Nanny Returns (27 page)

“But she was so great! They had nothing on her.” She makes a tsking sound. “And they couldn’t claim retirement. What did they hang it on?”

“They claimed she was ‘fostering an inappropriate learning environment in her classroom’ because some of her students were desperate for attention and when they couldn’t get it from their parents they tried to get it from her.”

“Oy.”

I cross my arms, my head aching from some blend of disturbing cries, burning tobacco, and her sickening confirmation. “Is this why you really quit?”

Her cell rings and she digs in her purse with both hands, the brown leather strap flopping off her shoulder. I can hear the crying emanating from the device as soon as she answers. “Hey …How could you forget milk? …Okay, on my way.” She clicks off and turns to me. “I’m sorry, I have to run.”

“Is it?”

She smiles and lets out a short puff of air through her nostrils. “Chloe had a half scholarship to Jarndyce. We were moving up the wait list for a two-bedroom in Battery Park City. And I just …couldn’t stomach the job. I sort of switched into mission mode during the pregnancy—getting as much done as I could—logging as many hours. Gene’s like a jackhammer. You get to a point where it’s easier if you just decide it all makes sense—sure, we can save money by forcing out some of the older staff at half pension. Then once I went on leave, got some distance, the shit the board was hitting me with right up until the day I quit—take their health care?—it just started to feel more and more . . .” She drops her head and runs her pointer fingers hard across her eyebrows before looking back up at me. “Isn’t it crazy, the headaches come when I’m
not
with him. Anyway, even though the public school down the block has set up trailers in the yard and closed the arts programs to make room for the overflow of students from all the new Trump buildings, I was, like, fuck it, this is unconscionable work and I don’t want my kids going here. We’ll stay put in one of the three good public school districts in this city, I’ll get some help, find new work, it’ll be fine—”

“I’m going to quit.”

Her phone rings and she glances at the number. “I
haven’t
found a job. Bear Stearns has companies holding their breath. I mean, you know they’re all too happy to save on the HR front. And they’re saying I should check back in September, maybe things will have loosened up, but I can’t wait until then. I need to work
now
. And I need to answer this, sorry.” She tugs out her phone and clicks it on as she pulls it to her ear. “I’m coming …So do you want me to run to Fair-way or not? …Milk, goldfish—got it. I’m just saying good-bye.” She waves at me and darts down the corner at a half run in her half sneakers, turning back to call, “Look, no matter what you decide, some-one’s going to do that job.” Her expression hardens. “And I wish to God it was me.”

19

“I’m sorry, explain again why we’re here.”

Thursday morning Steve turns from the brownstone stoop to look at me, leaning his weight to his right Timberland resting on the first step. “You said you wanted an update.”

“Because I need to move back in tomorrow. I thought we’d be able to go inside. I don’t understand why you told me to meet you here if there’s nothing to show. You made it sound on the phone like we were going in.”

He drops his head to his flannel shirt, exhausted by me. “How can I do that when it takes seven days for the fungicide to clear? And that’s
if
it works and we don’t have to do a second treatment. With mold that bad there’s no guarantees.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, so there’s no update. No progress has been made whatsoever.” I take a calming breath and aim to begin closer to the beginning. “Weeks ago you promised me a timeline, Steve, a concrete timeline for a staircase, and two
livable
floors. That’s including electricity and plumbing and a staircase to access them.”

“And I’m gonna do that right now.”

I dart my tongue over my upper lip and take a step back on the sidewalk. “Okay.” I sweep my arm for him to enlighten me.

He clears his throat. “Once the fungicide lifts we’ll get my men back here and get started. Get your stairs in, get the walls up, finish the electric. The works.”

“Uh-huh, by
when
?”

“Well …that’s dependent on when my crew get off their other gigs.”

“Other gigs?”

“Yup.”

“Why?” My hand shoots to my brow.

“Well, we had this downtime—”

“No! No downtime, Steve! Work on the roof, work on the siding, work on the window frames. It’s a top-to-bottom shit mess, there is
always
something to work on with this house.”

“Yeah, well, when do you guys think you can pay me?” He squints as he crosses his arms.

“Pay you?”

“Yeah. Because you know that fungicide put you over another ten grand or so and that’s coming outta my pocket right now—”

“Ten grand?!”

“Or so. Twelve, fourteen. I’m waiting on the final numbers.”

“I don’t—we don’t
have
another twelve, fourteen grand.” My phone rings and, giving him a pausing finger, I answer it with a dry mouth. “Hello?”

