Emma McLaughlin - The Nanny Diaries

"Whathappenedtoher?"

"Well, she got a boyfriend. That's what happened to her." I look at her quizzically. "For two years she just worked, she'd only been here maybe a few years and didn't have too many friends. So she practically lived here and she and Mrs. X got on okay. I think they got together about Mr. X traveling and Jackie dating no one special?you know, man troubles. But then Jackie met someone. e looked like Bob Marley. nd now she can't work Friday nights and she don't like to work the weekend if the Xesdon't beinConnecticut. SoMrs. Xstartsinwith howinconveniencedsheis. Butreally,shejealous. Jackie had that glow, you know. She had that look about her and Mrs. X couldn't stand it. So she fired her. NearlybrokeGrayer's heart.Afterthat. ewaslike a littledevil child."

"Wow." I take adeepbreath.

"Oh, you ain't heard the bad part. Jackie called me six months later. She couldn't get a new job because Mrs. X wouldn't give her a reference.You know, no reference, they think Jackie stole or something. So she got two years missing on her resume. And the agency didn't want to send her out no more." She stands up and wipes her hands slowly down her skirt. "That woman is pure evil. They have six nannies in four months before Caitlin. o one stayed. And one got fired for giving him a corn muffin in the park. Don't you never feed him if you want to keep your job, you hear?And Mr. X. eeps porn in his shoecloset,thenaaastykind."

I'm trying totakethis all in. "Connie,I'm sosorry."

"Don't you be sorry for me." She tosses the crumpled t-shirt onto the couch and marches with purpose intothekitchen. "You justwatch outforyourself."I followher.

She opens one of the empty Delft cookie jars on the counter and pulls out a handful of black lace, slammingit downonthetableinfrontofme.

PANTIES!

"AndI foundtheseunderthebed?

"Rightunderthebed?" I can't help asking.

She tilts her headdownat me. "Mm-hm. Nowhe's got theother one running all aroundhere, acting like she owns the place. It took me two days to get the stink of her perfume out of here before Mrs. X got back."

"Shouldsomebodytellher? Doyou thinksomebody shouldtellMrs. X aboutthis woman?" I ask, dizzy with reliefatfinallybeingabletoconsult acolleague.

"Now, you listen here.Ain't you beenhere for the last hour?It's not myproblem.And don't you make it your problem, either. It's none of our business. Now you better pack up Mr. X's things. gotta get out ofhere."Shereachesaroundandunties herapron,droppingitontothecounter.

"So,whatareyougonnado?"

"Oh, my sister, she works up the block, she always knows people who are lookin' for housekeepers and whatnot. I'll findsomething.It'll belessmoney,ifthat'spossible. But I'll findsomething. I always do."

She walks into the maid's room to collect her things, leaving me staring down at the black silk thong, screaminglikeprofanegraffitiagainstthepeachmarbletable.

THE NANNY DIARIES

Nanny,

Todayyouhave aplaydatewithCarteraftertennis. Pleasebetherebythree. TheMiltonslive at10 East67thStreetandI thinkyou. lbestayingforsupper. I. havingdinneratBolo.

I still can. findGrayer. bowtie. Didyoutakeithome? Pleasecheck.

Thanks.

Grayer is still crying when we finally get a cab. While I'm not allowed to walk him down doormanless side streets, his after-school activities routinely maroon us in desolate, cabless neighborhoods where any minute I'll be forced to choose between Grayer or my life. I haul him into the taxi, throw the tennis racketinafter him,andpulltherestof theequipment inwith me.

"Sixty-seventh andMadison,please."I lookatGrove. "How's yourhead?Anybetter?"

"It's okay." He slows down to a whimper, but it sounds like a whimper with staying power. He was lookingthewrongwaywhentheproturnedontheballfeeder.

"How about golf, G? I think we should try golf. Smaller balls, less damage." He looks up at me with wet eyes. "Come here." He leans across the seat and puts his head in my lap. I run my fingers through his hair and play with his ears just like my mom used to do. The motion of the car soothes him and beforeweeven reachMid-town he's asleep.Hemust bewiped.What adifferentlifewe'd all beliving if hewasonlyallowedtonap.

