The Nanny Diaries

. ONEWITHTHEWIND

CHAPTER FIVE

owntime

"Grandma's been looking all over for you so we can cut the cake," I say, stepping into my

grandmother's dressing room, where myfather has foundrespite from the joint NewYear's Eve/Fiftieth

BirthdayPartysheinsistedonthrowingforthe "onesonGodblessedher with." "Quick, close the door! I'm not ready yet. oo many of those people out there." Despite the many mingling artists and writers, the majority of attendees this evening are donning tuxedos, which is the onething,asmyfatherwill emphatically informyou,hedoes not wear. For anyone. Ever. "Whoare we, the goddamn Kennedys?" has been his thoughtful retort whenever my grandmother attempted to involve him in theplanning of this black-tie affair. I, on the other hand, never have to be asked twice to step into a gown and am all too eager for the rare occasions on which I can hang up my sweatpantsand headoutlike alady.

"Not to be too much of an enabler, but I come bearing gifts," I say, handing him a glass of champagne. Hesmiles and takes a longgulp, placing theglass down ontop of her mirrored dressing tablebesidehis propped-up feet. He drops the Times crossword he's been working on, motioning for me to sit. I plop ontotheplushcreamcar!

pet in a pile of black chiffon and take a sip out of my own flute, while muffled laughter and big band

musicwaftsin.

"Dad,youreallyshouldcome out. t's notsobad.Thatwriterguyishere,theonefromChina.Andhe's

noteven wearing atie?youcouldhangout withhim."

Hetakesoffhis glasses. "I'd ratherspendtime with mydaughter.How's itgoing,pixie?Feeling better?"

A fresh wave of rage washes over me, breaking the celebratory mood I've enjoyed for most of the evening. "Ugh, that woman!" I slump forward. "I worked, like, eighty hours a week for the past month and for what? I'll tell you for what. Earmuffs!" I sigh exasper-atedly, looking out through my hair to wheretherowofblackkitten heels alongthewalltransitions into a colorfularrayofChineseslippers.

"Ah,yes. It's been a wholefifteenminutessincewehadthisconversation."

"Whatconversation?" mymotherasks assheslipsinthedoorwith a plateofhors d'oeuvresinonehand andanopenbottle ofchampagneintheother.

"I'll give you a clue," he says, wryly,while holding up his glass for a refill. "You wear them insteadof a hat."

"God!Are we back on this again? Come on, Nan, it's NewYear's Eve! Whydon't you take a nightoff?" Shefallsbackonthechaise,tuckingherstockingfeetup underher,andhandshimtheplate.

I sit up and reach for the bottle. "Mom, I can't! I can't let it go! She might as well have just spit in my fateandput a bowonmynose. Everyone knowsyouget a heftyChristmas bonus;it's justhowit's done. Whyelse wouldI have put insomuch extra time?Thebonus is for theextra, it's therecognition!Every stupidpersonthatworksforthemgotmoneyand a handbag!AndI got?

"Earmuffs,"theychime inasIpour myself anotherglass.

"You know what my problem is? I go out of my way to make it seem natural that I'm raising her son while she's atthemanicurist.

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All the little stories I tell and the 'Sure, I'd be happy tos' make her feel like I live there. And then she forgetsthatI'm doing a job. he's totallyconvincedherself she's lettingme come over for a playdate!" I grab a bitof caviarfromDad's plate. "Whatdoyouthink,Mom?"

"I think you've got to confront this woman and lay down the law or let it go already. Honestly, you should hear yourself, you've been talking about this for days. You're wasting a perfectly good party on her, and somebody in this family, other than your grandmother, should take advantage of the band out thereanddance."Shelookspointedlyatmydadashepopsthelastcrabpuffinhis

mouth.

"I wantto!I wanttolaydownthe law, butI don't even know

wheretobegin."

"What's to begin? Just tell her that this is not working for you and if she wants you to continue as Grayer's nannythen a fewthingsaregoingtochange."

"Right," I say with a snort. "When she asks me how my vacation was I just launch into a diatribe? She wouldslap me."

"Well, then you're really in business," Dad pipes in. "Because you can sue for assault and none of us will ever havetoworkagain."

My mother, now fully involved, plows on. "Then you just smile warmly, put your arm around her and

say, 'Gee,youmakeithardtoworkforyou.'Let herknowin a friendlywaythatthisisnotokay

behavior."

"Mooommmm! You havenoideawho I'm working for. Thereisnoputtingyour armaroundthis woman. She's theIceQueen."

"All right. That's it. Throw her the mink," Mom commands. "It's RehearsalTime!" These rehearsals are the cornerstoneof myupbringingand have helpedme to practice everything from college interviews to breakingup with mysixth-grade boyfriend. Dadtosses me thestolethat's beenhangingnextto himand reachesover topourusanotherround.

"Okay,you're Mrs. X,I'm you.Hitit."

I clear my throat. "Welcome back, Nanny. Would you mind tak-ing my dirty underwear with you to Grayer's swimming class and scrubbing it while you're in the pool? Thanks so much, the chlorine just workswonders!" I pulltheminkup aroundmyshouldersandaffect afakesmile.

My mother's voice is calm and rational. "I want to help you. I want to help Grayer. But I need some help from you, so that I can keep doing my job to the best of my abilities.And this means that we need totrytogethertomakesurethatI am workingthehoursuponwhichwebothagreed."

"Oh,youworkhere?I thoughtwehadadoptedyou!" I raisemypinkytomymouthinmockalarm.

"Well, while it would be an honor to be related to you, I am here to do a job, and if I'm going to be able to keep doing it then I know you'll be more conscious of respecting my boundaries from now on." Dad clapsloudly. I fallbackonthefloor.

"That'll neverwork,"I groan.