“Nan? Gene here. Any chance you can swing by in about thirty?”

“Definitely.” Because Steve says this is
not
the time for stand taking.

“I’m on the roof, getting ready for the big event tomorrow.”

“On my way!” I hang up and return to him futzing with the stoop railing.

“You know this concrete’s pretty loose.” He wipes his hands on his jeans. “You should add that to your list.”

I stare at him.

He shrugs. “I’m just saying. I had to come in from Jersey for this, you know.” He fans the back of his perspiring neck. “You’re the one who wanted an update.”

“The people who pay me so I can pay you—God, another
ten thousand dollars
—need me now. I need to go. Steve, you have a day. I need to be living somewhere in that”—I jerk my phone up at the stoop—“by tomorrow night. Friday night.”

“Well, I’m still waiting for the fungicide to clear.”

“Then put on gas masks. Hire a new crew. Get me a FEMA trailer.
Something
that makes me feel just the tiniest bit like you’re in this with us, Steve. Fix the fucking concrete!
Anything
. Tomorrow night!” I call, hustling away toward the subway, BlackBerry primed to try Mr. X’s office yet again. “Or my dog and I move in with you!”

As I jog into the white entry hall, Ingrid’s report in hand, the Jarndyce receptionist instructs me to head under the sweeping staircase, through the newly unveiled arched doorway, and down the completed low-lit corridor to the back of the building, where a rhythmic pounding draws me forth. Every twentieth step on the glass mosaic tile, I lift my foot high above a roll of bound red carpeting waiting to be unfurled. I arrive at an elevator vestibule, where a cluster of carpenters crouch low, assembling green trellises. The elevator door opens, shining purple light on us.

“Sorry, I just need to . . .” I shrug apologetically and a team of what look to be young floral assistants squatting inside shuffle like ducks to make room. “Thanks!” I say as I step in, but they are focused on their manic insertion of fresh red roses into the trellises masking the pedestrian walls of the car.

I press for the roof and we ascend as the assistants weave and curse, the task too delicate for proper garden gloves, their latex gloves already shredding from the thorns. When the door opens I squint in the bright daylight and step out into a glass-enclosed landing. Even at this hour the trapped morning rays have heated it to hothouse temperatures.

Awash in a cloudless blue sky, I shield my eyes to look out at the vast space, ringed with a clear Lucite balustrade, and divided into two areas by the vestibule in which I stand. The flat expanse of asphalt, I assume, once the speaking platform and rows of folding chairs are removed, must be the helipad area itself, while on the other side of me is a small lawn ringed by manicured shrubbery standing only a foot high. I step over to peer out at a team of gardeners attending the tiny topiary with what look like actual Sally Hansen tools.

Overheating, I turn back to the helipad side and push the glass door open, its silver handle scorching to the touch. As I step onto the roof I pass a man beside the door in a blue jumpsuit muttering to himself as he installs a key-card reader, just one of the scores of workers hunkered at their various tasks.

I weave among them to see that behind the platform two men are hoisting a large painted scrim that looks like a Roman backdrop, its base dotted with villas nestled in rolling Cypress-strewn hills. Seven-foot-high kouroi flank the platform where a woman in sweat-soaked khakis is slowly pouring out bags of sand between the rows of chairs for the board.

I spot Gene in his shirtsleeves vigilantly overseeing the installation of can lights in the helipad’s landing circle.

“Now, these will change color?” I hear him ask as I approach, his hands resting on the back of his trousers. The electrician nods, wiping his wet brow with the back of his gloved hand. “And that’ll be visible in the neighborhood?”

“At night for at least ten blocks.”

Gene nods, pleased. “And you’ll be finished by five?”

“My boss wanted me to ask, we still haven’t been covered for this overtime.”

“We’re a little overwhelmed with all the vendors for tomorrow, but we’ll get everybody paid—”

“’Cause you’re still, like, behind on what you owe us just for the building.”

“I have a call in to accounting.” He turns, seeing me. “Nan! Good you’re here.”

“Yes! With the report on Ingrid. I’m so sorry for the delay.”

“Great, great.” He sandwiches it and slides it into his breast pocket. “Things are a little chaotic getting ready for tomorrow. Oh, did you hear? Philip Traphagan’s flying in from Stockholm to cut the ribbon. Little sendoff for all his years of service.”

“I didn’t know he was stepping down, but I’ll look forward to thanking him in person for connecting us.”

