Nanny Returns (10 page)

By ten thirty every bucket-sized stadium seat in the screening room is filled. From where I stand with the board members against the velvet-curtained walls, I can see pajama legs peeking out from under the raincoat hems of the seated faculty. “If this is their way of telling us health care’s back on the table, I am going to take a shit in Gene’s office,” someone mutters. I twist to see Gene at the top of the room, distinctly not coming over to introduce me to Cliff as he said he would once we were in here.

Based on what I’ve overheard on the en masse trek from his suite, what’s about to commence falls directly under my new job description, and as much as it sucks for my introduction to the faculty to fall on the heels of their being dragged here in their pajamas, I take a steadying breath and approach Cliff and Sheila. They confer at the far end of the platform in front of the full-sized movie screen, heads bowed. “Hey! I know you have your hands full here, but I just wanted to formally say hello.”

“Hi,” Cliff says, shaking my outstretched hand and looking back to Sheila.

“Nan, we’re about to begin,” she says, brushing me off, the telltale smoker’s lines around her mouth crimping.

“Yes, no, I know. It’s just that since I’m officially here as the staff developer I thought perhaps I could be—”

“What you can do is go back and stand by the wall. Tonight’s far too important for a road test.”

“What Sheila means is that we have it covered. Why don’t you continue as an observer tonight,” Cliff suggests with a commercial charm that makes the role sound like a first-class seat to Dubai. He smiles a dismissive smile and gestures for Sheila to begin.

“All right, all right.” Sheila claps her hands and I retake my place on the sidelines as instructed. “I’m sorry to have dragged you away from
Law & Order,
or whatever it was you were doing, but unfortunately, this is a situation requiring
immediate
attention. A situation that would not have come to pass in the first place if everyone here was doing their jobs properly.” She pauses, pivoting left to right, allowing her withering gaze to spray the room. The other board members glower in agreement. “The health and well-being of our student body should be your
number one
priority and yet you have
failed.
” And I can see how a faculty/board cushion might be helpful. “Are we clear?”

Tired heads nod.

“Okay. This clip was sent to Darwin Zuckerman in the eleventh grade and he, in turn, erroneously forwarded it to three friends. We have contained the flow of information. Thankfully, out of concern for the school, the boy’s next act was to forward it to his father. And here we are. With his permission we are projecting Congressman Zuckerman’s desktop directly to the screen. Go ahead.” She nods to someone in the projector room and the screen fills with Grant’s inbox. The arrow moves and clicks on an e-mail attachment from Darwin.

The QuickTime file begins to play.

The camera wobbles as two hands fill the screen, straightening the lens, setting up the shot. The auteur steps back and I recognize Chassie, in a pink peignoir with marabou trim that’s much too big for her, climbing up on a satin bedspread under a large four-quadrant Warhol portrait of a woman who was one of my favorite actresses in the eighties. Chassie turns around, her inherent awkwardness not helped by fairly blatant inebriation. “Hi, Darwin,” she slurs in a seductive voice from a kneeling position. “I’m sorry about the helipad thing. I’m glad Ms. Wells ended up picking your speech, really. I really am. You’ll do a much better job. And you’re wrong—the win totally still counts. It does. It’s just, it’s just …Ms. Wells. She’s a bitch.” I scan the darkened audience for Ingrid as Chassie pauses, rearranging herself so her stringy hair falls over her shoulder. “How are you? Do you miss me? I bet you miss me.”

I put my hands up over my face because I can’t bear to see what’s coming next that’s gotten a member of Congress and his PR bomb squad on a plane.

“Do you miss this?” I spread my fingers to see Chassie drop the peignoir on one side, exposing her breast. Please let it end here. “How about this?” Another awkward breast-reveal and then her knees seem to go out from under her on the satin bedspread. “Whoops!” She rights herself and starts fondling her nipples, desperate to be seductive, and I take a moment to thank God that the most embarrassing thing we could do in high school was drop off a bag of Red Hots with a guy’s doorman.

