phone?"
"No,shedoesn't likethewaytheylook."I canfeelthepanicstarttowell upagainashewhimpers.
"Okay, I want you to go into his bathroom, turn on the shower so it's comfortably warm. ot too hot,
just warm, and then sit on the side of the bathtub with him in your lap. Keep the door closed so it gets
niceandsteamy. Stayinthereuntil hestopswheezing.You'll see,thesteamwill help.His fever is trying
tobreak anditwill bedown bymorning.Everything is goingtobe justfine. Call backinan hour,okay?
I'll bewaiting."
I feel somewhat soothed knowing that there is something I can do for him. "Okay, Mom. I love you." I
hangup andcarryhimbackthoughthedarknesstohis bathroom.
"I'm going to flick the light on, Grayer. Close your eyes." He turns his sweaty face into my neck. The
lightis blinding after being up for so longinthe dark and I have toblink a fewtimes before I can focus
in on the gleaming silver of the faucet. I grip his body as I lean over to turn on the shower and then sit
down, balancing on the edge of the tub with him on my lap. When the water hits our legs he really
beginstocry.
"I know,sweetie, I know.We aregoingtosithereuntil thiswonderfulsteammakesyour chestfeelgood.
Do you want me to sing?" He just leans against me and cries and coughs as the steam fills the bright
tilearoundus.
"I... want... my mommmmmm." He shudders with the effort, seemingly unaware that I am here. My
pajama pants soak in the warm water. I drop my head against his, rocking slowly. Tears of exhaustion
andworrydrip downmyfaceandintohis hair.
"Oh,Grove,I know. I wantmymom,too."
THE NANNY DIARIES
Thesunshinesinthroughtheshuttersaswe munchoncinnamontoastamongGraver's stuffedanimals.
"Sayitagain,Nanny.Sayit. iwomentoast."
I laugh and poke him gently in the tummy. His eyes are bright and clear and my relief at his 98.6 has
madeusbothgiddy."No,G,cinnamon,come on. ayitwith me."
"Call it 'women toast.'You sayit with me? His handpats myhair absentmindedly as the crumbs dribble
aroundus.
"Women toast?You crazykid,what's next?Meneggs?"
He giggles deeply at my joke. "Yeah! Men eggs! I'm so hungry, Nanny, I'm dying. Can I have some
eggs. eneggs?"
I crawlover him,grabbinghisplateasI stand.
"Hello! Hello, Mommy's home!" I freeze. Grayer looks up at me and, like an excited puppy, scrambles
togetdownfromthebed.Herunspastme andmeetsherasshecomes tohisdoor.
"Hello! What are those crumbs doing all over your face?" She spatulas him and turns to me. I see the
room through her eyes. Pillows, blankets, and wet towels all lying on the floor where I finally crashed
whenGrayer fellasleepatsixthismorning.
"Grayer's beenpretty sick.We were uplatelast nightand?
"Well, he looks just fine now, except for those crumbs. Grayer, go in the bathroom and wash your face
so I can showyou your present." He turns to me with wide eyes and skips to the bathroom. I'm amazed
hecanevensetfootinthere.
"Didn't hetakehis medicine?"
"Yes, well,hehas twomoredays togo.Buthis coughgotreallybad.1triedtocall you."
She bristles. "Well, Nanny, I think we've discussed where we prefer for Grayer to eat. You can go now,
I've gotitcovered."
I focus on smiling. "Okay, I'll just go and get changed." I walk past her with the plate in my hand,
hardlyrecognizingtheapartmentfilled withsunlight. I stuffeverything intomybag,pullon
1 43
jeansand a sweaterandleavethebedunmadeasmyoneact ofrebellion.
"Bye!" I call out, opening the door. I hear Grayer's naked feet hitting the marble as he runs out in his
pajamasbeneath acowboyhatthatismuchtoobig. \*
"Bye, Nanny!" He throws his arms open for a hug and I hold him tight, amazed at the difference a few
hourshavemadeinhisbreathing.
"Mrs. X?Hestill has twomoredays of antibiotics so?
She emerges at the other end of the hall. "Well, we have a big day planned. e've got to get a haircut
and go to Barneys to pick up a present for Daddy. Come on, Grayer, let's get dressed. Goodbye,
Nanny."
My shift is over. oint taken. He follows her to hisroom and I stand alone in the hall for a moment,
pickup mybag,andoverride thetemptation toputtheantibiotics byher cellphone.
"Bye, partner."I pullthedoor closedquietly behindme.
The old nurse went upstairs exulting with knees toiling, and pat' ter of slapping feet, to tell the mistress
ofher lord's return.
. DYSSEY
Love,ParkAvenueStyle
I press down the backspace button and watch as myfifth attempt at a topic sentence deletes itself letter
byletter. JeanPiaget... whatto say, whattosay?
I slouch back, rolling my neck on the top of the chair, and stare out at the gray clouds drifting slowly above the roofs of the brownstones across the street. George bats at my dangling hand. "Piaget," I say out loud, waiting for inspiration to hit as I dart my hand at him playfully. The phone rings and I let the machinepick itup.Either it'll be Mrs. X calling tocheckifI haveanylifebloodshehasn't suckedyet or mymothercallingtoweighinonthesituation.
"Hi,this isCharleneandNan.Leave amessage."
"Hey, workinggirl. 1 justwant? Myfavorite voice fills theroom andI reachacross mydesk to grab the
phone.
"Hi,yourself."
"Hey!Whatareyoudoinghome atoneforty-three on aTuesday?"
"What are you doing, calling me all the way from Haa-vaad, at one forty-three on a Tuesday?" I push
backmychairandtrace a widecircleonthehardwoodfloorwith mysocks.
"1 askedyoufirst."
"Well, turnsoutJeanGeorgeslosttheXes'reservationsfor
Valentine's Day so she immediately sent me home with a typed-up list of four-star restaurants to
harass."I lookover atmybackpack,wherethedocumentremains foldedaway.
"Whydidn't shejustcall themherself?"
"I havelongsinceceasedtoask why."
"So,wheredidyoumakethem?"
"Nowhere! Valentine's Day is tomorrow. I suppose she's in denial that these places only take
reservations thirty days in advance and thatshe already made me spend Januaryfourteenth. Sunday, thankyouvery much. alling them.Andeventhen all I couldgetherwas a ten P.M; andI hadtoswear tothereservationiston myfirstbornthat I'd havethemout byeleven.Yup, nogo.They'll beluckytoget a booth at Burger King." I picture Mr. X absentmindedly dunking his fries in ketchup as he reads the
businesssection.
"So haveyoufoundthepanties?"
"No.You're goingtobereallysadwhenwenolongerneedtotalkaboutpanties, aren't you?" Helaughs.
"Actually," I continue, "yesterday we had a false alarm in which yours truly dove headfirst onto
Snoopy's magiciancapein a blindpanic."
"Theymaynotbeblack,youknow.You shouldreallytrytothinkoutsidethebox. heycouldbepastel
or tigerprintor see-through?
"See!You enjoythisconversation waytoomuch,"I admonish.
"So thenwhatareyoudoingifyou're notmakingreservationsor huntingpanties?"
"Trying towrite a paperonJeanPiaget."
"Ah,yes,Jean."
"What,youhaven't heardof him?Andtheycallthatpileof bricksanIvy League."
"Not anIvy League,dahling,theIvy League?hesays,affecting aThurstonHowell III lockjaw.
"Right.Well, he's thegrandfatherof childpsychology,soto
THE NANNY DIARIES
speak. I'm writing on his theoryof egocentrism. ow children see the physical world exclusively from
theirown,limited perspective."
"Soundslikeyourboss."
"Yes, and interestingly, she can't wash her hair by herself, either. There's probably some sort of study
here. Ugh! I'm just in total procrastination mode. Being given the luxury of a whole free afternoon
makes me feel like I have time to dawdle.Anyway, enough about me, to what do I owe the pleasure of
thisphonecall?"
Thephonebeepsloudly,interruptinghim.
". boutthisinternship.Thisguycame tospeaktodayanditwasprettyamazing. He?
BEEP.
". arcrimes inCroatia. Sothere's atribunalatTheHagueto
prosecutewarcriminals?
BEEP. Nomachinetoprotectmenow.
"I'm sorry! Holdononesec?" I presstheflashbuttonandhold
mybreath.
"Nanny! I'm so glad I caught you." Mrs. X's voice brings me back from my midday rendezvous. "I'm thinking Petrossian because it's really mostly caviar and I think most people expect a full meal for this occasion. But that's fine for us! Have you already called them? You should call them next. Can you? Call themrightnow?"
"Sure. I'm holdingwith LeCirqueontheotherlineso?
"Oh!Fabulous!Okay.Well, seeiftheyeven havesomethingbythekitchen,we'll takethat."
"Great.I'll letyouknow."
"Wait! Nanny! Well, don't say the kitchen thing right away, see if they have something better and then,
youknow,ifthereisn't anythingbetter,thenaskaboutthekitchen."
"Oh,okay,sure, I'll keep at it. I'll letyouknowassoonasI find
something."
"Allright.You knowyou canreachme onmycell, too."I sensesheisgetting ready,onceagain,togive
me hernumber.
"Okay, great. I've got your numbers right here. Bye." I click back over. "Sorry, where were we?
Something aboutcriminals?" I move tomybedandliftGeorgeontomystomach.
"Yeah, so I think I'm going to apply for this internship atThe Hague for the summer.After this class on
the conflict in Croatia it would be amazing to get closer to it, you know? To be able to do something. I mean,it's totallycompetitive, butI thinkI mightgive it ashot."Swoon.
"I'm swooning."
"Good." There is a warm silence between us. "Anyway, as soon as I got out of class, I had to call and
tellyouaboutit."
"Nowthat's thepartI like."
"It sucksthatyouhavetoworkValentine's. I reallywanttohangoutwith you."
"Yeah,well,I'm nottheonegoingtoCanciinforspringbreak."
"Come on,howwasI supposedtoknowI wasgoingtomeetyou?"
"Don't even trytousenotbeingpsychic as a defense."
Despite the many phone calls, talking is about as far as we've gotten since the museum. First he had
exams, then I had Grayer's flu. ot exactly sexy. Two weekends ago he came down for the night, but Charlene's flight was canceled and I ended up making a romantic dinner for four. I thought of going up there, but he has three roommates and I refuse to have my first night with him be (a) punctuated by the sounds of Marilyn Manson blaring through the wall at three A.M. and (b) followed by a morning of watchingthemmakecoffee,usingtheir underwearas a filter. Killing me.
BEEP.
"Shit. Sorry! Holdononemoretime."I click over. "Hello??"I say, bracingmyself.
"So? Isitbythekitchen?" Sheisslightlybreathless.
"What?No,um, I'm still onholdwith them."
"Petrossian?"
"No,LeCirque. I'll callyoujustassoonas1 getthrough."
THE NANNY DIARIES
"All right. But remember, don't start with the kitchen question.And I was thinking that you should try
'21', it's unromantic. Maybe they'll still have something. So '21' next, okay? Well, Petrossian would be
nextandthen'21'.Yes, '21'ismythirdchoice."
"Great!I shouldgetbacktoLe Cirque."
"Yes, yes. Call metheminuteyouknow."
"Bye!" Deepbreath.Click over. "Yes, hangingout. Thatwould
workforme."
"Good to know. Hey, I've got to run to my next class. Listen, I'll definitely be home inApril for a few
days, we'll figuresomethingout. Goodluckwith Jean."
"Hey!" I catchhim beforehehangsup. "I thinkTheHagueis
reallygreat."
"Well, I thinkyou're reallygreat. I'll callyou later. Bye."
"Bye!" I hang up andGeorge stretches from where he has been curled up by myheadand jumps offthe
bedontothefloor.
Thephoneringsagain.I stareatthemachine.
"... CharleneandNan.Pleaseleave amessage."
"This is your mother. You may not recognize me as it is not two in the morning and you do not have a
suffocating childonyourlap,butI assureyouthatI am oneandthesame. Listen,bud,today,tomorrow,
nextweek,we will havethis conversation.In themeantimeI leaveyouwith twolittle wordsof wisdom
regarding this job of yours. 'Not okay.' I love you. Over and out." Right, this job of mine. What to do
aboutthisreservationthing?
"Grandma?"
"Darling!"
"I need to get a table for two for Valentine's dinner anywhere that they don't have paper place mats.
Whatcanyoudoforme?"
"Going right for the jackpot today, are we? Can't we start with something smaller, like an afternoon
wearingthecrownjewels?"
"I know, it's for Grayer's mom. It's a long story, but she's going to hunt me until I get her a seat
somewhere."
"Thatearmuffswoman?Shedoesn't deservethecrumbs offyourplate."
"I know,butcanyoupleasejustwaveyour magicwandforme?"
"Hmm, callMauriceatLutece andtell him I'll sendhimtherecipeforthecheesecakenextweek."
"You rock,Grandma."
"No,darling,I swing. Love you."
"Love you,too."Onemore callandit's backtolespetites ego-centrics. The city is on Valentine's overdrive as I walk over to ElizabethArden to meet my grandmother. Since the last Christmas decoration came down in January every store has had a Valentine's theme in the window; even the hardware store has a red toiletseat cover on display. In Februaries past I would wait with exasperation on line behind men and women buying oysters/champagne/condoms, when I only wanted to pay for my grapefruit/beer/Kleenex and get on with my life. This year, I've got nothing but patience.
This is the very first Valentine's Day on which I have not been single. However, in observance of the traditionalsurvivalagendafortheone-day-when-being-single-is-justnot-okay,SarahandI mailedeach otherTigerBeatpinupsandI am accompanyingGrandma toour annualpampering.
"Darling, Saint Valentine's Rule Number One," she imparts as we sip our lemon water and admire our lacquered toes. "It's more important to show yourself a little love than to have a man who gives you somethinginthewrongsizeandcolor."
"Thanksforthepedicure,Gram."
"Anytime, darling. I'm going to go back upstairs for my seaweed wrap. Let's just hope they don't forget
me likelasttime. Really,theyshouldput a little buzzerinyourhand.Imaginebeingfound,covered
THE NANNY DIARIES
in seaweed and wrapped in a tarp by some poor janitor. Rule Number Two: Never take the last
appointmentoftheday."
1 thank her profusely, bundle up, bid her farewell, and go to pick up my hot date from nursery school.
Hecomes runningoutatnoon,holding alarge,crookedpaperheartthatleaves a trailofglitter
behindhim.
"Whatchagot there,buddy?"
"It's a Valentine. 1 made it. You can hold it." I take the heart and pass him the juice box I've been
keepingwarminmypocketashesettles inthestroller.
I look down at the heart, assuming it's for Mrs. X. "Mrs. Butters spelled for me. I told her what to say
andshespelledforme. Readit,Nanny,readit."
I almost can't speak. "I LOVENANNYFROM GRAYERADDISONX."
"Yup. That's whatI said."
"It's beautiful,Grover. Thankyou,"I say, startingtogetteary
behindthestroller.
"You canholdit,"heoffersashegripsthejuicebox.
"You know what? I'm going to put it safely in the stroller pocket so it doesn't get hurt. We've got a
specialafternoonaheadofus."
Despite the fact thatit's one of the coldest days of the year, I'm under strict instruction not to bring him
home until after French class. So I've made an executive decision to ignore all the usual guidelines and
take him to California Pizza Kitchen for lunch and then down ThirdAvenue to the new Muppet movie.
I wasworriedhemightbescaredof thedark,buthesingsandclaps all thewaythrough.
"That was so funny, Nanny. So funny," he says, as I buckle him back into his stroller and we sing the
themesong all thewayto
Frenchclass.
After I drop him offwith Mme. Maxime to faire lesValentines I runacross Madisonto Barneys to pick
up alittle somethingfor H. H.
"CanI help you?" thenotoriouslybitchyblondebehindthe
Kiehl's counter half asks, half spits. She has never been forgiven for once accusing Sarah of shoplifting
thetonershewastryingtoreturn.
"No, thanks, just browsing." I set my sights on another salesperson, a tall Eurasian man in an
expensive-looking black shirt. "Hi, I'm looking for a Valentine's present for my boyfriend." I love
saying it. Boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend. Yeah, I have the cutest boyfriend. My boyfriend doesn't like
woolsocks. Oh,myboyfriendworksatTheHague,too!
"Okay,well, whatkindofproductsdoesheprefer?" Right,I'm back.
"Oh,I don't know. Um, hesmells nice. Heshaves. Maybe someshavestuff?"
He shows me every conceivable product an aspiring model pulling in extra cash at Barneys might ever
wanttouse. ?
"Um, really? Lipliner?" I ask. "Becauseheplays lacrosse .. ."
Heshakeshisheadatmyshortsightednessandpulls outmoreesotericpastesandlotions.
"I don't want to imply that there's anything wrong with him, you know, give him something that fixes
anything. He doesn't need fixing." I finally settle on a stainless steel razor and watch him wrap it in red
tissuepaperandtie aredbowaroundtheblackbox.Parfait.
I greetGrayer outsidehis classroomwithhis coatheldout. "Bonsoir,MonsieurX. Comment 93 va?"
"Cavatresbien, Nanny.Merci beaucoup.Etvous?" heasks,wavinghis magicfingersatme.
"Oui,oui,tresbien."
Maxime leans her head out of the classroom to the row of cubbies where I'm bundling Grayer. "Grayer
is really coming along with his verbs." She smiles down at him from atop her Charles Jourdan pumps.
"But if you could take some time with him to practice the noun list each week, that would be
fantastique. If eitheryouor yourhusband?
THE NANNY DIARIES
"Oh,I'm nothis mother."
"Ah,monDieu!Jem'excuse."
"Non,non,pasdeproblem," I say.
"Alors,seeyounextweek,Grayer."
I trytopushhim homequicklybecause afrigidwindis whipping
downPark.
"As soonas we get upstairs," I say, crouchingin theelevator to loosenhis scarf, "I'm going to put some
Vaselineonyourcheeks,okay?You're getting alittle chapped."
"Okay.Whatarewegoingtodotonight,Nanny?Let's fly!Yeah, I thinkweshouldflyassoonaswe get upstairs." LatelyI've beenbalancinghim onmyfeetand "flying"himinhis room. "After bath, G, that's flying time." I push the stroller over the threshold. "What do you want for
dinner?"
I'm hanging up our coats when Mrs. X walks into the front hall in a floor-length red evening gown and
Velcrocurlers, alreadyintheheatofpreparationforherValentinedinnerdatewith Mr. X.
"Hi,guys. Didyouhave agoodday?"
"HappyValentine's Day, Mommy!" Grayershoutsingreeting.
"HappyValentine's Day. Oops,becarefulofMommy's dress."
Spatula.
"Wow, youlookbeautiful,"I say, pullingoffmyboots.
"You think so?" She looks down in consternation at her midriff. "I still have a little time. r. X's flight
fromChicagodoesn't landforanotherhalf hour. Couldyoucome helpme fora minute?" "Sure. I wasjustgoingtogetdinnerstarted.I thinkGrayer's pretty hungry."
"Oh.Well, whydon't youjustordersomethingin?There's
moneyinthedrawer."Well, I never.
"Great! Grayer, why don't you come help me order?" I keep a hidden stash of menus in the laundry
roomforemergencies.
"Pizza!I wantpizza,Nanny!Pleeeaaase?"
1 53
I raise an eyebrow at him because he knows I can't say "But you had pizza for lunch" in front of his
mother.
"Great. Nanny, why don't you call for a pizza, pop in a v-i-d-e-o and then come help me," she says as sheleaves theroom. "Hahaha, pizza, Nanny, we're having pizza," he laughs and claps wildly at his unbelievable good
fortune.
"Mrs. X?" I pushthedooropen.
"In here!" she calls out from the dressing room. She's standing in another floor-length red gown and
there's athirdhangingupbehindher.
"Oh, my God! Wow, it's beautiful." This one has thicker straps and red velvet leaf appliques trailing aroundtheskirt.Thecoloris a stunningcombination with herthickblackhair. Shelooksinthemirror andshakesherhead. "No,it's justnotright." I lookcarefullyatherinthedress. I
realizeI've never seenher arms or sternumbefore. Shelookslike a ballet dancer,tinyand all sinew. But sheisn't fillingoutthedress inthebustandit's hanging all wrong.
"I thinkmaybe it's thebustline,"I saytentatively.
She nods her head. "Breast-feeding," she says derisively. "Let me try on the third. Would you like some
wine?" I noticetheopenbottleof Sancerreonthedresser.
"No,thankyou.I shouldn't."
"Oh,comeon.Gotake aglass offthebar."
I walk throughto thepiano room where I can hearthe strains of "I'm Madeline!I'm Madeline!" coming
fromthelibrary.
WhenI get backshe's comeoutin a beautifulNapoleonicraw-silkgown, lookinglikeJosephine.
"Oh,muchbetter," I say. "Theempire waist reallysuitsyou."
"Yeah,butitisn't verysexy,isit?"
"Well... no,it's beautiful,butitdependsonthelookyou're goingfor."
THE NANNY DIARIES
"Breathtaking,Nanny. I wantto bebreathtaking."We both smile assheslips behindtheChinesescreen.
"I've gotonemore."
"Are yougoingtokeep all ofthese?" I eyethezeros onthedanglingpricetags.
"No,ofcoursenot. I'll returntheonesI don't wear. Oh,thatremindsme."Shesticksherheadaroundthe
screen. "CanyoutaketherestbacktoBergdorf'sformetomorrow?"
"No problem. I can do it while Grayer's at his play date." "Great. Can you zip me?" she calls out. I put
down my wine and go around to zip her into a stunningly sexy 1930s red sheath, "Yes," we both say as
soon as she looks in the mirror. "It's beautiful," I say. And mean it. It's the first one that uses her
proportions to its advantage, making her look sylphlike, rather than emaciated. Looking at her
reflection,I realizethatI am rootingforher,rootingforthem.
"So what do you think? Earrings or no earrings? I need to wear this necklace becausemyhusbandgave
ittome."Sheholdsup a strandof diamonds. "Isn't itbeautiful?ButI don't wanttooveracces!sorize."
"Doyouhaveanylittlestuds?"
ShestartsgoingthroughherjewelryboxandI takemywineover tothevelvet bench.
"These?" Sheholdsup a pairof diamondstuds?Orthese?"?
andrubies.
"No,definitely thediamonds.You don't wanttooverdothered."
"I went to Chanel today and got the perfect lipstick and look!" She sticks out her foot. Her toes are
paintedinChanelRedcoat.
"Perfect,"I say, taking asip.Sheputsinthestudsandgives herself aquickswipe with thelipstick.
"What do you think?" She turns for me. "Oh, wait!" She goes 1 over to the Manolo Blahnik bag on
thefloorandpullsout a boxcontaining a pair ofexquisiteblacksilksandals. "Toomuch?"
I 55
"No,no.They're gorgeous,"I say, assheslipsthemonandturnsformeagain.
"So,whatdoyouthink?Anythingmissing?"
"Well, I'd take the curlers out." She laughs. "No, really, it's perfect." I give her another once-over. "Um,
it's justthat..."
"What?"
"Doyouhave athong?"
She quickly looks backward in the mirror. "Oh, my God. You're right." She starts rifling through the plasticbags inher lingeriedrawer. "I think Mr. X gaveme apair onourhoneymoon." Oh,brilliant, Nan!
Brill-i-ant! Sendhercombingthroughthepantydrawer. "You can always go commando," I suggest urgently from the velvet bench where I'm downing the rest ofmywine.
"Got 'em!" shesaysandholdsupanexquisite, delicateblackLaPerla thongwithcreamsilkembroidery, whichI am pray-ing ishers. Thedoorbellrings. "NANNYYY!Thepizza's here!" "Thanks,Grayer!" I callback.
"Thesewill do.I'm all set. Thankyousomuch."
After Grayer and I polish off half a medium pie I remove a small cardboard box from my backpack.
"And now a special Valentine's dessert," I say, producing two chocolate cupcakes with red hearts on
them. Grayer's eyes widen atthedeparturefrom choppedfruit andsoycookies. I pour useach a glass of
milkandwedig in.
"Oh,whathavewehere?"We bothfreeze,cupcakesmidwaytoourmouths.
"Nanny bwought thpecial walentine's cucakes," Grayer explains defensively with a mouth full of
chocolate.
Mrs. X has pulledher longhair up into a loosechignonandfinishedher makeup.Shelookslovely. "Oh,
that's sonice. DidyouthankNanny?"
THE NANNY DIARIES
"Thankyou,"hesprays.
"The carshouldbe hereanyminute."Sheperches ontheedgeofthebanquette, every muscletensedfor
theintercombuzzer. Shereminds meofmyself inhighschool, all dressedup,justwaiting togetthecall
tofindoutwhoseparentswereoutof town,wherewewere meeting,wherehewasgoingtobe.
We awkwardly finishour cupcakeswhileshesits anxiously
besideus.
"Well.. ." ShestandsasI'm cleaningGrov offbeforereleasinghimfrom his boosterseat. "I'm justgoing
to go wait in my office. Will you let me know when they buzz up?" She exits, taking a quick glance
backwardattheintercom.
"Of course,"I say, wonderingjust howlate Mr. X will dareto pushit. "Okay, let's fly now, Nanny. Let's fly. an we?" He puts his arms out and does circles around me as I
clear theplates.
"G, you might be a little full. Why don't you go get your coloring books and we'll hang out in here so we canhearthebuzzer,
okay?"
For an hour Grayer and I sit in silence, passing crayons back and forth, looking up intermittently at the
silentintercom.
At eight o'clock Mrs. X calls me into her office. She's sitting on the edge of her office chair, an old
Vogue openonthedesk.Herminklieswaiting onthearmchair.
"Nanny, would you call Justine to find out if she knows anything? The number's on the emergency list
inthepantry."
"Sure,noproblem."
I don't getananswer atworksoI tryher cellphone.
"Hello?" I can hear silverware clanking in the backgroundand hate that I'm interrupting her Valentine's
dinner.
"Hello, Justine?It's Nanny. I'm so sorry to bother you, but Mr. X is runninglate and I was wondering if
youmightknowwhatflighthe's on."
"That's all backattheoffice?
"Mrs. X isjustgetting alittle anxious,"I say, trying toimparttheurgencyof thesituation.
"Nanny!I can't findtheredcrayon!" Grayer calls fromthebanquette.
"Look, um, I'm surehe'll beintouch."There's a pausewhereinI heartherestaurantinfull swing behind
her. "I'm sorry,Nanny,I reallycan't helpyou."AndthenI justknow,I knowit inthepit ofmystomach.
"Naa-nny,I'm stuck.I needthered!"
"Okay,thanks."
"Well?" Mrs. X asksfromover myshoulder.
"Justine wasn't in the office so she doesn't have his itinerary." I walk around her to search through the
bucket of crayons on the table, while Grayer slumps over his coloring book. Maybe this is it. Maybe I should just say something. But what? What do I actually know for a fact, here, really? What I know is thatMs. Chicagowas hereover a monthago. hings could've changedsincethen.Howdo I knowhe's not just running late? "Hey, why don't you check the Weather Channel?" I suggest, bending down to retrieve the red crayon, which has rolled under the bench. "Maybe there are delays out of O'Hare?" I reach my arm up over the table and place the crayon next to Grayer's fist. I stand back up. "I'll call the airline. Whodoeshefly?"
"Justine wouldknow. Oh,andcanyoucall Luteceandmakesuretheydon't giveawayourreservation?"
Shewalkshurriedlyouttowardthelibrary. Grayer slidesdownandrunsacrossthefloortofollowher. Justine's voice mail comes on three times, but, as she's basically left me to fend for myself, I keep calling.
"Hello?" Shesoundsannoyed.
"Justine,I'm sosorry.Whatairline doeshefly?"
"American.ButNanny,I reallywouldn't..." Hervoicetrails off.
THE NANNY
ARIES
"What?"
"I'm surehe'll call. I wouldn't bother to..."
"Okay.Well, thanks,bye."
I getthenumber frominformation,becauseI don't knowwhatelsetodo.
"Hello,thankyouforcallingAmericanAirlines. ThisisWendyspeaking.HowmayI help you?"
"Hello.Yes, I'm calling to find out if thereany delays on the flights from Chicagoto NewYork tonight,
or if apassengerXchangedhis flight?"
"I'm sorry,butI can't give outinformationonparticularpassengers."
"Well, canyoutell meifthereareanydelays?"
"Holdon, I'll check."Theotherlinebeeps.
"Hello,thisistheXes'residence. MayI askwho's callingplease?" I say.
"Who's this?" a malevoiceasks.
"Hi,it's Nanny?
"Who?"
"Nanny?
"Whatever. Listen,tellMrs. X myplaneis snowedinhereinChicago. I'll callher tomorrow."
"I'm sureshe'd liketotalkto?
"Can't now."Thelinegoesdead.
I click back.
"Hello,miss?Thanksforholding.Therearenodelays.All flightsarerunningonschedule."
"Thankyou,"I say, hangingup.Shit. Shit. Shit.
1 walk slowly through the living room and go stand outside the library, where Mrs. X and Grayer are
seatedonthenavyleathercouch,studying theweatherintheMidwest.
"So staytuned,becauseafter thebreakwe'll betalkingtoCindy
in Little Springs about what it's doing on her back porch," a perky voice says from the television. I feel
queasy.
"Nanny?" Sheroundsthedoor frame,nearlyknockingintome. "It justoccurredtome. all Justineand
getthenumberof his hotel.Theweather's fine. aybehis meetingranlate."
"Urn,actually Mr. Xjustcalledontheotherline,while I wasonholdwiththeairline, andthat's whathe
said.Hismeetingranlate. Sohesaidhe'll calltomorrownightand,uh?
Sheraisesherpalmuptosilenceme. "Whydidn't youcome getme?"
"He,um,hesaidhehadtogo?
"I see."Shepressesher lipstogether. "Andwhatelse didhesay?"
I can feel small beads of perspiration rolling down my sides. "He said, um, he was just going to spend
thenightthere."I castmyeyes downtoavoidhergaze.
Shetakes a stepcloser. "Nanny,I wantyou.To tellme. Exactly.Whathesaid."
Pleasedon't makeme dothis.
"Well?" Shewaitsforananswer.
"Hesaidhewassnowedinandhe'll call youtomorrow,"I sayquietly.
Sheshudders.
I glance up. She looks as if I've just slapped her and I return my eyes to the floor. She walks back into
the library, picks up the remote and turns off the television, silencing and darkening the room. She
remains immobile, silhouetted against the lights of Park Avenue, her red silk gown shimmering in the
somberblueroom, herhandstill grippingtheremote.
Grayer's wide eyes stare up at me in the darkness from where he sits, hands carefully crossed in his lap. "Come on, Grayer. Let's get readyforbed."I extendmyhandandhewriggles offthecouchandfollows me withoutprotest.
THE NANNY DIARIES
Heisuncharacteristicallyquietwhile webrushteethandputonpajamas. 1 readhim Mais^ GoestoBed
about alittle mousewith asimple mission.
"'Maisybrushedher teeth.'Did Grayerbrushhis teeth?"
"Yes."
"'Maisywashedherfaceandhands.'Did Grayerwash his face
andhands?"
"Yes." Andsoonuntilhe's yawning andhiseyes areopening
andclosing.
I stand to kiss him on the forehead and realize his hand is clenching my sweater. I gently uncurl his
fingers. "Goodnight,
Grover."
I walk tentatively out into the cold, gray light of the marble foyer. "Mrs. X?" 1 call out. "I'm leaving.
Okay?" Noanswer.
I walk down the long, dark hall to her bedroom, through the numerous hot pools of light illuminating thepaintings. Thedoor is open. "Mrs. X?" I enter her bedroomand can hearthesoundof muffledcrying coming from
behind the closed dressingroom door. "Um, Mrs. X? Grayer's asleep. Do you need anything?" Quiet.
"I'm just gonna go, okay?" I stand right up against the door and can hear her weeping quietly on the
other side. The image of her curled up on the floor in her beautiful gown makesme put myhands to my
chest.
"Nanny?" avoice,strainingtosoundcheerful,calls out. "Is
thatyou?"
"Yes." I pickupour emptywineglasses fromthebedsidetable,
carefultokeepthemfromclinking.
"Okay,yougoonahead.Seeyoutomorrow."
"Um, there's still somepizzaleft. Doyouwantme towarmitupforyou?"
"No,that's okay. Goodnight."
"Are yousure? 'Causeit's notrouble."
"No,that's reallyfine. Seeyoutomorrow."
161
"Okay, good night." I walk back down the long beige hall to the kitchen, place the glasses in the sink,
and put out a fruit plate, just in case. I decide to wait till I get downstairs to cancel their expired
reservation.
I go back into the hall, grab my coat and boots, and pull my paper heart out from Grayer's stroller
pocket. It sprinklestheblack-and-white tile with a lightdusting of red glitter. I kneeland press myhand
over thesparkles,quicklyliftingthemupandbrushingthemintomybackpack.
Herlowsobsgive wayto adeep,animal-like keeningasI gentlyclosethedoorbehindme.
They all felt that there was no sense in their living together, and that any group of people, who had met together by chance at an inn would have had more in common than they, the members of the Oblonsky family and their servants. The wife did not leave her own rooms and the husband stayed away from home all day. Thechildrenstrayed all over thehouse,notknowingwhattodowiththemselves.
. NNAKARENINA
OnMondayatnoonI wait inthe schoolcourtyard, having watchedMrs. Butters pateachof her heavily
bundledstudentsontheheadandsendthemofftowaiting nannies,andstill noGrayer.