Gene slips his hands in the back of his waistband as he looks admiringly at the stage. “Great set, huh? We share a board member with the Met and he got us the scrim from Puccini’s
L’ultimo giorno di Pompei
—it’s so awesome. Referencing the pinnacle achievement of our founding civilization.”

“It looks
amazing
. It’s going to be a fantastic event. I sense great excitement among the faculty,” I lie.

“Really?” He turns to me, so hopeful, as if I’d just told him I’d heard his stepchildren weren’t cleaning the toilet with his toothbrush.

“Definitely. It’s been a rocky spring, but I believe the faculty are eager to come back next year to a completed building and get everything moving in the right direction.” Toward my paying off some fungicide. Gene spots something awry beside the stage and sets off. I hasten to keep up. “And me, too, I am very excited about this next …phase.”

Kneeling in the shade of the platform, three women are spray-painting bushels of white roses red with small airbrush guns.

“What are you doing?”

“There was a mistake in the order,” one stammers through her surgical mask as she sprays. “We’re fixing it.”

“Red is the school color.”

“These will all be red before they go in the trellises.”

“And the Shakespeare garden is secure?”

“We rewired all the plants this morning. The rotors shouldn’t pull up the herbs.”

“Good, good.” Gene moves us away from the aerosol fumes. “Sorry, where were we?”

“Excited. Is there a problem with the garden?”

He clasps his hands behind his back. “Well, half the board wanted the helipad and half wanted the roof designated as a green space.” His voice trails off as he watches an abandoned balloon float over Ninth Avenue. “They shouldn’t really be in the same area. We’ve had to go a little …bonsai. But everything important is there: rosemary, pansies, fennel . . .”

“Rue, daisies, and violets?” I finish for him as he holds the door for me, leading back into the sweltering silence of the greenhouse vestibule.

He smiles. “Nan, I wanted to ask you . . .”

“Shoot!”

He eyes the closed elevator door. “You mentioned you’re tight with Mr. X.”

“Oh, no, I—” Fuck it. “Sure, yes, I am.”

“Great. We need to get in touch with him.” He fishes in his pocket for his cell phone. “What’s his direct number.” Huh?

“Have you called his office?”

“I’m not retarded,” he shoots back impolitically, his accent thickening with his annoyance. “Cliff Ashburn can’t get ahold of him and I said you’d probably have a private, a direct—”

“I—I don’t think . . .” I struggle to be helpful, picturing my cell sitting in my purse, the number programmed into it that’s taken me only to voice mail.

“Nan.” He rises on the balls of his Docksiders. “
This
is the time to show allegiance.”

“No, I appreciate that—”

“So the number?”

“I’m supposed to see him tomorrow, actually,” I say quickly.

“Great! Fantastic!” He shoves his phone in his pocket. “Where?”

“Sorry?”

“Where are you seeing him? I’ll swing by.”

“Oh, I don’t have exact plans just yet. Sometime around the end of business, I’m thinking, although we haven’t finalized—”

“So just call me the minute you know.” He pushes for the elevator. “I’m counting on you. The board is counting on you.”

“Then I’ll deliver!” I find myself saluting like a desperate jackass as he pushes back out into the relentless sun.

I’m the last customer that night at the Laundromat. The industrial dryer buzzes as the clothes tumble to a halt and, breaking my pacing loop around the folding counter, I beeline to the hot machine. Popping open the door, I glance over at my maddeningly dark BlackBerry sitting atop the fold station, the red light blinking from Gene’s unanswered calls. God, why the fuck isn’t Mr. X calling back?! We are twenty-four hours and counting. I am just going to take them out to Greenwich tomorrow, that’s what. Gene can drive. It’s pretty there. They have swans and lilacs. They’ll be fine in that office. Hell, it’s bigger than the corporate McPartment. And if they’re in front of him, he will have to deal. I will make him deal. We will make him deal. And I will drop them off with clean clothes and strict bandaging instructions. And then Gracie and I are buying a whip and going pharaoh on Steve’s ass.

Dumping the warm armful on the counter, I get a whiff of the nurturing aroma of fabric softener, with its suggestion of domestic order, and flash to how, when Ryan and I first looked at the house, I was so thrilled at the idea of having our own washer-dryer in the basement. The basement that might now have to be permanently sealed off like a typhoid ward if this fungicide doesn’t do the trick.

He’s going to freak when he hears about the ten-twelve-fourteen thousand.
If
he comes back to hear about it. Is he
not
stuck there? The thought occurs to me for the first time since he’s been gone. Oh God, is he choosing to stay away, seemingly indefinitely, rather than come home and deal with me?