Holly Peterson - The Manny

‘Did not.’

Phillip looked at me for guidance; he hadn’t gotten home last night in time to even talk with Dylan. ‘You didn’t have a, uh, rough time at the game?’

‘Nope.’

‘OK, Dylan. Let’s forget the game for now and talk about the math …’

‘Just so you know, I don’t ever want to talk about that game. Because it’s not important. My homework is important and it’s too hard.’ Dylan crossed his arms, and with a wounded look on his face, stared at the floor.

‘I understand.’ Phillip was really trying to reason here. ‘That’s why I want to discuss the math situation as well. How come you didn’t finish it last night? Is it because you were upset after the game?’

‘I told you! I wasn’t upset! The game doesn’t matter! We’re supposed to be talking about why you can’t help with my math. Alexander’s dad always does his math homework with him and picks him up on his tandem bicycle after school.’

‘Alexander’s daddy is a violinist and Alexander lives in a hovel.’

‘Phillip, please ! Grown-up time out. Come with me.’ I grabbed his hand and pulled him back into his dressing room and closed the door.

He winked at me. I crossed my arms. He clenched his hands like two big suction cups on my bottom and pulled me into him. Then he kissed me up and down my neck.

‘You smell so good. So clean. I love your shampoo,’ he whispered.

I wasn’t having any. ‘You have got to listen to yourself this morning.’

‘I’m sorry. It’s the client meeting. It’s gotten me nervous. And now you’ve gotten me hot.’

I slapped his hand. ‘You can’t say Chinese people are little idiots within earshot of the kids. It’s so offensive to me, first of all, and if they ever heard you …’

‘You’re right.’

‘And if Alexander lives in a small apartment, you don’t need to use that as a criticism against his father, who happens to be a world-class musician. What the hell kind of message do you think that sends?’

‘That was bad.’

‘So what are you thinking? You’re driving me crazy.’

He tried to unzip my shirt. ‘You’re driving me crazy.’ He tickled the back of my ribcage.

Gracie banged on the door.

‘Mommy!’

‘Stop.’ I laughed, despite myself. ‘I can’t take it. I’ve already got three children. I don’t need a fourth. It’s a cuff-link hole, OK? Can you try to get a grip?’

‘I love you. I’m sorry. You’re right. But those shirts cost me a lot of money and you would think …’

‘Please.’

‘Fine. Let’s start again.’ He opened the door for me, gallantly motioned for me to go through it and carried Gracie back into the study like a bundle of wood under his arm.

Dylan was staring out the window, still furious. Phillip sat down at his desk chair and concentrated once again on his son. ‘Dylan. I know the homework’s hard. I suppose if you can give me some time and not ask when I’m rushing to the office.’

‘You weren’t here yesterday, or I would have asked you to help then.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Phillip grabbed Dylan’s hands and tried to look him in the eye. But Dylan pulled away. ‘You’re a big boy now and you’re old enough to do your own homework without your mother or father. If you need a tutor, then we can discuss it, but it is almost seven thirty and I have my car waiting and you have to get to school on time.’

Dylan flew on to the sofa in abject frustration. ‘Oh, maaaaaan.’ He laid spread-eagle on his back, his eyes buried in the crook of his elbow. He was too old to cry easily, but I know he wanted to. I also knew that if I went to hug him, his fragile composure would crumble and he would lose it. I kept a safe distance.

‘All the moms can’t do the math homework, and all the dads in my class have to do it for everyone. It’s not fair that you won’t help me.’

‘Were you spending too much time on your Xbox?’ Phillip looked at me. ‘Jamie, we’ve got to start monitoring his time with those screens, it’s just too …’

‘Dad, you’re the one who bought me Madden 07!’

‘He doesn’t play video games until he’s finished with his homework. He knows the rules,’ I answered. ‘You know, today’d be a good day to ease up on the rules around …’

‘Dylan,’ he said tenderly, now sitting on the edge of the couch. ‘It’s just that Daddy has a hard time understanding sometimes. I love you very much and I am so proud of you and I will figure out some time tonight to get this done.’ He tapped him on the nose. ‘You got it?’

‘Yeah.’ Dylan stifled a smile.

Gracie appeared at the doorway of Phillip’s office with a small pink pair of plastic Barbie scissors and raised them in silent offering.

Phillip looked at her. Then at me. Then he laughed out loud. ‘Thank you, honey.’ He pulled Gracie over and ruffled her hair. Then he picked up Dylan and gave him a huge bear hug. Just when I was convinced Phillip was a real monster, he would do something that would make me think that maybe I could still love him. In my moments of deep honesty, I tell my friend Kathryn I might leave Phillip at some point down the road. We drift, he’s impossible, and then he acts responsible and fatherly and I think I’m going to try to make this work after all.

‘Dylan, we’re going to get through this together. As a family.’ Then he turned to me. ‘Give me the old shirt. I’m late. Call Mr Ho for me and tell him he’s got twenty-four hours to fix all ten shirts. If I have to deal with him, I’ll call in a hit squad.’

We rode down in the elevator together with backpacks and cell phones and jackets flying everywhere: my husband, Dylan, Gracie and baby Michael, Carolina the housekeeper with our Wheaten Terrier Gussie, and our nanny Yvette. The fact that Phillip had moved beyond his buttonhole tantrum didn’t mean he was actually going to engage with the rest of us. Dressed in his lawyer suit and shiny black shoes, he was readying himself for a client meeting and successfully ignoring the chaos around him. Jamming his cell-phone earpiece into his ear, he started dialling his voicemail with his thumb while he pressed a thick bunch of folded newspapers into his hip with his upper arm.

I picked up Gracie with one hand and put a clip in my hair with the other. Yvette, filled with pride over her well-kept charges, dressed my two little kids like every day was a Sunday church day in Jamaica. And since she’d been with us since Dylan was born, I didn’t interfere. Gracie was wearing a red gingham dress with matching red Mary Janes and a huge white bow the size of a 767 on the side of her head.

‘Mommy, are you going to pick me up or is Yvette?’ Gracie started whimpering. ‘You never pick me up.’

‘Not today because, you know, Tuesday is a work day, sweetheart. I have to go to work all day. But remember I try to pick you up on Mondays and Fridays.’ ‘Try’ being the operative word there: though I worked at the network part-time, my hours were erratic and increased to full-time when a story broke. This lack of consistency wasn’t easy on the kids. Gracie’s delicate face began to curl up in that look I knew so well. I brushed her hair down with the palm of my hand and kissed her forehead. I whispered, ‘I love you.’

Dylan’s backpack was bigger than he was. He pulled it around to find the Tamagotchi on his keychain and began poking at it like a mad scientist. Just like Daddy with his BlackBerry.

‘I can’t do a conference call at 3 p.m.’ Even if we’re in an elevator, Phillip insists on returning voicemail messages the second he hears them. ‘Call my secretary, Hank, she’ll work it out. Now let me give you a full report on the Tysis Logics litigation …’