"Mrs. Butters?" I ask.
"Yes?"
"Was Grayer inschooltoday?"
"No."Shegrins atme.
"Okay,thanks,"I say.
"Sure."
"Great."
"Well, then .. ." Shenodsher head, indicatingthis productiveexchangeis over andtoddlesback intothe
building, hervelvet patchworkscarfblowingoutbehind her. I standfor a moment,unsureofwhattodo. I am justreachingformycellphonewhensuddenlyI am dealt astunningblowtothebackof myleg.
"Hi-yaa!"
I turn to see a small woman reproving a very large boy crouched in a menacing karate stance. "No,
Darwin,"shesays, "nochoppingthepeople."
"Where's Grayer?I wanttoplaywith his toys."
"I'm sorry,canI helpyou?" I say, rubbingmyleg.
She gently pushes the boy's fingers off her face while patiently replying, "I am Sima. This is Darwin.
We weresupposedtoplaywith Grayertoday."
"I wanttoseehis toys. NOW!" her chargescreamsupatmewith bothhandsin akaratestance.
"It's nice to meet you, Sima. I'm Nanny. I guess Grayer must havestayed home today,but I didn't know
hehad a playdate. Let mejustcallhis mother."I dial thenumber,butMrs. X's voicemail picksup andI click off. "Okay, well, let's go home, then!," I say, trying to be cheerful, but unsure of what we'll find once we get there. I help Sima with Darwin's bag and we trek throughtheslush to 721.1 takean instant dislike to Darwin, as I have spent all of three minutes with him and am already in a perpetual state of flinching. Sima, on theother hand, is completely soft, almost graceful, in her efforts to deflect Darwin's chops.
I stickmykeyinthedoorandopenit slowly,calling, "Hello?I'm herewith DarwinandSima!"
"Oh, my," Sima murmurs beside me as we make eye contact. The stench of roses is overwhelming. While Mr. X failed to return from what is becoming the longest business trip on record, he has, in his absence,beensendingtwo dozenlong-stemmed rosesto721 Parkevery morningsinceValentine's Day. Mrs. X refuses to have them in her or Grayer's wing, but also can't seem to bring herself to throw them out. More than thirty vases fill the living room, dining room, and kitchen. Consequently, the air-conditioning is on, but thatonly seems to blowthe cloying stenchfrom one sideof theapartment to the other.
BasedonwhatI've piecedtogetherfromthefloristcards, Mr. X
THE NANNY DIARIES
promised to take his wife and child out to Connecticutthis past weekend for "family time," making the last two heavenly days the first weekend I've had completely off in the month since Valentine's. "GRAYER! GRAAYYRR!" Darwin bellows at the top of his lungs before ripping away from his coat andrunninginthedirectionofGrayer's room.
"Please take your coat off and have a seat, I'll just go check with Grayer's mom and let her know that we're home." I puthis bagdownnexttothebenchinthefronthallandslipmybootsoff.
"That's okay. I'll just keep my coat on, thank you." Her smile tells me that I don't need to explain the frigid temperature or the mortuary flowers. I attempt to weave my way around the vases toward Mrs. X's office,onlytofinditempty.
I follow the sound of the boys' hyena giggles to Grayer's room, where his bed is serving as a barricade inthewarbetween apajama-clad GrayerandDarwin. "Hi,Grover."
He's busy bombing Darwin with stuffed animals and looks up only briefly to acknowledgeme. "Nanny, I'm hungry. I wantbreakfastnow!"
"You meanlunch?Where's yourmom?" Hedives toavert aflyingstuffedfrog.
"I dunno.AndI meanbreakfast!" Huh.
I find Connie in Mr. X's office, turning Grayer's fort back into a couch. The room is the messiest I've seenanypart of the apartmentsince I've been here. Small plates with leftover pizza crusts linethe floor and every Disney video is strewn about, separate from its case. "Hey, Connie. How was your weekend?" I ask. "You're lookin' at it." She gestures to the mess. "I was here all weekend. Mr. X didn't show, and she don't want to be alone with Grayer. She made me come all the way back from the Bronx ateleven Fridaynight. 1 hadtotakemykids over tomysister's.
Wouldn't even pay for a taxi. She didn't say boo to that boy all weekend." She picks up a plate. "Last night1 finallyjusttoldher I hadtogohome, butshedidn't likeit."
"Oh,myGod,Connie,I'm sosorry.Thatsucks. Sheshould've calledme. couldatleasthavedonethe nights."
"What?Andletthelikesof youknowshecan't get herown husbandhome?"
"Whereis she?"
She points me toward the master bedroom. "Her Highnesscame in an hour ago and went straight to her
room."
I knock on the door. "Mrs. X?" I ask tentatively. I push it open and it takes a moment for my eyes to
adjust to the darkness. She is sitting on the ecru carpet, surrounded by shopping bags, her flannel
nightgownpeekingoutfromunderher furcoat.Theheavygrosgrainshadesaredrawn.
"Couldyou close the door?" She leans back against the bureau, breathing deeply into a wad of lavender
tissue paper pulled from one of the bags. She wipes her nose and looks up at the ceiling. Afraid that
anything thatI askwill bethewrongquestion,I wait forher tolead.
Shestaresoffintothedarknessandthenasks in a flatvoice, "Howwasyourweekend,Nanny?"
"Okay?
"We had a great weekend. It was ... fun. Connecticut was beautiful. We went sledding. You should've
seenGrayer andhis father. It wasadorable. Really, a greatweekend."
O-kaaay.
"Nanny,is thereany wayyou could come tomorrowmorning and just..." She seems exhausted. "Maybe
helpGrayer getofftoschool. He's justso ... Hewantedhis pinkpantsandI didn't havethestrength?
"I SHOTYOU!YOUSHOULDBEDEAD!"
"NO!YOUAREDEAD!DIE!DIE!"
THE NANNY DIARIES
Theboys' voicesgetlouder,asdoesthesoundofstuffedanimals beingpelteddownthehall.
"Nanny,takethemout. Just. .. takethemtothemuseumorsomething. 1 can't... I needto?
"DIE NOW!I SAID DIE!"
"Absolutely.We cantotallytakethemout. CanI getyouany?
"No.Please,justgo."Hervoice catchesandshegrabs moretissuefromherbags.
As I gingerly close the door behind me, Grayer jumps out at the far end of the long hall. His eyes go to
thedoorandthentome. Hehurls hisWinnie-the-Poohatmyheadwith a littletoomuchforce.
I take a quick breath. "All right, tough guy, let's get you dressed." I take his hand, leading him and
Winniebacktohis room.
"You havepajamason,stupidhead,"DarwinofferssupportivelyasI hustleGrayer towardthecloset.
In addition to putting on his current uniform of choice, the Collegiate sweatsuit he's been wearing
almost dailysinceChristmas, hepulls oneof hisfather's tiesoff a hookandloopsitaroundhis neck. "No, Grove, you can't wear that," I say. Darwin tries to grab it out of his hands. "No, Darwin, that's Grayer's tie."
"See? See?" Grayer says victoriously. "You said it. It's mine. Mytie. Mom said. She gave it to me." Not wanting to go back in her room to get the real story, I fix a quick knot, letting the tie dangle low beside his businesscard.
"Allright,fellas, shakea leg.We gotplacestobe, thingstodo!I have averyexcitingafternoonplanned,
but the first one with his coat on will be the first to find out about it!" The boys scramble past me to tackle the floral obstacle course. I grab an armful of the stuffed toys off the floor and toss them back ontothebedonmywayout.
Inthefronthall Sima isattempting tokeepDarwinfrom smoth!
1 67
eringGrayer,who isflattenedagainstthe door. "Hemustbreathe,Darwin."
"So, I was thinking, maybe Play Space?" I announce, realizing I still have my coat on as Darwin releasesGrayer.
"YEAH!"Theboys jump upanddownontopofeachother.
"Okay."Sima nods. "PlaySpacesoundsvery good."I handher Darwin's jacketandpullonmyboots.
While there are two Play Spaces, one on East Eighty-fifth and one on Broadway in the Nineties, we head up to the one on the East Side, as it has marginally cleaner sand. These indoor playgrounds are Manhattan's version of a fully equippedbasement recroom.And,likeeverything elseinthebig city, it's for rent. So, similar to motels with hourly rates, a twenty gets you and your charge a good two hours to exhausteachother ontheirequipment.
Sima standsonthesidewalkwith theboys whileI getthestrollersoutof thetrunkofthecab.
"IS NOT!"
"ISTOO!"
"CanI help you?" sheasks,evading Darwin's kick.
"No,"I grunt. "That's okay."I'm justgratefultobeoutofhis reach.
I maneuver the strollers to the sidewalk and we each grab a small hand. Probably to deter perverts from window-shopping, the Space is up on the second level and can only be reached by climbing an enormous, blue-carpeted staircase of child-size stairs that seems to stretch all the way up to wherever nannies go when they die. Grayer, undaunted, grabs the child-height railing and starts hauling himself up.
"Darwin, go up. Go up," Sima instructs. "Not down. Up." Darwin, completely disregarding her, plays some sort of leapfrog game that threatens to throw the methodical Grayer backward into a neck!breakingfall. I followclosely behind, draggingthecollapsedstrollers, myheelshangingofftheedgeof eachstair.
THE NANNY DIARIES
When we eventually get to the top I park the strollers in the Stroller Corral and prepare to check in. Becauseoftheinclementweathertheplaceis packedandwe geton alonglineof overbundledchildren,
exasperatednannies,andtheoccasionalmotherputting inherhourofquality time.
"Elizabeth,wecanmakewee-wee afterwe checkin.Pleasejustholdit!"
"Hello and welcome to Play Space! Who's checking in?" an overenthusiastic man in his mid-thirties asks frombehindthebrightredcounter.
"He is!" I say, pointing down at Grayer. The man looks confused. "We are," I say, passing him Mrs. X's membership card. He looks her up in the files and once I hand over twenty dollars we each get name tagsforourselves andonetoputonthestroller incaseitwantstomakefriends.
"Hello,mynameis Grayer. I'm with Nanny,"his reads.
"Hello, my name is Nanny. I'm with Grayer," mine reads. We are instructed to wear them prominently and I plaster mine directly over my left ventricle, while Grayer prefers to stick his on the edge of his shirt, just above the dangling card and next to his father's tie. After Sima and Darwin are similarly linked, the four of us go and put our coats in our designated cubbies, along with our boots. In the food area I fork over another twenty for our lunch. wo small peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and two juiceboxes.
"DIE! DIE!"
"KILL HIM INHISBLOODYHEAD!"
"All right, enough already!" The Wicked Witch has a headache. "If you two can't eat lunch like nice, peace-loving young gentlemen, Darwin and Sima will have to sit at another table." They manage to argue in dulcet tones for the remainder of the meal while Sima and I exchange wan smiles across the table. ShepicksatherbolognasandwichandI make afewattempts tobegin a conversation,butDarwin choosestheseopportunemomentstoflingGoldfishinher face.
Before we can release them into the pen we go wash hands. The Technicolor bathrooms all have little sinks, lowtoilets, andhigh latches. Grayer pees like a champ and then lets me push up his sleeves so he canwashhis hands.
"NO!I DON'TWANTTO!YOUDOIT!YOUPEE!"We canhearDarwininthenextbathroom.
I lean over and kiss Grayer on the top of his head. "Okay, G, let's hit the slopes," I say, as I pass him a papertowel sohecandryhis handsandwhateverelsegot sprayedbythesink.
"Daddysays thatinAspirin."
"Doeshe. Comeon." I throwout thetowelandextendmyhand,buthedoesn't move.
"When's mydaddytakingme toAspirin?" heasks.
"Oh, Grove ..." I crouch down. "I don't know, I'm, not sure if you are going skiing this year." He continuestolookatmequestion-ingly. "Haveyouaskedyourmom?"
He angles his body away from me, crossing his arms over the tie. "My mom says not to talk about him, sodon't. Don't talkabouthim."
"Grayer,comeon!" Darwinyells, kickingthedooratitsbase.
"Hey! Peoplehavetopeeouthere!"A woman startspoundingabovehim.
"Grover,ifyouhavequestions,it's always okayto?I say, standingandunlatchingthedoor.
"Don't talktome,"hesays,runningpast metojoinDarwinbythegate.
"You have some nerve!" The woman who's been waiting hustles her child past me to the toilet. "I think
it's unconscionableto keep a little girl waiting thatlong!" She narrows her heavily made-up eyes at me. "Who do you work for?" I take in her shellacked hair, her inch-long fingernails, her Versace blouse. "I meanit,whodoyouworkfor?"
"God,"I mutter,pushingpasthertoletGrayer intothepen.
Sima andI lift theboys ontothebrightblueslide. I lookover at
THE NANNY DIARIES
her to gaugeif she's one of those caregivers who feel compelled to staywithin two feet of their charges
at all times,taggingalongonevery move.
"I thinktheyshould ..."shesays,pausing,clearlytryingtoreadme,aswell.
I nod,waiting forthesign.
"... beokayif theyaretogether?Whatdoyouthink?"
"I agree,"I saywithrelief, givenGrayer's moodandDarwin's aggression. "CanI treatyoutodessert?"
Oncewe've settled at a table in full view of the slide, I pass Sima a cupcakeand a napkin. "I'm glad you
don't mindletting theboys play. I usually tryto setGrayer freeandthencome up here where I cankeep an eye on him and do myhomework. But there's always some nosy caregiver who's, like, 'Um, Grayer's in the ... sandbox.'And I'm supposed to fly across the room with a cry of 'Not... THE SANDBOX!' " I laugh,covering mymouthtokeepcrumbs fromfallingout.
Sima giggles. "Yesterday, at a play date, the mother wanted me to color with Darwin, but if I put my crayon onhis drawing, he screams. Butshemademe sit there all afternoon,holdingthecrayon nearthe paper."Sheunwrapshercupcake. "HaveyoubeenwithGrayerforverylong?"
"Seven months. inceSeptember. Howaboutyou?" I ask inreturn.
"Two years now I have been with Mr. and Mrs. Zuckerman." She nods her head and her dark hair falls
in front of her face. I'm guessing thatshe's in her early forties. "We used to play with the other girl, she
wasverynice.Whatwashername?" Shesmiles andtakes asipfromher miniaturecartonof milk.
"Caitlin.Yeah, I thinkshewentbacktoAustralia."
"She had a sister there who was very sick. In the hospital. She was saving up to visit her last time we
had a playdate."
"That's terrible, I had no idea. She was wonderful, Grayer still really misses her? Out of the corner of myeye I seeDarwin,poised 171
on the yellow plastic step above Grayer, pulling Mr. X's tie taut around G's neck. For a brief moment
Grayer's choking. isfaceturningredashereachesup his handstoclutchathis throat.
Then the knot of the tie gives way in one swift tug. Darwin rips it from around Grayer's red neck and
runs, laughing, to the other side of the room, disappearing into the climbing apparatus. Sima and I leap
up,dispatchingourselves totheopposingfronts.
"Grove,it's okay,"I calloutasI approach.
He gives forth a blast of rage toward Darwin that silences the entire room. "GIVE THAT BACK!!
THAT'S MY DADDY'S!! GIVE IT BACK!!!!!!!" He starts to sob and shake. "MY DADDY'S SO
MADAT YOU!!HE'S SOMAD!!!!"
Hecollapses,shakingwith theforceofhis tears. "Mydaddy's somad,he's somad."
I pull him onto my lap and start murmuring in his ear as I rock him. "You are such a good boy. Nobody
is mad at you. Your daddy's not mad at you. Your mommy's not mad at you. We all love you so much, Grove."
I carryhimuptothefoodarea,whereSima is waitingwith thetie.
"I... want," he gasps, his breath coming in gulps, "my.. . mommy." I knot the tie gently around his neck
andhelphimupontooneofthegreenbenchesnexttome,making a pillowforhimwith mysweater.
"Sih-muh?AreyouSih-muh?" thewoman fromthebathroomasks.
"Yes?"
"Your Darwinisontheslidebyhimself," sheannounces.
"Thankyou."Sima smiles graciously.
"Byhimself,"themothersays again,asifSima isdeaf.
"Okay,thankyou."Sima rolls her eyes atme, but goes over tomakesureDarwin doesn't somehowhurt
himself onthethree-footslide,whileI rubGrayer's backashefallsasleep.
THE NANNY DIARIES
I watch as she reaches out a hand to help Darwin place his legs over the top in preparation for his
descent. He rejectsher offerbysmackingher squarelyon thehead, thenlaughsandflies downtheslide. She stands for a moment with both hands on her head and then walks slowly back to our table and sits down.
"Darwin seems a little intense," I say. Actually, he seems like a potential homicidal maniac, but she must have stayed for a reason and ten dollars an hour isn't enough to subject oneself to gross bodily harm.
"Oh, no. He's just having a lot of anger because he has a new baby brother at home." She reaches up to
rubher head.
"Haveyouever talkedtothemabouthowhehits you?" I asktentatively.
"No. Well, they are so busy with the new baby. And he can be a very good boy." She takes little breaths asshespeaks.Thisishardlythefirsttime I've seenthis; everyplaygroundhasatleastonenannygetting the shit kicked out of her by an angry child. Clearly she doesn't want to talk about it, so I change the topic.
"You havesuch abeautifulaccent." I foldupthewrapperfrommycupcakeinto alittle square.
"I movedherefromSanSalvadortwoyearsago."Shewipesherhandswith a napkin.
"Doyoustill havefamilythere?" I ask.
"Well, myhusbandandsonsarethere."Sheblinks acoupleoftimesandlooksdown.
"Oh,"I say.
"Yes, we all came together, to find work. I was an engineer in San Salvador. But there were no more
jobsand we hopedtomakemoneyhere. Thenmyhusbandwasrejectedforthegreencard andhadtogo
backwith oursons,becauseI couldnotworkandtakecareofthem."
"Howoftendoyouseethem?" I askasGrayer shiftsfitfully inhis sleep.
"I trytogohome fortwoweeksatChristmastime, butthis year
1 73
Mr. andMrs. Zuckermanneededme togotoFrance."ShefoldsandunfoldsDarwin's sweater.
"Do you have pictures of your children? I bet they're beautiful." I am not sure what the positive spin is
on this situation or where to take this conversation. I know if my mom were here she would have
alreadyrolledSima upintheStoryTime rugandsmuggledhertothefirst safehouseshecouldfind.
"No,I don't keep a pictureonme. It's too ... hard . . ." Shesmiles. "SomedaywhenGrayer comes toplay
atDarwin's house,I will showyouthen.Whataboutyou? Doyouhavechildren?"
"No.Me?No,thankGod."We bothlaugh.
"Aboyfriend,then?"
"I'm working onthat," andI begin totell her about H. H. We shareslices of our own stories, theparts of
our lives the Zuckermans and the Xes neither partake in nor know about, amid all the bright lights and
colors, surrounded by a cacophony of screaming. It starts to snow outside the big windows and I tuck
my stocking feet beneath me while she rests her chin on her outstretched arm. Thus I while away the
afternoon with a woman who has a higher degree than I will ever receive, in a subject I can't get a
passinggradein,andwhohasbeenhomeless thanonemonthinthelasttwenty-four.
For the past week I've been arriving at seven to dress Grayer for school, before dropping him off with
Mrs. Butters and running madly down to class. Mrs. X never emerges from her room in the mornings
andisoutevery afternoon,soI wassurprisedwhenConnietoldme shewaswaitingformeinher office.
"Mrs. X?" I knockonthedoor.
"Come in." I push the door open with slight trepidation, but find her seated at the desk, fully dressed in
a cashmerecardiganandslacks. Despiteherbestefforts with creamblush,shestill looksdrawn.
THE NANNY DIARIES
"Whatare youdoinghome soearly?" sheasks.
"Grayer had a run-in with some green paint so I brought him home to change before ice skating? The
phoneringsandshemotionsforme tostay.
"Hello?. . . Oh, hi, Joyce ... No, the letters haven't come yet... I don't know, slow zip code, I guess . .."
Her voice still sounds hollow. "All the schools she applied to? Really? That's fabulous ... Well, which
one are you going to choose?.. . Well, I don't know as much about the girls' schools... I'm sure you'll
maketherightdecision ... Excellent. Bye."
She turns back to me. "Her daughter got into every school she applied to. I don't get it, she isn't even
cute . . . Whatwere you
saying?"
"The paint. on't worry, he wasn't wearing the Collegiate sweatshirt when it happened. He made a
reallybeautifultreepicture?
"Doesn't hehave a changeofclothesatschool?"
"Yeah,I'm sorry. eusedthemlastweekwhenGiselledumped glueonhim andI forgottoreplaceit."
"Whatif hehadn't hadtime tochange?"
"I'm sorry. I'll bringittomorrow."I starttoleave.
"Oh, Nanny?" I stick my head back in. "While I've got you, I need to have a talk with you about
Grayer's applications.Whereis he?"
"He's watchingConniedust."Your chair-railmoldings. Witha
toothbrush.
"Good, have a seat." She gestures to one of theupholsteredwing chairs across from her desk. "Nanny, I
havesomethingterribletotellyou."Shecasts her eyes downtoherhandstwisting inherlap.
I can't breathe. I bracemyself forpanties.
"We got some very bad news this morning," she says slowly, struggling to get the words out. "Grayer
gotrejectedfromCollegiate."
"No."I quicklywipe thelookofreliefoffmyface. "I don't believe it."
"I know. t's just awful. And, to make matters even worse, he's been wait-listed at St. David's and St.
Bernard's. Wait-listed." She shakes her head. "So now our fingers are crossed for Trinity, but if, for
some reason, that too doesn't work out, then we're just going to be left with his safeties and I'm not
enthusiasticaboutthecollegeplacements atthoseschools."
"Buthe's adorable. He's smartandarticulate. He's funny. Heshareswell. I justdon't getit." I mean,lose thetie,what's nottoloveaboutthiskid?
"I've beengoingover everything all morning,justtrying tomakesenseofit."Shelooksoutthewindow.
"Ourapplicationcoachtoldushewas a shoo-inforCollegiate." "My father did say this was the most competitive year they've ever had. They were inundated with qualified applicants and probably had to make some really tough choices." Keeping in mind that the applicants are four and you can't exactly ask them if they have any thoughts on the federal deficit or wheretheyseethemselves infiveyears.
"I thought your father liked Grayer when he met him," she asks pointedly, referring to the rainy
afternoonI tookhimover tomyhousetopet Sophie.
"Hedid.Theysang 'RainbowConnection'together."
"Hmmm. Interesting."
"What?"
"No,nothing.Justinteresting,that's all."
"Mydad's notreallyinvolvedat all withtheadmissions process." "Right. Well, I wanted to talk to you because I'm concerned that dressing him in that Collegiate sweatshirt may have set Grayer's expectations in a certain direction and I want to ensure that? She's interrupted by the phone. "Hold on." She answers it. "Hello? Oh, hi, Sally .. . No, our letters haven't come yet... Oh,Collegiate. Congratulations,that's excellent...Well, Ryan's a veryspe--
THE NANNY DIARIES
cial little boy . . . Yes, that would be great. I know Grayer would love to go to school with Ryan ... Yes,
dinner would be lovely . .. Oh, the four of us? I'll have to check my husband's schedule. Let's talk after
theweekend...Great. Bye!" Shetakes a deepbreathandclenchesher jaw. "WherewasI?"
"Grayer's expectations?"
"Oh, yes. I'm concerned that your encouragement of his fixation on Collegiate may have set him up for
a potentiallydeleterious self-esteem adjustment."
i(T\_\_\_?
"No, please don't feel bad. It's really my fault for allowing you to do it. I should have been more on top
ofyou."Shesighsandshakesherhead. "ButIspoketomypediatricianthismorningandhesuggested a Long-term Development Consultant who specializes in coaching parents and caregivers through this transition. She'll be coming by tomorrow while Grayer's in piano and she's asked to speak with you separatelytoassess yourroleinhis development."
"Great. That sounds like a good idea." I go through the doorway. "Urn." I stick my head back in.
"ShouldI notlethimwearit today?"
"What?" Shereachesforhercoffee.
"Thesweatshirt."
"Oh. Well, he can wear it today and then we'll let the consultant tell us how to handle this situation
tomorrow."
"Okay, great." I go back out to where Grayer, seated in the banquette, is watching Connie polish the
stove, while absentmindedly playing with the tie around his neck, and wonder if perhaps we're not
focusingonthewrongpieceofapparel.
I sit in the chair next to Mrs. X's desk, waiting for the consultant, and surreptitiously try to read, upside
down,thenotesscrawledonMrs. X's notepad.Eventhoughit's probablynothingmorethana
glorified grocery list, the fact that I have been left alone in here makes me feel as if I should be covert.
If I had a camera hidden in a button on my sweater I would frantically try to photograph everything on
thedesk.I'm startingtomakemyself laughattheideaofitwhenthewoman enters,briefcasefirst.
"Nanny." She reaches out to firmly shake my hand. "I'm Jane. Jane Gould. How are you today?" She
speaks just a little too loudly, eyeing me over her glasses as she puts her briefcase down on Mrs. X's
desk.
"Fine,thanks. Howare you?" I am suddenlyverycheerfulandalso a littletooloud.
"Just fine. Thank you for asking." She crosses her arms over her cranberry-colored blazer and nods
rhythmically at me. She has very big lips made up in the exact same cranberry, bleeding into the lines
aroundher mouth.
I nodbackather.
She looks down at her watch. "So, Nanny. I'm just going to get my pad out here and we'll get started."
Sheproceedstomentioneachactionasshedoes ituntilshe's seatedinMrs. X's chair,penpoised.
"Nanny, our objective over the course of the next forty-five minutes is to assess Grayer's perceptions
and expectations. I would like you to share with me the understanding you currently hold of your role
andresponsibilitiessurroundingGrayer's criticalpathwith regardtothenextstratumofhis schooling."
"Okay,"I say, replayingherstatement inmyheadtolocatethequestion.
"Nanny, in your first quarter at the X residence, how would you characterize your performance in
relationtoGrayer's academicactivity?"
"Good. I mean, I was picking him up from school. But, honestly, there wasn't a lot of academic activity
to?
"I see,soyoudonotconsideryourself anactive, dynamicpartic--
THE NANNY DIARIES
ipantinhis process. Howwouldyoudescribeyouragendaduringhis scheduledplaytime?"
"Right... Grayer really likes to play trains. Oh, and dress up. So I try to do activities that he enjoys. I
wasn't aware thathehadanagendaforplaytime."
"Doyouengagehim inpuzzles?"
"Hedoesn't likepuzzlessomuch."
"Math problems?"
"He's alittle young?
"Whenwasthelasttime youpracticedcircles?"
"I'm suresometime inthelastweekwehadthecrayons out?
"DoyouplaytheSuzukitapes?"
"Onlywhenhetakes a bath."
"Haveyoubeenreadingtohimfrom theWall Street Journal?"
"Well, actually?
"TheEconomist.7"
"Not really?
"TheFinancialTimes?"
"ShouldI be?"
She sighs heavily and scribbles furiously on her pad. She begins again. "How manybilingual meals are
youservinghim aweek?"
"We speakFrench onTuesdaynight,but I usuallyserveveg!gieburgers."
"AndyouareattendingtheGuggenheimonwhatbasis?"
"We gototheMuseumofNaturalHistory. eloves therocks."
"Whatmethodologyareyoufollowingtodress him?"
"Hepicks outhis clothesor Mrs. Xdoes.Aslongashe'll be
comfortable?
"You don't utilize anApparelChart,then?"
"Not really?
"AndI supposeyouarenotdocumentinghis choiceswith him
on aClosetDiagram." "Yeah,no."
"Norareyouhavinghim translatehis colorandsizesintotheLatin."
"Maybe later this year." She looks back at me and nods for a while. I shift in my seat and smile. She leansacrossthedeskandtakesoffher glasses.
"Nanny,I'm goingtohavetoraise a flaghere."
"Okay."I leanintomeether.
"I havetoquestion whetheryou're leveragingyour assets to escalateGrayer's performance." Having let the cat out of the bag, she leans back and rests her hands in her lap. I sense that I should feel insulted. 'Leverage myassets?'Umm, anyone?
"I'm sorrytohearthat," Isayearnestly,astheonethingabundantlyclearisthatI shouldbefeelingsorry.
"Nanny, I understand you are getting your degree in arts-in-education so, frankly, I'm surprised by the lackofdepthsurroundingyourknowledgebasehere."Okay,nowI knowI'm insulted.
"Well, Jane."Shestraightensatthesoundofhername. "I am trainedtoworkwithchildrenwhohavefar fewerresourcesattheir disposalthanGrayer."
"I see,soyoudon't perceivethisopportunitytobeinanarenainwhichyouare a value-add."What?
"I wanttoaddvalue toGrayer,buthe's reallystressedoutrightnow?
Shelooksskepticallyatme. "Stressed?"
"Yes, he's stressed.AndI feel. ndI am only anundergradhere, Jane,soI'm sureyou'll takethis with a grainofsalt. hebestthingI cangive himis somedowntime sothathis imaginationcangrowwithout being forced in one direction or another." Blood rushes to my face and I know I've gone too far, but
beingmadetofeellikeanidiotbyyet anothermiddle-agedwoman inthis officeis just a bitmorethanI canhandle.
She scribbles a few more notes and smiles evenly at me. "Well, Nanny, I advise you to integrate time forreflectionasyoucontinue
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to work with Grayer. Here are a series of Best Practices from other caregivers thatI suggestyou review and internalize. This is explicit knowledge, Nanny, explicit knowledge from your peers that must become tacit for you if Grayer is to reachhis optimal state." She hands me a bunch of papers with a big clip atthetopandstands,slidingherglasses backon.
I stand up, too, feeling 1 need, somehow, to clean this up. "I didn't mean to seem defensive. I care very deeply for Grayer and follow all of Mrs. X's instructions. The past few months he's insisted on the Collegiate sweatsuit almost every day. And Mrs, X even got him a few more so he would have one to wearwhentheotherswere inthewash.SoI justwanttobesurethatyouknowI?
Sheputsouther handformetoshake. "Right.Thankyouforyourtimethis afternoon,Nanny."
1 shakeher hand. "Yes, thankyou. I'll readthesethroughtonight. I'm surethey'll beveryhelpful."
"Come on, Grove, finish up so we can go play a game." Grayer has been pushing around his last tortellini for about five minutes. Thanksto Jane,it's already been a longafternoon for both of us. I look downathim, restinghis blondheadonhis arm andstaringhorizontally atthelastofhis dinner. "Whatsa matter? Not
hungry?"
"No."I reachforhis plate. "No!" Hegrabstheedge,causinghis
forktodrop tothetable.
"Okay,Grayer,just say 'Nanny,I'm notfinished.'I canwait."I
sitbackdown.
"Nanny!" Mrs. X comes bustling in. "Nanny." She's about to speak when she sees Grayer and the lone
tortellini. "Didyouhave a gooddinner,Grayer?"
"Yes," hesaysintohis arm.
Butshe's alreadyfocusedher attentionbacktome. "Couldyou
come out here for a minute?" I follow her into the dining room where she turns and stops so abruptly I
accidentallysteponherfoot.
"I'm sorry,areyouokay?"
She grimaces. "I'm fine. I just finished with Jane and it's paramount that we have a family meeting, to
break the news to Grayer together about the r-e-j-e-c-t-i-o-n. So I'll need you to call Mr. X's office and
findoutwhenhecouldbescheduledtoattend. Thenumber's inthepantry?
"Mrs. X?" Janecalls asshecomes intothehall.
"Sure. No problem. Right away."I quickly slip back intothekitchen. Grayer is still making slowcircles
with his fork,thetortellini inorbit. 1 hoverover himfor a moment while listeningtoJaneandMrs. Xin
thehallway.
"Yes, I've just spoken with Nanny. I'm going to see how soon my husband can come home for this
meeting,"Mrs. Xsays, waxingprofessional.
"His presenceis reallyunnecessaryas longasGrayer perceives his primary caregiver tobepresent.You
should just go ahead andspeakwith him yourself." Jane's voice moves toward thefront door and I head
forthephone.
"Mr. X's office,Justinespeaking.HowmayI helpyou?"
"Justine? Hi,it's Nanny."
"Hi. Howareyou?" sheasksover thedinof a printer.
"Hanginginthere. Howaboutyou?"
"Busy," she sighs. "The merger is making things crazy around here. I haven't been home before
midnightintwoweeks." "Thatsucks."
"Well, hopefully Mr. X'll get a huge retention bonus and spread a little of it around." Don't count on it.
"So,is Mrs. Xlikingtheflowers?"
"What?"
"Theroses. thoughtitwasoverkill, but Mr. Xjusttoldmetoputin astandingorder."
THE NANNY DIARIES
"Yeah,itkindof feelslike astandingorder," I confirm.
"I'll makesuretomorrow's bouquethas morevariety.What's herfavoriteflower?"
"She likespeonies,"I whisperasMrs. X breezespast Grayertostandinfrontofme,expectantly.
"Where am I goingtofindpeoniesinMarch?" Justinesighsagainastheprinter makes a clackingsound.
"Ugh,I can't believe thisthingis brokenagain.Sorry,never mind, I'll do it.Anythingelse?"
"Oh,right. Mrs. X wantstoschedule a family meeting about...". glanceover her shoulderatthepasta
pusher?thelittle one.Whencouldhebehere?"