"Nan, this woman's not God! She's just a person. You need a mantra. You need to go in there like Lao!tzu ... Saynotosayyes. Sayitwithme!"

"I say no to say yes. I say no to say yes," I murmur with her as I stare up at the floral wallpaper on the ceiling.

Just as we hit a fever pitch, the door flies open and music floods the room. I roll my head to see my grandmother,cheeksflushedtomatchher layers ofredsatin,leaningagainstthedoorframe.

"Darlings! Another masterpiece of a party and my son's hiding in the closet at his fiftieth, just like he did at his fifth. Come, dance with me." In a cloud of perfurrft, she sashays over to my father and kisses him on the cheek. "Come on, birthday boy, you can leave your tie and cummerbund here, but at least dance a mambowithyour motherbeforetheclockstrikestwelve!"

Herolls his eyes atthe restof us, but thechampagne has worn him down.He pulls offhis tie andstands up.

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"Andyou,lady."Shelooksdownonme sprawledatherfeet. "Bring theminkandlet's boogie."

"Sorryto disappear,Gran. It's just this whole earmuffsthing." "Goodlord! Between your father and his tuxedo and you and your earmuffs, I don't want to discuss apparel with this family again until next Christmas! Upandat 'em, gorgeous,thedancefloor

awaits."

Momhelpsme tomyfeet,whisperinginmyearaswefollowthembacktotheparty. "See,notosayyes. Your dad's chantingitrightnow."

Many dances and bottles of champagne later I float back to my apartment in a bubbly haze. George slides up to my heels as soon as 1 unlock the door and I carry him back to my corner of the room. "HappyNewYear, George,"1 mumbleashepurrs undermychin.

Charlene left this morning forAsia and I am giddy with the three weeks of little freedoms this affords me.AsI kick offmyheels I seethelightonmyansweringmachineflashingin asoft blur. Mrs. X.

"What do you think, George, shall we risk it?" I bend over to let him down before pressing the "new message" button.

"Hi, Nan? Um, this is a message for Nan. I think this is the right number . .." H. H.'s slurred voice fills theapartment.

"Oh,myGod!" I scream,turningtocheckmyappearanceinthe

mirror.

"Right. So um, yeah.. . I'm just calling to say 'Happy New Year.' Um, I'm inAfrica. And. ait. hat time is it there? Seven hours, that's ten . .. eleven ... twelve. Right. So I'm with my family and we're aboutto headintothebush.And we've beenhaving some beers with theguides.And it's thelastoutpost with a phone . .. But I just wanted to say that I bet you had a hard week. See! I know how you've been workinghardandI justwantedyoutoknow,um ...

thatI know ... thatyou do ... workhard, thatis. Um, andthatyou have a happy NewYear. Okay, sothen. hopethisisyourmachine. Right. Sothat's all, justwantedyoutoknow.Um ... bye."

I stumble to my bed in utter euphoria. "Oh, my God," I mumble again in the darkness, before passing outwith agrin plasteredtomyface.

Ring.Ring.Ring. Ring.

"Hi,you've reachedCharleneandNan.Pleaseleave a message."Beep.

"Hi, Nanny,I hopeyou're in.I'm sureyou're probablyin.Well, HappyNewYear." I crackoneeye open. "It's Mrs. X. I hope you've had a good vacation. I'm calling because .. ." Jesus, it's^ight o'clock in the morning! "Well, there's been a change of plans. Mr. X apparently needs to go back to Illinois for work. AndI,well,Grayer's?we're all verydisappointed.So,anyway,we won't begoingtoAspenandI wanted to see what you're up to for the rest of the month." On New Year's Day! I stick my hand outside the covers andstartflailingforthephone. I unplugthereceiverandthrowitonthefloor.

There.

I pass outagain.

Ring.Ring.Ring. Ring.

"Hi,you've reachedCharleneandNan.Pleaseleave a message."Beep.

"Hi,Nanny,it's Mrs. X. I leftyou a messageearlier."I crackoneeye open. "I don't knowiM mentioned, but ifyou couldletmeknowtoday ..." Jesus,it's nine-thirtyinthemorning!OnNewYear's Day! I stick my hand outside the covers and start flailing for the phone and this time actually manage to pull the rightplugout.

Ahh,peace.

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"Hi,you've reachedCharleneandNan.Pleaseleave a message."Beep.

"Hi, Nanny, it's Mrs. X," Jesus! It's ten o'clock in the morning! What is wrong with you people? This

time I can hear Grayer crying in the background. Not my problem, not my problem, earmuffs. I stick my hand outside the covers and start flailing for the answering machine. I find the volume. "Because youdidn't sayifyouhadanyplansandI justthought?Ahh,silence.

Ring.Ring.Ring. Ring.

WHATTHEFUCK?

Oh,myGod,it's mycellphone. It's mygoddamncellphone.

Ring.Ring.Ring. Ring.

Aaaahhhhh!I getoutofbed,butI can't findthesourceofthegoddamnringing.Such aheadache.

Ring.Ring.Ring. Ring.

It's under the bed. It's under the bed! I start trying to crawl under the bed, still in my evening dress, to

whereGeorgemade a soccergoalwith thecell. I extendmyarm,grab it,still ringing,andthrowitinthe

laundryhamper,dumpingeverything onthefloorinontopof it.

Ahah!!Sleep.

Ring.Ring.Ring. Ring.

I get out of bed, march over to the hamper, retrieve the phone, go in the kitchen, open the freezer door,

throwinthephone,andgobacktosleep.

I awake five hours later to a very patient George waiting at the end of my bed for breakfast. He tilts his head and meows. "Been on a bender?" he seems to ask. I pad to the kitchen in my very rumpled black chiffon to feed George and make some coffee. I open the freezer and see the green glow of the phone frombehindtheicetrays.

