Nanny Returns (7 page)

“Wow, that’s amazing—I never worked in an office. Some days I crave group dynamics so badly I want to pay people to hang out by my sink and talk to me about
Lost
while I make tea. So, Stockholm?”

“Ryan put in to transfer someplace I could also get my master’s.”

“Uppsala?”

“Yes,”
I say, surprised. “I can’t believe you’ve heard of it. It’s only forty minutes outside the coldest place on earth.”

“I had an exhibition there in ’02.” She tips forward onto her knees, legs still folded. “This is so great! I feel like it was total fate I ran into you. To be with someone who understands the whole Chapin thing, but gets that it doesn’t define you. Or means you don’t have to work.” She empties her glass in one gulp as some guys on the street outside are shouting for Tanya in a way that would make me, were I Tanya, turn out my lamp and lie still on the floor. “And yet I get so sick of people in the art community who have no manners. I love my friends, but I’m thirty-three. I have nothing in common with the people who go to parties looking to steal something.” She abruptly unfurls and lifts to standing on those boots in one motion, like Madonna doing yoga. After all these years she is still mesmerizing in a way very few people are, and if I were a man I would buy her art and send her cases of imported wine. “I’m starving. How do you feel about cheeseburgers?”

That night she brings me to DuMont Burger, site of the best onion rings I have ever had. They are the size of Krispy Kremes and we polish off two orders over a surprising amount of shared laughs. Then back to her apartment to load me up with a box of dog-eared paperbacks, and a call to Clark’s limo to take us both home.

As the car pulls up to drop her in front of the Xes’ building, I remember, with sudden nausea, that I have a date there not forty-eight hours from now. The driver pops out to open her door before the caped attendant can get there. “You okay?” she asks. “You went white.”

“I used to work here. Ninth floor.”

“The Xes?” she asks, a strawberry blond eyebrow arching. “The doorman says she’s ‘strict.’”

“Oh, good. I was afraid the intervening decade might have softened her. Still strict. Excellent.”

“I’ll give her your regards if we pass in the elevator.” She kisses my cheek in a last whiff of honeysuckle and swings her feet to the sidewalk.

“Only if you want a fish put through your mail slot.”

She cracks up. “Please let’s do this again soon. You
have
to come over and help me figure out what we’re doing with this place.
Please
.”

“I would love that,” I say, meaning it.

“It’s a date! And let me know how you like
The Sixteen Pleasures.
Okay, wish me luck on my first night.” With that, she hops out and he shuts her door. I watch as she disappears behind the brass-framed glass and a minute later the car cleaves from the curb to drive me north. I flip open my phone to check the latest text from Ryan: MTNG RUNNING N2 WEE HRS. NO WORRIES, CRAPPY. TALK TMRW. XO R

Slouching into the leather, I dial one of the few people I know are still thinking full throttle at this hour.

“Hello, bug.” Mom answers the phone. “I love having you in my time zone.”

“And yet we’re still talking in the middle of the night.”

“Eleven thirty is not the middle of the night and when did you get old? Hold on. It’s Nan,” she says to Dad. “Who else do I call bug?” She comes back to me. “When he has his left ear on the pillow I don’t think he can hear a thing.”

“So.” I finger the black stitching on the armrest. “I have a potentially scary meeting on Friday.”

“New client?”

“Yes,” I say, only partially lying. New, old—same diff.

“Nan, that’s great! I knew your business was going to take off.”

“The thing is . . .” I crack the window to let in the night air as I try to isolate
what
the thing is in the general feeling of clammy that seeing Mrs. X again induces. “The connection is through some nanny work I did and I might run into a few old faces—”

“I have just the thing! I’ll send it to your iTunes account right now.”

“iTunes? Don’t tell me, you have a ‘Say No to Say Yes’ dance remix?”

She laughs. “Even better. One of my clients turned me on to it a few years ago and now I give it to anyone whose ex is screwing with their shelter vouchers. So we’ll see you and Ryan for dinner Friday? I was thinking Chinese.”

“Yes to Chinese and let’s hope Ryan is back by then.” I touch the gold lotus pendant he gave me last Valentine’s where it rests warmly between my collarbones.

“You getting lonely over there? You want Dad and me to come for a sleepover?”