"Let's see ... I couldpush a meetingup ..."I canhearher flippingpages. "Tuh,tah,tah . .. Yeah, I canget
himback toNewYork byWednesdayat four. I'll havehimthere."
"Great.Thanks,Justine."
"Anytime."
I hangupthephoneandturnto her. "Justine saidthathecanbe
hereWednesdayatfour."
"Well, if that's really the soonest he can make it... I guess that will have to do." She glances down to
adjusther sparklingengagement ring. "Janesaidit wascrucialthathebehere,so . . ."
Right.
"I mean,theWall StreetJournal!He's four!"
"Jesus," my dad exclaims just as Sophie pushes her nose between our legs. "Your mom still wants you
outofthere."
"I can handle it." I jog forward a few steps and Sophie circles, ready for her next run. "And there's no
wayI couldleaveGrayer
rightnow."
Dad runs to the bottom of the hill. "Sophie! Come on!" Sophie looks confused. "Over here!" he calls.
Sophieturns 180degreesfrom
my heels and takes offin his direction against a cold gust of wind that blows her ears even farther back.
As soon as she reaches him, running just below his gloved hands, I call to her and she gallops back up
toward me, and then the two of us run down the slope until we are beside him on the main promenade thatrunsalongtheuptownstretchofRiversidePark.
"Readyforyourinterviewtomorrow?" Sophierolls intohis shinsinanefforttocatchup.
"I'm kindof nervous, butProfessorClarkson's beenpracticingwith usinclass. I'd reallyliketohavemy jobfornextyearlinedupsoon."I hunchmyshouldersagainstanothergustofcoldwind.
"You'll knock 'em dead. Go long!" I run back up the hill toward the edge of the trees and look back downjustasthestreetlightturns on,makingitappeardarkeraroundus.
I lookup intotheyellow glow,composing awish alongthelines of "starlight,starbright." "Oh,electric gods of the tristate area, I'm just wishing for a real, honest-to-goodness job with set hours and an office where the boss's underwear isn't drying in the bathroom. Someday I'd like to be able to help more than one child at a time?children who don't come accessorized with their own consultants. Thank you. Amen."
The subway car is suddenly flooded with sunlight as we surface high over the streets of the South Bronx. I feel that twinge of excitement I always do when a train car moves aboveground, flying over thecityonits skinnyrailslikeanamusement-parkride.
I pull mylessonplanout of mybackpackandstareat it forthe millionth time. Theopportunity to join a conflict-resolution team for city schools is exactly the kind of job I've been training for. Plus, it would begoodtoworkwithteenagersandtake a breakfromthetinyfolk.
Thetrainpulls to astopandI stepoutintothecoldsunshine. I
THE NANNY DIARIES
make my way down the steps of the platform to the street and discover that I am not four blocks away from my interview, but fourteen. I must have misunderstood the woman on the phone. I check my watch,pickingupthepace. I wastoonervous this morningtohavebreakfast, buttheninety-minute trek hasrevived myappetite. I walk/rundownthelongstreets,knowingI shouldeatorriskpassingoutmid!lesson.
Fully out of breath, I run into a tiny newspaper stand, grab a bag of peanuts, and stuff them in my backpack. One door down 1 ring the buzzer next to a taped piece of hand-colored paper that reads "CommunitiesAgainstConflict."
A voice blares unintelligibly out through the static and the door clicks, letting me into a stairwell, once painted green, and lined with posters of children in playgrounds looking gravely into the camera. I examine each print as I climb the stairs and, judging by the haircuts and bell-bottoms, guess these are promo posters circa the early seventies, around the time that this organization was founded. I buzz again at the top step and am greeted by loud barking, before a large hand pulls the door slightly ajar. "Snowflake,stay! STAY!"
"I'm here for the interview?" I say, looking around for another door, assuming I've mistakenly interrupted aresidentinthebuilding.A palewoman's faceappearsinthecrack.
"Yeah, Communities Against Conflict. You're in the right place, come on in, just be careful of Snowflake;he's always tryingtofree
himself."
I shimmy through the small opening she's made in the door and practically come face-to-face with a humongousblackshepherdandtherestof anequallylargewoman inoveralls andwaist-length, graying blond hair. I smile, bendingdowntopetSnowflake,whois tryingtogetpasther widelyplantedlegs.
"NO!" shescreams.
I joltup.
"He'snotreally apeopleperson.Areyou,Snowflake?" Shepats 1
the dog gruffly on his head with her free hand, as the other holds a stack of manila folders. Having adequatelywarnedme,shelets Snowflakecheckmeoutwhile I stayperfectlystill.
"I'm Reena, the executive director of Communities. You are?" She fixes me with an intense stare. I try toget areadonher,attempting tofigureoutwhoshewouldlikeme tobe.
"Nan.I thinkI wassupposedtomeetwithRichard."I aimforsolidandwarm, without a hintofcheerful.
"Nan? I thought your name was Naminia. Shit. RICHARD!" Reena bellows at me and I almost duck. Sheturnsbackto herfiles. "He'll behere in a minute. RICHARD!" shescreamsagain, thistime intothe filingcabinet.
"Okay! I'll just have a seat." I try to demonstrate that I am someone who can take care of herself, as I sense independenceis of value here. I turn around to discover that the two chairs designated to the few feet serving as a waiting area are both piled with overflowing boxes of yellowing brochures. I opt for standingbythewall andgettingoutofReena's way, asthisseems tobe aCommunities value, aswell.
A door flies open at the far side of the room and a man with a pasty complexion, who looks related to Reena and whom I presume to be Richard, emerges. He squints at me in his glasses, breathing heavily with the effort of getting around her and the dog to greet me. He is sweating profusely and has a wilted cigarette stuckbehindhis ear.
"Naminia!"
"Nan,"Reenagruntsover a file.
"Oh, Nan... I'm Richard, the artistic director. Well, I see you've met Reena and Snowflake. Why don't we get right to it! Let's go into the Feelings Room and get you set up." He shakes my hand and exchangesglanceswith Reena.
I followhimtotheFeelingsRoom,which isaboutthesamesizeastheoffice,butwithout all thedesks.
THE NANNY DIARIES
"So have a seatthere,Nan."I do,readytotellmywhole,wonderful story. Readytoknock 'emdead.
"Now let me tell you about myself..." Richard begins. He leans back in the plastic folding chair and proceeds to explain abouthis decadesspentin social work, howhe met up with Reena at a rally against the superintendent, their years traveling the globe to gather methodologies for conflict resolution, and the host of "virtually thousands of kids" that he has personally trained to "make the world a better place." He also goes on extensively about his misguided childhood, the "illegitimate" son who doesn't
call him anymore, and his recent attempts to quit smoking. I zone in and out, keeping a beaming smile
onmyfaceanddeveloping a fixationonthepeanutsinmybag.
About an hour later he finally says, "So I see here that you are minoring in gender studies, what does
thatmean?"
He scans the resume 1 faxed in, squinting to read the blurred print. 1 follow his gaze to the top of the
pagetodiscover thatI am "Naminia of4ishEast90 somethingStreet."Ahh,Naminia.
"Well, I'm in the home stretch of a major in child development and I was very interested in
supplementingthis work?
"So you're not a feminist bitch, then?" He has a good, hearty laugh, taking a Kleenex out of his pocket
andwipingdownhis forehead.
I attempt a weak laugh. "As I was saying, I've been completing my thesis with Professor Clarkson and
havebeeninterningthis semesteratanafter-schoolprograminBrooklyn?
"Right. So let's get you up and running! Let me grab Reena and we'll get started with your session." He
stands. "REEENA!" Loudbarkingensuesintheother room.
I pull my lesson plan out of my backpack while Snowflake bursts in, followed by Reena. I walk to the
othersideoftheroomandwrite mynotes ontherollingblackboard.
I take a deepbreath. "I haveprepared a sessiononpeerpressureforfourteen-year-oldsingradenine.As
you'll seeontheboardhere
I havewritten thesekeyterms. I wouldbeginbyaskingthegrouptoworktogethertoconstruct?
"Teacher!Teacher!" Richardis wavingwildlyfromthebackof theroom.
"I'm sorry,areyounotreadyformetostart?" I ask,unsureof whatishappening.
Heballsup apieceofpaperandthrowsitatReena,whostartstomockcry.
"Teacher! Reena said a bad word!" Reena continues to boo-hoo, causing Snowflake to circle her,
barking.
"I'm sorry,Richard,itwas myunderstandingthatwe were justdoinganoverview."Buttheyare intheir
ownworld,throwingpaperateachother andfakecrying.
I clearmythroat. "Okay,thesessionyou askedme-to preparewasforteenagers,um, butI canmodifyit
for preschoolers." I glance at my notes and frantically try to downscale the plan for a different age
group.I turnbacktofacetwohugeadults andonehugedog,hidingbehindchairs andlaunchingpaper.
"Um, excuse me? Excuse me? OKAY, CLASS!" I say loudly, giving sway to my frustration. They turn
backtome.
Reenastandsup,breakingcharacter. "Howare youfeelingrightnow,Nan?"
"Sorry?" I ask.
Richard gets out his notebook. "How do you feel about us in this moment? What does your gut say?"
Theylookatme expectantly.
"Well, I thinkperhapsI misunderstoodthedirectives?
"Shit, Nan. Do you have rage in there?Do you hate us? We are just not feeling the love. 1 want to hear itfromyou.Howisyourrelationshipwith yourmother?"
"Reena,franklyI'm unclearhowthis relatestomyabilities to?
Reena puts her hands on her large hips and Snowflake circles her heels. "We're a family here. There are noboundariesintheFeelingsRoom.You've gottocome inherewith trustandloveandjust
THE NANNY DIARIES
gofor it. Here's thething,Nan.We're reallynotlookingtohire whitewomen rightnow."
She is so comfortable with this statement that I'm tempted to ask how many openings they have for white, feminist bitches. Even more bizarre, why a person of color might have a better time discussing theirmaternalissueswith complete strangers.Whitestrangers,nonetheless.
Richard stands, soaked with sweat and coughing a smoker's cough. "We have just gotten way too many resumesfrom whitegirls.You don't speakKorean,doyou?" I shakemyhead,speechless.
"Nan, we're trying to model diversity here, to represent an ideal community. SNOWFLAKE, HEEL!" Snowflake wanders back from where he has been sniffing around my bag. He passes me with his head down,swallowing thelastof mypeanuts.
I look at both of their very white faces against the backdrop of bright rainbows painted on the peeling wall behindthem. "Well,thankyoufortheopportunity,youhave avery interestingorganizationhere."I quicklygathermythings.
They walk me to the door. "Yeah, maybe next semester, we'll be doing some fund-raising work on the EastSide.Wouldyoubeinterestedinthat?" I pictureintroducingReenatoMrs. X attheMetsoshecan askher abouther rage.
"I'm really looking for fieldwork right now. Thanks, though." I get out the door and go directly to Burger King for an extra large fries and a Coke. Folded into an immobile red seat I sigh deeply, comparing Reenaand Richard with Janeand Mrs. X. Somewhereout there must be peoplewho believe in a middle ground between demanding children to "feel their rage" and overprogramming children so everyone can pretend they don't have any. I take a long sip of my soda.Apparently, I'm not going to be findingitanytime
soon.
"See, if I have two jellybeans and you have one jellybean, together we have three jellybeans!" I hold outthejellybeans tomakemypoint.
"I like the white ones and the ones that taste like banana. How do they do that, Nanny? How do they makeittastelikebanana?" Grayerlinesup thecoloredcandylikerailroadtracksonhis bedroomcarpet.
"I dunno, G. Maybe they mush up a banana and they mush up the jelly and then they mush it all togetherandcookitin a beanshape?"
"Yeah! A bean shape!" So much for math. "Nanny, try this one!" Yesterday's peony arrangement came
with aGrayer-sizetinofjellybeans.
"How about the green ones? How do they make those? We both hear the door slam. Only three hours
late,notbad.?
"DADDY!!" HerunsoutoftheroomandI followintothehall.
"Hey,sport.Where's yourmother?" HepatsGrayer ontheheadwhile looseninghistie.
"Here I am," she says and we all turn. She is wearing a powder-blue pencil skirt, kitten heels, a
cashmere V-neck sweater, eye shadow, mascara, and blush. Va-voom. If this were the first time my husband had been home in three weeks, I'd get dolled up, too. She smiles shakily beneath her rose lipstick.
"Well, let's get this started," he says, barely glancing at her before heading to the living room where Jane left her charts and diagrams. Grayer and his mother scamper in behind Mr. X and I am left behind inthefronthall. I take aseatonthebench,resumingmyroleaslady-in-waiting.
"Darling," Mrs. X begins with a bit too much enthusiasm. "Shall I have Connie get you a drink? Or perhaps some coffee? CONNIE!" I jump about three feet and Connie comes flying out of the kitchen, herhandsstill wet.
"Jesus,doyouhavetobesoshrill?No. I justate," Mr. X says.
THE NANNY
ARIES
Connie stops just short of entering the room. We exchange glances and I make room for her on the
bench.
"Oh. Oh, all right. So, Grayer, Mommy and Daddy want to talk to you about where you're going to
schoolnextyear."Mrs. Xattempts a secondopening.
"I'm goingtoCollegiate,"Grayer offers,trying tobehelpful.
"No,sweetie. Mommy andDaddyhavedecidedthatyouaregoingtoSt. Bernard's."
"Burnurd?" he asks. There is a moment of silence. "Can we play trains now? Daddy, I got a new train,
it's red."
"So,sweetie.You can't wearthebluesweatshirt anymore, okay?" shesays. Connierollshereyes atme.
"Why?"
"BecauseitsaysCollegiateonitandyou're goingtoSt. Bernard's? Mr. Xsays withexasperation.
"ButI likeit."
"Yes, sweetie. We'll getyou aSt. Bernard's sweatshirt."
"I liketheblueone!"
I lean in and whisper to Connie. "Oh, for the love of God, let him wear it inside out. Who cares?" She
throwsher handsup.
Mrs. X clears her throat. "Okay, sweetie. We'll talk about this later." Connie disappears back into the
kitchen.
"Daddy,come see mytrains! I'll showyou the newone. It's red and really,really fast!" Grayer flies past
me towardhisroom.
"Thatwas a complete wasteof time. Heclearlycouldcareless," Mr. X says.
"Well, Janefeltitwasimportant?sheretortsdefensively.
"Who the hell is Jane?" he asks. "Look, do you have the slightest idea of what it means to be in the
middleof amerger?I don't havetime forthis?
"I'm sorry,but?
"Do I have to be on top of everything?" he growls. "The one thing I delegated to you was his schooling
andnowit's all fuckedup."
"It was averycompetitive year!" shecries. "Grayerdoesn't playtheviolin!"
"Whatthefuckdoestheviolin havetodowith anything?"
"Maybe if you'd spend an hour of your precious time with us he might have done better in his
interviews," shespits back.
"My precious time? My precious time? I am bashing my brains out eighty hours a week so you can
stand there in your pearls, with your eight-thousand-dollar curtains and your 'charity work,' and questionhowI spendmytime?!Who's goingtopayhis tuitionbills, huh?You?" "Honey." She softens. "I know you're under a lot of pressure. Look, since you're already home, why
don't we talk about it over a nice relaxing dinner? I made a reservation at that place you love, down by the river." Her kitten heels make little clicks as she walks over to him. Her voice drops. "We could get a roomatthePierre,maybetheonewiththedoubleJacuzzibath ... I've reallymissedyou."
It's quiet for a minute and thenI distinctly hear the sound of themkissing. Their lowlaughter drifts into
thehallway.
I'm just about to sneak off to Grayer's room when Mrs. X coos{ "Should I send a donation to St.
Bernard's with thetuitioncheck,sowe getoffontherightfootwith them?"
"Therightfoot?" He's againindignant. "Correctme ifI'm wrong,buthaven't theyalreadyacceptedhim?
"Butifwehaveanotherboy?
"Look, I've got to get back to the office. The car's waiting downstairs. I'll call you later." Mr. X swiftly
passes me,still wearingtheovercoathepresumablynever took off. Thedoor slamsloudlybehindhim. "Daddy? WAIT!!!!" Grayer comes running out with his red train. "DADDY!!!" He throws himself, screaming,againstthefrontdoor.
Mrs. X walks slowly into the hall and stands for a moment, glaring through Grayer at the front door until hereyes glazeover,thenwalksrightpastbothofustoherbedroom.
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"DADDY.1.'.'" He convulses with sobs, bending over, while holding tightly onto the doorknob. "1 WANT DADDY.'.'!" I sit down on the floor and reach out to hold him. He drops his head between his danglingarmsandawayfromme. "NOOOoooo.I wantmyDADDY!!!"We heartheelevator doorslide closed. "DON'TLEAVE.'.'.'.'"
"Ssshhh, 1 know." I circle my arms to pull him onto my lap. "I know, Grove." We sit on the floor as his tearsmake adark, wetspotonthekneeofmyjeans.I rubhis backandmurmur, "It's okay,Grove. Shhh, it's okaytobesad.We'll justsithereandbesadfor alittle while."
"Okay,"hesays intomypantleg.
"Okay."
Mammy had her own method of letting her owners know exactly where she stood on all matters. She knewitwasbeneaththedignityofquality white folkstopaytheslightestattentiontowhat adarkysaid, even when she was just grumbting to herself. She knew that to uphold this dignity, they must ignore whatshesaid,even ifshestoodinthenextroomandalmost shouted.
. ONEWITHTHEWIND
Connie,
RatherthanironingGrayer. sheetstoday,I. likeyoutopackthefollowingitems for Mr. X. Hissutis Shirts Ties Underwear Socks
Andanythingelseheuses. Theseitemsshouldbepackedanddownwiththedoormanbythree o. lock. Pleaseseethatouonlyusehisluggage(seemonogram).
"Nanny, have you seen Grayer's bow tie? I put it out last night." Mrs. X and Grayer are due at theApril Tea forNewSt. Bernard's Families intwentyminutes. Mrs. XisrummagingthroughGrayer's drawers
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while I try to wrestle him into an ultrastarched oxford, complete with stays in the collar, and Connie, I assume, issomewherein Mr. X's closetfillinghis monogrammedluggage.
"I needanelephant," Grayersays, pointingtothesketchpadonhis diminutive table.
"Onesecond,Grayer,"1 say, "Let mebuckleyourbelt?
"No,notthatone."ShesticksherheadoutfromGrayer's walk-in closet.
"That's theoneyouputout." I add, "Onthebed.Sorry."
"It doesn't go."
Kneeling down in front of him, I look him over. luepinstriped shirt, khaki pants, white socks, brown
belt. I don't seetheproblem, butI unbucklehim.
"Here,"shesays,handingme a greenandredstripedcanvasbelt.
I pointdownatthebeltbuckle. "See,GforGrayer."
"G?" he asks, looking down. "I need my card." I reach for the bus-pass holder on the dresser, which
containsthevestigesof Mr. X's businesscard.
"No,"shesays, emerging fromthecloset. "Nottoday. It's liketheinterviews. Remember theinterviews?
Nocard."
"I wantmycard!"
"You cankeepitinyourpocketlike asecretagent," I say, tuckingitoutofsight.
"I still can't findhis f-ingbowtie."
"Nanny, I need an elephant." I pick up a gray crayon and draw an amorphous blob with big ears and a
trunk,theextentofmyartistic expertise. Shestartsthrowingties outofthecloset.
"I wanttowearmytie,"hesays, referringtotheonethathangstothefloor.
"No. Not today." She goes storming out into the entrance hall where I can hear her voice echo off the
marble. "CONNIE!CONNIE.'"
"Yes, ma'am?" Grayeris quiet,I keepmycrayoninmotion.
"I havejustspenthalfanhour lookingforGrayer's bowtie. Doyouhappentoknowwhere itis?"
"No,ma'am."
"Is ittoomuchtoaskthatyoukeeptrackofGrayer's clothes?DoI havetobeontopofeverything?The
one thing I delegate to you? She sighs heavily and then there's a moment of silence. "Why are you
standingthere?Golookforit!"
"I'm sorry,I justdon't knowwhere itcouldbe, ma'am. I putitinhis roomwith theotherones."
"Well, it's not there.And this is the second time that a piece of Grayer's clothing has gone missing this
month. Now, if you're feeling that this is all too much responsibility for you, I'm sure we can rethink
yourrolehere."
"No,ma'am. I'll lookfor it. It's justthattheclothes,needtobepackedbythreeandit's two-thirty now. If
Mr. X needsthem?
"Are you questioning who you workfor?You workfor me.AndI am telling youto lookfor thetie.And
ifthis confusesyou,pleaseletme know. Because,asfarasI canrecall,I am theonewhopays you!" I stand up shakily and start going through Grayer's closet myself. He comes and stands beside me, leaninghis headagainstmyhip.Conniejoins usinGrayer's room,pulling thecloset doorfurtheropen.
"Connie, I'll lookhere,"I saysoftly. "You takethelaundryroom."
As she crosses back through the front hall Mrs. X continues. "We could call Mr. X and see which he
gives more of a shitabout,whether his clothes get packedor whetherhis sonhas therightfuckingtie to
weartohisnewschool!Maybehe'll talktoyou.Maybehe'll takeyourcall, Connie."
"I'm sorry,ma'am." Five minutesofthorough,breathless searchinguncovers nothing.
"Anything?" Mrs. X's faceappearswhere shehasliftedthedustruffle.
"No,sorry,"I sayfromunderGrayer's bed.
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"Goddammit! Grayer, come on, we have to go. Just put him in the one with the green polka dots." I
slideout onmystomach.
"I wantmydaddy's tie!" Hetriestoreachforthepegwherehis father's tiehangs.
"No, G. You canwearitlater."I gentlypull his handaway,tryingtomotivate himtowardthedoor.
"I wantitnow!" Hestartstosob,redblotchesappearingonhis face.
"Shh, please, Grove?" 1 kiss his damp cheek and he stands still, tears making their way down into the
starchedcollar. I straightentheknotandgototakehiminmyarms,buthepushesme away.
"No!"Andherunsoutof theroom.
"Nanny?" Mrs. Xcalls,shrilly.
"Yes?" I walktothehall.
"We'll bebackatfourintime foriceskating.Connie?" SheshakesherheadasConnieemergesfrom the
laundryroom, asifsheis simplytoodisgustedanddisappointedtospeak. "I justdon't knowwhatto say. It seems tome we are having thesesortsof problems on a regularbasis nowandI needyou to do some seriousthinkingaboutyour commitment leveltothisjob?
Mrs. X's cellphoneemits a sharpring. "Hello?" she answers while motioning for me to help her on with her mink. "Oh, hi, Justine ... Yes, they'll be down by three ... Yes, you can tell him she's packed everything ..." She walks away from us into the vestibule. "Oh, Justine? Could you see that I get his room number at the Yale Club?... In case Grayer has an emergency and I need to get a hold of him . .. Well, why would I call you? She takes a deep breath. "Well, I'm glad you see that doesn't make any sense ... Frankly, I don't want your apology. What I want is my husband's phone number ... I refuse to discuss this with you!" She slams her cell
phoneclosedwith suchforcethatitdropstothemarble floor.
Both women kneel to grab the phone just as the elevator door opens, but Mrs. X gets there first. With a shakinghandshepicksit
I 99
up and drops it into her clutch. She puts her other hand to the floor to steady herself, her icy blue eyes even with Connie's brown ones. "We seem to be unable to communicate, Connie," she hisses through clenched teeth. "So let me be crystal clear. I want you to gather your things and get out of my house. I wantyouout ofmyhouse.That's whatI want."
Shestandswith a shakeofher minkandpushes a stunnedGrayerintotheelevator asthedoorcloses.
Conniepulls herselfup bythefoyer tableandwalkspast mebackintotheapartment.
I take a moment tocollect myself beforeslowlyshuttingthefrontdoor.
I walk through the kitchen and find Connie standing with her back to me in the maid's room, her broad shouldersquivering inthesmall space. "God,Connie.Areyouokay?" I ask quietlyinthedoorway.
She turns to me. er pain and outrage so rawly palpable on her face that I'm struck silent. She slumps downontheoldtweedfold-outcouchandundoesthetopbuttonofher whiteuniform.
"I've been here twelve years," she says, shaking her head. "I was here before her and I thought I'd be hereafter."
"Do you want something to drink?" I ask, stepping into the narrow gap between the couch and the ironingboard. "Some juicemaybe?I couldtrytogetintotheliquorcabinet."
"She wants me to leave? She wants me to leave?" I sit down on Mrs. X's steamer trunk. "I've wanted to leavesincethefirstdayshegothere," shesnorts,reachingfor a half-ironedT-shirt andwiping hereyes. "Let me tell you something. hen they went to Lyford whatever. didn't get paid. I never get paid when they go away. Not my fault they're on vacation. I'm not on vacation. I still have three kids and plenty of bills to pay. And this year. his year. he asked him to declare me! They never declare me! Where am I supposedtocome upwith thatkindof moneynow?I hadtoborrowmoneyfrom
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mymother to pay all thesetaxes."She sits back and pulls offher apron. "When Mrs. X and Grayer flew totheBahamaslastyearandI wasgoingtheretootoseemyfamily,shemademeflywith them. Grayer spilled juice all over hisself at takeoff and she didn't have a change for him and he's sitting there cold and wet and crying and she just pull on that sleep thing over her eyes and ignore him the whole flight. And I didn't getpaid forthat!Oh, was I mad. hat's whyI'm not a nanny.You ever hearaboutJackie?" I shakemyhead. "Jackie washisbabynurse,butshestayed tillGrayer wastwo."
"Whathappenedtoher?"
"Well, she got a boyfriend. That's what happened to her." I look at her quizzically. "For two years she just worked, she'd only been here maybe a few years and didn't have too many friends. So she practically lived here and she and Mrs. X got on okay. I think they got together about Mr. X traveling and Jackie dating no one special?you know, man troubles. But then Jackie met someone. e looked like Bob Marley. nd now she can't work Friday nights and she don't like to work the weekend if the Xesdon't beinConnecticut. SoMrs. Xstartsinwith howinconveniencedsheis. Butreally,shejealous. Jackie had that glow, you know. She had that look about her and Mrs. X couldn't stand it. So she fired her. NearlybrokeGrayer's heart.Afterthat. ewaslike a littledevil child."
"Wow." I take adeepbreath.
"Oh, you ain't heard the bad part. Jackie called me six months later. She couldn't get a new job because Mrs. X wouldn't give her a reference.You know, no reference, they think Jackie stole or something. So she got two years missing on her resume. And the agency didn't want to send her out no more." She stands up and wipes her hands slowly down her skirt. "That woman is pure evil. They have six nannies in four months before Caitlin. o one stayed. And one got fired for giving him a corn muffin in the park. Don't you never feed him if you want to keep your job, you hear?And Mr. X. eeps porn in his shoecloset,thenaaastykind."
I'm trying totakethis all in. "Connie,I'm sosorry."
"Don't you be sorry for me." She tosses the crumpled t-shirt onto the couch and marches with purpose intothekitchen. "You justwatch outforyourself."I followher.
She opens one of the empty Delft cookie jars on the counter and pulls out a handful of black lace, slammingit downonthetableinfrontofme.
PANTIES!
"AndI foundtheseunderthebed?
"Rightunderthebed?" I can't help asking.
She tilts her headdownat me. "Mm-hm. Nowhe's got theother one running all aroundhere, acting like she owns the place. It took me two days to get the stink of her perfume out of here before Mrs. X got back."
"Shouldsomebodytellher? Doyou thinksomebody shouldtellMrs. X aboutthis woman?" I ask, dizzy with reliefatfinallybeingabletoconsult acolleague.
"Now, you listen here.Ain't you beenhere for the last hour?It's not myproblem.And don't you make it your problem, either. It's none of our business. Now you better pack up Mr. X's things. gotta get out ofhere."Shereachesaroundandunties herapron,droppingitontothecounter.
"So,whatareyougonnado?"
"Oh, my sister, she works up the block, she always knows people who are lookin' for housekeepers and whatnot. I'll findsomething.It'll belessmoney,ifthat'spossible. But I'll findsomething. I always do."
She walks into the maid's room to collect her things, leaving me staring down at the black silk thong, screaminglikeprofanegraffitiagainstthepeachmarbletable.
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Nanny,
Todayyouhave aplaydatewithCarteraftertennis. Pleasebetherebythree. TheMiltonslive at10 East67thStreetandI thinkyou. lbestayingforsupper. I. havingdinneratBolo.
I still can. findGrayer. bowtie. Didyoutakeithome? Pleasecheck.
Thanks.
Grayer is still crying when we finally get a cab. While I'm not allowed to walk him down doormanless side streets, his afterschool activities routinely maroon us in desolate, cabless neighborhoods where any minute I'll be forced to choose between Grayer or my life. I haul him into the taxi, throw the tennis racketinafter him,andpulltherestof theequipment inwith me.
"Sixty-seventh andMadison,please."I lookatGrove. "How's yourhead?Anybetter?"
"It's okay." He slows down to a whimper, but it sounds like a whimper with staying power. He was lookingthewrongwaywhentheproturnedontheballfeeder.
"How about golf, G? I think we should try golf. Smaller balls, less damage." He looks up at me with wet eyes. "Come here." He leans across the seat and puts his head in my lap. I run my fingers through his hair and play with his ears just like my mom used to do. The motion of the car soothes him and beforeweeven reachMid-town he's asleep.Hemust bewiped.What adifferentlifewe'd all beliving if hewasonlyallowedtonap.
I pullbackmyraincoatsleeve tolookatmywatch.Whatwill anextrafifteenminutesmatter?
"Driver? Can you make a loop up to 110 and then back down theWest Side and across the Sixty-eighth Street transverse?"
"Sure, lady. Whateveryou say," I lookoutthewindowatthe
2O3
grayskyand pull mycoatcloser aroundme as round raindropshit the windshield,still waiting forApril showerstofeelliketheycouldleadtoMayflowers.
"Grover, wake up. We're here." He's a little groggy and wiping his eyes when I press the town house's doorbell, theracketslungover myshoulder.
"Hello?" anEnglishvoice saysfromtheintercom.
"Hi! It's Nanny and Grayer." There's no reply. I reach over and press the talk button again. "We have a playdatewith Carter."
"Really?"There's a pause. "Well,come on up, then."ThebuzzersoundsandI pushtheheavyglass door open, while Grayer stumbles aheadof me intothemarble entrancefoyer. Past thegrandstaircase, atthe back of house, is a solarium, whose long windows reveal a garden. Raindrops steadily fill the stone fountain.
"Hello?" a young voice asks. I look up from where I'm wrestling Grayer's coat zipper. A little boy Grayer's age with blond, curly hair is standing on the landing, his hand looped through the banister, leaning away on a diagonal. "Hi. I'm Carter." I've never seen this boy before and realize Grayer hasn't, either.
"I'm Grayer."
"Hello?" The same English voice calls down the stairs. "Just leave your gear anywhere and come on up."I throwourwet coatsontheflooranddrop ourgearbesideit.
"Go ahead, G." He runs up after Carter. I begin my ascent; on the first floor I pass a Venetian living roomatthefrontofthehouseand a Decodiningroomattheback.AsI reachthesecondfloor,featuring the Empire master bedroom and a man's study done in the African vein, lots of antelope heads and a zebra-skin rug, I'm audibly panting. I chug up to the third level, which has a large mural of Winnie-the!Poohpaintedonthelanding,andI'm guessingitisCarter's floor.
"Keepgoing!" I hearencouragementbeingshoutedfromabove.
"You're almost there,Nanny! Lazy!"
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"Thanks, G!" I call up. I finally drag myself, sweating, to the fourth floor, which has been opened up
into alargefamily roomcumkitchen.
"Hi,I'm Lizzie. Stairs abit much,eh?Wantsomewater?"
"That would be lovely. I'm Nanny." I extend the hand that isn't clutching my abdomen. She's maybe a
few years older than me, wearing a gray flannel skirt, sky-blue oxford shirt, and a navy cardigan tied aroundher shoulders. I recognizeher aspartof thecommunityofhigh-class Britishimports whoregard this as a noble profession, requiring training and certification, and they dress accordingly. The boys have already run off to the corner, where a village of plastic Playskool houses are set up, to play what soundslikeSacktheSerfs.
"Here." Lizzie hands me the water. "I thought we'd just let them blow off steam for an hour and then
plunktheminfrontofTheJ-u-n-g-l-e B'O-O'k"
"Soundsgreat."
"I don't knowwhatI'm goingtodowhenCarterlearnshowtospell. Learnsignlanguage,I guess."
I stare at the rococokitchen cabinets, the distressed French tiles, the egg and dart moldings. "This is an
amazing house. Doyou
live in?"
"I have alittleflatonthetopfloor."I lookover atthestairsandrealizethat,yes,thereisanotherfloor.
"You mustbeinamazing shape."
"Trydoingitwith a knackeredfour-year-oldinyourarms."
Ilaugh. "I'venevermetCarterbefore.Wheredoeshegoto 1
school?"
"CountryDay,"shesays,takingmyemptyglass.
"Oh,I usedtolookafter theGleasongirls ?theywentthere. It's
a niceplace."
"Yeah?Carter,getoffhim!" I lookover justasGrayerisreleased
from a deathgrip.
"Wow, Carter,how'd youdothat?Showme,showme!" Grayer's eyes arealightatthediscovery.
"Oh,great," I say. "Nowhe'll beleapingouttoputme in a chokehold."
