Jane Mendelsohn - Burning Down the House

I would be happy with water, she said.

The man took a swig and then topped off her glass.

You think you would, he said, but you’re mistaken.

Solitary, large but not muscular, his eyes searching as if seeking out some hidden meaning beyond enlightenment, beyond reason or spirit or truth.

Really, said Neva, I’m okay with water.

She finished the little left in her glass and walked several steps to the sink. She could see better now.

At least drink the bottled water, the man said.

Really, this is fine, she said, filling her glass from the tap.

You’re the boys’ new nanny?

She kept the glass up to her mouth while she thought about how to respond.

I’m Steve, he said. Their father.

I know, she said. I’m Neva.

—

She turned around and washed her glass and dried it and put it back in a cupboard. She thought that maybe she should leave now but the thought was swept quickly along on a river of thoughts. The more compelling thought was about how different Steve was from the way she had imagined him, how much larger and yet more approachable. She had known that she wouldn’t be afraid of him, but she hadn’t guessed that she would want to be around him. She had expected to hate him.

How old are you? he asked.

Twenty-six.

Where’re you from?

Russia.

How long have you been here?

I came to the States when I was ten years old.

Not much older than the twins, he remarked. He took a long swallow from the bottle.

The boys are very sweet, she said. I’m glad to be taking care of them.

They’re not sweet. But maybe you haven’t realized that yet.

Well — she smiled — they’re very bright.

Felix is. I worry about him. Roman’s an operator. He’ll be fine. He opened the refrigerator and with his hulking back to her he said, Why the hell isn’t there anything to eat around here?

I don’t know.

They’re probably having it all flown in from someplace. Jonathan and his goddamn expensive palate.

Neva began opening cupboards and said, I’ll find something. Do you like eggs? I see some oil, I can cook them with that.

Scrambled, not overcooked.

She had already found a pan and lit the stove.

—

She has entirely forgotten the thought of leaving and is deeply engaged in the feeling of being around Steve, being present with him, settling in to what seems like a very natural rhythm. If she is a river then he is an ocean, and she feels herself flow naturally in his direction. Already in the car that took her away from home she was gliding, gliding toward this moment.

—

She finds, much to her surprise, that she does not hate him. Instead, she feels as if she knows him.

—

I’ll find a bowl, she said. She looked around for a bowl and a fork to stir the eggs. She opened drawers, but she found only keys, a screwdriver, duct tape. Far off in the house the plumbing rumbled and drifted off. She opened another cabinet and found a fork sticking out of a teapot.

You can just crack them in the pan, he said. I like them that way.

All right.

Neva stirred the watery eggs and they swirled into one another.

Couldn’t sleep in this strange house? he asked her.

She didn’t answer him.

Steve nodded his head as if answering the question for himself. You’ve had a hard life, he said. It’s a crazy world, isn’t it?

Not crazier than any other, she said.

To other worlds, he said, raising the bottle. You seem like you might’ve come from another one.

She found a stash of plates in a dirty old dishwasher and cleaned one and put the eggs on the plate and handed him the eggs and fork.

I sometimes feel that way, she said.

He offered her his fork. Have something to eat, he said.

I was only thirsty, she said.

They stood together in silence while he ate. The light outside was bleaching a little bit away from darkness and the objects in the kitchen became slightly more visible, dirtier. It was a fancy house with a filthy kitchen. He handed her the plate and she washed it and the pan and dried everything and put it all away.

You don’t have any family, do you?

No, I don’t, said Neva.

Didn’t think so.

He finished the champagne and left the empty bottle on the counter.

I hope you enjoy your time with us, he said.

I’m sure I will. Thank you for the opportunity.

He watched her for a moment and nodded some more. Go back to bed, he told her.

—

She did. Crawling back under the heavy covers she squeezed her eyes shut and searched longingly for sleep. When it came she dreamed of a dog, its eyes closed, floating on the water. Not dead but dreaming.

—

She awoke not long after with the dawn not yet breaking and the thick drapes blocking out any early light. Felix was standing next to the bed, looking down at her.

What is it? she asked him. Are you okay? But he said nothing and slunk off and went back to his own bed and when it was time to get up he didn’t seem to remember the incident.

ALL THAT NEXT MORNING she watched Patrizia conferring with Miranda and delivering womanly advice. By lunchtime Miranda had been convinced to get over Jonathan’s involvement with the former nanny and to go through with the wedding. Neva pieced this together from snatches of conversation and gestures and looks, the two women ranging over the subject as if they were surveying and studying the floors of a luxury store. At lunchtime they were talking about rehearsal dinner details, and Neva was giving the boys their lunch. The food had arrived, along with a chef and kitchen staff. Neva served the boys from large platters arranged on a console near an outdoor table. Roman was trying to eat while playing a game. His device fell into his lunch several times and Neva helped him clean off the herbs and oil.

—

During the meal Neva tried to get acquainted with Felix, who was not easy to unearth. An inward boy with a delicate, occasionally quizzical expression. They ate side by side in silence, the barely audible clicks of Roman’s thumbs on his machine blending in with clinking silverware, spilling food, the twittering country sounds.

Felix was usually found reading a book but at the moment he was concentrating entirely on the present, eating with deliberate poise, chewing his fried fish thoughtfully, dipping pieces into the red swirl of ketchup on the white china with a light, graceful movement. He ate his salad using the fork with his left hand.

He had asked Neva no questions since she’d started working for the family a few days earlier. He seemed to have absorbed everything he needed to know about her from watching her, observing both the way others treated her and the subtleties of mood on her generally inexpressive face. He was like a highly intelligent animal, a dolphin mixed with an exquisite monkey.

—

I’ve never had fish-and-chips before, Neva said.

Felix nodded underneath a filigree of shadows from a large tree.

I thought it would be greasier, she continued.

They were both quiet for a while.

This is fancy fish-and-chips, Felix said. It’s not the real thing. It’s usually pretty disgusting and more delicious.

I thought so.

I have a question.

Go ahead, said Neva.

Why is it harder not to imagine something if someone says to you, Don’t think of a black dog, than if someone says: Don’t think about the sentence “Are you hungry”?

Because the mind works in images. So if you hear the phrase “a black dog,” you cannot not picture it. If someone says a string of words, that’s easier to forget.

Okay. Thanks.

You’re welcome.

How do they study memory? Do they go into people’s brains? I guess they can. I guess they’ll figure it all out. It’s like the way there used to be diseases that people don’t get sick from anymore. We can cure them now. That will probably happen with death. I mean I can’t really imagine that I’m ever going to die.