“Uh, no,” I laugh. “But thanks.”

“All you have to do is ask. See you Friday.”

“Love you. Bye.”

4

“Now I don’t know exactly what you have in mind, but I pulled a few things and lay them on the bed.” On Friday, having abandoned my mother’s suggested podcast for empowering divorcees, I follow Grandma into the loft to see a fan of dry-cleaner bags basking in the noonday sun. “Your mother believes that in confrontational situations, holding the purity of your intention is enough. I say, hold it in Chanel!” She sweeps up a pale pink tweed jacket with the signature gold buttons, the empirical armor of the neighborhood, as Citrine identified. “Your new clients are like those people you worked for in college?”

“Yes,” I affirm, feeling doubly bad about fibbing to her, but I just have to get through today and then tell everyone about it years from now when it’s just this really great altruistic thing I did and not the stupid thing I’m about to do.

“Now, I didn’t take out the skirt, because I think you should pair it with those crisp jeans you’re wearing so it doesn’t look like you’re trying. Here.” She hands me a large dark blue Jimmy Choo purse that picks up the flecks of blue in the tweed. “And . . .” She opens a shoe box with a pair of pristine navy Chanel ballet flats. “These you can keep. I have never worn them. I was having a farty moment. And this.” She opens a red Cartier box on the bed and extracts a string of pearls. “Your grandfather gave me these on our twentieth wedding anniversary. Your father traded them once for a bag of pot, but we got them back. There. Pair that with the fresh-out-of-the-package T-shirt.” I hold up the one I was instructed to buy at the American Apparel on the corner. “And you are good to go.” She snakes the cool pearls into my palm.

“Grandma, I can’t thank you enough, this is fabulous.”

“I’m glad you called.” She takes my shoulders. “I know you know how to make potable water in the desert and build a hut out of twigs, but this is a different jungle and Manhattan is not for the unshelled slug.”

“Can I quote you on that?”

“If I don’t use it as the title for my
memwah
,” she says, swanning the air with her kimono sleeve.

I kiss her and go into the bathroom to don my shell.

And then all at once a combination of trains and one-foot-in-front-of-the-other puts me back under the gray awning and the doorman is swinging open the door. “Hi. Nan Hutchinson. I’m here to see Grayer X,” I say, willing his mother to be tranqued as promised. And in Tahiti.

“He’s expecting you.” He points the way. “Elevator on your left.” And spotlit urn to my right—yes, I know.

I round the corner and get in, pressing nine. And then eleven—Citrine could shoot me up with whiskey and a Valium. We can all be tranqued! God, that’s what my tenure here was missing—unilateral sedation.

But when the door opens I obediently exit and let it slide shut behind me. Taking a deep breath, I reach out and press for the bell.

“Cooooooomiiiiiiiing!”
I hear a kid’s voice Doppler to the door, past it, and back again. It swings open and a boy with black hair and deep green eyes stands rib-height before me, leaning into the knob in an impressive arc before releasing it to spring himself upright. “I’m Stilton. You must be Nan-neh!” He makes a little Flamenco flourish on the second syllable.

“It’s Nan, if you don’t mind, and I am charmed to make your acquaintance.” I hold out my hand and he shakes it.

“Nan. Thanks for coming.” He stares up at me, beaming. “Grayer said you would be perfect and you are.”

I blush.

“I didn’t say perfect.” Grayer rounds the doorway from the kitchen, his oxford unbuttoned, his Haverhill tie loose as he passes with a silver tea service balanced on a tray. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

I watch as he rounds out into the living room and returns a moment later, sans tray. “You can put your bag in the coat closet.” Grayer needlessly points to the door, behind which his folded stroller used to sit.

“So where is your mo—” I’m interrupted by the lobby buzzer ringing in the kitchen, sending both boys spinning into each other.

“I study the Food Network and I love to watch French,” Stilton rat-a-tats. “I mean, ugh.” He pounds his forehead with his palm.

“Stil.” Grayer grasps him firmly by the shoulders. “Take off your shoes and do a lap.”

“Now?”
Stilton asks, incredulous.

“One lap. It’ll clear your head.”

“Your guest is here, Mr. Grayer,” I hear a woman with a South American accent call from the kitchen.

“Thanks, Rosa!”