"A swift kick to the groin and they're down in no time," she says, winking at me. Where has she been
thiswholeyear? I couldhavehad a playgroundbuddy. "Hey,youwanttoseetheterrace?"
"Sure." I follow her out to a stone balcony overlooking the garden and the back of the brownstones on
theothersideoftheblock.We standundertheawningastherainsplattersthetipsofour shoes.
"It's beautiful,"I say, mybreathcoming inlittlepuffsof vapor. "It's arealnineteenth-centuryenclave."
Shenods. "Cigarette?" sheasks.
"You cansmoke?"
"Sure."
"Carter's momdoesn't mind?"
"Please."I takeone.
"So,howlonghaveyoubeenworkinghere?" I ask asshestrikesthematch.
"About a year. It's a little nuts, but compared to the other jobs I've had.... I mean, when you live in, you
know." She shakes her head, blowing smoke into the drizzle. "They run your life while you live in a closet off the kitchen.At least here I've got a great space. Those round windows?" She points with her cigarette. "That's my bedroom and that, there, is my sitting room. And my bath has a Jacuzzi. It was meanttobe aguestsuite,but,well,guestsare a littleoutofthequestion."
"Wow. Not a baddeal."
"Well, it's full-time duty."
"Are theynice?"
She starts laughing. "I guess he's not bad. e's never really around, which makes her a bit off her
rocker.That's whytheyneeded alive-in?
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"Yoo-hoo! Lizzie!Are you outthere?" I freeze,trying not to exhale, a tinytrail of smoke escapingfrom
mynostrils.
"Yeah, Mrs. Milton. We're outside." She casually stubs out her cigarette on the balustrade and throws it intothegarden.I shrugandfollowsuit. "There you are!" she says as we come back into the kitchen. Mrs. Milton, a Matel blonde, sits on the
floorin a peach-silk robe,sniffinganddelicately wiping hernose, while theboys runaround her. "Now, who's this?" Her voice has a slight Southern lilt. "That's Grayer," Lizzie says. "And I'm Nanny." I extendmyhand.
"Oh, Grayer! Grayer, I saw your momma at Swifty's. Well, every time we're at Lotte Berk we keep sayingwehavetoget ourboys together.Andthenthereshewashavinglunchandwe said,well,wejust have to make a plan, and here you are! Grayer!" She picks him up and holds him upside down, in fluffy mules, no less. Grayer seems to be trying to make eye contact with me, clearly uncertain how to respond to this outpouring of affection. She puts him down. "Lizzie! Lizzie, darlin', don't you have a datetonight?" "Yeah,but?
"Shouldn't youbegettingready?" "It's onlyfour."
"Nonsense. Go relax. I want to spend some time with my Carter. Besides, Nanny can help me." She hunkersdown. "Hey,boys, youwannamake a cake?We havecakemix,right,Lizzie?" "Always."
"Great!" Her silk robe billows out behind her as she crosses to the kitchen, revealing long, tanned, and very nakedlegs. I realize as she turns that she is completely au naturel beneath her robe. "Now,let's see
... eggs... milk."Shepullseverything outandsets itonthecounter. "Lizzie, wherearethepans?"
"In thedrawer undertheoven." Shegrabs mywrist andwhis!
pers, "Don't let her burn herself." Before I have chanceto ask if and whythis is likely she's run upstairs toherroom.
"I likechocolatecake,"Grayer says,castinghis vote.
"We only havevanilla, sugar." Mrs. Miltonholds uptheredbox.
"I likevanilla," says Carter.
"At mybirthday,"Grayer continues, "I had acake. It lookedlike a footballanditwasreallyreally big!"
"Woohoo! Let's have some music." She pushes a button on the Bang & Olufsen stereo above the counter and Donna Summer comes blaring out. "Come on, sugar pie. Come and dance with Momma." Carter shakes his arms and bobs his knees. Grayer starts off slowly with a head wiggle, but by "On the Radio"helets thejazzhandsfly.
"Lookin' good, boys!" She takes a hand of each and the three of them bounce through all of Donna Summer's Greatest Hits right up through "She Works Hard for the Money," while I quietly start cracking eggs and greasing the pan. I put the cake in the oven and turn around in search of an oven timer,toseeMrs. Miltontwirling nearthePlayskool village. I have a MissClavel feeling.
"I'm just going to go use the powder room," I say to no one in particular. I open every door off the pantry,attempting tolocate abathroom.
Turningonthelightin a small room,I discover fourmannequinsin aVconfigurationwearingsequined gowns, each with a banner across her middle. Miss Tucson. Miss Arizona. Miss Southwest. Miss Southern States. There are tiaras and scepters, framed news clippings and a baton, all carefully displayed inglass cases.
I slowly inspect every dress, each sash, and then go over to the far wall, which is covered in glossy, framed photographs of Mrs. Milton. he Vegas showgirl. Which, I guess, is where you go after being
Miss Southern States. There is row after row of photographs of her in various sequined costumes and headdresses,wearingthick
THE NANNY DIARIES makeup and false lashes. In each she's sitting on some celebrity's lap, everyone from Tony Bennett to Rod Stewart. And then 1 see it, halfway down the wall, almost hidden, a snapshot of Mrs. Milton in a short, skintight white dress, Mr. Milton, his eyes rolled back in his head, and the preacher. The caption ontheframe reads, "TheAil-Night ChapelofLove,August12,199-."
I turnoutthelightandfindthebathroom.
WhenI come backoutMrs. Miltonis peeringforlornlyinthe
oven.
"You didit."
"Yes, ma'am." I justsaid "ma'am."
"You didit."Sheseems tobehaving troubleabsorbingthe
information.
"It's almost done,"I offerreassuringly.
"Oh, goodie! Who wants frosting?" She pulls six tubs of different-flavored frosting out of the fridge.
"Carter, get the food dye." Grayer and Carter mambo over. She grabs sprinkles, silver balls, and candy confetti from the cupboards and starts squirting the food dye Carter hands her directly into the tubs. "Ooohwee!" She's laughinguncontrollablynow.
"Mrs. Milton,"1 say, standingbackwith apprehension, "I think
it's timeforGrayer andmetogo."
"Tina!"
"I begyourpardon?"
"CallmeTina!You can't leave," shecalls over her shoulderasshescoops a fingerfulof frostingintoher
mouth.
"1 DON'T WANT TO GO HOME!" Grayer panics, his fists tightly clenching a bouquet of plastic
spoons.
"See, nobody has to leave. Now, who ... wants ... frosting?" She reaches into two of the containers,
pullingouttwo handfulsoffrostingandcatapultingthem, oneatCarter,oneatGrayer. "Frosting fight!" She hands a tub to each boy and the frosting starts flying. I try to duck behind the island, but Tina hits me squarelyacrossthe
chest. I haven't been in a food fight since middle school, but I grab a tub of pink and fling a small handfulather. ustpaying herbackforthesweater. ndthenI'm out.
"Ooh-hah!" They are laughing hysterically. The boys roll on the floor, mushing frosting in each other's hair. Tinagrabssomesilver balls andsprinklesthemover theboys likesnow.
"What's goingondownthere?" Lizzie's sternEnglishvoicecalls fromupstairs.
"Ooh, we're in trouble," she says. "Carter, I think we're in trouble." They all crack up again. Lizzie comes intothekitcheninherterry bathrobeandslippers.
"Oh, my God." She looks around. There is frosting everywhere, dripping off the French tiles and the topiariesliningthewindow.
"Oh,Lizzie,wewere justhavingfun.Loosenup!Don't besoBritish."
"Tina!" Lizzie uses myWickedWitchvoice. "Goget inthetub!"Tinalookscrestfallenandstartsto cry, sinkinginherrobeandrevealing a bittoomuchof herimpressive superstructure.
"ButI...We were ... We were justhaving fun.Pleasedon't tellJohn.You hadfun,didn't you,boys?"
"I had fun. Don't be sad." Grayer gently touches her head, patting bits of pink frosting into her blonde hair.
Tina looks at Lizzie and wipes her nose on her sleeve. "Okay, okay." She hunkers in front of the boys. "Mommy's gonna go take a bath, okay?" She pats each one on the head and then walks over to the banister. "You come back real soon, Grayer, you hear?" she murmurs to herself as she disappears down thestairs.
"Goodbye, Tina!" Grayer shouts. And with a little backward wave she's gone. I wait for Carter to protest, but he's quiet. We strip theboys and Lizzie gives me a pair of Carter's pajamas and a plastic bag forGrayer's clothes.We putonThejungleBookandtrytocleanupthekitchen.
THE NANNY DIARIES
"Dammit," Lizzie says, scrubbingon her hands andknees. "Mr. Milton mightcome home tonightand if he sees this he'll send her back to Hazelden and it's terrible for Carter, her disappearing for weeks at a time when his father travels so much. It absolutely devastates him." Lizzie wrings out the sponge. "He askedme togo with her. oHazelden.SoI could,you know,figureout whenshewoulduseagainand intervene."
"What's she on?" 1 ask, though I already have a pretty good idea. "Coke. Alcohol. Prescription stuff whenshecan't sleep." "Howlonghasthisbeengoingonfor?"
"Oh, years," she says, squeezing out her sponge into the bucket. "I think since she came to New York. She fell in with some really posh junkies, celebrities and the like. He leaves her alone here all the time, so it's hard for her. But there's no prenup, soI guess he's just waiting for her to OD." Well, this certainly putspantiesinperspective. "I knowI shouldquit, butmyvisa extensionis attachedtothisjob.If I leave Carter it means going home and I really want to stay in America." I just wring out my sponge, not knowingwhatto say. "Here,whydon't youguys pushoff? I'll finishthis." "You sure?"
"Oh, yeah.Tomorrow it'll be something else." Grayer and Carter are loath to be parted, but we manage toget all thewaydownstairs andoutthedoor.
"Goodbye, Carter!" he shouts as I hail a cab. "Goodbye, Tina!" Since we're only going four blocks it seems ridiculous, but in addition to everything I was carrying before, I'm now sporting a plastic bag of Grayer's clothesandmyraincoatin a shoppingbagsomysweaterdoesn't shedsprinklesonit.
"Whathappenedtoyouall?" James asksashehelpsusoutof
thetaxi.
"We got in a foodfightwithTina,"Grayer explainsashepads
aheadof meinCarter'sTiggerpajamas.
21 1
Upstairs I turn on the bathwater and put some tofu dogs on the stove while Grover plays in his room.
"Hello?" a strangevoicecalls fromthemaid's room.
"Hello?"
A woman I've never seenbeforeemergesfromthedarkness,wearingConnie's uniform.
"Hello, I'm Maria," she says in a South American accent. "I was waiting for Mrs. X and must have
fallenasleep.I didn't wanttojustleaveonmyfirstdaywithoutsayinggood-bye."
"Oh ... hi. Hi, I'm Nanny. I take care of Grayer." I introduce myself for the third time today. "Actually,
Mrs. X is out to dinner and probably won't be back till late.You go on home and I'll tell her you waited
whenshegets back."
"Oh,great.Thanks."
"Whoareyou?" Grover standsblockingthedoorwayinhisbriefs.
"Grayer, this is Maria." Grayer sticks his tongue out, turns and runs back to his room. "Grayer" I turn
back toher to apologize. "I'm sorry. Please don't takeit personally. He's had a reallylong day."I gesture tomybuttercreamsoddenselfwith ahalf-smile. "ActuallyI wasjustgonnagogive himhis bath.Really, it's okaytoleave. Nottoworry."
"Thanks,"shesays,foldingher coatover herarm.
"No problem. See you tomorrow." I smile at her. I walk through the apartment, turning on lamps
Conniecleanedonlytwodays ago.
I go into Grayer's room, where he's still dancing in his underwear in front of his closet mirror. "Come
on,Baryshnikov."I plunkhiminthebath.
"That was so fun, Nanny. Remember when she threw the frosting and it hit my butt?" He convulses in
giggles again. I sit down on the toilet while he soaps up the wall, plays with his frogmen, and hums a
little Donna.
"G, you almost done?" I ask when I'm tired of using his baby comb to scrape the frosting from my
sweater.
THE NANNY DIARIES
"Beep'beep.Toot-toot. Beep-beep.Toot-toot." Heshakeshis soapytushinthewater.
"Come on,it's late."I holdupthetowel.
"Whatdidthegirls do?"
"Who?"
"Thebadgirls.You know,Nanny,thebad,badgirls." Heshakes
his hips. "Whyare theybad?"
"Theydidn't listentotheirnannies."
Mrs. X didn't seem to noticeas shebreezedpast me toher bedroomthat,in a torrentialApril downpour,
I left wearing only a T-shirt, carrying my sweater and coat in a shopping bag. I wait for the elevator, gingerlyputtingmysweater backonsoI don't freeze. I gotasmuchfrostingoutofmyhair asI couldin the laundry room, but I'm still crumbling out a few hardened bits when the elevator door opens. "Oh, shit." He looks flustered. "Hi!" "Hi!" I can't believe it! "What are you doing here?" "Oh, man," he says, crestfallen, "I wasgoingtosurpriseyou.I hadthiswholeplan,with flowersandeverything?
"Well, mission accomplished! What happened to Canciin?" I step into the elevator, shaking at the
unexpectedsightofmy H. H. inmuddyjeansandmyNYUsweatshirt. "Thatwasjusttothrowyouoffthescent. wasgoingtobewaiting inthelobbytomorrownight. na suit. We were going to go dancing." I beam at him and he gives me a once-over. "Looks like you and Grayer havebeendoingperformance artagain."
"Well, I've just returned from the Play Date in Hell with a crackhead mom. And I'm not being metaphorical, I mean an actual crackhead. She was coked up out of her mind, determined to be Betty fuckingCrockerandwegotdraggedrightintoit?
"God, I missed you," he interrupts, grinning from ear to ear as the door opens to the lobby. He leans over towipetracesof frosting
213 gently off my eyebrow and, without a second thought, I reach my arm under his to press the button for theeleventhfloor.Thedoorpolitely slidesclosed.
It is a carnalfrostingfrenzy.
Wrapped in his navy flannel sheet, I perch on the edge of H. H.'s kitchen table as he throws a dryer
sheet in with my clothes. He closes the metal door. "Hungry?" He turns, illuminated by the light from
theneighbors'kitchen.
"Whatdoyouhave?" I askasheopensthefridge.
"My mom usually leaves a pretty stocked kitchen when she knows I'm going to be here by myself.
Tortellini?" Hebrandishes apackage.
"Ugh,ifI never seeanothertortellini? I shuffleover topeerintotherefrigeratoralongsidehim.
"Lasagna?" heasks.
"Ooooh,yes, please."
"Howaboutsomewine?"
I nod, grabbing a bottle of red and pushing the door closed with my hip. I lean against the fridge and
watchhim pullout platesandsetusup atthetableinhispolka-dot boxers. Gome.
"ShouldI heatthisup?" heasks,kissing mybareshoulderashepasses.
"Probably.Wantsomehelp?"
"No, you sit down." He hands me a wine glass. "You've had a hard day, frosting girl." He pulls
silverware outof a drawerandcarefully lays itoutonthetable.
"So,whereareyour parents?"
"TheytookmybrothertoTurkeyforhis break."
"Whyaren't youinTurkey?"I sipmywine.
"BecauseI'm here."Hesmiles.
"Hereisgood."I pour a secondglassandhandittohim.
THE NANNY DIARIES
Helooksover atme,illuminatedbythelightfrom themicrowave. "You lookbeautiful."
"Oh, this old thing? It's a toga from the L. L. Bean collection." He laughs. "You know, I'm doing Latin
with Grayer now. HowoldwereyouwhenyoustartedLatin?"
"Umm . .. fourteen?" Hepulls thelasagnaoutof themicrowave andcomes over with twoforks.
"Well, you must have been a late bloomer, because he's four. He's wearing a tie now, have I mentioned
that?Not a child's tie,thefull-grown, hangS'to-the-floor-on-himkind." "Whatdoeshis momsay?"
"She doesn't even notice. She's been pretty off the deep end?she fired Connie for, like, no apparent
reasonandConnie's beentheresincebeforeGrayer wasevenborn."
"Yeah,thatmandrives his wives tothebrink." "Wait. hat?"
"Yeah, when Mr. X was cheating on his first wife, she completely laid into James in the lobby right in
front of some board members." I start choking on lasagna. "His first who?!" "His first wife, um,
Charlotte,I think,maybe."Helooksincredulouslyatme. "You didn't know?"
"No,1 didnotknow. Hewasmarriedbefore?" I havetostandup,hoistingmysheetwith me. "Yeah, but it was, like, a long time ago. I just assumed you knew." "Why would I know?! Nobody tells me anything. Oh, my God. Does he have any other kids?" I start pacing around the table. "I don't know. don't thinkso." "Whatwasshelike?Whatdidshelooklike?Didshelooklike
Mrs. X?"
"I don't know. Shewaspretty. Shewasblond?
"Was sheyoung?"
"I was akid.I dunno. hejustseemedlike agrown-up tome."
"Not helping.Think.Howlongweretheytogether?"
"Jeez,maybeseven,eightyears?
"Butnokids, huh?"
"Unlesstheykeptthemintheirstoragebin." I pausebythesinktoentertaintheideafor a briefmoment.
"So,why'd theysplit?"
"Mrs. X,"hesays, taking a bigforkfuloflasagna.
"Whatdoyoumean, 'Mrs. X'?"
"Canwe talkaboutyouinthesheetsomemore?" Hereachesoutforme asI pass.
"No.Whatdoyoumean, 'Mrs. X'?"
"Hewashaving anaffairwith Mrs. X."
"WHAT??!!" I nearlydropthesheet.
"Will youpleasesitdownandhavesomelasagna?" Hepointshis forkatthechairoppositehim.
I sit down and take a gulp of mywine. "Okay, but you have to begin atthe beginningand leavenothing
out."
"Okay, according to my mom, Charlotte X was a big art collector. She bought everything at Gagosian,
where your Mrs. X worked. Apparently, Charlotte sent Mr. X over to approve one of her larger
purchasesand ... theyhitit," hesays, grinning.
"Mrs. X??!!!" I cannotimagineMrs. X hitting it. Period.
"Yeah,andsometimes hewouldbringherherewhenhis wifewasawayandthedoormenstartedtalking.
Sopretty sooneveryone inthebuildingknew."Hestaresintohis wineglassbeforesipping.
"I justcannot. Cannot,cannot,cannotbelieve it."
"Well... it's true. I sawitwith myowntwelve-year-old eyes. Shewashot."
"Shutup,"I splutter.
"No,shewasredlipstick,tightdress, heels, thewholething.She ... was... hhhooot."
"Just finishthestory."
"Well, Seven Twenty-one Legend goes Charlotte found stockings that didn't belong to her and went racingdowntothelobby,
THE NANNY DIARIES
clutching them in her hand, and completely lost it at James, wanting to know who had been up in the apartment. Shemovedout a fewweekslaterandyourMrs. X movedin."
I putthewine glass down. "I cannotbelieve you didn't tellme aboutthis," I say, suddenly a little cold in mysheetasthehightenorofemotion fromtheninthfloorcatchesup withme.
"Well, you've been so stressed out? He puts down his fork. I push sharply back from the table and step over to the dryer. "So, if I don't know about it, then it doesn't affect me." I pull out my damp clothes. "Such fucking Boy Logic. I'm sorry. ave I been bringing you down with this little job of mine?" "Look, Nan,I said I was sorry."Hestands. "No you didn't. You did not sayyou were sorry." Warm tears fill myeyes asI tryawkwardly topullonmydampsweater withoutrevealingmyself beneaththesheet.
He comes around the table and gently takes the sweater. "Nan, I'm sorry. Lesson learned: tell Nan everything." Hereacheshis handaroundmybarewaist.
"It's justthatyou're theonlypersoninmycornerandtofindoutyou're holdingoutonme?
"Hey,now,"hemurmurs, pullingme againsthim. "I am the
mayor ofyourcorner."
I mush my face into his collarbone. "I'm sorry, I'm just so burned out. I know I'm way too consumed by this job. I really don't want to care if he had a first wife. I really don't want to spend tonight talking aboutthem."
He kisses the top of my head. "Well, then, how about some music?" I nod up at him and he goes to the stereoonthecounter."So I guessDonnaSummer isout?"
I laugh, willing myself to return to the eleventh floor. I shuffle up behind him and wrap us both in the sheet.
I take another sip of my third cup of coffee and try to stay awake as I wait for Grayer's dinner to finish steaming through. Despite my afterglow it's still been a very long day on only two hours' sleep. I push up the sleeves on the faded heather crewneck H. H. gave me this morning so that I wouldn't be coming to work in the same clothes I wore yesterday. Not that these people would notice if I came to work wearing a clownnoseandpasties.
AsI slidethesteamedkaleontohis plate,Grayer slidesdown,stomachfirst, offhis boosterseat.
"Whereyougoing,little man?" I ask, popping asteamedcarrotinmymouth.
He pads over to the refrigerator and turns to admonish me. "I said not to call me that! No more 'little man'! I want some juice. Open the refrigerator," he says with his hands on his hips and his tie dangling over his pajamas.
"Please,"I sayover his head.
"Please! Open it! I want juice." His exhaustion from this afternoon's round of tutorials is starting to show.
I pull thefridge open andreachfor themilk. "You knowthere's no juice with dinner. Soy milk or water, take your pick." "Soy milk," he decides, reaching up with both arms. "I'll get it for you, Grove. Why don't yougetbackupinyourseat?" I walkback tothetablewith theEdensoy.
"NO! I want to. I want to, Nanny. Don't walk with it. Let me? He's so cranky when it gets near mytime toleave,makingthelastpartofmyshiftthemost trying.
"Hey, take it easy. Come on over and let's do it together," I suggest cheerfully. He pads back and stands at the table, his head level with the cup. She hates it when I let him pour. Not that I'm a huge fan of the task myself, as it can take forever and frequentlyconcludes with me down on my hands and knees with a sponge. However,givenhis badmood, I'd ratherjustdoitwith himthansendhiminto
THE NANNY DIARIES
a tantrum fifteen minutes before I have to leave for my eight o'clock class. He reaches his hands up to placethembelowmineontheboxandwepourthesoymilktogether,spillingonly marginally.
"Great job!There you go, little ma. rover. Climb back up and let's knock dinner off." He climbs onto his booster seat,stabbinghalfheartedly atthelimp vegetables, completely forgetting theglass of milk. I look at my watch and decide rinsing offthe dishes will be the most productive way to pass my last few minuteshere,asheseemsinnomoodtochat.
I place the last pot in the dryer rack and turn to check on Grayer just in time to see him lift up the cup andverydeliberately pouritonthefloor.
"Grayer!" I run over with the sponge. "Grayer! Why did you do that?" I look up from the floor. He is sheepish, biting down on his bottom lip, clearly a little shocked at himself. He shifts away from me in his booster. I crouch next to him. "Grayer, I asked you a question. Why did you just pour your milk on thefloor?"
"I didn't want it. Stupidhead Maria will clean it up." He drops his head back and looks up at the ceiling. "Stop talking to me." Soy milk seeps up my wrists where the sweater has come unrolled. A wave of exhaustionbreaksover me.
"Grayer, that is not okay. It's a waste of food. 1 want you to climb down here and help me clean this up." I push back his chair and he kicks out at me, narrowly missing my face. I swerve back, stand up, and turn away from him to count to ten. I look at my watch to make a plan before I turn around and do anything I'll regret. Jesus, she's fifteenminuteslate. Myclass startsinforty-fiveminutes.
I turn back to him and respond steadily. "Fine. Stay there, then. I'm going to clean this up and then it's time for bed.You are breaking rules and thattells me thatyou are very tired.Too tired for stories." "I'M NOTHUNGRY!" Hebursts intotears,slumping downinthebooster. I wipeup themilk,trying tokeep
H. H.'s sweaterawayfromthewet floor,andsqueezethespongeoutintohis plate.
By the time I've gotten everything into the dishwasher Grayer has tuckered himself out and is ready to forget about the whole incident. I place his tie over his shoulder and carry him back to his room, noting that I now have a leisurely twenty minutes to make it to Washington Square for Clarkson's lecture and have not received so much as a phone call from this child's mother. I keep hearing the whir of the elevatorandperkingup,readyforhertowalkinthedoorandtakeover soI cancabittoclass.
I peel Grayer down to his birthday suit. "Okay, go in the bathroom and pee, please, so we can put on your nighttime pull-ups." He runs into the bathroom and I pace; I only ask to leave before eight on Thursdaynights, forGod's sake.You'd thinkshecouldmanagejustonenightoutof five.
The bathroom door swings open and Grover stands in the door frame in a naked ta-da, arms over his head,tiehangingover his privates. Herunspastmetothebedandgrabs his pajamatop.
"If I put 'em on can we read a book?One book?" He struggles to pull the striped shirt over his head and myheartgoesouttohim.
I sit down on the comforter to help, turning him to face me between my knees. "Grayer, why did you pourthemilkonthefloor?" I ask softly.
"I feltlikeit,"hesays, restinghis handsonmyknees.
"Grove, it hurt my feelings because I had to clean it up. It's not okay to be mean to people and it is not okay to be mean to Maria. It makes me very sad when you call her 'stupidhead'because she's my friend andshe's goingtodonicethingsforyoueveryday."I leanforwardandcirclehiminmyarms asheputs his fingersupinmyhair.
"Nanny,sleepover onthefloor,okay?Justsleepover andthenwecanplaytrainsinthemorning."
"I can't, G. I haveto go home and feed George.You wouldn't wantGeorge not to have anydinner. Now go pick out one book and we'll read it. One." He heads over to the bookcase. The front door mercifully clicks openandGrover runsoutintothehall. Five minTHE NANNY DIARIES
utes! I havefive minutes toget toclass! 1 followright behindhim andwe bothcatch up toMrs. X,clad in a Burberry trench, about a foot from her office. It is clear from her hunchedshoulders and quick step thatshehadnointentionofcoming intoGrayer's room.
"Mommy!" Grayer wrapsaroundherfrom behind.
"I haveclass,"1 say, "I havetogo.Um, it's ateightonThursdays?
She turns to me as she attempts to spatula Grayer from her leg. "I'm sure you can still make it if you take a cab,"shesaysdistractedly.
"Right. Well, it's eight now, so ... I'll just get my shoes, then. Good night, Grayer." I scurry into the hall topullmystuffon,hopingtheelevator hasn't gonedownyet.
I hear her sigh. "Mommy's exhausted, Grayer. Go get into bed and I'll read you one verse from your Shakespearereaderandthen
it's lightsout."
Down on the street I run past the doorman to the corner and flail madly for a cab, hoping, at least, to make it downtown for the closing summary. I unroll the window completely, promising myself that I'll clarify myhoursbeforenextweek's class andknowingthatI probablywon't.
A few days later I pull out from my mailbox, in addition to the usual barrage of J. Crew and Victoria's Secret catalogs, two envelopes which give me pause. The first is on Mrs. X's creambusiness stationery, usuallyreserved forher committee work.
April 30DearNanny,
I would like to share with you a matter of concern to Grayer's father and myself. It has come to our attention that after you left in such a hurry last night there was a puddle of urine found beneath the small garbagecaninGrayer's bathroom.
I understand that you have your academic obligations, but I am, frankly, alarmed by your lack of awareness of such a situation.As per our agreement, inthehours during which you workhere we are to receive your utmost and constant attention. Such a glaring oversight gives me pause as to the consistencyofyourperformance.
Pleasereviewthefollowingrules:
1. Grayer istowearpull-ups whenhegetsintobed.
2. Grayer isnottodrinkjuiceafter five P.M.
3. You are tobesupervisinghimat all times.
4. You are tobefamiliarwiththecleaningsuppliesandusethemaccordingly.
I trust you will review the consistency of your care and note that if an incident of this nature repeats
itselfI shallnothavetopayyouforthathour. I donotexpectthatwewill havetodiscussthis again.
Hopeyou bothhave funonyour playdate withAlex! Pleasebe suretopick up mycoatat thetailors', it
shouldbereadyafter two.
Sincerely,
Mrs. X.
Right.
The second envelope is lined in Crane's tomato red. I pull out a wad of hundreddollar-bills held
togetherby asterlingmoneyclipengravedwith anX.
DearNanny,
I will be returning from Chicago the third week of June. I. appreciate it if you could see that the
apartmentis stockedwith thefollowing:
Lillet = 6bottles
Foie gras?6
Teuscherchampagnetruffles?1box
Steaks?2
Godivachocolateicecream?2pints
Oysters ?4dozen
Lobsters?2
Lavenderlinenwater
Keepthechange,
Thanks,Ms. C
Whatisupwith thesewomen andlavenderwater?
Thequadroonnursewaslookeduponas ahugeencumbrance,onlygoodtobuttonupwaists andpanties andtobrushandparthair; sinceitseemedtobe alawofsocietythathair mustbepartedandbrushed.
. HEAWAKENING
Oh ...my ...God
Sarah cracks her front door open to the extentthe chain will allow, revealing flannel cloud pajamas and a pencil holding her blond bun in place. "Okay, half an hour. hat's it. I mean it, thirty minutes. I'm home tocramformyorgofinal,notsortthroughtheXes'dirty laundry."
"Why did you schlep yourself all the way back into the city to study?" Josh asks as Sarah unlocks the chainandlets usintotheEnglundfamily's fronthall.
"Haveyouever met,Jill,myroommate?"
"I don't thinkso,"Joshsays,takingoffhis jacket.
"Don't worry. ou're notmissing much. he's atheatermajorandher 'final'isperforming fiveminutes ofher lifefortheheadsofthedepartment. hrowyourstuffonthebench. oshe's constantlystanding up in our room, saying 'Dammit!', and sitting back down. I mean, how hard is it to sit and read a magazinefor five minutes?" She rolls her eyes. "Do youguys wantsomething to drink?" We followher
into the kitchen, which still has the same yellow daisy wallpaper that it did when we were in kindergarten.
"Sing Slings."I requestSarah's speciality.
THE NANNY DIARIES
"Coming right up," she says, stretching to pull a cocktail shaker and sour mix out of a high cabinet.
"Have aseat." Shegesturestothelonggreentablebythewindow.
"It would be much cooler if this were a round table, like we could be the Knights of the Panty
Roundtable,"Joshsays.
"Josh,"I say, "thepanties aren't thefocusrightnow. heletteris?
"We have aroundcoffeetableintheliving room,"Sarahoffers.
"We are totallydoingthis at aroundtable,"Joshdecides.
"Nan, you know the way," Sarah says, handing me a bag of Pirate's Booty. 1 lead Josh into the living
room and plop down on the Persian carpet around the coffee table. Sarah follows with a tray of
SingaporeSlings. "Okay,"shesays,carefullyslidingthetrayontothecoffeetable. "Theclockisticking
. pillit."
"Let's justseethegoods,"Joshsays, taking a sip.
I reach into my backpack and pull out the Ziploc baggie, along with Ms. Chicago's letter, and lay them
ceremoniously in the middle of the table. We sit in silence for a moment, staring at the evidence as if
theywereeggsabouttohatch.
"Man,itreallyis a fuckingpantyroundtable,"Joshmurmurs, reachingouttowardthebag.
"No!" I say, slappinghis hand. "Thepanties stayinthebag?thatistheoneconditionof theRoundTable.
Gotit?"
He folds his hands primly in his lap, sighing. "Fine. So, for the edification of the court, would you care
toreviewthefactsofthecase?"
"I foundMs. Chicagopractically hangingoutinMrs. X's bedfourmonthsago,andthen, all of a sudden,
1 received a letteratmyhome?
"ExhibitA,"Sarahsays, wavingtheletter.
"WhichmeanssheknowswhereI live! She's huntedme down!Istherenowhereformetohide?"
"It's soover theline,"Sarahconfirms.
"Oh,doesNanhave aline?" Joshasks.
"Yes! I have a line. It's drawn right across Eighty-sixth Street. They cannot come to my home!" I feel
myself startingto gethysterical. "I have a thesis paperto write! Exams to take!A jobtofind!WhatI do not have. s time. I cannot be running around NYU with Mr. X's mistress's underwear in my bag. I cannotbejugglingtheir secretson a fullcourseload!"
"Nan, look," Sarah says gently, reaching around the table to put her hand on my back. "You still have
power here. Disengage. Just give it all backandcallit a day."
"Give it all backtowho?" I ask.
"Totheskank,"Joshsays. "Mail thatshitbacktoher andlether knowyoudon't wanttoplay."
"ButwhataboutMrs. X?If this all comes outandshefindsoutI hadthepanties anddidn't tellher?
"What's shegonnado?Kill you?" Sarahasks. "Putyou injailfortherestof your life?" Sheholds up her
glass. "Send 'embackandquit."
"I can't quit. I don't have time to look for another job and my Real Job. t whatever school I can
convincetohireme. on't starttill September.Besides". openthebagofcheesepoofs, finishedwith
myboutofself-pity?I justcan't leaveGrayer."
"You're gonnabeleavinghimatsomepoint," Joshreminds me.
"Yeah,butif I wanttostayinhis lifeI can't endonbadterms with her," I say. "Butyou're right. I'll send
thisstuffback."
"Andlook,thatonly tookustwentyminutes,"Sarahsays. "Which still leaves tenminutesforyou torun myorgoflashcardswith me."
"Thefunnever stops,"I say.