"Numberof callsreceived:12,"thefacereads. Oh,Lord.I make somecoffeeandgositonmybedtolistentothemessagesonmymachine. "Hi, again. Hope I'm not repeating myself. So, Mr. X has decided he won't be able to make it toAspen

and I really don't want to be out thereby myself. The groom and the groundsman live all the waydown the road and, well, I'd feel very isolated. So I'll be in the city. Anyway, I'd appreciate it if you could

come in a fewdays aweek.How's Mondayforyou?Let me know.Thenumber hereagainis?

I don't eventhinkor chant. I justreassemblethephoneanddialthenumberfortheLyford CayInn.

"Hello?"

"Mrs. X?Hi,it's Nanny.Howareyou?"

"Oh God, the weather here is just awful. Mr. X hasjbarely been able to play a round of golf and now

he'll be missing his skiing, as well. Grayer's been trapped inside the whole time, and they promised us someone full-time, like last year, but there's a shortage or something. I don't know what I'm going to do."I canhearPocahon-tasinthebackground."So,didyougetmymessage?"

"Yes." I bracemypoundingtemples betweenmythumb andpinkyfinger.

"You know,I think there's something wrong with your phone.You really should haveit looked at. I was

trying to call you all morning.Anyway, Mr. X is leaving today, but I'm staying the weekend and won't

bebackuntilMonday. Ourplanegetsinateleven, socouldyoumeet usattheapartmentatnoon?"

"Well, actually". armuffs?I already made plans since I wasn't supposed t?start back until the last

Mondayof themonth."

"Oh.Couldntyouatleastgive me aweekor two?"

"Well, thethingis?

"Can you hold on a moment?" It sounds like she's put her hand over the phone. "We don't have another

video." Mr. X sayssomethingI can't quitemakeout. "Well,playitforhimagain,"shehisses.

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"Urn,Mrs. X?"

"Yes?"

I know we'll be having this conversation for the next thirty-six hours unless I reach for a small white

one. "I took your suggestion about Paris. So I can't start back until, let's see, two weeks from Monday. Until the eighteenth." No to say yes. "Also, we didn't really have time before you left to discuss how muchmoreanhour I'd begettingthis year."

"Uh-huh?"

"Well, typicallyI goup twodollarsevery January. I hopethat's not a problem."

"Well... No, no, of course. I'll talk to Mr. X. Also, I'd appreciate it if you could go by the apartment

tomorrow. ou know,while you're outandabout. ndrefill thehumidifiers."

"Um, I'm actuallygoingtobeontheWestSide, so?

"Great!Seeyouintwoweeks. Butpleasedoletmeknowif youcanstartanysooner."

James holds the door open as I pass. "Happy New Year, Nanny. What're you doin' back so soon?" He

seems surprisedtoseeme.

"Mrs. X needsherhumidifiers filled,"I say.

"Oh,doesshenow?" Hegives a wickedgrin.

The first thing I notice when I open the Xes' front door is that the heat is actually on. I step slowly into

the silence, feeling a bit like a thief. I am just slipping my arms out of my coat when Ella Fitzgerald's

"Miss Otis Regrets" comes blaringoutof thestereosystem.

I freeze. "Hello?" I call. I clutch my backpack and follow the wall into the kitchen, hoping to grab a

knife. I've heard about doormen in buildings like this using the apartments when the tenantsare away. I

swing openthekitchendoor.

There's anopenbottleof DomPerignononthecounter,pots are

131

bubblingonthestove. Whatkindofsickpersonstealsintoanapartmenttocook?

"It's not ready yet. Ce n'est pas fini," a man says in a thick French accent as he emerges from the maid's

bathroomdryinghis handsonhis checkedtrousersandadjustinghiswhite chef's coat.

"Whoareyou?" I ask over themusic,taking a step backwardtowardthe door. Helooksup.

"Qtti estvows?" heasks,puttinghis handsonhis hips.

"Um, I workhere.Whoareyou!"

"Je m'appelle Pierre. Your mistress hired me to faire le diner." He returns to chopping fennel. The

kitchenis a phantasmofproductivity anddelicious aromas. It's never lookedsohappy.

"Whyyoustandtherelike a fish?Go."Hewaves hisknifeatme.

I leavethekitchentogofindMrs. X.

I cannot believe she's back. Of course, why bother to call Nanny? Ooh no, it's not like I have anything

better to do than keep her oil paintings moist. Oh, oh, I am definitely not working tonight if that's her game. It's probably just one, big ruse to get me to work. She's probably got Grayer tied up in a net over thehumidifierandisplanningtodrophimonmyheadtheminuteI pourthewaterin.

"SHE RANTOTHE MANWHOHADLED HER SO FARASTRAY," the stereo blares, following me fromroomtoroom.

Well, fine. I'll justlether knowI camebylikeI saidI wouldandthenI'm outofhere.

"Hello?" I practicallyleap rightout ofmyskin.Theresheis,struttingoutof thebedroom, asilkkimono

tiedcarelessly ather waist,her emeraldearrings sparklinginthehalllight. Myheartjumps tomythroat.

It's Ms. icago.

"Hi," she says, as friendly as she was in the conference room three weeks ago. She glides past me, out

towardthediningroom.

"Hi," I say, scampering behind her, untying my scarf. I round the corner just as she throws open the Frenchdoors ontothedining

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room,revealing atablesetfor a romantic dinnerfortwo.A hugebouquetofpeonies,thepurplyblackof squid ink, sits among a ring of glowing votives. She leans across the gleaming mahogany to straighten thesilverware.

"I'm justhereforthehumidifiers!" I call outover thestereo.