I pullbackmyraincoatsleeve tolookatmywatch.Whatwill anextrafifteenminutesmatter?

"Driver? Can you make a loop up to 110 and then back down theWest Side and across the Sixty-eighth Street transverse?"

"Sure, lady. Whateveryou say," I lookoutthewindowatthe

2O3

grayskyand pull mycoatcloser aroundme as round raindropshit the windshield,still waiting forApril showerstofeelliketheycouldleadtoMayflowers.

"Grover, wake up. We're here." He's a little groggy and wiping his eyes when I press the town house's doorbell, theracketslungover myshoulder.

"Hello?" anEnglishvoice saysfromtheintercom.

"Hi! It's Nanny and Grayer." There's no reply. I reach over and press the talk button again. "We have a playdatewith Carter."

"Really?"There's a pause. "Well,come on up, then."ThebuzzersoundsandI pushtheheavyglass door open, while Grayer stumbles aheadof me intothemarble entrancefoyer. Past thegrandstaircase, atthe back of house, is a solarium, whose long windows reveal a garden. Raindrops steadily fill the stone fountain.

"Hello?" a young voice asks. I look up from where I'm wrestling Grayer's coat zipper. A little boy Grayer's age with blond, curly hair is standing on the landing, his hand looped through the banister, leaning away on a diagonal. "Hi. I'm Carter." I've never seen this boy before and realize Grayer hasn't, either.

"I'm Grayer."

"Hello?" The same English voice calls down the stairs. "Just leave your gear anywhere and come on up."I throwourwet coatsontheflooranddrop ourgearbesideit.

"Go ahead, G." He runs up after Carter. I begin my ascent; on the first floor I pass a Venetian living roomatthefrontofthehouseand a Decodiningroomattheback.AsI reachthesecondfloor,featuring the Empire master bedroom and a man's study done in the African vein, lots of antelope heads and a zebra-skin rug, I'm audibly panting. I chug up to the third level, which has a large mural of Winnie-the!Poohpaintedonthelanding,andI'm guessingitisCarter's floor.

"Keepgoing!" I hearencouragementbeingshoutedfromabove.

"You're almost there,Nanny! Lazy!"

THE NANNY DIARIES

"Thanks, G!" I call up. I finally drag myself, sweating, to the fourth floor, which has been opened up

into alargefamily roomcumkitchen.

"Hi,I'm Lizzie. Stairs abit much,eh?Wantsomewater?"

"That would be lovely. I'm Nanny." I extend the hand that isn't clutching my abdomen. She's maybe a

few years older than me, wearing a gray flannel skirt, sky-blue oxford shirt, and a navy cardigan tied aroundher shoulders. I recognizeher aspartof thecommunityofhigh-class Britishimports whoregard this as a noble profession, requiring training and certification, and they dress accordingly. The boys have already run off to the corner, where a village of plastic Playskool houses are set up, to play what soundslikeSacktheSerfs.

"Here." Lizzie hands me the water. "I thought we'd just let them blow off steam for an hour and then

plunktheminfrontofTheJ-u-n-g-l-e B'O-O'k"

"Soundsgreat."

"I don't knowwhatI'm goingtodowhenCarterlearnshowtospell. Learnsignlanguage,I guess."

I stare at the rococokitchen cabinets, the distressed French tiles, the egg and dart moldings. "This is an

amazing house. Doyou

live in?"

"I have alittleflatonthetopfloor."I lookover atthestairsandrealizethat,yes,thereisanotherfloor.

"You mustbeinamazing shape."

"Trydoingitwith a knackeredfour-year-oldinyourarms."

Ilaugh. "I'venevermetCarterbefore.Wheredoeshegoto 1

school?"

"CountryDay,"shesays,takingmyemptyglass.

"Oh,I usedtolookafter theGleasongirls ?theywentthere. It's