Josh leans over to give me a hug. "Don't sweat it, Nan, you'll be fine. Hey. et's not overlook the fact that you guessed Ms. Chicago's panties would be black lace thongs, like, months before we found 'em. That's gotta be a marketableskill."
I empty my glass. "Well, if you know a game show on which I can turn that into ready cash, lemme know."
THE NANNY DIARIES
I survey the disheveled piles of books, highlighted photocopies, and empty pizza boxes strewn all over my room thatI've accumulated since I got home from work Friday. It's fourA.M. and I've been writing for forty-eight straight hours, which is significantly less time for my thesis than I allotted myself. But, shortof leavingGrayer tocareforhimself intheapartment,I didn't reallyhave achoice.
I glance over at the brown manila envelope that's been resting against my printer since The Panty Roundtable aweekago.Tapedandstamped,itonlyremains tobeceremoniouslydepositedin a mailbox after I deliver my thesis in four hours. Then Ms. Chicago and NYU will be well on their way to becoming a distantmemory.
I grab another handful of M&M's out of the quarter-pound bag. I probably have all of five pages to go, butcanbarelykeepmyeyes open.A loudsnoreeruptsfrombehindthescreen.Fuckinghairy pilotidiot.
I stretch my arms out to yawn, just as another guttural snore punctuates the silence, sending George dartingwith intensepurposeacross theroomanddiving into a neglectedheapofdirty clothes.
I'm so tired I feel like my eyes are filled with playground sand. Desperate to regain some semblance of lucidity, I step carefully around the debris to locate myheadphones and plug them into the stereo. I pull them onto my head and crouch down to spin the tuner until I find thumping dance music. I rock my head to the rhythm, turning the volume up until I feel the beat make its way down to my lucky turtle socks. I stand up to dance around in the small radius allowed me by the headphone cord. Bongo drums fill myearsandI shimmywildlyamid thebooks,eyes closed, willing myadrenalinetoperkmeup.
"NAN!" I open my eyes and slightly recoil at the sight of Mr. Hairy in a T-shirt and boxers, one hand carelessly scratching in his shorts. "WHATTHE HELL? IT'SALMOST FOUR IN THE MORNING!" hebellows.
"Sorry?" I slidetheheadphonesoffmyears, noticingthatthis
action does not decrease the volume. He points exasperatedly at the stereo where my floor show has unpluggedtheheadphones.
I lunge for the off button. "God, sorry. My thesis is due tomorrow and I'm so tired. I was just trying to wakeup."
Hestompsofftotheother endofthestudio. "Whatever,"hegrumbles intothedarkness.
"As long as you're comfortable!" I mouth silently in his direction. "As long as you're happy, sleeping hereevenwhenCharleneis flyingall-nighters fromYemen!As longasmyrent-paying-utilities-paying!can-only-get-to-thebathroom-during-daylight-hours selfisnotdisturbingyou."I roll myeyes andhead backtothecomputer. Fourhours, fivepages. I grabanotherhandfulofM&M's; let's go,Nan.
The alarm wakes me at six-thirty, but it requires quite a few bleeps and one very disgruntled "WHAT THE HELL?" to raise mywearyhead offthe pillow. I look at the clock; sixty minutes of sleep in forty-eight hours ought to do me just fine. I uncurl from the tight fetal position in which I passed out mere secondsagoandreachdowntopullon a pairofjeans.
Pink light spills in through the open window, illuminating the disarray, which looks as if librarians came over and partied very hard. The computer hums loudly, mixing with the chirps of birds outside. I lean over the chair and wiggle the mouse to get past the screen saver and click Print. I click again on OK, appreciating that my computer feels compelled to check in with me at least twice regarding all major decisions. I hear the Style Writer run its warm-up swipe and shuffle groggily off to the bathroom tobrushmyteeth.
By the time I return not a stitch of progress has been made. "Jesus," 1 mutter, checking the Print Monitor to seewhat's In theQueue.A message pops up on the screentonotify me thatError Seventeen hasoccurredandthatI shouldeither rebootor calltheservicecenter. Fine.
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I press save and shut down the machine, careful to pull out the disk on which I saved the five-thirty
A.M. version. I restart as instructed, while pulling on boots, tying a sweater around my waist, and waiting for the screen to light up again. I check my watch: six-fifty. One hour and ten minutes to shove this behemoth under Clarkson's door. I press a myriad of buttons, but the screenremains dark. Myheart pounds. Nothing I press can cajole my computer back to life. I grab the disk, my wallet, keys, the Ms. Chicagopackage,andrunoutoftheapartment.
I jog up to SecondAvenue, both arms waving over my head to hail a cab. I leap into the first one that languorously pulls over, trying to remember where, in the maze that is NYU's campus, the computer center islocated.For somereason1 havebeenunabletocommit most campuslocationstomemoryand suspectsomeFreudianconnectionbetweenlogistics andmyfearof bureaucracyisresponsible.
"Uh, it's offWest Fourth, um, and Bleecker,1 think.Just headin thatdirection and I'll tell you when we get close!" Thedriver takes off,brakingsharplybefore eachlight. Thestreets are pretty empty, savethe street cleaners whirring past and the men in suits and overcoats disappearing, briefcase first, down subway steps. Why this paper has to be in at eightA.M. is utterly beyond me. Some people get to mail in their final papers. Oh, who am I kidding? If that were the case, I'd just be in a frantic cab ride to the postoffice.
I hopoutof thetaxi onWaverlyPlace,takingthedisk,mywallet,andkeys justas agirlin a shinyoutfit and smeared makeup shoves me aside to get in the cab. I catch the unmistakable whiff of a long night out. eer, stale cigarettes, and Drakkar Noir. I am comforted by the reminder that my life at this moment couldbeworse?Icouldbe a sophomoredoingtheWalk/CabRideofShame.
It's a littlepastseven-fifteenbythetime I findmy way, almost bysmell, tothemaincomputer centeron thefifthflooroftheeducationbuilding.
"Needtoseeyour ID," a girlwith greenhair andwhite lips mumbles from behind a large Dunkin' Donuts cup clutched at chin height. I riffle through my wallet a moment beforeremembering thatthecardshe's referringtocurrentlysits atthebottomof mybackpack,
uponwhichGeorgeisprobablypeacefullyasleep.
"I don't have it. But I just need to print something out; it'll only take five minutes, I swear." I grip the counterandpeerintentlyat her. Sherollsherheavily kohledeyes.
"Can't," she says, pointing halfheartedly at the list of rules printed out in blackand-white on the wall behindher.
"Okay!Okay,here,let's see,I havemysophomoreIDand ..."I tugcardsmadlyoutof theirleatherslots. "Um, and a librarycardtoLoeb.See,itsays 'senior'onit!"
"Nopicture, though."SheflipsthroughherX-Mancomic book.
"PLEASE, I am begging you. Begging. I have, like, twenty-eight minutes to get this printed and handed in. It's my thesis; my entire college career hangs in the balance here. You can even watch me while I print!" I am startingtohyperventilate.
"Can't leavethedesk."Shepushesher stoolback afewinches,butdoesn't lookup.
"Hey! Hey, you, in the ski hat!" A stick-thin boy with a name tag dangling from the chain around his neckglancesover fromwhereheloungesneartheXerox. "Do youworkhere?"
He saunters over in blue patent leather pants. "Wants to print, but doesn't have ID," the help desk girl informs him.
I reach out and touch his arm, stretching to read his name. "Dylan! Dylan, I need your help. I need you to escort me to a printer so that I can print out my thesis, which is due, four blocks from here, in, like, twentyfive minutes."I trytobreathesteadily inandoutwhilethetwoconfer.
Heeyes meskeptically. "Thethingis... we've hadsomepeoplecoiningintousethecenterfortheirown purposes. Not students,I mean,so .. ." Hedrifts off.
"At seven-thirtyinthemorning,Dylan?Really?" I trytogeta
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handle on myself. "Look, I can even pay you for the paper. I'll make a deal with you. You watch me printandifTOGETHER,youandme,we generateanything other than a thesis paperyoucanthrowme out!"
"Well..."Heslouchesagainstthecounter."You couldbefromColumbiaor something."
"With a sophomore ID from NYU?" I wave the plastic card in front of his face. "Think, Dylan! Use your head, man!Whywouldn't I just print up there?Whywould I come all the waydown here to sneak past you and your partner if I could just waltz into the computer lab three feet from my dorm room, all the way uptown1. Oh, God, I do not have another minute to argue with you two. What's it going to be? Am I going to fail out of college and have a cardiac arrest right here on the linoleum or are you two going to give me FIVE FUCKING MINUTES AT ONE OF YOUR GAZZILLION FREE COMPUTERS?" I pound my keys on the countertop for emphasis. They stare at me blankly while PatentLeatherPantsweighstheevidence.
"Yeah ... Okay. But if it's not your thesis then ... I'm going to have to rip it up," I am already way past him, diskjammedintoterminalnumber six,clickingPrintlike amadwoman.
I slowly emerge from the deepest of sleeps, pulling mysweater offmyfaceto check the time. I've been out cold for almost two hours. Too tired even to make it to Josh's, somehow, in a total fog, I found this stanky couch in the far corner of the Business School lounge where I could finally give way to my exhaustion.
I sit up and wipe the drool off the side of my mouth, getting a lusty gaze from a man highlighting his Wall Street Journal in a chair nearby. I ignore him and pull my wallet and keys from where I had stored them for safekeeping, under my butt in between the orange cushions, and decide to treat myself to the fancycoffeefrom thegourmet espressoshop.
AsI walkdownLaGuardiaPlacespringisinfull bloom. The
May sky is warm and bright and the trees in front of Citibank are thick with buds. I smile up into the cloudless sky. I am awoman whohas takenthisplacebythehornsandmadeit! I am a woman whowill,
against all bureaucraticodds,probablygraduatefromNYU!
I take my five-dollar cup of coffee to a bench in Washington Square Park, so I can bask in the sun, restingagainst theshinyblack lusterof thewrought-ironbench.Thereare fewpeopleintheparkatthis hour,mostlychildrenanddrugdealers, neitherofwhomcandisturbmyreverie.
A woman strolls over to the bench across the way pushing a toddler in a plaid stroller and clutching a McDonald's bag under her arm. She sits, rolling the child to face her as she unwraps two Egg McMuffins and passes one to the stroller. The pigeons cluster around my feet, pecking at the brick. I have an hour before I have to pick up Grayer; maybe I should window-shop for a cute little sundress, somethingtowearinthewarmsummer nightstocomeasI sipmartiniswith H. H. ontheHudson.
I watch the woman pull another container out of the bag and mull over how lovely hash browns would taste right now, gazing absentmindedly at the little backpack hanging loosely on one of the stroller handles. Yes, hash browns and a milk shake, maybe chocolate. My eyes trace the pink border of the cartoon on the front of the backpack. Little pear-shaped figures. All in different colors with shapes on their heads. They are all... I squint to make out their names ... They are all Teletubbies. I spit coffee in a goodthree-footprojectileinfrontofme.
Oh, my God. OH, MY GOD. I struggle to breathe as the pigeons jitter away. Flashes of Halloween, the dark limo ride home, the mink held close around Mrs. X's face, Grayer racked out beside me. I remember Mr. X snoring and Mrs. X talking and talking. Chattering on and on about the beach. I am in a clammy sweat. I putmyhandsover myforehead,tryingtopiecetogetherthememory.
"Oh,myGod,"I sayoutloud,causingthewoman tograbher
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food and stroll quickly to a bench closer to the street. Somehow I have managedto suppress for the last seven months thatI sat in the back of a limo and agreed to go to Nantucketwith the Xes, thattoo many vodkatonicsactually mademerequestthatshe "bringit on."
"Oh. My. God." I pound the bench with my fists. Shit. I mean, I do not, do not want to live with them. It's bad enough here in the city where I can go home at the end of the day. Am I going to see Mr. X in his pajamas?Hisunderwear?Arewe evengoingtoseehimatall?
What would she possibly be hoping for? A little family vacation? Are they going to thrash it out over the hookedrug? Beateach other senseless with canoe paddles? Put Ms. Chicago up in the guest house? Ms. Chicago?
"FUCK!" I leap up, patting myself down. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." I have keys, I have coffee, I have a wallet. "I have no rucking envelope." I jerk in about five different directions as I run through the last two hours and the multitude of places I could've left it. I sprint back to the coffee place, the orange couch, Dr. Clarkson's mailbox.
I stand,wheezingandsweaty,infrontofthecomputer centerhelpdesk.
"Look, man, you've gotta clear out or for real we're gonna have to call security." Dylan tries to sound authoritative.
I can't speak.I'm sick.I wastrying tohaveintegrity. Instead,I'm thegirl whostoleeighthundreddollars and apair ofdirty underwear. I'm afelonand afreak.
"Dude, I mean it, you better get out of here. Bob's on the noon shift and he's not nearly as cool as me." Noon.Right. GottagograbGrayeranddraghimtoDarwin's birthdayparty.
"STOP IT! I DON'T LIKE THAT!" Grayer screams, his face flattened into the metal rails that line the upperdeckoftheboat.
I crouch down to whisper in his assailant's ear. "Darwin, if you do not step away from Grayer in the nexttwosecondsI'm goingto
throw you overboard." Darwin turns in shock to my smiling face. Good Witch/Bad Witch on three hoursof sleepandouteighthundreddollars; kid, youdon't wanttomess withme today.
He falters a fewfeet back and Grayer, a red imprint runningacross his right cheek where it was pressed against the pipe, wraps himself around my leg. Grayer has only been the focus of Darwin's torture for the past few minutes, joining the ranks of fifty other terrorized birthdayparty guests, held prisoner for thelasttwohoursontheCircleLine JazzfestCruise.
"Darwin! Honey, it's almost time for your cake. Go on over to the table so Sima can help you with the candles." Mrs. Zuckerman glides over to us in her Gucci ballet flats and matching pedal pushers. She is a vision in pink and gold and, coupled with her multitude of diamonds, practically blinding in the afternoonsun.?
"Well, Grayer, what's the matter? Don't you want cake?" She tosses her three-hundred-dollar highlights in Grayer's direction and leans against the rail beside me. I'm far too tired for small talk, but am able to putonwhatI hopeis a charmingsmile.
"Greatparty," I finallymuster,hauling Gup ontomyhip andout of harm's way, so hecan lookover my shoulderintothewhite-crested wakebehindus.
"Sima and I have been planning it for months. We really had to put our heads together to top last year's overnight at Gracie Mansion,but I just said 'Now, Sima! Creativity is partof the special something you bringto ourfamily,sogotoit!'And I tell you, shehas reallydoneit." Screamsemergefrom thesternof the boat and Sima races past us, panic-stricken. Darwin follows closely behind, lunging out after her with aflamingTiffany's lighter.
"Darwin," Mrs. Zuckerman admonishes him lightly, "I said to help Sima, not set her on fire." She laughs gaily, taking the lighter from him and clicking the top down. She hands it sternly to a red-faced Sima. "See that he doesn't run around with this next time. I shouldn't have to remind you that it was a gift fromhis grandfather."
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Sima accepts the sterling silver box, without lifting her eyes. She takes Darwin's hand and pulls him delicately backtohis cake.
Mrs. Zuckerman leans in to me, the gold Cs on her glasses gleaming. "I'm so lucky, really. We're like sisters." I smile and nod. She nods back at me. "Please give my regards to Grayer's mom and please be sure to tell her that I have the name of a great d-i-v-o-r-c-e lawyer for her. He got my friendAlice ten percentaboveher prenup."
I instinctively putmyhandonGrayer's head.
"Well, you two have fun!" She tosses her hair to the other shoulder and walks back to the cake melee. I guess Mr. X's residenceattheYale Clubhasbecome common knowledge.
"So, Grove, ready for some cake?" I shift him to my other hip, straighten his tie and touch his cheek wherethepipeimprinthadbeen.His eyes areglassy andhe's clearly asexhaustedas1 am.
"Mytummy hurts. I don't feelgood,"hemumbles. I trytoremember whereI sawabathroomsign.
"What kind of hurt?" I ask, attempting to define the nuances of motion sickness versus heartburn to a four-year-old.
"Nanny, I? He moans into my shoulder before pitching forward to throw up. I manage to aim him over the edge so that the Hudson can receive the thrust of his vomit, leaving my sweater dripping with only about athird.
I rub his back. "Grover, it's been a very long day." I wipe his mouth with my hand and he nods his head intomyshoulderinagreement.
TwohourslaterGrayer isholdingthefrontofhis pantsandbouncingonhis NikesintheXes'vestibule.
"Grove, please just hold it one more second." I give the front door a last shove and it finally gives way. "There. Go!" Herunspastme.
"Oof!" I hear a thud. I push the door farther open and see Grayer sprawled on a pile of beach towels, felledby aTracyTookerbox.
"G,youokay?"
"Thatwassocool,Nanny. Man,youshouldhaveseenit. Standthere,I'm gonnadoitagain."
"Yeah, no." I squat down to take off his sneakers and pull off his pukey windbreaker. "Next time you might not be so lucky. Go pee." He runs off. I gingerly tiptoe over the hatbox, the pile of towels, two Lilly Pulitzer shoppingbags, three L. L. Beanboxes, and a bagof charcoalbriquettes. Well, we're either goingtoNantucket,or moving totheburbs.
"Nanny? Is that you?" I look over and see that the dining room table is completely covered in Mr. X's summer clothes, theonlythingsof his thatConnieandI hadn't packedup.
"Yes. We justgothome,"I call,moving twoBarneys bags outoftheway.
"Oh."Mrs. Xcomes out,holdinganarmful of pastelcashmere sweaters. "You're coveredinvomit." She
recoilsslightly. "Grayerhad a bitof anaccident?
"I really wish you'd keep better track of what he eats at those parties. How is Mrs. Zuckerman?" "She
sendsyouher regards?
"She's so creative. She always throws the best birthdays." She stares at me expectantly, eagerly waiting
formetoreenacttheafternoon,complete with sockpuppetsandcommedia dell arte. I am justtootired.
"She,um,wantedtopasson a referral." "Yes?"
I take a deepbreath, bracingmyself. "She saidthatshe,uh, knows a reallygoodlawyer."I lookdown at
Mr. X's clothes.
"Nanny," she says icily, "these are my husband's clothes for the trip." She turns away from me and her
voice becomes resiliently perky. "I haven't started packing myself, yet. No one can tell me what the weather will be like. Some of our friends broiled, some nearly froze." She drops the sweaters onto the table,sendingseveral balled-up tennissocksrollingontothefloor. "Maria!"
THE NANNY DIARIES "Yes, ma'am." Mariapushesopentheswingingdoor tothe kitchen. "Canyoufoldthese?" "Yes, ma'am. Right away." She ducks back in the kitchen. "I don't want to overpack, but I also don't
want to have to do laundry while I'm there and I have no idea if they even have a decent dry cleaner on
theisland.Also, thatreminds me,we'll beleavingonthefifteenth,promptly ateightA.M.?
"Is that Friday?" I ask. She looks up at me. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you, it's just that the
fifteenthisthedayofmygraduation." "So?"
"So,I won't beabletoleaveateight?
"Well, I don't think we can delay our departure on your account," she says, walking to the bags in the
fronthall.
"No, the thing is, my grandmother is throwing a party for me that evening, so I really can't leave until
Saturday."I followher.
"Well, therentalstartsonFriday,sowe can't leaveonSaturday,"shesays,asifexplainingtoGrayer.
"No,I understandthat. I'm sureI couldtake a busuponSaturday. I'd probablybetherebyfiveorso."
I follow her back to the dining room table where she adds her shoppingbags to the stockpile. "So what
you're basically tellingme isthat,ofthefourteendays we needyou, youwill notbe available fortwoof
them. I don't know, Nanny. I just don't know. We're invited to the Blewers' for dinner on Friday and the PiersonbarbecueonSaturday.I justdon't know?Shesighs. "I'll havetothinkaboutthis."
"I'm really sorry. If itwere anything else. But I reallycan't miss mygraduation."I benddowntopick up theerrantsocks.
"I supposenot.Well, letmediscuss itwith Mr. Xand I'll letyouknow."IfI canmiss mygraduation?
"Okay, also, I wanted to ask you about getting paid, becausemy rent is due this week?And you haven't paidmeinthreeweeks.AndI nowoweyour husband's girlfriendeighthundreddollars.
"I've beenso busy. I'll trytogettothebankthisweek.Thatis,assoonasyouwrite upyour hoursforme, soI cangoover them? SheisinterruptedbynakedGrayerpeekingaroundthedoorway. "GRAYER!" sheshouts. We bothfreeze. "Whatisthehouserule?" Helooksupat her. "Nopenisesinthehouse?" "That's right. Nopenises inthehouse.Wheredopenisesstay?"
"Penisesstayinthebedroom."
"Yes, in the bedroom. Nanny, would you see that he gets his clothes on?" Grayer walks solemnly ahead
ofme,his barefeetmakingslidingnoises onthemarble.
I seetheballed-up clothes onthefloorofthebathroom.
"I hadanaccident." Hepushesatoneof his woodcarswith his toes.
"That's okay."I pickuptheclothesandturnonthebathwater. "Let's getyoucleanedup,okay,bud?"
"Okay."Heputshis arms out forme topickhim up.I pulloffmydirty sweatshirt and lifthim up.As we
wait for the tub to fill I bounce him a little and walk back and forth. He gives the weight of his head to my shoulder and I wonder if he might be falling asleep. I walk him over to the mirror, wrapping him in a toweltokeephimwarm, anddiscover inthereflectionthathe's suckinghisthumb.
Nanny,
I don. knowifyouwerefactoringtheferryintoyour calculations,butI havetopointouthtatit canaddanotherfullhourtothejourney. Iwaswonderingif youcouldeither(a)catchtheeleveno. lock bus Friday night, which would get you to Nantucket at 6am or (b) take the 6am bus Saturday morning,whichwouldgetyoutherebyone,intimeforthebarbecueifwe golate. Let me know,
DearMrs. X,
I really appreciate your looking into alternate transportation for me. While I in no way want to
inconvenience you, I feel it would be impractical to commit to an earlier start time as I have to attend a number of graduation events on Friday evening. I will be in Nantucket by 7 P.M. and, of course, anticipateyouwill adjust mypayaccordingly.
Speakingofwhich,I waswonderingifyou've hadthechancetogettothebankasmyrentisdue.
Pleasefindattached a listof myhoursasyourequested.Again,I reallyappreciatetheoptions.
Thanks! Nanny
Nanny,
Iam alittlepuzzledbyyourrecalcitranceregardingourdeparture. However,Istillhopethatwe canreachacompromise. Perhapsyoucouldarrivebythreeandtake ataxitothePiersons?
DearMrs. X,
As I, of course, do not wish to be anything other than accommodating I might be able to make it there bysix.
Nanny
Nanny,
Never mind. The woman the housecleaning agency furnished us with will look after Grayer until yougetthere.
p.s. I would like to have a conversation regarding the hours you listed for Wednesday the third. I believe I tookhimshoppingthatday.
DearMrs. X,
I defer to your records regarding the 3rd. Also, as I mentioned, I'll need to leave by two on Thursday becauseI havemythesisdefense. Thanks,Nanny
DearMrs. X,
Just a quickreminder thatmythesis defenseistomorrow,so I'll needtoleaveat2 o'clocksharp.Also,if youcouldpayme,thatwouldbegreat.
DearMrs. X,
I'll seeyouattwo!
"Where is she!" I look at the oven clock for the millionth time in five minutes. 2:28. I am supposed to be defendingmy thesis in exactly forty-seven minutes. Myentire academic career is aboutto culminate withoutmeas apanelof professorsinterrogatesanemptychairaboutchilddevelopment!
"Don't shout."Grayer looksup, his eyebrows scrunched.
"I'm sorry,Grove. Will youexcuseme for asecond?"
"Are yougonnapee?"
"Yes. Don't forget your milk." I leave him finishing his melon and walk into the maid's bathroom, turn
onthefaucet,shutthe
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door, flush the toilet, and scream into a hand towel. "FUCK!" My voice is absorbed by the terry cloth.
"Where the fuck is she? Fucking fuck." I sit down on the bathroom floor, tears starting to well at the cornersof myeyes.
"Fuck." I shouldhavewritten "two o'clock"with lipstickonevery mirrorintheapartment!I shouldhavepinned a hugenumber two on the end of her pashmina when she wanderedout this morning!I debate grabbing Grayer and runningdown Madison screaming her name like Marion Brando. My frustration becomes a hysterical silentgiggle, tearsstill runningdownmyface.
I take a deep breath, slapmycheeks a little, dry myeyes, andtrytocompose myself for Grover. ButI'm
still giggling a bitwhenI walkbackintothekitchentofindMrs. Xstandingover him.
"Nanny, I'd appreciateitifyoudidn't leaveGrayerunattendedwith silverware."
I lookdownatthespoononhis Linnaeusplacemat. "I'm sorry?
"My,you're dressedup."Shepicks a pieceofmelonoffGrayer's plate.
"Thanks,actually it's formythesisdefensewhich startsinthirty-five minutes."I headforthedoor.
"Oh, right. I thought there was something." She saunters over to put her alligator Kelly bag on the
counter. "I made it to the bank this morning. Let's sit down in my office and go over the list you gave
me?Shepulls anenvelopeout.
"Great,thanks,butI reallybetter run,"I sayover myshoulder.
Shestandswith onehandonherhip. "I thoughtthishadtobedonetoday."
"Well, ifI don't go I'll belate,"I callbackfromthefronthallwhereI leftmynotes.
Shesighsloudly,bringingme backintothekitchen.
"Besmart, Nanny!" Grayer craneshis headfromhis boosterseat. "You'll besmart!"
"Thanks,Grove."
"I'm extremely busy and right now is the only convenient time for me to do this. I don't know when I'll beabletositdownwith youagain,Nanny. I went all thewaytothebank?
"Great. No,let's do it. Thankyou." I pull out of mystackof papers a typed, revised list of all thehours I workedinthelastfiveweeks. "So,asyoucansee,itaverages betweenfourandfivehundred aweek."
She looks down at the paper for a few moments while I shift my weight from foot to foot. "This is a little higherthanweoriginally discussed."
"Well, theoriginallistI gaveyouwastwoweeksagoandI've accruedover sixtyhourssincethen."
She sighs and starts counting out twenties and fifties, slowly sliding them back and forth between her fingers to ensure that none of the bills are stuck together. She hands them over, her Hermes limoge banglesclankingtogether."It sureis a lotofmoney."
I smile back at her. "Well, it adds up over five weeks." I turn on my heels, brushing Grayer's head as I pass him. "Have a greatafternoon,guys!"
I slather conditioner into my hair and massage the idea of quitting into my head. I imagine myself, undertheawning infrontof 721 Park,giving Mr. andMrs. X a good,swift cartoonkickthatlandsthem in the meridian shrubbery. Lovely. However, the image becomes much less clear with the addition of Grayer. Grover,inhis big tie,looksup atme expectantlywhile his parentsflail around inthemanicured shrubs. I sigh, pushing my face under the hot water. And then there's the money. I'm nauseated at the thoughtofhaving tomailMs. Chicagonearlyhalf ofwhatMrs. X finallypaidme today.
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A little meow breaks my thoughts and I pull the curtain aside to see George, silhouetted in the candlelight, sitting primly beside the tub, waiting for me to splash him. I drop a little water on his head andhedartsbehindthetoiletintoshadow.
At least I have a quiet night to myself to celebrate a successfully defended thesis. And an eleven P.M. phone date with H. H. to look forward to. I wrap the towel around my torso, scoop up my clothes, and blow out the candle. Opening the bathroom door, I freeze at the sound of voices coming from the far endoftheapartment. Myend,tobeprecise.
"Hello?" 1 call out into the bright light. I can always tell when Charlene is home because she turns on every singlelight.
"I'm home," Charlene calls back flatly. Myheart sinks. I pull the towel tight and walk past her screen to my side of the room. My desk lamp shines down on the candle I'd lit before getting in the shower. She standswithHairyPilot measuringmybed.
"It's kind of a mess in here, Nanny," she says, rolling up the tape measure. "Go over there and let's do thatsideoftheroom," sheinstructsHairy,whopushespastme,nearlysteppingonGeorgetostandnear mystereo.
"I hadmythesisdefensetoday,soI've beenatthelibraryevery night." I stepoutofthe way, tuckingmy underwear into a less visible spot in the ball under my arm as she walks with purpose to join her mate. "I'm sorry,canI helpyoutwowithsomething?"
She hands him one end of the tape measure and walks it back to the other wall. "I wanted to see if his
couchwouldfithere." Mystomachtightens.Thisis theantithesis of therelaxingeveningI hadin mind.
She stands straightening her navy skirt. "Nanny, I wanted to talk to you this week, but you never
answeredthephone?
"Myleaseisup.I'm moving inattheendofthemonth,"Hairyvolunteers. Fabulous.
"So that gives you, like, two weeks to find something else. That should be plenty of time," she says,
grabbing a penoffmydresser to
write the measurements on a Post-it. "Julie and her fianceare coming over to play cards in an hour.Are
you cool with that?" She steps past me. "God, it's so steamy back here. Are you taking showers in the
darkagain?That's soweird."Sheshakesherhead.
I regain my composure as Hairy follows her, barely evading George's stealth attack. "I'm just on my
way downtown, actually," I say to the floor. George stands under my chin to receive a drip. I reach for
thephone,hopingJosh'11bepleasedtohearfromme.
The next morning I dig throughevery pocketuntil I find thenapkin on which Josh wrote thereal estate
people's name. I do aquickprayer fortheapartment-deprivedanddialtheofficenumber.
"Hehlow!"A horrendousNewYork accentanswers ontheseventhring.
"Hello,I'm lookingforPat."
"She doesn't workhereanymore."
"Oh.Well, perhapsyoucanhelpme?I'm lookingtorent astudioforJulyfirst."
"Can't helpyou."
"What?"
"Can't help you. It's only the beginning of the month. You want a place for July you showup at the end
ofthemonthwith afistful of cash,sayatleasttwelve thousandtostart,andwe'll tawk."
"Cash?"
"Cash."
"I'm sorry,twelve thousandincash?"
"Cash.Forthelandlord.You've gottacome with thefirstyear's rentincash."
"Theentire firstyear?"
"Andyouhavetobringdocumentationprovingthatyounet,net, mindyou,forty-four times themonth's
rent,andyour guarantors?
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"Mywhat?"
"Guarantors. he people who are going to guarantee that the rent gets paid even if you die, typically, your parents. But they must live in the tristate area so their assets can be seized and they have to net at leastonehundredtimes therent."
"Thatseems alittle extreme. I justwant asmall studio,nothing
fancy?
"Oh, my Gawd. This is June! June! Every American under the age of thirty is graduating from
somethingandmoving here."
"But all thatincash?"
"Honey, the Wall Street kids all get relo money from their companies. You want to beat them out you
gotta payupfront."
"Oh,myGod."
Shetakes a deepbreath. "Whatwereyoulookingtospend?"
"I don't know. . . six,sevenhundred."
"A month?" She holds thephone away from her mouth while shecackles. "Honey, do us all a favor and
lookintheVoice for a share."
"ButI don't wanttoshare."
"ThenI wouldgetmyself anapartmentinQueensand acanofpepperspray."
"Well, doyouhaveanylistings inBrooklyn?"
"We don't dotheboroughs."Shehangsup.
Thehairs onthebackof myneckstandupasI hearthedistinct tearof a condomwrapperfromtheother
side of Charlene's screen. Ugh! I throw myself down on the bed, pulling the pillows over my ears.
Forgetquitting, bygraduation I'll bebeggingMrs. Xtoletmemove in.
H. H. gives Grandma another twirl around the dance floor to the strains of the salsa band she has hired fortheeveningfrom her
favorite Mexicanrestaurant. Herapartmentisaglowincolorfulpaperlanterns.
"And he can dance!" she calls out to where my parents and I are sitting on her terrace, her flamenco
skirtswingingasheturnsher.
Momleansintowardme. "He's adorable."
"I know,"I saywith pride.
"Hey, watch it. Father's present," Dad says jokingly from where he sits in the chaise beside us. The
evening is warm and Grandma set the food up out here where my friends mingle with my parents'
friendsaroundthecandlelittables.
"Thatguyover therewants to payme tosculptmyelbows," Sarahsays, coming over with two plates of
cakeandhandingonetomymother.
"Yeah,sure. tstartswith theelbows.. ." Dadwarns'her.
Thesongfinishesand H. H. andGrandmaapplaudtheband.
"Darling!" Grandmacomes outonhis arm. "Didyougetsomecake?"
"Yes, Gran,"I say.
"You." My grandmother snaps her fingers at my reclining dad. "Get out there and give your wife a
twirl." Mom stands, extending her hand in Dad's direction. They shuffle off in step to the music. "How
are my darlings?" Grandma asks as she and H. H. sit down on the chaise. "Has everyone had enough to
eatanddrink?"
"The party is divine, Frances," Sarah thanks her. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to make sure our
friendJoshuaisn't offlosinghis paella."Shedisappearsontothedancefloor.
I leanbacktolookupatthestars. "It's strangetoactuallybefinishedwith school?
"Life isschool,darling," Grandmacorrectsme,takinga forkfulofDad's unfinishedcake.
"ThenI'm inRealEstate101,"I say, pickingup myforktojoin her. "I only havetheweekendafter I get
backfromNantuckettofindanapartmentandget all mystuffout ofChezCharlene."