She leans across what must be her mother’s mirrored vanity table, ringed with old headshots and magazine covers, picks something off the crocheted doily, and holds it up. The unmistakable blue bottle of Fruition. “You like that old picture of my mom in the front hall, right? That ad?” She runs the gold cap under her chin and across her breasts. As if doing an Estée Lauder spot in
Barely Legal.
And then, with a final sodden smile, she leans back, spreads her legs—and makes it disappear.

Disappear.

With a swirl of the animated arrow, the clip ends and the screen reverts back to Darwin’s e-mail as the lights come up, the message fading in the breathless nauseated hush.

I peer around the room. All the teachers have some part of their hands over their faces.

Sheila crosses back to the center of the platform. “You get the gist. We showed you this so you could all have the accurate information firsthand and not go around playing a game of telephone like sixth graders. And also so you understand the gravity of what’s at stake when you
don’t
take your responsibilities seriously.”

Unclasping his hands from behind his back, Cliff steps forward to join her, a congenial smile on his face. “Good evening, everyone. My colleague, Mr. Toomey, has come in to give you a lesson tonight on monitoring your students. How to review their MySpace pages, how to see their Facebook profiles, how to follow them into chat rooms and read their blogs.”

“To make sure nothing like this can ever again threaten the school,” Sheila adds. “Are we paying attention?”

“What about Chassie?” All heads turn. It’s Ingrid. She stands in the top row, bewildered. “Is she okay? I mean has someone spoken to her? Notified her? What about our psychologist? Has Mildred reached out to her?” She points to an older woman whose expression makes it clear she doesn’t want to go near this with a ten-foot disinfected barge pole. “Okay, then what about her mother?” Ingrid tries.

“She’s doing a play in the West End,” Sheila offers as if it’s an explanation.

Ingrid lifts an eyebrow. “Well, does Chassie know this is being circulated? Clearly that was not her intention. She needs to know. And she needs support. Counseling. This is not a productive or safe way to communicate. And she’s not the only student here who’s confused on this point. This”—she flicks her palm at the screen—“is about something much more endemic in Jarndyce culture.” She looks to her colleagues below, but they busy themselves with picking at hems and buttons. I lift my brows and strain to catch her eye in silent support. “If we say we want to modernize the school, when are we going to address these attitudes?”

“Point taken.” Cliff nods before widening his gaze to encompass the room. “Any other quick questions before the training? I know it’s late and the other board members and I have been here all evening.”

“So, then …what will be done?” Ingrid tries again. “At least in terms of Chassie?”

Cliff looks encouragingly up at her. “What’s your name?”

“Ingrid Wells, the aforementioned bitch.” She leans onto one hip with a self-deprecating smile that quickly turns serious. “I know these kids.”

“You teach them—not the same thing,” Grant admonishes, heaving himself off the far wall.

“I coach Chassie and Darwin in Forensics, I’m a faculty advisor to the eleventh-grade homeroom, and I have them both for U.S. history.”

“History,” Grant repeats for the benefit of the other parents, as if she’s just said “Clowning.”

“I think they need help,” Ingrid continues, and I realize her hands are trembling as she shoves them in her coat pockets.

“They?” Grant growls, his face once again tinging sanguine. “Who is
they
? Just because my son was the focus of this stupid girl’s debasement doesn’t implicate him in this in any way.”

“I’m not saying implicate, I’m saying reach out to—”

“My son was the victim here, let’s keep that clear,” Grant bellows, “and if I could toss that Chassie girl out on her ear, I would. You can’t shirk your real responsibilities to these kids by sitting around a hug circle all day,
Ms. Wells
. And you want health care,” he adds derisively. IamonlyobservingIamonlyobservingIamonlyobserving—

“Okay, shall we begin?” Mr. Toomey hustles onto the stage on Cliff’s cue and, with relief, the board members turn to file out. “Let’s start with a few Internet basics.”

