The Nanny Diaries (39 page)

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 Nan-tucket 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."