THE NANNY DIARIES "That's Mrs. Hairytoyou," H. H. interjects. Grandmareachesout herbangledarmtosqueezemyhand. "I'm sosorryyoucan't staywith me,butI've
already rearranged the guest room for Orve's potting wheel." This will be Orve's second summer-in!residence with Grandma. She has a long-held summer tradition of hosting fledgling artists from all parts of the globe. hey teach her technique in exchange for sumptuous room and board. "You'll find something. havefaith."
"So doI,darling," H. H. says, mimicking mygrandmother's ebullienttone. ShewinksathimasshestandsandI notice a glint ofblueather throat. "New necklace, Grandma? It's charming." "Isn't it? I was in Bendel's last week and there were these
little blue lacquer letters." She fingers the tiny 5 and SL hanging on the gold chain around her neck. "Theywere all bythemselves inthedisplaycase,therestofthealphabetmust havesold.I justhadsuch a good laugh, get it? FQ, say it real fast." She laughs deeply as she merenguesher way back inside and, forthefirst timesincethis afternoon's ceremony,I am alonewith H. H.
"Come on," he says softly, taking my hand and leading me over to the stone balustrade overlooking the park. "I think your family rocks." "Believe it or not, I can't complain," I say, placing my arms around himaswe lookoutacross thecity.
"I'm going to miss you so much," he says, giving me a squeeze. "Sure you are. While you're off in Amsterdamwith all thepornstars,smokingthepot?
"It's The Hague.A full twenty minutes from all that. No porn stars. No pot. Just me, missing you, and a wholelotofpolitical prisoners with grievances."
I turn my head and reach up on my tiptoes to kiss him. "Those political prisoners, whine, whine, whine,"I murmur.
Hekissesthetopofmynoseandthenmyforehead. "Andwhat
aboutyou?Stuckatthebeachwith all thoselifeguards,poolboys, cabanaboys?
"Oh, my god. I'm not going to the Riviera.'m going to stinky little Nantucket." I smack my hand on topoftherailing. "Shit. I forgottocheckmymessages!"
Herollshis eyes. "Nan?
"Wait, wait,wait. t'll only takeme twominutes. I justhavetocallmymachineandfindoutwhattime they're pickingmeupfromtheferrytomorrow. Don't move, I'll berightback!"
I go into Grandma's bedroom to use the salmon-pink Princess phone on the night table, moving aside a few of her needlepoint pillows to sit on the sateen bedspread.As I punch the answeringmachine code into the keypad the soft light of the room reminds me of sleepovers from my childhood when she wouldleavethelampsonuntil I fellasleep.
Mrs. X's voice comes through like ice cubes dropped down the back of my dress. "Oh, Nanny, good news. ur friends the Horners are flying up tomorrow at nine and have graciously offered to let you come along. So you'll be in Nantucket by nine-thirty in the morning. Now, Nanny, these are very dear friends of ours so I'm counting on you to be timely about this. Plan to meet them at the Westchester CountyAirportintheprivate-plane departurearea.You'll needtotaketheseven-fiftyMetro-North train to Rye and a taxi or something to get out to the airport. They have three girls, so they should be easy to spot. Now, they're doing this as a favor, so you really can't be late.Actually, you might want to plan to beatGrandCentralStationbysix-fiftyjusttogive yourself time? Beep.
"Your machinecut me off. I'll needyou to stop by while you're out and about and pick up an article I've leftwith James for youon Lyme disease. Horrible.Also, I'll needyouto find deer-tick repellentsuitable for afour-year-oldandmakesureit's hypoallergenic,soitwon't irritatehis skin.AndI wouldappreciate itifyoucouldgoto
THE NANNY DIARIES
Polo andpick up six pairs of knee-high cotton socks,white. Takeone of Grayer's shoeswith you soyou get the right size. I've left a pair with James so you can get them when you pick up the article and then juststickit all inyour carry-on. Perfect. Seeyoutomorrow!"
Beep.
"Nanny."I havetrouble placing the voice at first. "As per myletter of instructions, I'll be arriving atthe apartment tomorrow. I trust you had no trouble finding the foie gras. Have a good time in Nantucket andpleasesayhellotoGrayerforme."
AH right. 1 grew up and then became a governess. [Pause] I'd really tike to start a conversation, but
there's noonetostart aconversation with ... I don't haveanybodyatall.
. HEANDRYEEV1CHFAMILY GOVERNESS,THECHERRYORCHARD.
AndWe GaveHeranAll\*-expenses^paidVa cation
"Goodbye!" the Horners shout from their car as it pulls out of the Nantucket Airport parking lot,
leavingmealonebythesideofthetarmac.
I sit down on my duffel bag and fight the urge not to throw up as only someone can who's just flown twentyfive minutes on a six-seater plane through torrential downpours, unrelenting fog, and massive turbulence with four adults, three children, a goldfish, a guinea pig, and a golden retriever. Only my considerationfortheHornergirls preventedmefromscreamingatevery drop.
I pullmysweatshirt closer aroundmeagainstthesaltywindandwait.
Andwait.
Andwait.
Oh,no,that's okay,that'sfiiine. No,I wasn't outlateatmygraduationparty. No,youtakeyourtime.'ll
just sit here in the cold drizzle. No, I think what's important is that I'm here, in Nantucket, and that you and your family can rest easy just knowing I am somewhere within a ten-mile vicinity of you. I think what's important,
THE NANNY DIARIES
you know, paramount really, is that I'm not off living my life, attending to whatever I need to be doing,
but am permanently onpauseforyouandyourfuckingfamily?
TheRover pulls inandbarelyslowsto aroll astheymotionfor
me tojumpin.
"Nanny!" Grayer screams. "I got a Kokichu!" He holds up a yellow Japanese toy as I open the door.
Thereis averylargecanoeprecariouslyangledinthetrunksothatitsticksoutover halftheback
passengerseat.
"Nanny,becarefuloftheboat. It's anantique,"Mrs. Xsays
proudly.
I maneuver myself under the canoe, pull my bag between my feet, crouch low, and reach around to pat
Grayer's legingreeting. "Hey,Grove,I missedya."
"Theantiquinghereiswonderful. I'm hopingtofind anewcouchtableforthesecondguestbedroom."
"Dreambig,honey," Mr. X grumbles underhis breath.
Ignoringhim,shelooksupatme inhervisor mirror. "So,whatwastheplanelikeinside?"
"Urn,ithadbrown leatherseats?I say, myheadwedgedinto
mychest.
"Didtheyserveyouanything?"
"TheyaskedifI wantedpeanuts."
"You're so lucky. Jack Horner designs fabulous shoes. I absolutely adore Caroline. I worked on a
benefit last year for her brother's campaign. It's such a shame they live in Westchester or we'd just be
the best of friends." She checks her teeth in the mirror. "Now, I want to go over the plan for the
afternoon.It turnsout thePiersonbarbecueis formal, so I thoughtit'd beniceforyou guys to justenjoy
somedowntimeatthehouse. Relaxandenjoytheplace."
"Great. That sounds like fun." I attempt to look over at Grover in his car seat with visions of us passed
outinmatchingchaises onthelawn.
"Now, Caroline was supposed to call about dinner, so just give her my cell number when she rings. I've
tackedit up next tothe phonein the kitchen."Thanks,becauseit usually takes me about nine and a half
monthstomemorize aten-digit number.
We pull off the main road onto a densely wooded drive and I'm surprised to see that quite a few of the
treesarestill bare.
"They've had a cold spring."Mrs. X readsmythoughts. Thedrive opensinto a loopinfrontofwhatcan
only be described as a sprawling, ramshackle 1950s bungalow. The white paint is peeling, the screen
doorhas aholeinit,and apieceofroofingdangles at a precariousanglefromthegutter.
"Well, we're here. CasaCrap," Mr. Xsays,steppingdownfromthecar.
"Darling, I thought we agreed? She gets out and chases after him, leaving me to unbuckle Grayer and
get my bag out of the back. I hold what's left of the screen door open for Grayer, although he probably
couldjustcrawlthrough.
"Honey,it's notmyfaulttherealtor's photographswereoutdated."
"I'm justsayingthatforfivethousanddollars a week,maybe youcouldhavedone abit moreresearch."
Mrs. X turnstous, beaming. "Grayer,whydon't youshowNannyherroom?"
"Come on, Nanny, it's reallyreally cool!" I follow him up the stairs to a little room at the end of the
hallway. Thereare twotwin beds closetogether underthesharplyslanted lowceilingand Grayer's stuff is on one of them. "Isn't this cool, Nanny? We get to have a sleepover every night!" He sits, bouncing on his bed. I stoop, careful not to bump my head, to fish a warm sweater and jeans out of my bag, as it wasactuallysummer backinNewYork andI optimistically woreshorts.
"Okay, G. I'm justgoingtochange." "AmI goingtoseeyounaked?"
"No, I'll gointhebathroom. Wait here.Where's thebathroom?"
THE NANNY DIARIES
"There!" Hepointstothedooracross thehall.
I push it open. "AAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh!" And am confronted by a redhaired little girl,
shriekingonthetoilet. "Thisismyprivacy!"
"Sorry!" I slamthedoorclosed.
"Grayer,who's that?" I ask.
"That's CarsonSpender. She's stayingtheweekend."
"O-kay." Just then I hear a car pull up the gravel drive. I go over to the window and watch Mr. X direct
a Range Rover around to the side of the house. 1 walk down the hall to the dingy clerestory window
facingthe oceanand see the car pull in next to four others parked by the overgrown hedge.There are at
leasttenchildrenonthebacklawn.
"Grover?" I call, and he comes thumping down the hall. I heave him up so he can see out the window.
"Whoarethosekids?"
"I dunno. They're just kids." I kiss him on the top of his head and put him down as the bathroom door
opens. Carsonshootsme a dirty lookbeforemarchingdownstairs.
"G,whydon't youheaddownand I'll changequickly?"
"I wanttostaywith you,"hesays, followingme backintoour room.
"Okay,youcanstandoutsidethedoor."I trytocloseit.
"Nanny,youknowI don't likethat." I pullitback,soit's barely cracked,andpulloffmyshorts. "Nanny?
Canyouhearme?"
"Yes, Grove."Hestickshislittle fingersunderthedoor.
"Nanny, try to catch my fingers! Come on, catch "em!" I look down for a moment, then kneel and
gentlyticklethetipsofhis fingerswith myown.Hegigglesatmytouch.
"You know, Grove," I say, recalling that first week when he locked me out. "I got tnye thung thitikin
outta,too,andyoucan't seeit."
"Noyoudon't, silly."
"HowdoyouknowI don't?"
"You'd never,Nanny. Hurryup, I'll showyouthepool. It's reallyreallyfreezing!"
Out back are men in summer suits, and women shivering in lawn dresses, all standinglike traffic cones
aschildrenwhiz chaotically aroundthem.
"Mommy! Shetookmyprivacy!" I canhearCarsonpointingme outtohermather.
"Oh, Nanny, there you are," Mrs. X says. "We should all be beack around six. There's plenty of stuff in
thefridgeforlunch.Havefun!"
A chorus of "Have a greattime, guys!" erupts aroundus astheadults headover to theircars, which take
off,carseatsempty.
I look down at twelve expectant faces, as visions of an afternoon on the chaises quickly disappears.
"Okay, guys, I'm Nanny. I have a few ground rules. NOBODY goes near the pool. Is that clear? I don't
want to seeanybody going past thattree over there or you will sit in the broom closet for the rest of the
afternoon.Gotit?"Twelve headsnodsolemnly.
"Butwhatiftherewas a warandtheonlyplacetogoforsafetywasbythepooland?
"What's yourname?" I askthefreckledbrunetwith glasses.
"Ronald."
"Ronald, no more silly questions. If there's a war we go to the shed. Okay, everyone, go play!" I run
inside, looking out every window I pass to make sure no one is even creeping toward the pool, to find
Grayer's artkit.
I set up crayons, construction paper, and scotch tape on the patio table. "Okay, listen up! I want you all
tocomeover here,oneat atime, andtellme yourname."
"Arden," asmall girlinOshKoshB'Goshtellsme.
I write "ARDEN" and a big "1" on her impromptu name tag and then tape it to her shirt. "Okay,Arden,
you're one. Everytime I callout 'Headcount!'youshout 'One!'Gotthat?All youhaveto
THE NANNY DIARIES
remember is 'one.'" She climbs up into mylap and becomes myassistant, passing me the tapeand pens,
alternately.
For an hour everyone runs around on the grass, some play with Grayer's toys, others just chase each
other,while I look out atthefog-covered ocean.Every fifteenminutes I call out "HEADCOUNT!" and
theysoundoff.
"One!"
"Two!"
"Three!"
Silence. 1 tensetorundowntothepool.
"Jessy,you're four,dummy."
"Four!" a small voice squeaks.
"Five!"
"Six!"
"Seven!"
"Grayer!"
"Nine!"
"Ten!"
"Eleven!"
"Twelve!"
"Okay, time for lunch!" I survey the troops. I am wary about leaving them outside while I inspect the
supplies. "Everyone inside!"
"Awww!"
"Come on,we canplayoutsideafter lunch."I slidethewobbling
glass doorclosedafter number 12.
"Nanny,what's forlunch?I'm reallyreally hungry,"Grayer asks.
"1 dunno. Let's go take a look." Grayer follows me into the kitchen, leaving 7,9, and 3, who are turning
thelivingroomcouch
into afort.
I pull open the fridge. "Okay, let's see what we've got!" Umm, three fat-free yogurts, a box of
SnackWell's, aloafof fat-freesourdough,mustard,brie,localjam,and a zucchini.
255
"Okay, troops! Listen up!" Eleven hungry faces look up at me from their various tasks in the group
mission to destroy the living room. "Here are the choices: we have jam sandwiches, but you may not
like the bread. Or we have brie sandwiches, but you may not like the cheese. Or we have Cheerios, but
no sugar to sprinkle on top. So, I would like you to come in the kitchen one at a time to taste the bread
andthecheeseandseewhichoneyouwant."
"I wantpeanutbutterandjelly!" Ronaldshouts.
I turn around and shoot him a quick Look of Death. "This is war, Ronald. And in war you get the
supplies your commanding officer sends you." I salute him. "So let's all be good soldiers and eat the cheese." I'm making the last sandwich when the first raindrops fall, blanketing the sliding doors with a thick
sheetofwater.
"Bye, Carson!" Grayer andI call outastheSpendersbegintopullout ofthedriveway Sundaynight.
"Bye, Grayer!" she calls back from her car seatand then puts her right thumb up to her nose and waves her fingers at me. Despite my best efforts all weekend I was evidently never able to work my way back intohergoodgracesafter "taking"herprivacy.
"Grayer, are you ready?" Mrs. X comes outside in a green and cream silk coat, Prada's signature look thisspring,puttinginher rightpearlearring.
"Mommy,canI bringmyKokichu?" heasks.
We've beeninvited over for a "casualSundaysupper" attheHomers' andGrayer feels he needs tocome
equippedwith somethingtoshare,sinceEllie,their four-year-old,has a guineapig.
"I supposethat'll be okay. Whydon't we leave it in the car when we get there and then I'll let you know ifit's okaytobringitout?Nanny,whydon't yourunupstairs andchange?"
THE NANNY DIARIES
"I am changed," I say, glancing down to confirm that I am still wearing clean chinos and a white
turtlenecksweater.
"Oh.Well, I supposeit's okay.You'll probablybeoutsidewith thechildrenmost of thetime, anyway."
"Okay, everybody in thecar!" Mr. X comes by, swooping Grayer up, and carries him, sack-of-potatoes!style, outside.
As soon as we get in the car Mr. X plugs his cell phone into the dashboard and starts dictating
instructions to Justine's voice mail. The rest of us sit quietly, Grayer clutching his Kokichu, me balled
upunderthecanoestaringatmybellybutton.
As Mr. X unplugs his cell phone he sighs. "This is a really bad week for me to be away from the office.
It's terribletiming."
"ButyousaidthebeginningofJunewasgoingtobequiet?shesays.
"Well, I'm justwarningyou I'll probablyhavetogobackonThursdayfor ameeting."
Sheswallows. "Well,whenwill youbeback?"
"I'm not sure. It looks like I'll probably have to stay over the weekend to entertain the execs from
Chicago."
"I thoughtyourworkwith theChicagoofficewasdone,"shesays tightly.
"It's not that simple. Now there's the issue of layoffs, merging divisions. eorging and making this
thingrun."
Shedoesn't reply.
"Besides,I witt havebeenhere awhole week,"hesays,makinga
leftturn.
"Whyareyouturningawayfromthewater?" sheasks edgily.
We have trouble finding the house because, according to the instructions, it's on the inland side of the
mainroad.
"I just can't believe they wouldn't have an oceanview," Mrs. X says, as she forces us to round the same
trafficcircle forthethirdtime. "Give me backtheinstructions."
Heballsup thepieceofpaperandthrowsitather withouttak!
ing his eyes off the road. She smooths it out methodically on her knee. "You must have copied them
downbackward."
"Let's becrazyandjustfollowthefuckingdirections andseewherewe endup," hehisses.
"I'm starving.I'm gonnadieifI don't eat," Grayermoans.
Dusk is falling when we finally pull into the Homers' shingled, three-story house. Ferdie, their golden
retriever, is sleeping peacefully on the wraparound porch under the hammock and the crickets chirp
loudlyingreeting.JackHornerpushesthescreendoor open,wearing fadedjeansandBirkenstocks.
"Takeoffyourtie!Quick!" Mrs. Xwhispers.
"Parkanywhere!" heshoutswith a broadsmilefromtheporch.
Mr. X isdivestedofhis blazer,tie,andcufflinks beforewe canget outofthecar.
I stretchout my cramped back as I walk aroundto thetrunk.I fish the rhubarbpie Mrs. X boughtat the
supermarket this morning out of the cooler. "Here, I'll take that," she says, walking off after Mr. X,
who's holding a bottle of wine, and followed by Grayer, holding his Kokichu in front of him, like the
threewise men.
"Jack!"Themenshakehandsandclapeachotherontheback.
Elliepeeksaroundthe door. "Mom!They're here!"
Jack ushers us into the cozy living room, where one wall is completely covered in the children's art and
a macaronisculpturesitsonthecoffeetable.
Carolinecomes outofthekitchenwearingjeansand awhiteblouse, wipingherhandsonher apron. "Hi!
I'm sorry,don't shakemy hands. was just marinating the steaks." Ellie attaches herself to Caroline's
leg. "Didyouguys haveanytroublefindingtheplace?"
"Not atall, yourdirections wereperfect,"Mrs. Xquicklyresponds. "Here."Shehandsoffthepiebox.
"Oh, thank you. Hey, Elle, whydon't you showGrayer your room?" She bumps the girl gently with her
hip.
THE NANNY DIARIES
"Wanna see my Kokichu?" He takes a step forward, proffering the fluffy ball. She looks down at the
yellow furandrunsoff,Grayer's cuetofollow,andtheyscamperupstairs.
"Nanny,whydon't yougowatch thekids?" Mrs. Xsays tome.
"Oh, they're fine. I took away Elite's Ginsu knives, so Grayer should be safe," Caroline says, laughing.
"Nanny,wouldyoulikesomewine?"
"Yes, drinks.What's your pleasure?" Jackasks.
"DoyouhaveanyScotch?" Mr. X asks.
"Winewouldbegreat," Mrs. Xsays,smiling.
"Red?White?"
"Whatever you're having,"Mrs. Xsays. "Where aretheother girls?"
"Setting the table. Would you excuse me? I'm just going to finish getting dinner together," Caroline
says.
"Wouldyoulikeanyhelp?" I ask.
"Actually,that'dbegreat,if youdon't mind."
Jack and Mr. X go outside to do manly things with the barbecue, while we follow Caroline into the
kitchen, where Lulu and Katie, ages eightand six, are sitting at thetable, rolling up napkins and putting
theminrings.
"Nanny!" They leap up as soon as I come in, throwing their arms around me, much to Mrs. X's chagrin.
I pickup Katieandquicklydipher backward,holdingontoherlegs,thengive Luluherturn.
"Wouldyoumindtossingthesalad?" Carolinehandsoffthebowland aMasonjarfull of dressing.
"Not atall."AsI startflippingthelettuceI noticethesweet aroma of apie baking.
"WhatcanI do?" Mrs. Xasks.
"Oh,nothing.I wouldn't wantyoutoruinyourbeautifulcoat."
"Honey?"We hearJackcalling fromthebackyard.
"Lu, wouldyourunoutsideandseewhatDadwants?"Thelittlegirl comes runningback a secondlater.
"Hesays thegrill's ready."
"Okay,will youcarrythesteaksouttohim,butbecarefulor we're all having grilledcheesefordinner."
Lulupicks upthemetaltrayandwalksslowlytothedoor,star-ingintentlyatthepileofmeat.
"Wherearethekidseating?" Mrs. X askscasually.
"With us."
"Oh,ofcourse,"shesays,covering.
"I wantedtoask you afavor," Carolinesays, circlingtheislandtoputherhandonMrs. X's arm.
"Of course,anything."
"I have a friend from college coming out next week. She's getting divorced and moving back to New
York fromL.A. andI wonderifyouwouldn't mindtakingherunderyourwing abit." ,
"Not atall?
"It's just thatbeing up inWestchester I can't do as much to introduce her around as I'd like.Also, if you
know a goodrealestateagent,she's lookingfor a place."
"Well, there's athree-bedroominourbuildingthat's onthemarket."
"Thanks,butshe's lookingfor astudio.It's a horriblesituation?eventhoughher ex-husbandwastheone
c-h-e-a-t-i-n-g, none of the assets were in his name. He's incorporated or some crap, and she's gotten
nothing."
Mrs. X's eyes widen. "That'sterrible."
"So anythingyoucandotohelp, I'd reallyappreciate. I'll callyouwhenshegets here."
When we all get to the table, I'm charmed to see that the girls have made place cards by taking leaves
and writing our names on them in silver pen in three markedly different handwritings. Katie and Lulu
have asked to have me seated between them, while Mrs. X is placed between Grayer and Ellie and
spendsmuchofthemealcutting meatandansweringEllie's questionsabouther coat.
THE NANNY DIARIES
Ferdie comes over andstartswhimpering forscrapsatJack's feet.
"We had aretriever whenI was aboy," Mr. Xsays, spooningmustardontohis secondsteak.
"Ferdie's a local, actually," Caroline says. "One of the top breeders lives just down the road, if you're
thinkingofgetting a puppy?
"Thisis sucha fabuloushouse,"Mrs. Xsays, changingthesubjectassheplays with hersalad.
"It wasbuiltbyCaroline's grandfather," Jacksays.
"With hisown twohands,nonails, inthedriving rain,ifyoubelieve him,"shelaughs.
"You should see the overpriced beach shack mywife picked out. We'll be luckyif the roof doesn't blow
off," Mr. Xlaughs,corninhis teeth.
"So,Nanny,whereareyouinschool?"Jackturnstome.
"NYU. justgraduatedonFriday,actually."
"Congratulations!" Hesmiles atme, while buttering another ear of corn for Lulu. "So,haveyou figured
outyourplans fornextyear?"
"You're such a dad." Caroline laughs at him across the table. "You don't have to answer that, Nanny." Shestandsup. "Whowantspie?"
"ME!ME!" thelittleHornersandGrayer all shout.
As soon as the door swings behind her I stand to clear, but Jack stops me. "Come on," he mock--
whispers. "She's gone.Whatareyour plans?"
"I'm going to be the program associate of a children's organization in Brooklyn," I tell him in a stage
whisper.
"Honey!" heshouts. "It's okay! Shehas a plan!"
Carolinecomes backin,smiling, with a cartonoficecreamandninebowls.
"Jack,you're hopeless."Sheputsdownthecartonandthebowls. "Lulu,will youtakecoffeeorders?"
A gracious hostess, Carolineserves both pies, but there's little demand for thecold oneinthealuminum
dish.
"Mommy, I want a guinea pig," Grayer says sleepily from his car seat. He's out almost immediately and
theXesbeginrehashingtheevening, asI trytofind acomfortable waytoslumpbeneaththecanoe.
"Hewastellingme bythebarbecuethathe's managedtoexpandintotwelve newmarketsthis year? Mr.
Xis impressedwithJack's businessacumen.
"You know". heturns slightlytoward him, putting herhandonhis arm?I wasthinkingI couldgoback
with youonThursday. ecouldhave a romanticweekendinthecity."
He pulls his arm away as he makes a left turn. "I told you, it'll just be a lot of client entertaining. You'd
beboredoutof yourmind."Heplugsinhis cellphoneanddials withhis freehand.
Shepulls her Filofaxout andflipsthroughtheempty pages. "Nanny,one thingI wouldliketomention? shecalls backreprovingly.
"Yes," I say, startingtonodoff.
"I'm not sure if it's appropriate for you to monopolize the dinner conversation. Just something I'd like
youtobe alittle moreawareof fromnowon."
Darling, I. e gone over to the Sterns?for tea. I. l be back by five. Just a thought ?if you have to
go, why not see if you can come back to the island early Sunday morning, becauseh the Horners have
invitedusover forbrunch.
Have a greatmatch!
Love you.
~~~
Ihopeyourgolfgamewentwell. Incaseyou. e worried if I. l be lonely Caronlinehas offered to
keepmecompanywhile you. egone,sodon. worryaboutme. Althoughthey. equitebusy,but
I. sureother peoplewill thinkofme.
Seeyouattheclubatsix. Love you.
~~~
Darling,I didn. wanttowakeyoufromyournap?I. goingintotown.
I called the rental agent and she said that it. really pretty safe out here. She said she. be surprised if anything happened to Grayer or me while we. e here all by ourselves, so please don. spendyourtime inthecity worrying aboutus all thewayuphere.
~~~
Wednesday night, on the eve of Mr. X's departure, the three of us sit waiting in the Rover for Mrs. X. The original plan was to leave Grayer and myself home for the evening "to relax," while they had dinner at II Cognilio with the Longacres. But when they came home to change, Grayer screamed hysterically until Mr. X insistedthattheybringhimalong,sohewould,quote, "shutup."
After five straight days of running a virtual day-care center for all of the Xes' friends on at most five hoursof sleep anight,I starttonodoffassoonasI slumpdownunderthecanoe.
Mr. X jerks the cell phone away from his head. "We're going to lose the reservation. o see what's
takingher solong."I openthecardoorjustasMrs. Xteetersoutontothegravel onuncharacteris!
tically high heels, clad in a strapless black dress with a red cashmere wrap around her shivering
shoulders. Mr. Xbarelyglances atherbeforestartingthecar.
"Honey, what time do you want me to drive you to the airport tomorrow?" she asks, pulling on her seat
belt.
"Don't bother.'m takingthesixA.M. flight. I'll justcall acab."
"I wanttoflywithDaddy."Grayer,hungryand,ofcourse, napless,beginstosquirminhis carseat.
"Mrs. X?Um, you didn't get a chanceto see if you broughtanymosquito bite stuff,did you?" myvoice
echoesfrombeneaththecanoe.
"No,areyoustill beingbitten?I justdon't understand it. Noneof ushas anybites."
"Doyouthinkitmightbepossibleformetoruninto a drugstoreandgrabsomeAfterBite?"
"I reallydon't thinkwe havetime."Sheretouchesher lipstickintheyellowlightofthevisormirror.
I give my leg a good goingover through my pants. I am on fire. The itch is so bad it's keeping me
awakeonthealternatehours Grayeror Mr. X isn't snoring.I just.Wanttogo.To adrugstore.
After a tensetwenty-minutedrive we pullinto theparkinglot/ gift shopof thefamous restaurantwhose
annual signature T-shirt, featuring a rabbit in silhouette, is a bizarre, nationwide status symbol. Of courseI wantone. Mrs. X ushers us into the restaurant, a glorified bait-and-tackle shop that serves up twentyfive-dollar bowls ofpasta onsplinteredtables.
"Darling, how are you?" Mrs. X is accosted by a woman with large, blond hair that looks as if it could stand up to the fiercest Nantucket wind. "You're so dressy, my God, I feel like a bumpkin." She pulls herAquaScutumbarnjacketcloser aroundher.
Themen shakehandsandMrs. XintroducesGrayer. "Grayer,youremember Mrs. Longacre?"
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Mrs. Longacre absentmindedly pats his head. "He's getting so big. Honey, let's get our table." We are shown to a drafty corner table and handed a green booster seat, which Grayer tries to squeeze himself into.
"Mrs. X,I thinkit's toosmall."
"Nonsense."She looks over at him sitting sideways, strainingto fit his whole tushyin the seat. "Go see iftheyhave a phonebook."
I finally unearth three filthy Nantucket directories and slip them under his derriere, while the adults order cocktails. I pull crayons out of my bag and start telling Grayer a story, illustrating on the paper tableclothasI go.
"Well, of course, I love it up here, but I don't know how I'd do it without my fax," Mrs. Longacre says. "I don't know how people went anywhere before the fax and the cell phone, I really don't. I'm putting together a small dinner for a hundred people for the week we get back. You know, I planned Shelly's entire weddingfromherelastsummer."
"I know, I wish I'd thought of bringing ours from home," Mrs. X says, adjusting the wrap around her naked shoulders. "I'm waiting to hear from the board if they're letting me buy one of the studios on the secondfloor."
"Your buildinghasstudios?"
"Well, they were all maids' quarters originally and most are owned by people who have larger apartments in the building. I'd love to have someplace for a little private time, you know? I'm just so torn when Grayer's home. I want to be with him, but sometimes I need to get things done for my committee work."
"Oh, honey, cheers to that! Our eldest daughter just did the same thing. he has two kids and needed someplacewhereshecoulddoherown thing,butstill becloseenoughtobeinvolved. I thinkit's agreat idea."
The waitress comes over with the six drinks on a tray just as a small child goes whizzing by her at knee height,nearlyknockingthreehighballsontoMrs. X's head.
"Aaaan-drew... CometoMommmyyy."We hear aplaintive
voice whineasthehumantumbleweedfliesundertablesandbetweendiners.
Themattre d'lookspleadinglyattheoblivious parents,willing themtodisciplinetheirchild.
"Oh,honey,isn't thattheCliftons?" Mrs. Xexcusesherselftogoover andkiss cheeks.
"Nanny,drawme a chicken,"Grayer asks,while themen comparethisweek's golfscores.
"Isn't that great?" she says, sitting back down. "They're here with their son, so I toldAnne that Nanny
would take everyone out to the parking lot until the food comes." Everyone?Am I to lead Mrs. Clifton
in arousingrenditionof "Michael,RowYour BoatAshore" bytheDumpster?
I pull myself out of my seat and take Grayer and the whirling dervish out into the cold, dark, sandy
parking lot to play. They climb up and down a piece of oiled driftwood a few times and then Andrew
suggestsmakingdirt angels.
"Yeah, no. How about we wash hands before the food comes?" I try to steer them back inside toward
theladies'room.
"No!"Andrewshouts. "I'm a boy. I'm notusingsomegirl's toilet. Noway."
Mr. Cliftonroundsthecorner tothebathrooms. "I'll takethem," hesays tome, leadingtheboys intothe
bathroomandleavingme toenjoy a wholetwominutesintheladies'roombymyself.
I've just latched the door on the stall when I hear Mrs. X and Mrs. Longacre come in. Mrs. Longacre is
agreeing about something. "Absolutely! You can never be too cautious these days. Do you know Gina
Zuckerman? She has a boy about Grayer's age. arwin, I think. Apparently the woman they had
watching him, some South American, grabbed him by the arm. Gina caught it all on the Nannycam.
Sentthatwomanrightbacktowhateverthirdworldvillage shecrawledout of."
I trynottobreatheasMrs. Longacrepeesbesideme.
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"We just set up our Nannycam a few weeks ago," Mrs. X says. "I haven't had time to review the tapes,
butitgives mepeaceof mindknowingI'm abletobevirtually righttherewith myson."
Shutup.Shutup!
"Don't youhavetogo?" Mrs. Longacreasks, comingoutof thestall.
"No,I'm justwashing myhands,"Mrs. Xsays fromthesink.
Grayer poundsonthebathroom door. "Nanny!"
Mrs. X opens the door. "Wha. rayer? What are you doing here?" I hear her leave and wait for Mrs.
Longacretofinishwashingher handsbeforeI unlatchthestall.
NANNYCAM?! NANNYCAM???.'.'.' What's next? Periodic drug tests? Strip searches? A metal
detectorintheirfronthall?Whoarethesepeople?
I splash my face with cold water and try, for the umpteenth time in nine months, to put my six-foot
employers outof mymindsoI canfocusontheneedsof thethree-footone.
I walk back to the table. Mrs. X is struggling to balance Grayer on the phone books. She looks up,
openly glaring at me. "Nanny, where have you been? I found Grayer unattended and I think it's
unacceptable?
An unprecedented level of rage shows on my face, momentarily silencing her. I readjust Grayer on his
phonebooks,cutup hischickenforhim, andtake aforkfulof mashedpotatoes.
"Well, then,Nanny,whydon't youtakethekids outsidetillwe're done?" sheasks sweetly.
And I spend the rest of the meal in the damp wind, feeding Grayer sandy chicken out of a Styrofoam
container. Pretty soon Andrew joins us, then three more. I play Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes. I
playMotherMay1.1playRedLight,GreenLight.
But there is only so much you can do with five children in a dark parking lot before you want to sell
them.
After putting Grayer to bed I ransack the kitchen for ammonia. While searching under the sink, I hear
the tap of Mrs. X's Manolos on the linoleum as she opens the cabinets above. She maneuvers
awkwardly aroundmeinsilence.