Biting the inside of her cheek, Ingrid slowly sits down. As Toomey speaks, my eyes wander back to the screen and for the first time I make out Darwin’s concerned e-mail to his father.

Dad, how fucking cool is this? Are you coming home this week?—D

“What do you mean,
made it disappear
?” Ryan asks from the other end of the line sometime after one a.m.

“I mean stuck it where the sun don’t shine.”

“Ouch.”

“I love you.” I lay my pen atop a sloping pile of notes on the mattress, my makeshift workstation.

“You love me?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Because you get the ouch factor.” I lean back on the propped pillows serving as my desk chair.

“Well, I hope I run into Grant Zuckerman in the Capitol building after this breaks. I’d like to see that smug shit taken down a peg.”

“I give it twenty-four hours.” I glance to the web of hairline cracks in the ceiling. “Kids pleasuring themselves with Fruition. Talk about Estée Lauder rebranding. It has Fox ticker tape written all over it.” I replay the video in my mind’s eye with my digital scrim blocking the image in stripes. “Poor Chassie. In her mom’s clothes, on her mom’s bed. It was a child psychologist’s thesis paper.”

“So, what’s next?”

“I think when the board’s had a night to sleep on it they’re going to want to run some kind of workshops on ‘sexting’—that’s what the kids are calling it—and I’m going to be ready with a proposal on how to train the teachers. So, wait, when
are
you coming home?” I pull over my Filofax, Mrs. X’s note sliding from its pages to the duvet.

“Well, I didn’t want to say anything until it’s definite, but there’s talk of sending some of us to the grain dispersement centers for a few days—maybe longer. It doesn’t help that warlords are skimming off what little there is.”

“
They’re sending you to stand up to warlords?
Hope you bring that letter opener your parents gave you for Christmas. Oh, and your briefcase might slow a bullet. Don’t they have people with plastic shields they can send?”

“Yes. But those people might need me to tell them why they’re there.”

“This sucks.” I slap the Filofax, my wedding band hitting the binder clasp. “At least when we were in the middle of nowhere we were in the middle of nowhere together.”

“But now you have your friends around you, that’s what you wanted, right?”

“I guess.”

“You guess?”

“No, I mean I do. Josh and Sarah are superbusy. But Citrine’s turning out to be a pleasant surprise—”

“And there’s always the Xes.”

“Ryan.”

“Any word from them?”

“Actually.” I slide my gold band back and forth over my knuckle. “She has invited me over for a thank-you tea.”

“You’re fucking me.”

“I wish.”

“Me, too. When’s the tea?”

“Thursday.” I take a breath. “And I’m nervous as hell.”

“That’s crazy.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, man.” I smile back.

“No, I mean getting your closure. That’s pretty damn cool.”

“And go you, directing the people fighting the warlords. So, you’re gone for a few more days?”

“Yeah, looks that way . . .”

“God, I miss you.”

“You, too. So any more thoughts on the baby front?”

I inhale. “I’ve had my hands full.”

“I know. Just thought I’d check in.”

I stare out at the wall of wardrobe boxes in the periphery of the bed lamp. “I can’t find the contractor, Ryan. The stairs got fixed, but he’s not returning my calls.”

“I’ll keep an eye out. Maybe he’s on safari with the electrician.”

“And how would this work, exactly, with a baby?”

“Nan,”
he says sternly, “I would never have taken this position if we had a baby.”

“So you’re quitting your job?”

“Nan?”

“Yes?”

Silence. “Nothing. Get some sleep. You’ll need your strength when the story breaks and they want you on
Larry King.
I love you. I’ll be home soon.”

7

One week later, the story hasn’t broken and he isn’t home.

