Holly Peterson - The Manny

‘No problem. Any time.’

‘Henry is so in debt to you,’ said Ingrid.

The burly chauffeur carried each of her younger boys in one graceful arc from their car seats to the kerb, as if he were placing eggs in a basket.

‘The four Ambien. Henry was going hunting with some clients for five days, it was wheels up at 10 p.m. to Argentina and he was crazed!’

‘Jamie.’ Next, voice I loved. My friend Kathryn Fitzgerald. She commuted from Tribeca and she was wearing jeans and French sneakers. Like me, she wasn’t one of those people who grew up on the Upper East Side and never touched a doorknob in their entire life. ‘Hurry. Let’s plough up front.’

As we started up the marble stairs, a white Cadillac Escalade pulled up to the kerb. You could tell a hundred feet away that there were children of a major CEO inside. It came to a stop and the aristocratic driver, wearing a bowler hat like Oddjob, walked around to open the door and the four McAllister kids piled out with four Filipina nannies – each holding a child’s hand.

All four of the nannies were wearing white pants, white rubber-soled shoes and matching Dora the Explorer nurse’s shirts with little Band-Aids all over them. There were so many little children and nurses in their tight little pack that they looked like a centipede making its way up the marble steps.

At five minutes after three, the school opened and the parents politely, but forcefully, pushed each other to get in. Up four flights of stairs to the gym, I could hear echoes of young male voices and the screech of sneakers. St Henry’s fourth-grade team was already out practising in their royal-blue-and-white uniforms. I quickly scanned the court for my Dylan, but didn’t see him. I looked up at the crowd to my right. The moms and dads from Dylan’s school were beginning to gather on one side of the bleachers. Scattered among them were the team’s siblings with their nannies representing every country in the United Nations. No Dylan. I finally spotted him huddled on a bench near the locker-room door. He was still dressed in his khakis and white button-down shirt with the collar undone. His blue blazer was draped on the bench beside him. When he saw me, he squinted and looked away. My husband Phillip summoned the exact same expression when he was angry and feeling put upon.

‘Dylan! I’m here!’

‘You’re late, Mom.’

‘Sweetheart, I’m not late.’

‘Well, some of the moms got here before you.’

‘You know what? There’s a line outside, four moms deep, and I can’t cut the line. There’s a lot of moms still coming up behind me.’

‘Whatever.’ He looked away.

‘Honey. Where’s your uniform?’

‘In my backpack.’ I could feel the waves of stubborn tension emanating from my son.

I sat down next to him. ‘It’s time to put it on.’

‘I don’t want to wear my uniform.’

Coach Robertson came over. ‘You know what?’ He put his arms in the air, signalling his exasperation. ‘I’m not gonna force him into it every time. I told him he would miss the game, but I can’t make him put the uniform on. If you wanna know the reality of the situation here, he’s being ridiculous …’

‘You know what I say, Coach? It’s really not being ridiculous. OK?’ This guy was never in tune with Dylan. I brought the coach to the side. ‘We’ve all discussed this – Dylan’s unease before a game. He’s nine years old. It’s his first year on a team.’ The coach didn’t seem to be moved, and he took off. Then I put my arm around Dylan. ‘Honey. Coach Robertson isn’t my favourite person, but he’s right. It’s time to put on the uniform.’

‘He’s doesn’t even like me.’

‘He likes all the boys the same, and even if he’s tough, he just wants you to play.’

‘Well, I’m not gonna.’

‘Even for me?

Dylan looked at me and shook his head. He had big brown eyes and strong features with thick dark hair that never fell just right. Dylan’s mouth smiled more than his eyes ever did.

‘Dylan!!! Hurry!!!’ Douglas Wood, an obnoxious little kid with freckles, a crew cut and a pudgy bottom waddled over. ‘What’s wrong with you, Dylan?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Well, how come you don’t have your uniform on?’

‘Because my mom had to talk to me. It’s her fault.’

Coach Robertson, angry with Douglas for leaving the warm-up and with my son for his refusal to play at all, marched towards us pumping his elbows. ‘Come on, kid. Time’s up. Let’s go.’ He picked up Dylan’s backpack and pulled him by his hand towards the locker room. Dylan rolled his eyes back at me and lumbered along, dragging his uniform behind him on the floor. I walked up towards the bleachers with an ache in my heart.

Kathryn, who’d gone ahead to save me a seat in the bleachers, was now waving to me from the fifth row on the St Henry’s Boys’ School side. She had twin boys in Dylan’s grade, as well as a daughter at our nursery school. Her twins, Louis and Nicky, were fighting over a ball and Coach Robertson leaned down to whistle loudly into their ears to break it up. I watched Kathryn stand up to get a better look at their arguing, her long blonde ponytail cascading down the back of her worn suede jacket. As I edged by twenty people to slip in next to her, she sat down and squeezed my knee.

Kathryn smiled. ‘We made it just in time.’

‘Tell me about it.’ I placed my tired head in the palms of my hands.

A few beats later, the Wilmington Boys’ School team burst through the gym doors like an invading army. I watched my tentative son hang back beside the other players. His sweaty teammates ran back and forth, all in their last fleeting years of boyhood before the gawky ravages of adolescence took hold. They rarely threw the ball to Dylan, mostly because he never made eye contact and always jogged along the periphery of the team, safe outside any commotion. His lanky build and knobby knees made his movements less than graceful, like a giraffe making short stops.

‘Dylan’s not playing well.’

Kathryn looked at me. ‘None of them play well. Look at them; they can barely get the ball up into the hoop. They’re not strong enough yet.’

‘Yeah, I guess. He’s just down.’

‘Not always down. It’s just sometimes,’ Kathryn answered.

Barbara Fisher turned around from the row in front of me. She was wearing tight jeans, a starched white blouse with the collar turned up against gravity and an expensive-looking fuchsia cable-knit sweater. She was too tan and as thin as a Giacometti statue.

‘Ohhh, here’s the busy-bee-worky-worky-mom at a game.’

I jerked back. ‘I know it means so much to him.’

I looked over her head towards the boys.

Barbara moved her head up five inches to block my view and make another point. ‘We were talking at the school benefit meeting about how hard it must be for you, never being able to get involved in Dylan’s activities.’

She was so annoying.

‘I like to work. But if you choose not to work outside the home, I can certainly understand. It’s probably a more enjoyable lifestyle.’

‘You’re not doing it for the money. Obviously . Phillip’s such a heavy-hitter lawyer these days.’ She was whispering – she thought – but everyone around us could hear her. ‘I mean, you can’t possibly be contributing much financially on a scale that matters .’

I rolled my eyes at Kathryn. ‘I actually make a pretty good salary, Barbara. But, no, I’m not really working for the money. It’s just something I like to do. Call it a competitive streak. And right now I need to concentrate on Dylan’s game because he can be competitive too, and I’m sure he’d like me to watch him play.’