"Wait," she says, going over to the hidden control panel in the bookcase and expertly adjusting the volume, tone,andbass. "There."Sheturnstome,smilingplacidly. "Whatwere yousaying?"

"The humidifiers? Are, um, dry? They run out of... water? And the pictures, well, they can really, uh, suffer? If they're dry? I was just supposed to water them. Only once. Just now, today, 'cause that should lastthemtill... Okay! So, I'll justdothat,then."

"Well, thankyou,Nanny.I'm sure Mr. Xappreciatesthat,andI do, too."Sheretrievesher errantglass of champagnefromthesideboard.I kneelandunplugthehumidifier fromthefloor.

"Okay,then,"I grunt,heavingthemachineintomyarmsandlettingmyself outintothekitchen.

I refill all ten water tanks, schlepping them back and forth to the laundry room, while Ella keeps right on trucking from "It Was Just One of Those Things," through "Why Can't You Behave?" and "I'm Always True to You, Darlin', in My Fashion." My mind is reeling. This is not her house. This is not her family.Andthatmost definitelywasnot herbedroomthatshecameoutof.

"Are youdoneyet?" sheasks asI pluginthelastone. "BecauseI waswonderingifyoucouldruntothe shop for me."She follows me to thedoor asI grab mycoat. "Pierre forgotto get heavycream. Thanks." Shehandsme atwentyasI openthedoor.

I look down at the moneyand then at Grayer's little frog umbrella in the stand, the one thathas two big frog eyes that pop up when he opens it. I hold the money out to her. "I can't. have, um, an appointment, a doctorthing."I catch a glimpse of myself inthegiltmirror. "Actually ... I justcan't."

1 33

Her smile strains. "Keep it, then," she says evenly. The elevator door opens, while she attempts to look casualleaningagainstthedoorframe.

I putthebill downonthehalltable.

Her eyes flash. "Look, Nanny, is it? You run home and tell your boss that you found me here and all you'll be doing is saving me the trouble of leaving behind a pair of panties." She steps back into the apartment,lettingthedoorslamshutbehindher.

"Like, literally panties?" Sarah asks me the next day as she tries on yet another shadeof pink lipstick at theStilacounter.

"I don't know!DoI havetolookforthem? I feellikeI havetolookforthem."

"How much are thesepeople paying you? I mean, do you have a line? Is there a line they could cross?"

Sarahisfuriouslypuckering."Toopink?"

"Baboonbutt," I say.

"Try one of the plummy shades," the makeup artist behind the counter suggests. Sarah reaches for a tissueandstartsover. "Mrs. X iscomingbacktomorrow. I feellikethere's somethingI'm supposedtobedoing,"I say, leaning

againstthecounterinexasperation.

"Um, quitting?"

"No,outhereintherealworld,whereI payrent."

"TOOOOOTS!!!!!" Sarah and I freeze and look across the atrium to where two piles of shopping bags

are calling Sarah's high-school nifkname, which rhymes with "boots."The bags make their wayaround thebalconytowardus, partingtorevealAlexandraandLangly,twoofour classmatesfromChapin. SarahandI exchangeglances. Inhighschooltheylivedin

THE NANNY DIARIES Birkenstocks and followed the Dead. Nowthey standbefore us,Alexandra atnearly six feet and Langly atbarely five, inshearlingcoats,cashmere turtlenecks,and ashitload ofCartier.

"TOOTS!" they cry again as Alexandra envelops Sarah in a big hug, nearly clonking her on the head with oneofhershoppingbags.

"Toots,what's up?"Alexandraasks. "So,doyouhave aman?"

Sarah's eyelids lift. "No. Well, I mean there was someone, but..." She's starting to sweat, foundation

beadingonherbrow.

"I have a faaabulous man. e's Greek. He's soo gorgeous. We're going to the Riviera next week,"

Alexandracoos. "So,whatareyouup to?" sheasksme.

"Oh,sameold,sameold.Still workingwith kids."

"Huh,"Langlysays quietly. "What're yougonnadonextyear?"

"Well, I'm hoping to work with an after-school program." Their eyes narrow, as if I had just switched

languages unexpectedly. "Focusing on using creative arts? As a tool for self-expression? And, um,

building community?" I am getting completely blank looks. "Kathie Lee's really involved?" I offer as a

last-ditch effortto ... what?

"Right.Whataboutyou?" Langlyalmost whisperstoSarah.

"I'm goingtoworkatAllure."

"Oh,myGod!!" theysqueal.

"Well,"Sarahcontinues, "I'm onlygoingtobeansweringthephones,but?

"No,that's awesome. I. Love.Allure,"Alexandrasays.

"Whatare youguys doingnextyear?" I ask.

"Following myman,"Alexandrasays.

"Ganja,"Langlysayssoftly.

"Well, we better run. e're meeting my mom at Cote Basque at one. Oh, Toots!" Sarah is once again

molestedbyAlexandraandtheyheadofftopokeattheirseafoodsalads.

"You're toofunny,"1 saytoSarah. "Allure?"

"Fuck 'em. Comeon, let's goeatsomewherefabulous."

1 35

We decidetotreatourselves to a chiclunchof redwineandrobiolacheesepizzasatFred's.

"I mean,wouldyouactuallyleaveyour underwearinsomeone's house?"

"Nan,"Sarahsays,shuttingme up. "I just don't understandwhyyoucare. Mrs. Xworks youlike a mule

andgaveyoudead-animal headgearfor abonus!Whatis yourloyalty?"

"Sarah, regardless of what kind of a whackjob employer she might be, she's still Grayer's mom and this

woman is having sex with her husband in her bed. And in Grayer's home. It makes me heartsick.

Nobodydeserves that.Andthatfreak!Shewantstoget caught!What's up withthat?"

"Well, if my married boyfriend was dawdling about leaving his wife I guess I might want him to get

caught,too."