I walk out my front door with Grace straining on her leash. The rest of her day must be such a letdown compared with the raw excitement that my departure from REM signals. Not that I made it anywhere near that restorative vicinity last night. Instead, I got into bed, where, while Grace snored, I fitfully ran all the possible scenarios that might take place at 721 Park hours from now. Scenarios where I scream at her. Scenarios where she screams at me. Scenarios where we scream at each other. And a particularly satisfying version where I graze her with a flying porcelain Pekingese. What could Mrs. X thanking me even mean? Sincerely, as in,
Thank you for full-on parenting my child while I went shopping?
Or sarcastic, as in,
Thank you for giving me the worst childcare story on the block, insolent college student who didn’t know her place, and then coming back twelve years later to aid and abet my children barricading me in my bedroom?

I’d laid perfectly still with my eyes closed, waiting for the sky to brighten, and then, during that painful protracted whole minute it took me to get not-naked and downstairs, grab a baggie
and
her leash, Grace broke into a demanding yodel, accompanied by one Torvill and Dean–worthy spin.

As she relieves herself between two parked Hondas in front of the house, I look down at a card on the sidewalk and recognize my name inked beneath the smut of shoeprints. I bend down to gingerly lift the mint green postcard by my fingernails, twisting it to read that as of yesterday, April thirtieth, I have a package waiting for me at the post office.

I dart into the bodega on the corner to grab a
New York Post
. I hate giving Murdoch any of my hard-earned cash, but they so are the ones to break the Fruition story. If it’s going to break at all, which, as of today, crosses my own invented deadline. Tomorrow I’m back to the adjective-light
Times
—much as I’ll miss the smattering of Page Six references to Carter Nelson and Mr. X on a red carpet tour—
Turandot
at the Met,
Sleeping Beauty
at City Ballet, and an indie film premiere. “What hedge-fund titan kept Lever House open an hour past closing for a rendezvous with his actress girlfriend?” I cannot imagine Mr. X
ever
made time to step out with his wife five nights a week. Maybe this is how he woos. That or Carter Nelson inspires him in a way no woman has. Or maybe he’s finally at an age where he can manage his empire without putting in the punishing hours. Hopefully, he’s found a few to spend with his boys.

Mulling this over, I tie Grace to a parking meter and head into the post office. At the window I hand in the card and use the wait to scan the pages for any mention of Jarndyce. Still nothing. Amazing. They really made this disappear. They stuck it where the sun don’t shine. Which perhaps is also where my retainer is headed f I don’t hear from them soon about my sexting proposal. The woman returns from the back with a small brown paper box—roughed up at the corners and plastered in a quilt of stamps. “Someone loves you in Africa,” she says, handing over a form for me to sign.

“
Sit.
Alice,
Alice,
sit. Good—Josie,
no.
Sit. Girls! Josie, sit.
Sit
. Alice,
Alice
. . .”

Holding the box under one arm, I tilt my weight to my other sneaker as I wait for my heart rate to calm and my parents’ four-month-old springer spaniels to get the memo on the other side of their front door.

“Dad,” I moan from the hall, looking down appreciatively at Grace’s graying temples as she pants patiently. “We just jogged here from the East Harlem post office, can we do the training class once we’re inside, lying on your kitchen floor?”

“They almost have it, Pixie.” I hear him through the heavy wood. “
Alice, Josie
…and we are sitting! Good girls!” Chirping barks erupt into the hallway.
“No!”
And are instantly silenced. The door cracks open, and two little black noses wedge themselves out, sending Grace backing up behind me.

“You’re all rosy cheeks!” Dad pulls me into a hug over a whir of black-and-white fur.

“I told you, I jogged here from my hood.” I inhale his familiar scent of PG tips. “I need a really big glass of water and a consult.”

“So do we,” he says from where he’s directing his brood back inside behind me. “Have you had breakfast?” he asks as he walks to the kitchen.

“Honestly, I haven’t even brushed my teeth.” I place the box on the Hungarian wood chest that’s served as an entry table since I was crawling. The girls crisscrossing at her paws, Grace trots past me as I slip off my sneakers. I watch the three of them make their way down the well-worn Persian runner, past the living room toward the bedrooms, in search of the lady of the house. “Dad, why aren’t you at school?” I call out, unpeeling Ryan’s Carhartt from where I tied it around my waist and hanging it on the coat closet knob.