With a grave nod, Stilton pulls his feet from his loafers, swings back both elbows, and sets off in socked-foot, speed-skater circle on the polished marble of the foyer. I step aside as he corners the velvet-draped table, so unchanged that I half expect to see my own hand-prints on the glass.

“This looks exactly like I remembered it.” I turn to Grayer, who has buttoned his collar and is now focused on knotting his crested tie.

“Uh-huh.” Grayer tosses Stilton his loafers as he rounds back to us, cheeks flushed, face relaxed. I smile at Grayer, my mouth opening to compliment him on his brothering skills. “Please?” Frustration evident, he holds his hand out for my bag and drops it in the coat closet. “Get ready,” he instructs me as he swings his jacket off the bench with his pointer finger and flips it on in one move. “You cool, Stil?” He runs a smoothing hand over Stilton’s bangs.

“Cool.” Stilton nods, still catching his breath.

“We are cool, calm, collected, and smart,” Grayer murmurs, eyes locked with his brother’s as Stilton repeats him.

The bell rings and, following a motion from Grayer, Stilton steps forward and opens the door without flourish. “Hello, I’m Stilton X, thank you for coming.”

“Hello, I’m Chester Dobson.” The man in his midforties takes a card out of the pocket of his corduroy blazer and hands it to Stilton. “Thank you for having me.” He leans down to shake Stilton’s hand, the light from the chandelier illuminating his bald patch.

“This is my brother, Grayer.”

“Hello.” Grayer steps forward. “Thank you again for making the exception in your application schedule, Mr. Dobson. I know this is last minute, but my grandfather always spoke highly of his time at your institution.” Grayer shakes his hand in turn and gives him solid eye contact. Good, this is going great.

“That’s wonderful to hear.” Chester fluffs. “He seems to have been an exceptional man, head boy and then, forty years later, head of the trustees. I’m sorry I never got to meet him.”

Stilton clears his throat. “I really want to go to your school. It would have made my grandfather really proud.” He delivers his line with intense conviction. He turns to me. “And this is my mom.” I startle, automatically looking behind me—to no one. “Mom?”

“Y-yes, yes,” I stammer. “I am his mother.” My voice rises with each syllable. “Their mother.” Trying to steady myself, I shake Chester’s hand, emanating maternal warmth from the soles of my ballet flats, wondering if this is the beginning of the story of how I lost my accreditation.

“You look so young to have two such strapping boys.”

I laugh demurely, channeling our absent host. “Start the Botox early and then you’ll have no wrinkles to erase.” I try to relax my forehead into something remotely approaching paralyzed. “Please, won’t you come in and sit down?”

Grayer leads the way for them as I follow behind, indulging in a full non-Botoxed facial reaction. OH MY GOD!!! Now she’s going to come home and find me
playing
her?! Is there a
worse
way to revisit this woman? How much time do we have? They must have accounted for that. Probably gave her a spa day. I pause on the threshold. And
really?
I’m about to be interviewed in this
same
living room, where, other than the tea service on the coffee table, not a
single
thing has changed?! Not one throw pillow.

Feeling the chain in the lining of Grandma’s Chanel grounding me, I round the side table and paste my placid back on. “So, Chester, how can we help you today?” Joining Grayer and Stilton, I take a seat across from him on the velvet couch I don’t think I was once allowed to rest my tush on.

“Are we waiting for Mr. X?” Chester asks.

“Sadly,” Grayer jumps in, “our father is closing a deal today and couldn’t be here. I certainly hope that won’t count against Stilton.” He places a hand on his brother’s shoulder and Stilton’s loafer ceases tapping.

“No, of course not,” Chester says in a way that comes out sounding like yes, of course. “Well.” Chester lifts his brown leather briefcase to the thick glass and clicks it open. “I’m sure you understand why schools are putting such an emphasis on the home visit these days.” Not a clue.

“Of course. Tea?” I say.

He dips his head in agreement and I lean forward to busy myself with pouring, placing a shortbread biscuit on the thin saucer as he continues. “I mean, what happened over at Cleveland-Ashcroft last year is any school’s worst nightmare.”

I look questioningly at Grayer, who is sitting straight, knees together, hand still clamped on Stilton’s rigid shoulder. “Three students died. You remember, Mom.”

