Emma McLaughlin - The Nanny Diaries

"I reallydon't thinkwe havetime."Sheretouchesher lipstickintheyellowlightofthevisormirror.

I give my leg a good going-over through my pants. I am on fire. The itch is so bad it's keeping me

awakeonthealternatehours Grayeror Mr. X isn't snoring.I just.Wanttogo.To adrugstore.

After a tensetwenty-minutedrive we pullinto theparkinglot/ gift shopof thefamous restaurantwhose

annual signature T-shirt, featuring a rabbit in silhouette, is a bizarre, nationwide status symbol. Of courseI wantone. Mrs. X ushers us into the restaurant, a glorified bait-and-tackle shop that serves up twenty-five-dollar bowls ofpasta onsplinteredtables.

"Darling, how are you?" Mrs. X is accosted by a woman with large, blond hair that looks as if it could stand up to the fiercest Nan-tucket wind. "You're so dressy, my God, I feel like a bumpkin." She pulls herAquaScutumbarnjacketcloser aroundher.

Themen shakehandsandMrs. XintroducesGrayer. "Grayer,youremember Mrs. Longacre?"

THE NANNY DIARIES

Mrs. Longacre absentmindedly pats his head. "He's getting so big. Honey, let's get our table." We are shown to a drafty corner table and handed a green booster seat, which Grayer tries to squeeze himself into.

"Mrs. X,I thinkit's toosmall."

"Nonsense."She looks over at him sitting sideways, strainingto fit his whole tushyin the seat. "Go see iftheyhave a phonebook."

I finally unearth three filthy Nantucket directories and slip them under his derriere, while the adults order cocktails. I pull crayons out of my bag and start telling Grayer a story, illustrating on the paper tableclothasI go.

"Well, of course, I love it up here, but I don't know how I'd do it without my fax," Mrs. Longacre says. "I don't know how people went anywhere before the fax and the cell phone, I really don't. I'm putting together a small dinner for a hundred people for the week we get back. You know, I planned Shelly's entire weddingfromherelastsummer."

"I know, I wish I'd thought of bringing ours from home," Mrs. X says, adjusting the wrap around her naked shoulders. "I'm waiting to hear from the board if they're letting me buy one of the studios on the secondfloor."

"Your buildinghasstudios?"

"Well, they were all maids' quarters originally and most are owned by people who have larger apartments in the building. I'd love to have someplace for a little private time, you know? I'm just so torn when Grayer's home. I want to be with him, but sometimes I need to get things done for my committee work."

"Oh, honey, cheers to that! Our eldest daughter just did the same thing. he has two kids and needed someplacewhereshecoulddoherown thing,butstill becloseenoughtobeinvolved. I thinkit's agreat idea."

The waitress comes over with the six drinks on a tray just as a small child goes whizzing by her at knee height,nearlyknockingthreehighballsontoMrs. X's head.

"Aaaan-drew... CometoMommmyyy."We hear aplaintive

voice whineasthehumantumbleweedfliesundertablesandbetweendiners.

Themattre d'lookspleadinglyattheoblivious parents,willing themtodisciplinetheirchild.

"Oh,honey,isn't thattheCliftons?" Mrs. Xexcusesherselftogoover andkiss cheeks.

"Nanny,drawme a chicken,"Grayer asks,while themen comparethisweek's golfscores.

"Isn't that great?" she says, sitting back down. "They're here with their son, so I toldAnne that Nanny

would take everyone out to the parking lot until the food comes." Everyone?Am I to lead Mrs. Clifton

in arousingrenditionof "Michael,RowYour BoatAshore" bytheDumpster?

I pull myself out of my seat and take Grayer and the whirling dervish out into the cold, dark, sandy

parking lot to play. They climb up and down a piece of oiled driftwood a few times and then Andrew

suggestsmakingdirt angels.

"Yeah, no. How about we wash hands before the food comes?" I try to steer them back inside toward

theladies'room.

"No!"Andrewshouts. "I'm a boy. I'm notusingsomegirl's toilet. Noway."