“Building brouhaha,” he answers as I meet him in the kitchen. I gulp down the water he hands me and refill my glass from the fridge door. “And we’re having parent-teacher conferences this morning anyway.”

“I see.” I grab a bagel from the Zabar’s bag on the counter and the butter from the refrigerator and slide them onto the non-
Times-
strewn section of the table. “So, I got an unnerving present from Ryan,” I say as I remove Mom’s files to free up a chair where I can flop.

“Is he all right?” He turns in concern.

“Oh no, he’s safe. It’s not—no one sent me his head.” I pause, my thoughts swirling. “I kinda need to consult the parent with the ovaries. She in her office?”

“Yes.
We
got an unnerving letter from the co-op board,” Dad says, his jaw muscles constricting as he lifts a stack of graded papers into his cracking leather briefcase. “It’s sent your mother into a state.”

“What’d it say?” I ask, mouth full of bagel.

“I’ll let her fill you in.” He glances up at the clock. “I’ve got to get going. Girls?” Dad calls entreatingly into the hall. “Girls?”

“Calm and assertive, Dad.”

He squares his shoulders and drops his voice. “Come.”

“Totally bought it,” I whisper. He grins, his mustache lifting as the scratching scramble can be heard barreling toward him. I watch through the doorway as he bends to lift them to eye level one at a time. “Be good. I’ll be home at four thirty.” He turns to me. “It helps them to know the schedule.”

“You’re such a good dad.”

“And they’ve got the barking thing down. They really do.”

“Impressive.” I lift my glass to him.

“Jim, wait!” Mom calls from the office that was once my bedroom on the far side of the apartment. “Call me on your break and hopefully I’ll have gotten this resolved.” Her voice gets louder. “You have your cell?” She appears in the doorway with Grace, her hand over the phone.

He pats the pocket of his tweed blazer, kisses her, and gives me a wave. I wave back as Grace slurpingly stations herself at the girls’ water bowl.

“Nan, I’m so glad you’re here! I’m on hold with these
assholes
,” Mom hisses before darting her finger up to return to her caller. “I understand that, but we’ve been tenants of this building for thirty-eight years.” She pulls her glasses up into her gray hair. “Tenants who have
always
had dogs. These dogs are
not
perpetually barking. I promise you. I have witnesses.” She crosses her arm over her white cotton turtleneck and rests her hand in the crook of her other elbow, her cameo rings crunching together. “The next-door neighbors love these puppies …Uh-huh. Well, then let’s talk about what’s really going on here. Tim Schwartz and that wife of his want our apartment for their nursery and they are using the co-op board and this flimsy excuse to get it …I see. Well, I would like to speak to him directly.” She sticks her hand in the pocket of her green wool trousers. “I would like him to tell me to my face that he is evicting us because a woman who has an entire floor of this building can’t find an inch to put her children. Yes, yes, he can call me at home.” She clicks the phone off and claps it down on the butcher-block cart. “Dammit. Girls!” Mom bends to swipe a pig-face oven mitt that’s fallen to become an instant chew toy. She stands back up and returns it to its hook by the stove. “Hi!” she says with false cheer.

“Oh my God, what’s going on?”

“Well, the Schwartzes upstairs have found out that we’re one of only three renters left in the building. Because she’s just done in vitro,
again
, and is having triplets on top of her twins—not that I’ve ever seen her so much as push a stroller—and has her eye set on
our
home. So, your father goes down to walk the girls this morning and her lawyer—at six a.m., mind you—her lawyer is waiting in the lobby to personally hand him this notice on behalf of the co-op board. So that’s not suspicious! This notice that states we’re in violation of our rental contract because of shareholder complaints about barking. No warning, nothing. Remember when everyone this side of the park had a big dog or three? Now it’s hairless cats and hamster-poos. Our puppies’ learning curve has given that Schwartz woman her edge. In this market. There’s no way we can afford to buy. We were about to retire!”