"Whatare youdoingunderthere?" Mr. Xcomes in,holdingthepaper.
"I'm looking for ammonia to take the sting out of my mosquito bites," I say, my head tucked between
thepipesand a bottleofbleachasI huntforthisemergencyGirl Scoutsolution.
"And I'm looking for the Scotch, so I can fix you a nightcap." Her feet swivel so she can face him and
herwrapslidesslowlytothefloor,landingin a scarlet-red heapbesideher goose-pimpled ankles.
"Ammonia?" heasks. "Huh."
Hisheavyfootstepsmove fromthelinoleumofthekitchentothewoodofthehallway.
"Honey?" shesays in a slightlyhusky toneas shefollows him to thedoor frame. "Whydon't we read in
bed?"
I heartherustleofhimhandingthepaperover to her. "I've gottoconfirmmyflightouttomorrow. I'll be
inwhenI'm done. Don'twait up.Goodbye, Nanny."I seeMrs. X's calfmusclesclench.
"Bye, have agoodflight," I say. GiveMs. Cmyregards.
I hearher followhim downthehall, leavingme alonetorummage underevery sinkinthehouse,but all
I findis a lotof Mr. CleanandsomePine-Sol.
An hour later,when I turn out the bathroomlight, I see Mr. X slowly pushing their bedroomdoor open,
a shaftoflightilluminatingthehallway.
"Darling,"I hearhersayquietly.Thedoorslidesclosed.
THE NANNY DIARIES
"Daddy,you're here!" Grayerjumps upinfrontofSesameStreetwhen Mr. X entersthelivingroomlate
thenextmorning.
"Hi,"I say, startled. "I thoughtyouwere?
"Hey,sport."Hecomes over tositonthecouch.
"Where's Mommy?" Grayer asks.
"Mommy's intheshower."His fathergrins. "Haveyouhadbreakfast?"
"I wantcereal,"hesays, skippingincircles aroundthecouch.
"Well, let's rustle you up some food. I could go for eggs and sausage."It isThursday, right? It's not still
Wednesday? Because I already scratched Wednesdayoff on the little calendar I've carved into the wall
bymybed.
Mrs. X saunters in wearing a bikini top, sarong, and miles of exposed gooseflesh. She's flushed and has
theauraofvictory abouther.
"Morning, Grayer. Morning, you." She languorously comes up behind Mr. X, putting her hands on his shoulders and giving him a little massage. "Darling, would you mind going to pick up the paper?" He rollshis headbacktolookupather andshegrins, leaningdowntogive him a kiss.
"Sure." He comes around the couch, brushing his lips over her shoulder as he passes. Well, I've
officiallyfoundtheonlyscenariomore uncomfortablethanbeingaroundwhentheyfight. "Wouldyoumind if I wentwith Mr. X to thestore to get someAfter Bite?" I ask, trying tocapitalize on herpostcoital glow.
"No. I'd rather you stayed here to watch Grayer while I get ready." Mr. X grabs the keys from the table by the door and heads out. As we hear the car start she asks, "Grayer, how'd you like a baby brother or sister?"
"I want a baby brother! I want a baby brother!" He runs over to her, but she spatulas him and rebounds
himbacktome,like a fieldhockeyball.
The phone begins to ring as Mr. X pulls out of the driveway. Mrs. X takes his sweatshirt from the back
ofthecouchandpulls it
on over her head before picking up the heavy olive-green receiver. "Hello?" she stands, listening
expectantly. "Hello?" Sheadjustsher sarong. "Hello?" Shehangsup.
Sheeyes meacross theroom. "I hopeyouhaven't beengiving this phonenumber out."
"No,onlytomyparentsincaseof anemergency,"I say.
She's halfwayup thestairswhenthephoneringsagain,bringingher backdownintothelivingroom.
"Hello?" she asks a fourth time, sounding annoyed. "Oh, hi..." Her voice is strained. "No, he's not in ...
No,he decidednot toleavetoday,but I'll havehimcall youwhen hegets back ... Chenowith,right?I've
got it.AreyouinChicagoor NewYork?...Okay,bye."
NoTeuschertrufflesforyou,Ms. Chicago.
When Mr. X gets back I go into the kitchen to help him unload and pull out the usual assortment of
carcinogenicsugar-freeyogurts,tofudogs,andSnackWell's.
"Did anyone call?" he asks, pulling a single cheese pastry out of a small wax-paper bag for himself as
Mrs. X comes intothekitchen.
"Nope,"shesays. "Why,wereyouexpectingsomeone?"
"Nope."
Well, then,that's settled.
Ring.Ring.Ring.
The next afternoon as a plane flies low over the backyard, I wake to the shrill sound of the phone from inside the house. Again. Slapping at the mosquitoes feasting on my bare legs, I unpeel my flesh from the rubber slats of the dilapidated lawn chair and stand up to answer the ringing. But it abruptly stops. Again.
Earlier thismorningI stoodwarilystaringat atruckinour drive--
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wayas an old man unloadedthree large rental bikes, wondering with a heavy heart if this implied thatI was to ride with Grayer up on my shoulders.At this point, I doubt I'd so much as bat an eyelash if they suggestedthatI loadhimintomywombtomakemore roomintheLandRover.
Grayer had to explain to his father that he could only ride the red ten-speed propped up in the driveway if it had training wheels. I still can't tell if the man is totally clueless or just insanely optimistic about Grayer's capabilities.At any rate, one adult bike was exchanged for a smaller one and, to my.surprise, I was permitted to bow out of their excursion. They rode off toward town, leaving me with grand plans for a long jog, a leisurely bath, and a nap, but I seem only to have made it as far as sitting down on this deckchair inmyrunningshortsandsportsbratoputonmysneakers.Well, oneoutofthreeain't sobad.
I grope under the chair for my watch, grimacing as a sliver of wood slides under my fingernail. I pull thewatchoutandsuckgentlyontheafflictedfinger.They've beengoneforover anhour.
I head back inside, turn on the hot water in the kitchen sink and thrust my hand under it. I finally get a freemoment tomyself forthefirst time in a weekandI havetospenditcoaxingthis damn houseout of myveryskin!
Ring.Ring.Ring.
I don't even bothertomove fromwhere I'm leaningagainstthecounter. Shegives upafter thefifth ring. Sheseemstobelosinghersubtleedge.
The hot water proves to be unsuccessful, forcing me to gather a makeshift emergency kit, consisting of a corn holder, matches, and a neglected bottle of Ketel One from the freezer. As I set up shop at the kitchentableI staredownatthecrackedgreenlinoleum. I wish I couldcallup andorder a fill-in friend, like a guy orders a stripper. Some fabulous young woman would show up with Cool Ranch Dori-tos, margaritas,and a copyof Heathers. OratleastsomeoldJane
magazines. If I have to flip through Good Housekeeping from July of '88 one more time I'm going to bakemyself intoanapplepie.
I reach for the vodka, freezing when I think I hear the crunch of gravel in the driveway signaling their return. I untwist the top, pour a shot into a juice glass, and feel it roll onto my tongue. I pound the glass backonthetable,turningitover like a cowboy.
I lookover attheold, decrepitAMradioonthesideboard,andturnonthepower.
Ring.Ring.Ring.
"He's nothere!" I shoutover myshoulder.
I start rolling the knob, dropping my head on my arm as I spin past dribbles of news and oldie stations blurring through the ancient speakers in tiny bursts of static. I move the knob slowly, an astronaut listening for signs of life, trying to make out a Billy Joel\* song amid the fuzz. My head lifts. It's not Billy ... it's Madonna!
I rolltheknob amillimeter, standingwith excitement atthefamiliar soundof "Holiday."I grabthecorn holder and shove it inby theknob to holdit in place, crank the volume up as high as it will go, and sing along with the next best thing to a fill-in friend. There is life beyond this place, myglitter-eyed, badass, blondfriend remindsme,lifewithoutthem!
" 'If we took a holiday, oohya? " I shimmy my Lycra-clad self around the kitchen, tossing the vodka back in the freezer to chill, forgetting completely about my finger, mosquito bites, and severe sleep deprivation. Within moments I am right there with her as she insists that I take some time to celebrate, (oohya), and kick, eighties style, into the living room, grabbing Grayer's monster truck for a microphoneandbeltingit outfor all I'm worth.
I am just slidingoffthebackof thecouch,when Mr. Xthrows openthescreendoorinhis DonnaKaran runningpants. I freezein a squat,truckin hand,but he barely notices me ashe hurls his cell phoneonto thericketywingchair andstridestothestairs. I joltuptolookout
THE NANNY DIARIES
the front door, where the silhouette of Mrs. X moves closer from a heap of Grayer in the middle of the driveway. I leap over Graver's toys, run into the kitchen, dislodge the corn holder, kill the power, and runbackintothelivingroomjust asthefrontdoorswingsclosed.
She eyes mymidriff. "Get him readyfor his playdate, Nanny. He claims he scrapedhis knee, but I can't see anything. Just quiet him down. y husband has a headache." She breezes past me to the stairs, rubbingherowntemples. "Oh andsomething's wrong withhis cell. Checkit,will you?"
Mr. X screamsfromupstairs, "Where's mysuitcase?Whathaveyoudonewith mysuitcase!"
Strains of a sobbing Grayer ripple through the house as I reach for my sweatpants, finger throbbing back tolife. I pick up Mr. X's cell phone.Thecaller IDshows that all thecalls are coming from theXes' apartment.
Ring.Ring.Ring.
I struggletoopenmyheavyeyelids inthedarkness.
Ring.Ring.
1 don't knowwhyhedoesn't justcallherandtellher he's not
coming back!
"Nanny!" Grayer cries out asthephonewakes himfor thethirdtime tonight.At this pointI'm aboutone ringfromcalling herandtellingherwhereshecanstickherphoneandherfoiegras.
Reachingacross thetwo-foot divide between our beds, I squeezeGrayer's sweatyhand. "The monster," he says, "is really scary. It's going to eat you up, Nanny." The whites of Grayer's eyes shine in the dark room.
I roll over onto my side to face him, while not letting go of his hand. "Think real hard, what color was themonster?I wanttoknow, 'causeI'm friendswith a few."
He's quietfor amoment. "Blue."
"Oh,yeah?SoundslikeCookieMonsterfromSesameStreet.Was hetryingtoeatme?" I asksleepily.
"You thinkit's CookieMonster?" heasks,his deathgriplighteningasherelaxes.
"Yup. I think Cookiewanted to play with us, but he scared you byaccident and was trying to tell me he
wassorry.Wanttocountsheep?"Or rings?
"No.Singthesong,Nanny."
I yawn. " 'Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer,' " I croon softly, feeling
his warm breath on my wrist. " Take one down, pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall.'
"Hishandgrows heavyandbyninety beershe's backtosleepforatleast afewmorehours.
I turnover on myrightside andwatch him, his chest gentlyrising and falling, his hand curled under his
chin,his faceforthemoment relaxedandpeaceful. "Oh,Grove,"I sayquietly.
The next morning, after indulging in three cups of unflavored coffee, and buying a case ofAfter Bite. I
standagainsttheonlypayphoneintown,franticallydialing thenumbers ontheplasticphonecard.
"Hello?" H. H. answers.
"Oh,thankGod.I thoughtI wasn't goingtocatchyoubeforeyouleft."I slump againstthepayphone.
"Hey! No,I wasjustpacking. yflight's nottilleight.Whereareyou?"
"At a pay phone. They left me in town while they went to a dog breeder." I fish the box of cigarettes I
boughtalongwith thephonecardoutof theplastic bagandripoffthecellophanewrapper.
"Adogbreeder?"
"Mr. X is hoping to buy a small furry replacement for himself. He's leaving this afternoon. I guess one
weekof familyvacation was
THE NANNY DIARIES
about all he could take." I stick a cigarette in my mouth and light it, inhaling and exhaling quickly.
"This town must have some rule against businesses selling anything but scented candles, boats in a bottle, or flavoredfudge. Hell is ayacht-shapedcandle?
"N, just come home."A family walks by, each member in various stages of finishing ice-creamcones. I turnmybodyintothebooth,guiltily hidingthecigarette.
"But I've got to get moving money together. Ugh! When I think of all those times after work that I marchedstraighttoBarneys and blewhalf mypaycheckjust tocheer myself up, 1 couldshootmyself!" I take one last inhale and stub the cigarette out on the top of a nearby fence. "I'm so unhappy," I say quietly.
"I know,I canhearthat," hesays.
"Everyone here looks throughme,"I say, feelingmyeyes welling up with tears. "You don't understand. I'm not supposedtotalk toanybodyandeveryone acts asif I shouldbe gratefuljust tobeinNan-tucket, asifthiswere theFreshAir Fundorsomething.I'm solonely."I'm reallycrying now.
"I respectyou somuch.You've madeit throughseven whole days! Hangin therefortheGrayermeister. So,whatareyouwearing?" I smileatthefamiliar question,blowingmynoseontothebrownpaperbag.
"A Gstring bikini and a cowboy hat, what else. You?" I button the top button of my cardigan and pull upthewoolturtleneckclosearoundmychinas abiting windblows offtheAtlantic.
"Sweatpants."God,I misshim.
"Listen, fly safe and remember, no pot smoking with the porn stars. Repeat: tulip barges and Anne Frankmuseum. kay. Pornstars. otokay."
"Got it, partner, keep your hat on and shoot straight from? The phone abruptly clicks and a dial tone blares into my ear, signalingthe death of my phone card. I bang the receiver into the Plexi-glas. Damn, damn,damn.
I turnawayfromthephonebooth,preparedtogobuy alotof
fudge, when the old cell phone explodes in shrill beeping, causing me to trip into the hedge and bang myelbowonthewoodenfenceliningthepathway.
Tears spring to my eyes again as I march solemnly to Annie's Candle Shack, their appointed meeting place. I shove the cigarette pack deep into the pocket of my jeans just as the Land Rover pulls into the parking lot. I can hear barking coming from the trunk of the car, but Grayer looks joylessly out through thewindow.
"Let's get going. I want to make the noon flight," Mr. X says as I strap myself in beneath the canoe and heavyraindropssplatterthewindshield.
Sharpbarkingricochetsthroughthecar.
"Makeit stop,Nanny!" Grayer saysgrumpily. "I don't likethat."
Mr. X turns offthecarandthe Xes joginto thehouse, evading thelast of thedrizzle, while I struggleto unbuckle Grayer and carry the whimpering crate in after them. I set the wooden box down on the shag rug, lifting the retriever puppy out, just as an elderly woman with shoulder-length gray hair emerges fromthekitchen.
"Grandma!" Grayer criesout.
"Ah, there you are. I thought I must have the wrong house," she says, untying her scarf and
maneuveringcarefully soasnottotouchthemildewedwalls.
"Mother." Mr. X looks as if he's just been zapped with a stun gun, but then recovers, moving forward
automatically tokiss heronthecheek. "Whatareyoudoinghere?"
"Well, that's a finewaytogreet your mother.Your charming wife calledme yesterdayand invited me to enjoy this refugee camp you probably paid a bundle for," she says, looking up at the peeling paint. "Although, honestly, I don't know why I couldn't have come tomorrow," she says to Mrs. X. "I caught the nine thirty. I tried calling from the ferry, but the line was busy, and as much fun as it would have beentowait intherainandeatoneofthefried breadproductsavailable for
THE NANNY DIARIES purchaseatyour charming stationI decidedtohail a cab."I standjustoutside oftheir triangle,takingin the grande dame who has spawned this family. I've only met women like Elizabeth X when my
grandmother has dragged me to Vassar reunions for the class of 1862. She's real Boston Brahmin, part KatharineHepbum, partOscartheGrouch. "Elizabeth,welcome."Mrs. Xglides forwardtogive her motherin-law aguardedkiss. "CanI takeyour
coat?" Call theunion. rs. X istaking acoat!
Elizabeth slips out of her beige Burberry trench, revealing a blue and white polka-dot pleated dress.
"Darling?" Mrs. X says to Mr. X, who still looks stunned. "You're always saying how you two don't get
tospendenoughtime together,soI thought I'd giveyou alittle surprise."
"I saidhi, Grandma,"Grayersays impatiently.
She bends her knees slightly with her hands on her thighs. "You look just like your father. Now, run
along."Shestraightensup. "Who's this?Andwhat's that?"
"Elizabeth, this is Nanny. She looks after Grayer." I shift the puppy to my left arm and reach out to
shakeherhand.
"Lovely." Sheignoresthegestureandreachesintoherpursetopullout apackofBensonandHedges.
"That's Grayer's newdog," Mr. Xsaysjovially.
"I hateit,"Grayer saysfromthecouch.
"Wouldyoulike a cocktail,Mother?"
"Scotchandsoda,dear,thankyou."
"Oh,I thinkwe onlyhavevodka,Elizabeth,"Mrs. Xsays.
"Send.'m sorry,whatwasyourname?" Elizabethasks me.
"Nan,"I say.
"I cango,Mother."
"I just traveled three hours through torrential rain to spend time with my son. My son who, from the
lookofit, mighthave aheartattack anyday."Shepatshis protrudingstomach. "SendNan."
"Well, Mother,theinsurancedoesn't cover?
Sheturnstome. "Nan,canyoudrive?"
"Yes."
"Doyouhave, onyourperson, a validdriver's license?"
"Yes."
"Son,give herthekeys. Dowe needanythingelse?" sheasksMrs. X.
"No,I thinkwe haveeverything, Elizabeth."
"The Clarks and the Havemeyers are coming by tomorrow, and knowing you, dear, there's only rabbit
food.Nan,comewith me tothekitchen. I'll make alist."
I dutifully follow her into the avocado-green kitchen, dragging the dog crate behind me as I go. I park
theboxnearthetableandplacethepuppygentlybackonher towel.AssoonasI latchthecagedoorshe resumesher yapping. Elizabeth throws open a few cupboards, while I take a piece of paper from the pad by the phone. "This
place is quite a shithole," she mutters to herself. "Okay." She starts dictating. "Scotch, gin, tonic,
Clamato, tomato juice, Tabasco, Worcestershire, lemons, limes." She opens the fridge and tuts with
disgust. "What the hell is soy milk? Does a soybean have udders? Have I missed something? Carr's
watercrackersandmorebrie. Canyouthinkof anythingelse?"
"Um, macadamianuts, pretzels,andpotatochips?"
"Perfect." My grandmother taught me that when entertaining WASPs, the key is to put out only a tiny
silver bowl of eachitemand suddenlyevenPringles haveclass. "Son!Canyoupleaseput thatgoddamn
doginthegarage!Theyelping isgiving me a migraine!" sheshouts.
"Coming,Mother." Mr. andMrs. Xenter thekitchen.
"I couldn't agree more, Elizabeth. Nanny, help Mr. X carry the crate into the garage," Mrs. X instructs
me.
I takethefrontendof thecrateandtrytomakereassuring
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noises to the puppy as we carry her out to the cold garage. Her brown eyes stare up at me as she tries to
steadyherself. "There,there,goodgirl,"I murmur.
Mr. X looksatme asifhecan't quitefigureoutwhoI'm talkingto.
Mrs. X follows us down the rickety wooden steps as we lower the crate onto the damp cement floor.
"Nanny, here are the keys." She holds them up as she comes over. "Oh, good." She looks down with
disdain. "I think it'll bemuchhappierout?
Mr. X grabs her by the elbow and steers her into the corner by the boiler. "How dare you invite her
without consulting me," he growls through clenched teeth. Still waiting for the keys, I crouch down to
adjustthepuppy's towel, tryingtomakemyself asunobtrusive aspossible.
"Buthoney,itwas a surprise. 1 wasjusttryingto?
"I knowexactlywhatyouweretrying todo.Well, I hopeyou're happy. I reallyhopeyouare."Hepivots
inhis loafersandstorms backintothekitchen.
She stands with her back to me in the corner, facing the rusting trash cans. "Oh, I am." She reaches up
and smooths her fingertips across her forehead. "I'm so happy. Really fucking happy," she says quietly
intothedarkness.
Shewalksshakilypastme,backup thestepstothekitchen,thecarkeys still clenchedinherfist.
"Um, Mrs. X?" I say, standingasshereachesthesplinteringdoor.
Sheturns,hermouthpursed. "What?"
"Um, thekeys?" I ask.
"Right." Shehurls thematmeandstepsthroughthekitchendoortorejoinher family.
He was determined to show who was master in that house, and when commands would not draw Nona
fromthekennel,heluredheroutof itwithhoneyed words,andseizedherroughly,draggedherfromthe
nursery. Hewasashamedofhimself, andyet hedidit.
. ETERPAN
angan<
imper
Moments after finally surrendering to unconsciousness I wake to sobbing. I pull myself out of bed and
liedownbesideGrayerashethrashesaround,battling themonsterswhohavechasedusout ofourrest.
"Shhh. Shhh." I try to take him in my arms, but not before one of his flailing limbs manages to whack
me intheeye. "Ow,shit." I situp.
"I would appreciate it if you didn't use thatkind of languagein frontof Grayer." I look over to seeMrs.
X silhouettedinher mutton-sleeved nightgownbythedoorway. "Well?" sheasks,making noattempt to
come closer.
"I thinkhehad anightmare."
"Okay, then. Just try to keep him quiet. Mr. X has his tennis tournament today." She disappears back
downthehall, leavingusalone.
"Shhh,I'm righthere,Grove,"I whisperasI strokehis back.
He shakes, turning his head into my neck. "No you're not. You're gonna go away." He begins to sob
againstmyshoulder.
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"Grove,I'm here. I'm righthere."
He pulls back slightly and raises himself onto his elbow, puts his small fingers on my cheek and turns
myfaceto his. In thedim glowof the Grover night-light he looksintentlyinto myeyes. I hold his gaze,
taken aback by the intensity of his expression, as if he were trying to memorize me. When he's finished
heliesbackdown,his bodyslowlyrelaxingasI curlaroundhim,whispering ourmonstersaway.
Unable to get back to sleep, I exhale the last of my cigarette into the shed, stubbing the smoke out into
thewetgrass, andlookbackatthehouseframedbythemoonlight.
"Woof!"Thestill unnamedXpetnestles againstmyankles.
"Shhh, you," I say, reaching down to scoop her up like a baby, her slick paws brushing my chin. I
carefully makemywaythroughthewet grassuptothebackdoor,pullingitopenslowly andcringingat
theunavoidablecreak.I stepoutofmydamptennisshoesintothekitchen.
She wriggles to get free as I nestle her into the crate. Shaking with agitated exhaustion, I stare at the
refrigerator. I tiptoe over and open the freezer door to pull out the vodka, desperate to be knocked out.
But the icebox light reveals that my little survival swigs have made a noticeable dent in the reserves. I
hold the bottle under the tap before returning it to its spot under the frozen veggie burgers. I hate what
thistriphas reducedmeto.I swear,anotherweekand I'd bemixingcrackinthebathroom.
On my way upstairs I see that someone has finally taken the receiver off the hook in the living room.
It's about time. I crawl under the scratchy wool blanket to await sleep, half-dreaming of Ms. Chicago
parachutingontothefrontlawnatbreakfast.
I'm awakenedtwohourslaterbyGrayertrying toscrambleover metogettothebathroom.
28 1
"Nanny,it's time forbreakfast."
"In where? France?" I'm so exhausted I can barely see. I hold on to the wall as I follow him to the
bathroom and help him pull down his pajama bottoms. While he's relieving himself I pull open the
shade,squintingasthebathroomis bathedinorangelight.
I pull a sweatshirt onover mypajamasandweshuffledownstairs.
"Whatdoyouwantforbreakfast?" I ask,bendingover topickup thepuppy.
"No,Nanny,leaveit,"hewhines,turninghis backonthecage. "Leave itinthebox."
"Grayer,whatdoyouwantforbreakfast?"
"I don't know. Froot Loops?" he mumbles as I heave her up onto my shoulder. She barks and licks my
face.
"Sorry,bud, youknowweonlyhaveSoyFlakes."
"I hateSoyFlakes. I saidI wanttheotherkind!"
"I want a personal life, Grove. We can't always have what we want." He nods. I give him Soy Flakes,
whichhepokesatwhile I takethepuppyoutsidetorelieveherself.
At eight o'clock I wake at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Mrs. X descends in yet another
Nantucketoutfit sheboughtatSearle andcasually placesthephonereceiverbackonits cradle. "Grayer,
let's turnofftheTV. Whatdoyouwantforbreakfast?"
"Heal?I starttosay.
"I wantFroot Loops!I wantedit, butNannywouldn't give ittome."
"Nanny,whydidn't youfeedGrayer?" sheasks, turningoffthetelevision.
"I WANT IT! I NEED IT!" he screams like a baby into the dark screen, rousing the dog into a yelping
frenzy.
"Cut it out," I say quietly, and it silences him for a second until he remembers this isn't my show. Full--
on screamingensuesanddoesn't stopuntilhe's eatinghis secondchocolatedoughnutandthe
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TVisbackon.I yawn,wonderingifthey'd gethim a hookerifhecriedhardenough.
"I believe I've made it clear, Nanny," she says, looking down at the retriever as if she were vermin.
"That I don't like the dog in the living room. Please put it back in the garage." I pick up the puppy.
"HaveyoupackedGrayer's activitybagfortheclub?"
"No,I've beenkeepinghim company."
"Well, heseemsoccupiedforthemoment," shesays.
I nod,pickingupthebagwith myfreehand.
"Also, did you get more wipes?" What, with the private chauffeur you got me? I can't even get myself
to adrugstore, youfuckingfreak.
"Um, did Mr. Xpick themupwhenhewasatthestore?" I askjustasthephonerings.
Mrs. X picks up the receiver. "Hello?" She stares at me while gripping the receiver. "Hello!" She slams
the phone down, shaking the bamboo table. "I don't know if he did. Did you put it on the shopping
list?" Sherestsher handonherhip.
"I never sawyesterday's shoppinglist."
Shesighs. "Honey?"shecalls upstairs. "Didyougetmorewipes?"
Silence.We all stareexpectantlyattheceiling. Finally we hearthesoundof slowfootstepson thestairs.
Hedescendswearinghis tenniswhitesandmakes adirect beelineforthekitchen.
"Didyougetwipes?" sheaskshis back. "Honey?You know?thoselittlecloths I usetocleanGrayer?"
He keeps walking, then stops at the door, turns to me and says, "Tell my wife I got what was on the list," and disappears into the kitchen. I can hear Mrs. X exhale slowly behind me. Won-der-ful. Ladies andgentlemen, fortheremainderof theshowtheroleofFuckedwill beplayedbyNanny.
"What, in the name of Christ, is all this racket?" The senior Mrs. X stands in a Pucci zip-front robe in
thedoorway,flinging abejew!eledhandtowardthetelevision. "Canwe pleaseturnoffthatgodawfulpurpledinosaur?"
"No!" Grayerspewschocolatecrumbs onthecouch.
"I'm sorry,Elizabeth,"Mrs. X says,rubbinghertemples. "Wouldyoulikesomecoffee?"
"Black,likeink."Neitherwoman moves,indicatingthattheonusisonmetoproducethisinkycoffee.
"Elizabeth,whydon't yougositontheporchandNanny'11bringyourcoffeeoutthere?"
"Doyouwantmetocatchpneumonia?"
"Howaboutthekitchen,then?" Mrs. X asks,buttoninghercardigan.
"I don't supposemylazysonhasgonetogetthepaperyet?"
"No,butyesterday's isstill onthetable."
"Well, now that would have been useful yesterday. Honestly, I don't know why you insist on spending
your vacation here in this ... hut when you could have come and stayed with me on the Capeand Sylvia
wouldbeservingus all eggsrightnow."
"Nextyear,Elizabeth,I promise."
After returning the dog to her crate on the kitchen floor, I'm scoopinggrounds into the filter when Mrs.
Xcomes in. Mr. Xabruptlystandsupfromwherehe's beenstudyingTheEconomist atthekitchentable andgoesoutthebackdoor. She takes another long exhale, biting the side of her mouth. She opens the fridge, grabs a yogurt, holds
it for a second and puts it back. She brings out a loaf of bread, flips it around to look at the nutrition information and returns it to the shelf. She closes the door and pulls down the box of Soy Flakes from ontopofthefridge,giving it aonce-over.
"Dowehaveanygrapefruit?" sheasks.
"I don't think Mr. X gotany."
"Nevermind, I'll eatattheclub,"shesays, puttingbackthebox.
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She walksslowly over to me,tracingher fingersalongthe counter. "Oh, a boy calledhere for you a few
days ago.Itwas a terribleconnection,though..."
"Really? I'm sorry?
"He's notthekidwholives oneleven, ishe?" sheasks.
"Actually, um, yeah." I get a coffee cup out of the cupboard, silently willing her to drop the conversation. "I recognized the name, but it tpok me a few hours to realize from where. I was wondering how you
knew him. Did you meet in the building? Was Grayer with you?" The lurid image hangs between us of me not only having sex on her bed, but enabling said sex by letting Grayer take a nap. Hard to say whichshe'd findmore alarming.
"Yeah ... It's funny..."
"Well, he must be quite a catch for you." She walks toward the windows and looks out at Mr. X
standing in the yard with his back to the house as the fog lifts. "His mother was telling me that his last
girlfriend. he was so beautiful. Every time I saw her in the elevator I'd tell her she should go in for
modeling. And always so pulled together." She turns to eye my pajamas. "Anyway, she just went to
Europe on a Fulbright. I don't suppose you'd ever consider applying for a program like that? Though I
doubtNYUstudentsareeligibleforawards ofthatcaliber."
"Well... I wanted to work after graduation ... that is, I'm not really interested in international fieldwork
so? But she's already walked out. I lean against the avocado-green linoleum counter, my jaw gaping.
Thecoffeemachineclicks off.
"DearMrs. X,yousuck,"I mutterasI pour.
"Pardon?"I whiparound. Mr. Xstandsbehindme,stuffing adoughnutinhis mouth.
"Nothing.Um, canI helpyou?"
"Mymothersaidyouwere makingcoffee."
I pulldownanotherchippedcup,still having aminorFulbrightattack. "Doesyourmothertakemilkand
sugar?"
"Nope,black,black,black."
"ShouldI nothaveused a filter?" Helaughsandfor a secondhelooksjustlikeGrayer.
"Nanny!Where's thatcoffee?" I hustlebacktotheliving room,trying nottospill.
"So I said to him, if he thinks he's going to screw me he's got another think coming!" Mrs. X has a
painedexpressionasElizabethregalesher with thetrialsof gettingher poolproperlyserviced.
"Nanny, why don't you get him dressed? We're going over to the club. Honey, you and Mommy are
going to spend the whole day together watching Daddy play tennis." Grayer barely looks over from the
TV.
I kneeltodress himinfrontofSesameStreet.
"No, Nanny. I want to wear the Pooh shirt, I hate that one," he says when I hold up the Power Ranger
shirt.
"Poo shirt!That's disgusting!" ElizabethXcries asshestandstogoupstairs.
"It's Winnie-the-Pooh,actually,"I clarifyasshepasses.
I'm tuckingtheoffendingshirtintohis shortswhenMrs. Xcomes infromthekitchen.
Ring.
She pauses briefly to raise the receiver a fewinches and then slams it back down again. "No, that won't do."Shewavesdownatme. "We're goingtotheclub.Getoneof thoseLacosteshirtsI boughthim."
"No!I wanttowearthisone!" Hepreparesforanothergale.
"Grayer, that shirt isn't appropriate," she says definitively. She picks up her handbag to wait for us while I wrestle himintothenewshirtandrebrushhishair.
"Nanny,his shortsare wrinkled.Oh,well, I supposethey'd justget wrinkledontherideover anyway."I wonder if she's considering making him stand in the car, hugging the front seat all the way to the NantucketYachtClub.
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"Grayer, stay by the car while Mommy and Nanny get our beach things," Mrs. X calls after him as he runs up onto the golf course abutting the club's parking lot. She sighs, opening the trunk, and begins to loadmeup. Mr. X andElizabethhavealreadytrottedofftothecourtsforhis firstgame.
"Thereyougo."I have astrawbagcontainingeveryone's clothingchangesswinging offmyrightelbow,
a duffel bag full of lotions, sand toys, and sporting goods hanging from the other elbow, and an enormous pile of beach blankets and beach towels in my arms, to which she adds two fully inflated floaties. I liftmychinobedientlysothatshecantucktheorangeplasticsecurelybeneathit.
"Grayer Addison X, I SAID WAIT\" she screams into my face and over my shoulder, sliding her little yellow Kate Spade tote up to her elbow and sauntering forward, hand in hand with Grayer, yellow silk sarong billowing in the cool breeze. I tighten my arms around the pile, trying not to trip as I precariously navigate behind her. She greets the entire club as she passes, remembering each mother and child byname. I followher, thankfulthatthe floaties have positioned myheadat suchan angle that no one can tell if I'm rolling my eyes. Which I am. A lot. We kick off our sandals and walk down the woodenplankstothesand.
Sheweaves inandoutof umbrellas, beforepointingher headat aplot of emptybeachto indicatewhere I'm tosetup camp.Grayer skipsincircles aroundtheblanketasI layitout.
"Come on! Let's go swimming! Right now. Right now." I look over at Mrs. X, as I anchor the blanket with abag,but she's alreadyimmersed inconversation.