Mr. Cliftonroundsthecorner tothebathrooms. "I'll takethem," hesays tome, leadingtheboys intothe

bathroomandleavingme toenjoy a wholetwominutesintheladies'roombymyself.

I've just latched the door on the stall when I hear Mrs. X and Mrs. Longacre come in. Mrs. Longacre is

agreeing about something. "Absolutely! You can never be too cautious these days. Do you know Gina

Zuckerman? She has a boy about Grayer's age. arwin, I think. Apparently the woman they had

watching him, some South American, grabbed him by the arm. Gina caught it all on the Nan-nycam.

Sentthatwomanrightbacktowhateverthirdworldvillage shecrawledout of."

I trynottobreatheasMrs. Longacrepeesbesideme.

THE NANNY DIARIES

"We just set up our Nannycam a few weeks ago," Mrs. X says. "I haven't had time to review the tapes,

butitgives mepeaceof mindknowingI'm abletobevirtually righttherewith myson."

Shutup.Shutup!

"Don't youhavetogo?" Mrs. Longacreasks, comingoutof thestall.

"No,I'm justwashing myhands,"Mrs. Xsays fromthesink.

Grayer poundsonthebathroom door. "Nanny!"

Mrs. X opens the door. "Wha. rayer? What are you doing here?" I hear her leave and wait for Mrs.

Longacretofinishwashingher handsbeforeI unlatchthestall.

NANNYCAM?! NANNYCAM???.'.'.' What's next? Periodic drug tests? Strip searches? A metal

detectorintheirfronthall?Whoarethesepeople?

I splash my face with cold water and try, for the umpteenth time in nine months, to put my six-foot

employers outof mymindsoI canfocusontheneedsof thethree-footone.

I walk back to the table. Mrs. X is struggling to balance Grayer on the phone books. She looks up,

openly glaring at me. "Nanny, where have you been? I found Grayer unattended and I think it's

unacceptable?

An unprecedented level of rage shows on my face, momentarily silencing her. I readjust Grayer on his

phonebooks,cutup hischickenforhim, andtake aforkfulof mashedpotatoes.

"Well, then,Nanny,whydon't youtakethekids outsidetillwe're done?" sheasks sweetly.

And I spend the rest of the meal in the damp wind, feeding Grayer sandy chicken out of a Styrofoam

container. Pretty soon Andrew joins us, then three more. I play Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes. I

playMotherMay1.1playRedLight,GreenLight.

But there is only so much you can do with five children in a dark parking lot before you want to sell

them.

After putting Grayer to bed I ransack the kitchen for ammonia. While searching under the sink, I hear

the tap of Mrs. X's Manolos on the linoleum as she opens the cabinets above. She maneuvers

awkwardly aroundmeinsilence.

"Whatare youdoingunderthere?" Mr. Xcomes in,holdingthepaper.

"I'm looking for ammonia to take the sting out of my mosquito bites," I say, my head tucked between

thepipesand a bottleofbleachasI huntforthisemergencyGirl Scoutsolution.

"And I'm looking for the Scotch, so I can fix you a nightcap." Her feet swivel so she can face him and

herwrapslidesslowlytothefloor,landingin a scarlet-red heapbesideher goose-pimpled ankles.

"Ammonia?" heasks. "Huh."

Hisheavyfootstepsmove fromthelinoleumofthekitchentothewoodofthehallway.

"Honey?" shesays in a slightlyhusky toneas shefollows him to thedoor frame. "Whydon't we read in

bed?"

I heartherustleofhimhandingthepaperover to her. "I've gottoconfirmmyflightouttomorrow. I'll be

inwhenI'm done. Don'twait up.Good-bye, Nanny."I seeMrs. X's calfmusclesclench.

"Bye, have agoodflight," I say. GiveMs. Cmyregards.

I hearher followhim downthehall, leavingme alonetorummage underevery sinkinthehouse,but all

I findis a lotof Mr. CleanandsomePine-Sol.

An hour later,when I turn out the bathroomlight, I see Mr. X slowly pushing their bedroomdoor open,

a shaftoflightilluminatingthehallway.