"So,ifI tell,Ms. ChicagowinsandMrs. X willbedevastated. IfI don't tellit's humiliatingforMrs. X?

"Nan, this is not even within a million miles of your responsibility. You don't have to be the one to tell

her. Trustme. t's notinyour jobdescription."

"But if I don't and the panties are floating around and she finds out that way ... Ugh! How awful! Oh,

myGod,whatifGrayerfindsthem?She's soevil I betshe'd putthemsomewherehe'd findthem."

"Nan,get agrip.Howwouldheevenknowtheywere hers?"

"Because they're probably black and lacy and thonged and he might not get it now, but one day he'll be

intherapyand it'll justIdiilU him. Get yourcoat."

Sarah greets JcBh in the front hall with a glass of wine. "Welcome to Hunt the Panties!, where we play

for fabulous prizes, including ear-muffs and a trip to the broom closet. Who's our first contestant?"

"Ooh,me,me!" Joshsays ashetakesoffhisjacket. I am onmy

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hands and knees in the front hall closet, looking through every coat pocket and boot. Nothing. "Jesus,

Nan,thisplaceis amazing. t's likethefuckingMetropolitanMuseum."

"Yup, andaboutascozy,"Sarahsays,asI runfranticallyintothe

living room.

"We don't havetimetoshootthebreeze!" I callover myshoulder."Pick a room!"

"So,dowe getpointsforanyundergarments,or must theyhave a scarletA onthem?" Joshasks.

"Extrapointsforcrotchlessandedible."SarahexplainstherulesforthegameI am notfindingamusing.

"All right!" I say. "Listen up! We are goingto be methodical. We are going to startin the rooms thatget

the most use, where the panties would be uncovered the soonest. Joshua, you take the master bedroom, Mrs. X's dressingroom,andheroffice. SarahAnne!"

"Reportingforduty,sir!"

"Kitchen, library, maid's rooms. I'll take the living room, the dining room, the study, and the laundry

room. Okay?"

"WhataboutGrayer's room?" Joshasksme.

"Right. I'll startthere."

I turn on each light as I pass, even the rarely used overheads, illuminating the darkest corners of the

Xes'home.

"Nan, you can't say we didn't try," Josh says, passing me a cigarette as we sit by the recycling bins in

thebackstairwell. "She wasprobablybluffing,hopingyou'dtellMrs. Xsoshecanstartredecorating."

Sarah lights another cigarette. "Besides, whoever finds them in this apartment deserves to find them.

hey're so well hidden. Are you sure this woman works with Mr. X and not the CIA?" She passes me

backthelighter.

Joshisstill holdingtheporcelainPekingeserloghepickeduponhis search. "Tell me again."

"I don't know,two,maybethreethousanddollars,"Sarahsays.

"Unbelievable! Why? Why? What am I missing?" He looks down at the dog in complete disbelief.

"Wait, I'm gonnagogetsomethingelse."

"You better put that back exactly where you found it," I say, too tired to chase after him to be sure he does. "I'm sorry I made you waste your night looking for panties," I say, stubbing out the cigarette on themetalrailing.

"Hey," she says, putting her arm around my shoulder. "You'll be fine. The Xes have jewelry that has

jewelry. hey'll befine."

"WhataboutGrayer?"

"Well, hehasyou.Andyou've got H. H."

"Okay, I don't got nuthin'. I have an answering-machine tape in my jewelry box and a plastic spoon I

carryaroundinraypurseas a souvenirandthatmightbeasfarasitgoes."

"Yeah,yeah,sure. CanI mentiontheplasticspoonatthewedding?"

"Honey, if we make it that far you can carry the plastic spoon at the wedding. Come on, let's get Josh

andwipeourfingerprintsonourwayoutofhere."

WhenI get hometheansweringmachineisblinking.

"Hi, Nanny, it's Mrs. X. I don't know if you've left for Paris yet. I couldn't reachyou on your cell phone

again. We may have to get you a new one with better coverage. I'm calling because Mr. X gave me a week at the Golden Door for Christmas. Isn't that wonderful? Lyford Cay is so awful and I still haven't recovered fromtheholidays.'m just exhausted,soI've decidedtogo nextweek. Mr. Xwill be around, but I was wondering if you'll be back, just so I can tell him you'll be available if he needs you. Just so we knowit's covered. I'll beinmyroomthis evening.Call me."

Myfirst instinctis tocallherandtellhernever toleaveher houseagain.

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"Mrs. X?Hi,it's Nanny."

"Yes?"

I take a deepbreath.

"So,will thatwork?" sheasks.

"Of course,"I say, relieved thatsheisn't askingaboutmyhousecall.

"Great. So, I'll see you Monday morning. week from tomorrow. My flight's at nine, so if you could

arrive byseventhatwouldbegreat.Actually,we bettersaysixforty-five, justtobeonthesafeside."

I roll over for the eighth time in the last fifteen minutes. I'm so tired that my body feels weighted, but

every time I'm about to drift off, Grayer's hacking cough echoes through the apartment. I reach over to pulltheclockbacktowardmeandtherednumbersread2:36A.M. Jesus. I hit the mattress with myhandandroll ontomyback.Staring up atthe Xes'guest-room ceiling, I tryto

add up the few hours of sleep I've managed to get in the past three nights and the total makes me even heavier. I'm bone tired from spending twenty-four/seven keeping Grayer entertained as his mood has blackenedandfever risen.

When I arrived she greeted me at the elevator with a list in her hand, her bags already waiting in the limo downstairs. She just wanted to "mention" that Grayer had a "tiny bit of an earache" and that his medicinewasbythesink,alongwith his pediatrician's number?justincase."Andthekicker: "We really prefer thatGrayer notsitinfrontofthetelevision.You twohavefun!"