“Did you call your lawyer?”

“I’ve called three.” Of course. “Unless they’re on retainer, most don’t return calls until after the sun rises.” She drops her forearms to the butcher block.

“I’m so sorry!” I walk to her, my shins screaming in protest.

“I don’t even know how we’d afford to rent in the city now. Your father will need to keep teaching. He’d have to commute in from whatever we could get in the suburbs. Maybe we could rent out there? I suppose we could always stay with you if we have to, Lord knows you two have the space . . .” She drums her fingers, her eyes glazing over as she rolls through her options. One toilet and a bedroom door that doesn’t close and my parents. I won’t just not have the baby, I’ll not have the sex.

“Oh, I’m sure it won’t come to that,” I say as I look over to see Grace wedge herself between the wall and the table, guarded by chair feet and out of puppy range.

“You have four floors, right?”

“Including the basement. But just one working bathroom and everything is in shambles and we’ll have tenants—”

“We could be your tenants,” she calculates. I panic.

“But we’ll need the space for kids!”

“Oh, Nan,” she cries, her tense features breaking into a huge smile. “That’s the first time you’ve said that!” She puts a hand on each of my shoulders. “Kids! Are you pregnant?”

“No, no, no, just—”

“Starting?”

“Well—”

She pulls me into a hug. “That’s just the most wonderful news I’ve heard all morning. Make that all year.”

I slump with her arms still around my frame. “It’s not feeling wonderful.”

“What do you mean?” She pulls back to study me, hands on my biceps.

“I mean I feel the opposite of seeing babies in strollers and wanting to stick them in my pocket or whatever women with ticking clocks say.”

“And Ryan?”

“Oh, Ryan’s vision is crystal.” I step around her and out to the hallway to bring in the box. “Exhibit A.” I withdraw its contents, a colorful knit glove with a different animal puppet on each finger.

“Ohhhh,” Mom croons, taking it from me to slide her hand inside. “It’s wonderful!” She wiggles the animals at herself.

“It came with a note that said, ‘I’m just asking for you to try it on.’”

“He’s so great.” She slides her hand out and lays the toy on the counter, where we both stare at it with opposing expressions. Glancing at my face, she picks up the glove and gives it to me. “So, you’re not ready, that’s all.”

“Is it?”

“Sure.” She grabs a mug and fills it with coffee from the carafe.

“Can you tell
him
that?” I slide down the refrigerator to the cool linoleum and pull the puppies onto my lap. “I need a note from my mom saying I’m not ready to be a mom.”

“You can tell him, Nan.”

“I tried.” I lay them out on their backs, head to tail, between my outstretched legs.

“Do you want eggs?” She squints down at me. “I could go for McDonald’s.”

“I live a block from every fast-food outlet in America. I came here for Zabar’s.”

“You know how a crisis makes me crave a Sausage McMuffin.”

“So, that’s it?” I rub their pink bellies.

“Scoot over.”

I lean to one hip, careful not to disturb the puppies, as Mom wedges open the refrigerator door behind me to pull out eggs and sausage. “I just wait to be ready?”

“Yes. Do you want some?”

“No. And what if I don’t get to ready?”

She bends to retrieve a fry pan from the nearby cupboard, pausing to consider this. “Then,” she says, her voice sadly resigned, “I guess you won’t have children.”

“So we’re all just waiting for me to have a feeling or not? That’s horrible.”

“That’s a revolution, Nan. That’s
your
right that I fought for. What do you want me to say?” She looks down and I can see there’s so much she’s not saying, trying not to say, that I weigh her inquiry carefully.

“I guess . . .” I look down at the girls’ pink ears flopping open, their eyes slit as they grow drowsy. “That I should get over this paralyzing conviction that a good mother is one hundred percent ready. And that when the baby comes out it’ll all just magically be okay.”