"Let's get your suit on, Grover." I take his hand to walk up to the cabana that someone named Ben's brother has lent us for the week while he's in Paris. I close the wooden door, leaving us in damp semi!darkness,with onlyslivers ofsunlightpeeringinthroughtheslats
and onto the white boards. He pulls open the door the moment his other foot is through the top of the shorts.
"Wait, G! Got to lather up." I hold up the Chanel Bebe SPF 62, which I am constantly forced to slather onhim.
"I hatethatstuff!" Hetriestomake arunforit,butI grab hisarm.
"Howaboutyouputit onmyfaceand I'll putit onyours,"I offer.
"Me first." He gives in. I squirt the white cream on his fingers and he smears it over my nose. I gently cover his, tryingtogethis cheeksatthesametime sowe cangetoutofthecabanabeforesunset.
"Nanny,we aretakingturns!Don't cheat," headmonishes, generouslyslatheringmyears.
"Sorry, Grove. I just want to hurry up and get this stuff on you so we can get out there and go swimming." I cover his earsandchest.
"I'll do it myself, then." He smears his hands on his arms and legs, covering about a fifth of his exposed skin.I benddowninthedoorway,attempting toeven itout,butherunsawayfrommebackdowntothe sand.Tenpedicuredtoesstopinfrontofme.
"Nanny, don't forget to put sunscreen on him. Oh, and there's a jellyfish warning today so you better bringeverything uptothepool. Seeyoulater."
I schlep our stuffback up to the pool, only to discover that the water is slowly being drained out after a small child had an "accident." We head over to the Little Schooners Playground, a bit of an overstatement for a rusted swing set in a shadeless, fenced patch of sand. The sun beats down mercilessly as Grayer attempts to play with the seven other children, none of whom is close to him in age.We all poolbeachsupplies,takingturnscoloring, throwing aball, andpickingour noses.
After he threatens to hurl a twoyear-old off the swing set for her juice box, I leave our stuff and lead Grayer over totheclaycourts togetdrinkmoneyfrom Mr. X. For agoodtwentyminutes,
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we stumble along the bleachers in the heat searching for his match, but find it difficult to pick him out ofthecrowdofmiddle-aged menwearingvisors.
"That's him!That's mydad!" Grayerkeeps shoutinghopefully,pointingatvariousmen intenniswhites, onlytohavethemturnaroundwithdisconcertinglyunfamiliar faces.
When we finally spot him on the last court Grayer throws himself against the fence, gripping the wire with his fingersandscreaming,likeDustinHoffmaninTheGraduate.
'VaaAAAAaadddDDdyyyyYYYYyyyyyy!!!!"
Elizabeth hisses at us disapprovingly as Mr. X marches over with a murderous look in his eye. I guess Grayer "the politicalprisoner" doesn't fitinwith theimagehe's beencultivating all morning.
"Come on now, sport, don't cry," he booms for the whole court to hear. I put my hands gently on Grayer's shoulders to pull him back. "Get him out of here!" he whispers fiercely as soon as he's close enough that he won't be overheard. "And here." He pulls his cell phone from his belt and thrusts it throughthefenceatme. "Takethisgoddamnthingwithyou."
He stalks back to his game before I can ask him for the money. I look up to Elizabeth, but she glares straight in front of her, blowing smoke coolly to the side. I shove the phone deep into my pocket, and pickupGrayer,who's screaming,andlughim,stillscreaming,totheparkinglot,becauseI havenoidea whereelsetogo.
When I am about two minutes from teaching Grove how to drink from the sprinklers we finally track downMrs. Xatthegolfcourse.
"There you are!" she exclaims, as if she's been looking for us for hours. "Grayer, are you hungry?" He droopstothegrass,still holdingmyhand.
"I thinkhe's thirsty,actually?
"Well, theBenningtonshaveinvited afewfamilies totheir
house for a barbecue. Won't that be fun?" He plops down on the lawn, red faced and sweating, forcing me topickhimupandfollowherasshestrollsbacktothecar,sippingfromher Perrier.
When we pull into the Benningtons' drive the first thing I notice is the Filipino man in a white jacket walking a poodle around the fountain. The second is that there are at least fifteen cars parked on the gravel. How do you throw together an impromptu barbecue for fifteen families when the Benningtons left the club only minutes before us?As we walk through the white gate at the side of the house to the poolareatheanswerbecomes apparent.You callthehouseonyourcell phoneandmobilizeyourstaff.
I stand there, absorbing the realization that there is no way my wedding is going to be as nice as this informal little barbecue. It's not just that the impeccably manicured lawn goes right down to the water, or thateverything isinfullbloom, orthatanothermanin a white jacketis tendingbar,servingicecubes that all havegrapesfrozeninthem, while a thirdflips filet-mignon burgers;it's not even thattableswith starched floral tablecloths have been set up all over the lawn; what finally gets me are the watermelons sculptedintothebustsof formerpresidents.
I am startled by Grayer, fully revived from the contraband can of Coke his dad absentmindedly handed him, dumping a hot dog on my foot. He has ketchup all over himself, including his Lacoste shirt. I couldn't bemore pleased.
"Come on, Grover, let's get you another dog." He and I eat our lunch, and then I sit nursing a vodkatonic while he runs around thelawn with theother kids. Bynow I knowbetter than totalk to anyof the guests.
I see the Horners arrive with an attractive tan woman in tow. Caroline brings her over to meet Mrs. X while Jacktakesthegirls tothegrill. I watchwith curiosity asMrs. Xswitches herselfon,her hands
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going to her pearls, her face a mask of compassion. This must be Caroline's divorcee from California. After a few minutes Mrs. X loses steam, holds up her empty glass to signal her need for a refill, and departs.
Jack joins the two women, bringing with him a hot dog and Mr. X. The foursome engage in animated conversation for some time until Lulu skips over and pulls her parents away. Mr. X and the tan woman starttowalkover towhereI'm sitting. I quicklyslump downinthechairandclosemyeyes. NotthatMr.
X couldpickmeout of alineup.
"Well,"I hearhimsayastheypass by, "I haveseasontickets, soifyou'd liketogo..."
"Doesn't yourwife gowith you?" sheasks.
"She usedto,butshe's sowrappedupwith oursonlately..."Your who?
I sit back up to check if Mrs. X has noticed her husband's stroll down to the water, but she's embroiled
with Mrs. Longacre. Mypocketstartstovibrate.
"Whatthe... ?" I pull Mr. X's pulsingphoneoutandtrytoswitch it offwithoutspillingmydrink, hitting
buttonsatrandom.
"Hello?" I hear avoice calloutfrommypalm.
"Hello?" I instinctivelyraisethephonetomyear.
"Whoisthis?" awoman's voicedemands.
"Nanny,"I say. There's noneedtoaskwho sheis.
"Nanny?" Shesoundslikeshe's crying. "Is hethere?"
"No," I say, craning my neck to see down to the water, but Mr. X and his new friend have disappeared.
"I'm sorry,look,I've gottago?
"No.Don't hangup.Please. Pleasejusttellmewhereheis,"shebegstearfully.
I crane my head around. "Wait a sec." I hold the phone down low at my hip and walk swiftly up to the
house and into the first French door off the porch. I close it shut behind me, keeping Grayer steadily in
mygaze. I take adeepbreathbeforeliftingthephone back up to my ear. "Look, I'm not really sure what to tell you. Not to be trite, but I really just work here."
"Whatis hestill doingupthere?Hewon't answer hisphone, i\_?
"He's, he's..." I don't knowwhatto say. "Playing tennis ... andeatingdoughnuts,I guess?"
"Buthehates her,hehatesgoingawaywith her. Hecan't behavingfun?
"Well, yeah,no, hedoesn't reallyseemtobehavingfun."
"Really?" she asks. I look out the window at the party, such as it is: balding paunchy men and their
second or third wives, who're just biding time till their next peel or tuck, all oblivious to their children
running back and forth on the lawn, savoring a few moments away from their monsters. And the
nannies, all sittingquietly onthedampgrass, awaitingtheirnextorder.
"No,"I say, "nobodyishaving anyfun."
"What?Whatdidyousay?"
"Look, I just have to ask, because you seem so intent on being here. What is it here that you want?
Whataboutanyofthisisappealingtoyou?" I gestureoutatthewindow.
"You don't know what you're talking about. What are you? Eighteen?" Her tone changes as she sobers upfromher crying jag. "I don't seehowthisisanyofyourbusiness."
"Oh, oh, you know what? I don't think this is any of my business, either!" I want to hurl the phone straight through the window and have it land right in Mrs. X's Perrier. "You came to my house. How much more of my problem could you have made this? Having a covert affair, okay, means nobody knows about it. You do not get to have a crew of little helpers." I stare at the phone. "Are you still there?"
"Yes."
"Well, forwhatever it's worth,I've been all upandinherefor
THE NANNY
ninemonths,asinas agirl couldget, andI cantellyou: thereisnothinggoodhere?
"ButI?
"Anddon't thinkit's all her,either,becauseit's not. Shewas youonce,you know. Soyou canplay all the Cole Porter you want, turn the heat up as high as it will go, but in the end you'll spend your life chasing him down, just like everybody else in that apartment." I look back out the window at the children playing tagonthelawn.
"My," she says, "that's quite an impressive moral analysis from the girl who stole eight hundred dollars fromme?
Suddenly Grayer trips and goes flying through the air. My breath catches and it seems to take hours for himtoland.
"Are youlistening?" sheasks. "Hello?Nanny?I saidI fullyexpect?
"What, do I have to say it in Spanish? Get out of this relationship while you still have a pulse!And this advice is worth way more than eight hundred dollars, so you just consider us even." I click the phone shut. There is an interminable pause and then a bloodcurdling wail. The entire party is struck silent, no onemoves.
I run out to the porch and down onto the lawn. I weave through the immobile linen shifts and khaki pants,immediatelylocatingMrs. Xinthepartingcrowd.
"Nannnyyy!" he cries. Mrs. X gets there first. "Nannnyyy!" She tries to bend down to him, but he hits out at her and flings his bleeding arm around mylegs. "No! 1 want Nanny." I sit down on the grass and pullhimontomylap.Mrs. Benningtoncomes over withthefirst-aid kit, whiletheotheradults lookon.
"Here,whydon't you letMommy take a lookatit," I say. Heholds out his arm, allowing herto bandage it, butcurlshis faceawayfrom herintomyshoulder.
"Sing thebottle song,"heasks tearfullyasMrs. Xawkwardlyappliesiodine.
"'Ninety-nine bottles of beer on thewall,' " I singquietly, while rubbinghis back. "'Ninety-nine bottles
ofbeer ...'"
"'Takeonedownandpassitaround,'" hemumblesintomyshoulder.
"Where's myhusband?" shesuddenlyasks, scanningthecrowd just as Mr. X roundsthe hedgerowwith
his arm around Caroline's friend. They're both a little flushed and clearly hadn't been anticipating that
all eyes wouldbeonthemwhentheyreturned.
I hold G's bandaged arm as he swishes in his bath, a reminder not to get the Batman Band-Aid wet. He
leans his head against my hand. "I'm going to get a boat when I get big. It's going to be blue and have a
poolonit."
"I hope it'll bewarmer thantheoneattheclub."I washhis backwiththewashclothinmyfreehand.
"Oh,man.It willbesohot!Like thisbath!Andyoucancome andswim with me."
"Thanks for the invitation, Grove. You know, when you're all grown-up you'll have lots of friends and
I'll bereal old?
"Toooldtoswim? No way, Nanny.You liar."
"You're right, G, I'm lying, count me in for the cruise." I drop my chin to the cool porcelain beside his
head.
"You couldbring Sophie, too! Shecould have her own pool.A poolfor all the animals.And Katie could bringherguineapig.Okay,Nanny?" "What about your puppy, Grove? Have you thought of a name for her yet?" I ask, hoping if we name
hershemightnotgetleftintheyard all dayagain.
"I want aguineapig, Nanny.Ellie canhavethepuppy."
"Theyalreadyhave adog,Grove."
"Fine,nodogsontheboat. Onlyguineapigs.Andwe'll all
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swim foreverandever andever."Hetugshis plasticaircraft carrier incircles.
I nuzzlemynoseinhis hairandrestmyeyes whilehefinishesparkinghis boats. "It's a date."
I wait until Grayer is completely asleep and Elizabeth has turned in before going down to the living
room. Mr. and Mrs. X are reading the paper, sitting silently across from each other in the worn armchairs oneithersideof thecouch.Bothofthemtilt theirsectionstowardtheflickeringsidelampsin thedarkenedroom. I take a seatinthemiddle oftheemptycouch,butneitherX botherstolookup.
Taking a deep breath, andin themost supplicatingvoice I can muster,I say, "Urn, I was just wondering
ifitwouldbepossibleif,insteadof driving backonSaturday?
Mrs. X lowersher paper. "I'm pregnant," shesayssteadily.
Hispaperdoesn't move. "Whatdidyousay?" heasks.
"I'm pregnant," shesays in asteely,even tone.
Hispaperdrops. "What?"
"Pregnant."
"Are yousure?" Helooksather,his eyes wide,his voiceshaking.
"Once you've been pregnant you know how to recognize the signs." She smiles slowly at him, laying
downherFullHouse.
"MyGod,"hesays, atrickleof sweatformingonhis brow.
"Andtomorrowatbreakfastwe'll tellyour mother."
They stare at each other, tacitly acknowledgingthe arrangement she has made on their behalf. I pray to
fall betweenthecouchcushions.
"Now,Nanny."Sheturnshercoldsmiletome. "WhatisitI candoforyou?"
I stand. "You know what? It's totally not a big deal. We can talk about this later.And congratulations," I
offerasanafterthought.
"No,thisis a perfecttime,isn't it, honey?" Shesmiles athim.
Hejuststaresbackather.
"Sit down, Nanny,"shesays.
I swallow. "Well, it's just that I have to find a new apartment this weekend, so if there's any way that
you could drop me off at the ferry Friday night on the way to your party ... It's just that there'll be so
much traffic on Saturday and I haven't even started packing and I need to have everything boxed by
MondayandI wasjustthinking,youknow,ifit's not anytrouble ... Ofcourse,ifyouneedmeI'm happy
tostay. justthought..."
Mrs. X fixesme with a steelygaze. "Well, I have abetter idea,Nanny,whydon't you justleavetonight?
Mr. X candrive youtothe ferry. Elizabeth's here. e're reallycovered."
"Oh,no, really,I don't needtoleavetonight. I justthought,youknow,theremightbesomuchtrafficon
Saturday. I'm happy to stay, I want to stay? My heart pounds as I become fully cognizant of what is at
stake. I am staggeredbythevision ofGrover, wakingin afewhours,terrifiedandalone.
Mrs. X cutsme off. "Don't be silly. Honey,when's thenextferry?"
Heclearshis throat."I'm notsure."
"Well, youcanjustdrive Nannyover tothedock. heygopretty regularly."
Hestands. "I'll getmyjacket."Andexits.
Sheturnsbacktome. "Now,whydon't yougoupandpack?"
"Really, Mrs. X, I don't need to leave tonight. I just wanted to have my apartment sorted before Monday."
She smiles. "Frankly, Nanny, I just don't feel that your heart's in it anymore and I think Grayer can sensethat, too.We need someone who can give Grayer their full commitment, don't you agree? I mean, for the money we're paying you, with the new baby coming, we should really have someone more professional."Shestands. "I'll give you ahand,soyoudon't wakeGrayer."
She follows me toward the stairs. I walk up ahead of her, frantically running through scenarios that mightgiveme achancetosay
THE NANNY DIARIES
goodbye to him. She comes behind me into the small room and stands between our beds with crossed arms, watching me carefully as I hastily stuff my things into my bag, awkwardly moving around her in thecrampedspace.
Grayer moansinhis sleepandrolls over. I achetowakehim.
I finish collecting my things in her shadow and sling my bag up over my shoulder, mesmerized by the sight of Grover's hand in a tightfist floppedover theside of the bed, the Batman Band-Aid sticking out beneathhispushed-up pajamasleeve.
She gestures for me to walk past her to the door. Before I can help it, I reach out to smooth the damp hair off his forehead. She grabs my hand an inch from his face and whispers through clenched teeth, "Betternottowakehim." Shemaneuversmetothestairs.
As I startdown aheadof her myeyes fill with tears, causing the stairs to pitch beneath me and I have to grip thebanister tosteadymyself. Shebumps againstthebackofmybag.
"I... I... I justwanted?Myvoice iscoming outinlittle gulps. I turnuptofaceher.
"What?" she hisses, leaning menacingly forward. I pull back, the weight of my bag drawing me off balance as I start to fall. She instinctively reaches out and grabs my arm, swinging me against the banister asI rightmyself. We faceeachother,eye toeye onthesamestep. "What?" shechallengesme.
"She wasintheapartment," I say. "I justthoughtyoushouldknow,I mean,I?
"You fucking child." She comes back at me in this two-and-a-half-foot space with all theforce of years of suppressedrageand humiliation. "You. Have no idea.Whatyou're talkingabout. Is thatclear?" Each wordfeelslike apunch. "And I'd bevery careful. If I were you.Howyouregardour family?
Mr. X honks the car from the driveway, startling the puppy, who begins a round of sharp barking from thekitchen.Aswe reachthe
bottomofthestairsthenoisewakesGrayer. "Nanny!" hecries out. "NAAANNYYY!!"
Mrs. X pushes past me. "Ugh, thatdog,"she mutters, marchingto the kitchen. She shoves the swinging dooropenandthedogboundsout,yappingfiercelyather.
"Just takeit,"shesays, roughlyliftingthepuppyupbyherribcage.
"I couldn't?
"NANNY,COMEHERE. I NEEDTHELIGHTON. NANNY,WHEREAREYOU?"
"I said, take it." Mrs. X. thrusts her out at me. Her paws flail for solid ground, forcing me to
instinctively receive her before she's dropped. Mrs. X jerks the front door open, grabbing her purse off the side table. She pulls her checkbook out and scribbles furiously while I look over toward the stairs. "Here."Shehandsmethecheck.
I turnand walk past her onto the gravel driveway, as Grayer's increasinglyhysterical cries echo out into thedarkness.
"NAAAANNNNYYYY!INEEEEEEDYOOOOUl/171717!"
"Have a good trip!" she calls out from the doorway as I make my way shakily down the path lit by the
Rover's headlights,willing mykneesnottogive out.
I getinthefrontseatandtrytosteadymyhandsasI pulltheseatbeltacrossthepuppyandmyself. "Oh," Mr. X says, looking at her. "Yeah, I guess Grayer's a little young. Maybe in a few years." He
starts thecar and peels out of thedriveway, and before I can lookback to fix the house in mymind, it is eclipsedbythewoodsasheracesthecaracrosstheempty countryroads. He pulls into the deserted ferry dock and I open the door to get out. "Well," he says as if it's just
occurredtohim. "GoodluckwiththeMCATs. hey're a killer!" Assoonasthedoorslams, hepeelsoutoftheparkinglotand THE NANNY DIARIES drives away. I walk slowly into the nearly empty ferry terminal and look around for the schedule. The
nextferryisn't foranhour.
ThepuppywrigglesundermyarmandI scanthewaitingroomforanythingthatcouldserveas a carrier.
I go over to the guy who's closing up the Dunkin' Donuts counter and ask him for a bunch of plastic
bags and some string to fasten a makeshift leash. I pull all my clothes out of my tote, shove them in the
plasticbags, linethetotewith theremainingonesandplacethedoginontop.
"There you go," I say. She looks up at me and barks before hunkering down to chew on the plastic. I
slouchbackagainstthepeelingorangeseatandlookupintothefluorescentlight.
I canstill hearhimscreamingforme.
Butnobodyever knewwhatMaryPoppinsfeltaboutit, forMaryPoppinsnevertoldanybodyanything.
. ARYPOPPINS
"Yo, lady!" I jolt awake. "Last stop. ort Authority!" the driver shouts from the front of the bus. I
hastily gather my things together. "I wouldn't be trying to sneak on any animals again, girlie. Or next
time you'll findyourself walkingbacktoNantucket,"hesays,leeringatmeover thesteeringwheel.
Thepuppyletsout a lowgrowl ofindignationandI stickmyhandinthetotetoquiether.
"Thanks,"I mutter. Fat gut.
Stepping down into the stench of the terminal, I squint in the brightness of the orange-tiled hallway.
The Greyhound clock reads 4:33 as I stand for a minute to get my bearings. My adrenaline completely
spent, I lower the tote to the ground between my feet and peel off my sweatshirt. The humid summer
heatisalreadytrappedinthetunnel,alongwith thestenchof commuter sweat.
I walk hurriedly up to the street level to find a cab, past closed bakeries and newsstands. Outside the
EighthAvenue exit hookers and cab drivers await their next jobs while I let the puppy out on her string
leashtopeeby asweatinggarbagecan.
"Whereto?" thecabbieasksasI slideinbehindmybags.
"Second and Ninety-third," I say, rolling down the window. I root around in the plastic bags for my
wallet andherbrown furry
THE NANNY DIARIES
headpushesits wayout ofthetote,panting. "Nearlythere,little one.We'll betheresoon."
"Bethune?"heasks. "I thoughtyousaidUpperEast."
"Yeah, I'm sorry. Ninety-third," I clarify.As I open my wallet Mrs. X's check flutters to the floor of the
cab. "Damn."I bendover toretrieveitinthedarkness.
"Paytotheorderof:Nanny.Five hundreddollars."
Five hundreddollars. Five hundreddollars?
Ten days. Sixteen hours a day. Twelve dollars an hour. So, that's like sixteen hundred dollars. o,
eighteenhundred. o,nineteenhundred!
FIVE HUNDREDDOLLARS!
"Wait, makethatseventwenty-one Park."
"Okay,lady."Hemakes a sharpU-turn. "You'repaying."
You havenoidea.
I unlock the Xes' front door and carefully push it open. The apartment is dark and silent. I put the tote
down and the puppy wriggles out of it as I drop the rest of my bags on the marble floor. "Pee
anywhere."
I reachforthedimmer on thehall switch, bathing thecenter tablein a tautcircle of light.Thespotlamp
poursbeautifulcoldripplesthroughthecut-crystal bowl.
I leanforward and rest myhands on the glass top thatprotects the brown velvet swags. Even now, even
as it's gotten this out of hand, I'm distracted from my thoughts of the Xes by the trappings of the Xes. Andreally,itstrikesme,isn't thatthepoint?
I pullbacktoseethetwoperfectpalmprintsI've leftontheglass.
Walking determinedly from room to room, I switch on the brass lamps, as if illuminating their home
will shedsomelightonhowI couldhaveworkedsohardandbeenhatedsomuch.
I openthedoortotheoffice.
MariahasstackedMrs. X'smailcarefully onherdeskjustthe
way she likes it ?envelopes, catalogs, and magazines each in separate piles. I riffle through them and
thenflipthepagesofhercalender.
. anicure. Pedicure. Shiatsu.Decorator. Lunch.?
"Vicepresidentinchargeofbullshit," I mutter.
. onday10amInterview: NanniesAreUs?
Interview? I flipquicklybackthroughthelastweeks.
. ay28:InterviewRosario. June2:InterviewInge. June8: InterviewMalong.?
They start the day after I said I couldn't make the drive to Nantucket because of my graduation. My
mouthgoesdry asI readthenotesscrawledinthemarginofthatafternoon.
. emember call problem consultant tomorrow. N. behavior is unacceptable. Completely self-
centered. Providing poor care. Has no respect for professional boundaries. Is taking complete
advantage.?
I close the book, feeling as if I've been punched in the solar plexus.An image flashes into my mind of
Mrs. Longacre's crocodile handbag resting by her feet under the stall partition in the bathroom of II
Cognilioandsomethingsnaps.
I head to Grayer's room, throw the door open, and see it immediately ?the stuffed bear that arrived on
Grayer's shelfafterValentine's Daywithoutexplanation.
I pull it down, flip it around, and pull the back panel off to reveal a small videotape and control buttons.
I rewindthetapewhile thepuppyracesacrosstheroomandintoGrayer's closet.
I press recordandplacethebearon topof Grayer's dresser,shiftingit arounduntil I thinkI've setupthe
shot.
"I'm completely self-centered?Mybehaviorisunacceptable?" I shoutatthebear.
I take a deep breath, trying to channel my rage and begin again. "Five hundred dollars. What is that to
you, a pair of shoes?A half day at Bliss? A flower arrangement? No way, lady. Now I know you were anartmajor,sothismightbe alittle complicatedforyou,butforten THE NANNY DIARIES 303
straightdays of unmitigated, torturoushell, youpaidme threedollarsanhour! So, beforeyouwrapup a year of mylife to be trottedout as an anecdote at the next museum benefit, keep in mind thatI am your ownpersonalsweatshop!You've got ahandbag, a mink,and asweatshop!
"AndI'm theonetakingadvantageof you?"
"You have. No idea. What I do. For you." I pace back and forth in front of the bear, trying to formulate ninemonthsofswallowed retortsintosomesortofcoherentmessage.
"Okaylisten up. If I say 'Two days a week,' your responseshouldbe 'Okay, two days a week.'If I say, 'I have to leave by three for class.' This means, wherever you are. ll those important manicures, those crucial lattes. ou drop and come runing, so thatI can leave. ot after dinner,not the next day, but at three o'clock, pronto. I say 'Sure, I can fix him a snack.' This means five minutes in your goddamn kitchen. This means microwave. This does not involve steaming, dicing, sauteing, or anything at all to do with a souffle. You said 'We'll pay you on Fridays.' Now listen, genius, this means every one. ast time I checkedyouwerenotCaesar,um,it's notup toyoutorewrite thecalendar. Every. Single.Week."
NowI am reallyrolling. "All right. lamming thedoor inyourchild's face:not okay. Lockingthedoor to keep your son out when we're all home: also not okay. Buying a studio in the building for 'private time' definitely not okay. Oh, oh, and here's one: umm, going to a spa when your son has an ear infection and fever of one hundred and four? News flash; this officially makes you, not just a bad person, but like, officially, a terrible mother. I don't know, I haven't birthed anyone, so I may not be an experthere, butif mykidwaspeeing all over thefurniturelike a senilefuckingdog. mm, I'd be just a tad bit concerned. I might, oh, you know, just on a whim, eat dinner with him at least one night a week. And, just a heads-up here, people hate you. The housekeeper hates you. he might-kill-you-in-your!sleep kindof hatesyou."
I slowdowntobesureshegetsevery word. "Nowlet's review:
thereI was. nnocentlystrolling throughthe park.I don't knowyou.Five minutes later,you've got me cleaning your underwear and going to 'Family Day' with your son. I mean, how do you get there, lady? I reallywanttoknow. ust wheredoyougettheballs toask a perfectstrangertobe asurrogatemother toyourkid?
"And you don't have a job! What do you do all day? Are you building a spaceship over there at the Parents League? Helping the mayor map out a new public transportation plan from a secret room at Bendel's? I know!Thinkingup a solutiontotheconflictintheMiddleEastfrombehindthelockeddoor ofyour bedroom! Well, youkeeprightonpluggingawaythere,lady. heworldcanhardlywait tohear how your innovations are going to launch us right into the twenty-first century with a discovery so fantasticthatyoucan't spare amoment togive yourson a hug."
I lean down and stare deeply into the bear's eyes. "There's been a lot of 'confusion,'so let me make this perfectly clearforyou: thisjob. hat's right,j-o-b, job. hatI've beendoingishardwork.Raisingyour childis hardwork!Whichyouwouldknowifyouever diditformorethanfive minutesat atime!"
I stand back and crack my knuckles, ready to take this all the way to the top. "And, Mr. X, who are you?" I pause to let that sink in. "And, while we're making introductions, you're probably wondering who I am. Here's a hint: I did not (a) come with the rental or (b) show up out of the goodness of my heart, asking your wife if she had any chores I could do around the house. What do ya think, X?wanna
take a guess?"
I lookatmynails,pausingdramatically foreffect.
"I'VE BEEN RAISINGYOUR SON! I've been teaching him how to talk. How to throw a ball. How to flushyourItalian toilet. I am not amed student, abusiness student,anactress, or a modeland I am in no shapeorform a 'friend'tothatcrackpotyoumarried.Orpurchasedor whatever."I shudderindisgust.
"Here's theupdate,big guy. This isnottheByzantineempire?
THE NANNY DIARIES
you do not get a camel and a harem with each plot of land. Where's the war you fought? Where's the despot you've overthrown? Making seven figures a year, with your fat ass in a chair, is not heroic and, while it may win you a trophy wife or two, or five, it most definitely does not qualify you for the door prize of fatherhood! I'll tryto put this into terms you can understand:your sonis not an accessory.Your wife did not order him from a catalog. You cannot trot him out when it suits you and then store him in thebasementwith yourcigars."
I pause to catch my breath, looking around at all the toys he's paid for and never once enjoyed with his son. "Therearepeople. nyourhome. uman beings. rowningintheirdesireforyoutolookthemin theeye.You madethisfamily.And all youhavetodoisshowup andlikethem. It's called 're-la-ting.' So get over whatever totally-absent-buying-your-affection parenting that you received and get here, man. ecausethisis yourLIFE andyou're justpissing itaway!" "Woof!"
Thepuppypushes thecloset door open, grippingthe bus-pass holder in her mouth. "Hey,give me that," I say gently, kneeling down to take it from her. She drops it, rolling onto her back to play. I stare at the dirty shredsof paperinsidetheplastic, all thatremains ofGrove's businesscard.
I blink, looking around Grayer's room, so familiar to me that it feels like my own. I see him sashaying down the imaginary runway of our Christmas fashion show, wassailing his heart out in the bathroom, fallingasleepagainstme asI finishGoodnightMoon.
"Oh, Grover." And then I am crying, curled tight in a ball by the foot of his bed. Waves of sobs rack through me at the fresh realization that I will never see him again. That this is it for us, Grayer and me. WhenI'm finally able tocatch mybreath, I crawl over tothe dresser andpress stop. I setthebearon the floor, leaning against Grayer's bed as I gently rub the puppy's soft belly. She stretches out, resting her pawonmyarm,her warmeyes soappreciativeoftheattention.
AndthenI know.
NothingI've saidsofarwill makethemlovehimthewayheneedstobeloved.
Orallowmetoleavewith anygrace.
I hearGrayer: "Besmart, Nanny.You'll besmart."
I rewindthetapebacktothebeginning.I press recordandreturnthebeartothecarpetinfrontofme.
"Hi. It's Nanny. I'm here in your apartmentand it's..." I glancedown atmywatch. "Five in themorning. I entered with the key you gave me. And I have all those possessions you value so highly within arm's reach.Buthere's thething.I justdon't wish youharm. If fornoother reasonthanyouhavetheprofound privilege of being Grayer's parents." I nod, knowing it to be true. "So I was just going to leave. But I can't. I really can't. Grayer loves you. I havebornewitness tohis love for you.And hedoesn't care what you're wearing or what you've bought him. He just wants you there. Wanting him. And time is running out. Hewon't loveyouunconditionallythatmuchlonger.Andsoonhewon't love youatall. Soifthere's one thing I could do for you tonight, it would be to give you the desire to know him. He's such an amazing little person. e's funny and smart. joy to be with. I really cherished him. And I want that foryou.For bothofyou,becauseit's just,well,priceless."
I reach out for the bear and press stop. I hold it in my hands for a moment. Looking over at the bottom shelfof thebookcase,I see asmall framedpictureofCaitlin tuckedbehindthePlayskoolgarage.
Right.
I hit recordandplopthebearbackdown.
"And if not, then at the very least you owe me, and whoever else you bamboozle into doing it, some fuckingrespect!"
I pickup thebearandejectthetape.
THE NANNY DIARIES
Wending my way back to the front hall, I turn off all the lights as I go. The puppy comes scampering into the foyer as I stand over the glass table once again. I set the tape down in between my palm prints andresttheirhousekeys ontopofitswhite label.
I pickup mybagsandpullopentheXes'frontdoorforthelasttime.
"Grover," I say quietly, willing with all my heart, as if I were standing over my birthday cake, making the most important wish of my life. "Just know that you are wonderful. abulously wonderful. And I hope somehow you'll know that I'll always be out here rooting for you, okay?" I flick the last light off andscoopupthepuppy. "Goodbye, Grayer."
The sun is just coming up as I lead her into the park. She pulls her string leash taut as we walk up the bridle path to the reservoir. The first joggers are already making their steady orbit around the water as the sky brightens and the last star disappears. Over the treetops the buildings framing the western skylinearebathedinthepinkdawn.
The water laps against the stones as I stand against the wire fence, taking in the beauty of this open vista inthecenterofthecity.
I reach into one of the bags and pull out the Xes' cell phone. I take a moment to feel its weight in my hand before lobbing it over the fence. She jumps up to press her front paws against the wire, barking as itmakes a satisfying splash.
I look down at her. "How do you like that for leaving with grace?" She barks in agreement, tilting her headupatme,herbrowneyes lookingaffectionatelyintomine.
"Grace."
Shebarks.
"Grace,"I sayagain.
Shebarksagain.
"I see.Well, then,Grace,let's gohome."
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
We wish to thank: Molly Friedrich and Lucy Childs of the Aaron Priest Literary Agency for their unflagging support. hould Nanny ever have to go head-to-head with Mrs. X, these are the women we'd want behind her! Christy Fletcher for seeing the potential. Jennifer Weis for letting us know when there was no there there. Katie Brandi for reading this book almost as many times as we have. Joel for taking Nanny on the honeymoon. George for keeping us going on the tough days, and Le Pain Quotidienforthesupplies.