I knew "fun" was hardly going to be the word for it as soon as I found him lying on thefloor next to his

trafenset,listlessly rolling acabooseonhis arm.

"Anyideawhen Mr. Xwill behome tonight?" I hadaskedConnie,dustingnearby.

1 39

"Hope you brought your pajamas," she replied, wagging her head in disgust. I've come to look forward to Connie's arrival over the past few days; it's a relief to have another person in the apartment, even if she is only a whir of dusting and vacuuming. As the temperature has held steady at seven degrees Fahrenheit, we've been under house arrest since my arrival. This would have been bearable, ideal even, if H. H. hadn't had togo rightback up to schoolfor readingperiod. He said I could takeGrayer upstairs to pet Max, but I don't think either one of them is up to it. Grayer's "tiny" earache may have improved, buthis coughhas onlyworsened.

And, needless to say, his father has been completely MIA. e simply failed to return home my first night. Numerous phone calls to Justine have unearthed only the voice mail of a suite at the Four Seasons in Chicago. Meanwhile the reception desk at the spa is screening Mrs. X's calls as if she were Sharon Stone. I took Grayer back to the doctor this afternoon, but his only advice was for Grayer to finishthepinkamoxicillin andwait itout.

Another round of raspy coughs. e's even more congested now than he sounded at dinnertime. It's so dark and so late and this place is just so big that I'm starting to feel as if no one will ever come back to getus.

I get up, draping the cashmere throw around my shoulders like a cape, and shuffle over to the window. Pulling theheavychintzdrapestotheside,I let thestreetlightfromParkAvenuespill intotheroomand restmyforeheadagainst thecoldwindowpane.A cabpulls up tothebuildingacrossthestreetand a boy and girl stumble out. She's intall boots and a skimpy jacket, leaningagainst him asthey swerve past the doorman and into the building. She must be freezing. My forehead chills quickly from the glass and I pullback,touchingit withmyhand.Thecurtainfallsclosed,takingthelightwith it.

"Naaanny?"Grayer's small, scratchyvoice calls out.

"Yes, Grover, I'm coming." My voice echoes in the big room. I shuffle through the darkness of the apartment,lit upinweirdshadows

THE NANNY DIARIES

from passing cars outside. The warm glow of his Grover night-light greets me along with the whir of his Supersonic 2000 air filter. The minute I step through his doorway my stomach drops. e is not okay. His breathingis laboredandhis eyes arewatering.1 sitonthecornerofthebed. "Hey,sweetheart,

I'm here." I put my hand on his forehead. It's boiling. The moment my fingers touch him he starts to whimper.

"It's okay,Grover,you're justrealsickand I knowit's yucky."ButI don't knowanymore. His wheezing alarms me. "I'm going to pick you up now, Grover." I reach my arms under him, the cashmere wrap droppingtothefloor. Hestartstocry fully,themovementagitating himasI pullhim up tome. I gointo automaticpilot, runningthroughoptions.Thepediatrician.Theemergencyroom. Mom.

I carry him to the hall extension and lean against the wall for support as I dial. My mother answers on thesecondring. "Whereareyou?What's wrong?"

"Mom, I can't get intoit,but I'm with Grayer andhe's beensickwith anearinfectionandthiscoughand they've had him on antibiotics, but the cough keeps getting worse and I can't get a message through to Mrs. X because the receptionist says she's been in some sort of sensory-deprivation tank all day and he can't seem to breathe and I don't know if I should take him to the hospital because his fever won't go downandI haven't sleptintwonightsand? "Let me hearhimcough." "What?"

"Put the phone to his mouth so he can cough." Her voice is calm and steady. I hold the phone near Grayer's mouth and within a second he has erupted into a deep cough. I feel the vibrations of this effort

wherehis chestispressedtomine. "Oh, God, Mom, I don't know what to? "Nanny, that's the croup. H*%has the croup.And you need to take a deepbreath.You maynot fallapartright now. Breathewith

me,in

I focusonhervoice,taking a deepbreathinforGrayerand

myself. "And out. Listen, he's okay. You are okay. He just has a lot of fluid in his chest. Where are you

rightnow?"

"Seven twenty-one ParkAvenue."

"No,whereintheapartment?"

"In thehall."

"Is this acordless phone?"

"No,shedoesn't likethewaytheylook."I canfeelthepanicstarttowell upagainashewhimpers.

"Okay, I want you to go into his bathroom, turn on the shower so it's comfortably warm. ot too hot,

just warm, and then sit on the side of the bathtub with him in your lap. Keep the door closed so it gets

niceandsteamy. Stayinthereuntil hestopswheezing.You'll see,thesteamwill help.His fever is trying

tobreak anditwill bedown bymorning.Everything is goingtobe justfine. Call backinan hour,okay?

I'll bewaiting."

I feel somewhat soothed knowing that there is something I can do for him. "Okay, Mom. I love you." I

hangup andcarryhimbackthoughthedarknesstohis bathroom.

"I'm going to flick the light on, Grayer. Close your eyes." He turns his sweaty face into my neck. The

lightis blinding after being up for so longinthe dark and I have toblink a fewtimes before I can focus

in on the gleaming silver of the faucet. I grip his body as I lean over to turn on the shower and then sit

down, balancing on the edge of the tub with him on my lap. When the water hits our legs he really

beginstocry.

"I know,sweetie, I know.We aregoingtosithereuntil thiswonderfulsteammakesyour chestfeelgood.

Do you want me to sing?" He just leans against me and cries and coughs as the steam fills the bright

tilearoundus.

"I... want... my mommmmmm." He shudders with the effort, seemingly unaware that I am here. My

pajama pants soak in the warm water. I drop my head against his, rocking slowly. Tears of exhaustion

andworrydrip downmyfaceandintohis hair.