“Oh, of course.” I hand over the teacup. “Was that Cleveland-Ashcroft?”

“Well, that’s excellent,” Chester says, popping his biscuit in his mouth in one bite. “That’s every school’s hope, of course, that you won’t remember, that the name of the school isn’t permanently tarnished.”

“I’m sure. And exactly what happened again?” I ask, handing a filled cup and saucer to Stilton, which he passes along to Grayer, who places it back on the glass next to the service.

Chester swallows. “Two killed themselves after college acceptances came in—hadn’t gotten in where they’d hoped—and one, drugs.”

“Ah, right,” I say, nodding my head. “Such a tragedy for the families.” He doesn’t nod back. “And the school, of course,” I add, earning the nod.

“So you see why we want to make sure that every student has a stable and supportive home environment. Especially a school like ours, which follows the example of our sister school in England, taking them at eight. It is the British norm, you know.”

“So I’ve read.” I put my arm around Stilton and he leans stiffly against me. I look around, realizing I was wrong about the unupdated design: what once was brown is now beige, what once was beige is now cream, what once was lattice is now damask. Even the contentious eight-thousand-dollar draperies, while still the same mushroom-hued silk, have a slightly different ruffle. Subtle changes, but time-consuming, I’m sure.

“So tell me about Stilton’s childhood,” Chester entreats, reaching across to help himself to a second cookie as he withdraws his notepad and pen from his briefcase with the other hand.

“Well.” I pause, as if trying to pick from the seven years of fantastic memories I have to choose from. “He was such a good baby.” Chester writes nothing down. Too generic? “Well, I, um . . .” Three sets of eyes. The sound of the grandfather clock ticking. A trickle of sweat down my side. “Well, you know how it is with two boys.” I give an awkward laugh. “I wouldn’t say it was until Stilton was …four. Yes, four”—I finally say something with conviction—“when Grayer was older and busy at school that Stilton really came into his own. He was a delight.” No writing on the pad. “He loved to dance,” I offer. “With jazz hands. And wassailing. Every year at Christmas we’d go from floor to floor and wassail for the neighbors.” The pen starts to move. “We did fashion shows. You know, to figure out what we’ve outgrown. Oh, and he wouldn’t go anywhere without his father’s business card. It eventually got so frayed I clipped it to him in a bus pass holder. And if he had a nightmare the only song that would soothe him was ‘Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall.’” I let the memories come as the pen scratches furiously across the page. Stilton looks up at me, entranced by this version of himself. “And that’s when he developed his distaste of Teletubbies,” I wrap up, and see that Grayer’s face has gone slack.

“Excellent. Marvelous, marvelous,” Chester chirps, capturing my last thoughts and returning the cap to his pen. “Can I have the tour now?”

“Of course,” I say, wishing my face actually was paralyzed so it wouldn’t keep looking horrified. “Stil, why don’t you lead the way, bug?”

Stilton stands as Chester collects his briefcase. “Please follow me, Mr. Dobson.”

They go ahead and I tug Grayer back.
“Your mother?”
I whisper.

“Relax,”
he hisses, taking long steps to catch up to his brother. I scurry behind them, arriving at what was once one of the guest bedrooms. Every surface is now covered in cutouts from
The Economist
and Stilton is showing Chester his scale model of the Supreme Court.

“This is a lovely room, Stilton,” Chester says. It
is?
For a law student, not a seven-year-old. Chester crouches to examine a tiny gavel. “Are you sure you want to leave it?” I see a funny flicker across Stilton’s eyes. He looks to Grayer, who mouths something over Chester’s shoulder. “I want adventure. I’m ready,” Stilton says firmly.

Chester laughs. I remind myself to join him. We all laugh.

We then walk out through the shared bathroom to Grayer’s room and it’s only the mission at hand that stops me from studying every inch. A decorator’s vision of a teenage boy’s habitat, circa Yale when they still had butlers, it’s immaculate, despite the distinct aroma of discarded boy gear I’d venture was hastily shoved under the bed. We come out at the other end of the hall and turn to go past Mrs. X’s room to her office. I am confused when, instead of her doorway, there’s only a large Chinese armoire in that corner. Of course they did construction when Stilton arrived to increase her precious privacy.