"Oh,Grove,I know. I wantmymom,too."

THE NANNY DIARIES

Thesunshinesinthroughtheshuttersaswe munchoncinnamontoastamongGraver's stuffedanimals.

"Sayitagain,Nanny.Sayit. iwomentoast."

I laugh and poke him gently in the tummy. His eyes are bright and clear and my relief at his 98.6 has

madeusbothgiddy."No,G,cinnamon,come on. ayitwith me."

"Call it 'women toast.'You sayit with me? His handpats myhair absentmindedly as the crumbs dribble

aroundus.

"Women toast?You crazykid,what's next?Meneggs?"

He giggles deeply at my joke. "Yeah! Men eggs! I'm so hungry, Nanny, I'm dying. Can I have some

eggs. eneggs?"

I crawlover him,grabbinghisplateasI stand.

"Hello! Hello, Mommy's home!" I freeze. Grayer looks up at me and, like an excited puppy, scrambles

togetdownfromthebed.Herunspastme andmeetsherasshecomes tohisdoor.

"Hello! What are those crumbs doing all over your face?" She spatulas him and turns to me. I see the

room through her eyes. Pillows, blankets, and wet towels all lying on the floor where I finally crashed

whenGrayer fellasleepatsixthismorning.

"Grayer's beenpretty sick.We were uplatelast nightand?

"Well, he looks just fine now, except for those crumbs. Grayer, go in the bathroom and wash your face

so I can showyou your present." He turns to me with wide eyes and skips to the bathroom. I'm amazed

hecanevensetfootinthere.

"Didn't hetakehis medicine?"

"Yes, well,hehas twomoredays togo.Buthis coughgotreallybad.1triedtocall you."

She bristles. "Well, Nanny, I think we've discussed where we prefer for Grayer to eat. You can go now,

I've gotitcovered."

I focus on smiling. "Okay, I'll just go and get changed." I walk past her with the plate in my hand,

hardlyrecognizingtheapartmentfilled withsunlight. I stuffeverything intomybag,pullon

1 43

jeansand a sweaterandleavethebedunmadeasmyoneact ofrebellion.

"Bye!" I call out, opening the door. I hear Grayer's naked feet hitting the marble as he runs out in his

pajamasbeneath acowboyhatthatismuchtoobig. *

"Bye, Nanny!" He throws his arms open for a hug and I hold him tight, amazed at the difference a few

hourshavemadeinhisbreathing.

"Mrs. X?Hestill has twomoredays of antibiotics so?

She emerges at the other end of the hall. "Well, we have a big day planned. e've got to get a haircut

and go to Barneys to pick up a present for Daddy. Come on, Grayer, let's get dressed. Good-bye,

Nanny."

My shift is over. oint taken. He follows her to his-room and I stand alone in the hall for a moment,

pickup mybag,andoverride thetemptation toputtheantibiotics byher cellphone.

"Bye, partner."I pullthedoor closedquietly behindme.

The old nurse went upstairs exulting with knees toiling, and pat' ter of slapping feet, to tell the mistress

ofher lord's return.

. DYSSEY

CHAPTER SIX

Love,ParkAvenueStyle

I press down the backspace button and watch as myfifth attempt at a topic sentence deletes itself letter

byletter. JeanPiaget... whatto say, whattosay?

I slouch back, rolling my neck on the top of the chair, and stare out at the gray clouds drifting slowly above the roofs of the brown-stones across the street. George bats at my dangling hand. "Piaget," I say out loud, waiting for inspiration to hit as I dart my hand at him playfully. The phone rings and I let the machinepick itup.Either it'll be Mrs. X calling tocheckifI haveanylifebloodshehasn't suckedyet or mymothercallingtoweighinonthesituation.

"Hi,this isCharleneandNan.Leave amessage."

"Hey, workinggirl. 1 justwant? Myfavorite voice fills theroom andI reachacross mydesk to grab the

phone.

"Hi,yourself."

"Hey!Whatareyoudoinghome atoneforty-three on aTuesday?"

"What are you doing, calling me all the way from Haa-vaad, at one forty-three on a Tuesday?" I push

backmychairandtrace a widecircleonthehardwoodfloorwith mysocks.

"1 askedyoufirst."

"Well, turnsoutJeanGeorgeslosttheXes'reservationsfor

Valentine's Day so she immediately sent me home with a typed-up list of four-star restaurants to

harass."I lookover atmybackpack,wherethedocumentremains foldedaway.

"Whydidn't shejustcall themherself?"

"I havelongsinceceasedtoask why."

"So,wheredidyoumakethem?"

"Nowhere! Valentine's Day is tomorrow. I suppose she's in denial that these places only take

reservations thirty days in advance and thatshe already made me spend Januaryfourteenth. Sunday, thankyouvery much. alling them.Andeventhen all I couldgetherwas a ten P.M; andI hadtoswear tothereservationiston myfirstbornthat I'd havethemout byeleven.Yup, nogo.They'll beluckytoget a booth at Burger King." I picture Mr. X absentmindedly dunking his fries in ketchup as he reads the

businesssection.

"So haveyoufoundthepanties?"

"No.You're goingtobereallysadwhenwenolongerneedtotalkaboutpanties, aren't you?" Helaughs.

"Actually," I continue, "yesterday we had a false alarm in which yours truly dove headfirst onto

Snoopy's magiciancapein a blindpanic."

"Theymaynotbeblack,youknow.You shouldreallytrytothinkoutsidethebox. heycouldbepastel

or tigerprintor see-through?

"See!You enjoythisconversation waytoomuch,"I admonish.

"So thenwhatareyoudoingifyou're notmakingreservationsor huntingpanties?"

"Trying towrite a paperonJeanPiaget."

"Ah,yes,Jean."

"What,youhaven't heardof him?Andtheycallthatpileof bricksanIvy League."

"Not anIvy League,dahling,theIvy League?hesays,affecting aThurstonHowell III lockjaw.

"Right.Well, he's thegrandfatherof childpsychology,soto

THE NANNY DIARIES

speak. I'm writing on his theoryof egocentrism. ow children see the physical world exclusively from

theirown,limited perspective."

"Soundslikeyourboss."

"Yes, and interestingly, she can't wash her hair by herself, either. There's probably some sort of study

here. Ugh! I'm just in total procrastination mode. Being given the luxury of a whole free afternoon

makes me feel like I have time to dawdle.Anyway, enough about me, to what do I owe the pleasure of

thisphonecall?"

Thephonebeepsloudly,interruptinghim.

". boutthisinternship.Thisguycame tospeaktodayanditwasprettyamazing. He?

BEEP.

". arcrimes inCroatia. Sothere's atribunalatTheHagueto

prosecutewarcriminals?

BEEP. Nomachinetoprotectmenow.

"I'm sorry! Holdononesec?" I presstheflashbuttonandhold

mybreath.

"Nanny! I'm so glad I caught you." Mrs. X's voice brings me back from my midday rendezvous. "I'm thinking Petrossian because it's really mostly caviar and I think most people expect a full meal for this occasion. But that's fine for us! Have you already called them? You should call them next. Can you? Call themrightnow?"

"Sure. I'm holdingwith LeCirqueontheotherlineso?

"Oh!Fabulous!Okay.Well, seeiftheyeven havesomethingbythekitchen,we'll takethat."

"Great.I'll letyouknow."

"Wait! Nanny! Well, don't say the kitchen thing right away, see if they have something better and then,

youknow,ifthereisn't anythingbetter,thenaskaboutthekitchen."

"Oh,okay,sure, I'll keep at it. I'll letyouknowassoonasI find

something."

"Allright.You knowyou canreachme onmycell, too."I sensesheisgetting ready,onceagain,togive

me hernumber.

"Okay, great. I've got your numbers right here. Bye." I click back over. "Sorry, where were we?

Something aboutcriminals?" I move tomybedandliftGeorgeontomystomach.

"Yeah, so I think I'm going to apply for this internship atThe Hague for the summer.After this class on

the conflict in Croatia it would be amazing to get closer to it, you know? To be able to do something. I mean,it's totallycompetitive, butI thinkI mightgive it ashot."Swoon.

"I'm swooning."

"Good." There is a warm silence between us. "Anyway, as soon as I got out of class, I had to call and

tellyouaboutit."

"Nowthat's thepartI like."

"It sucksthatyouhavetoworkValentine's. I reallywanttohangoutwith you."

"Yeah,well,I'm nottheonegoingtoCanciinforspringbreak."

"Come on,howwasI supposedtoknowI wasgoingtomeetyou?"

"Don't even trytousenotbeingpsychic as a defense."

Despite the many phone calls, talking is about as far as we've gotten since the museum. First he had

exams, then I had Grayer's flu. ot exactly sexy. Two weekends ago he came down for the night, but Charlene's flight was canceled and I ended up making a romantic dinner for four. I thought of going up there, but he has three roommates and I refuse to have my first night with him be (a) punctuated by the sounds of Marilyn Manson blaring through the wall at three A.M. and (b) followed by a morning of watchingthemmakecoffee,usingtheir underwearas a filter. Killing me.

BEEP.

"Shit. Sorry! Holdononemoretime."I click over. "Hello??"I say, bracingmyself.

"So? Isitbythekitchen?" Sheisslightlybreathless.

"What?No,um, I'm still onholdwith them."

"Petrossian?"

"No,LeCirque. I'll callyoujustassoonas1 getthrough."

THE NANNY DIARIES

"All right. But remember, don't start with the kitchen question.And I was thinking that you should try

'21', it's unromantic. Maybe they'll still have something. So '21' next, okay? Well, Petrossian would be

nextandthen'21'.Yes, '21'ismythirdchoice."

"Great!I shouldgetbacktoLe Cirque."

"Yes, yes. Call metheminuteyouknow."

"Bye!" Deepbreath.Click over. "Yes, hangingout. Thatwould

workforme."

"Good to know. Hey, I've got to run to my next class. Listen, I'll definitely be home inApril for a few

days, we'll figuresomethingout. Goodluckwith Jean."

"Hey!" I catchhim beforehehangsup. "I thinkTheHagueis

reallygreat."

"Well, I thinkyou're reallygreat. I'll callyou later. Bye."

"Bye!" I hang up andGeorge stretches from where he has been curled up by myheadand jumps offthe

bedontothefloor.

Thephoneringsagain.I stareatthemachine.

"... CharleneandNan.Pleaseleave amessage."

"This is your mother. You may not recognize me as it is not two in the morning and you do not have a

suffocating childonyourlap,butI assureyouthatI am oneandthesame. Listen,bud,today,tomorrow,

nextweek,we will havethis conversation.In themeantimeI leaveyouwith twolittle wordsof wisdom

regarding this job of yours. 'Not okay.' I love you. Over and out." Right, this job of mine. What to do

aboutthisreservationthing?

"Grandma?"

"Darling!"

"I need to get a table for two for Valentine's dinner anywhere that they don't have paper place mats.

Whatcanyoudoforme?"

"Going right for the jackpot today, are we? Can't we start with something smaller, like an afternoon

wearingthecrownjewels?"

"I know, it's for Grayer's mom. It's a long story, but she's going to hunt me until I get her a seat

somewhere."

"Thatearmuffswoman?Shedoesn't deservethecrumbs offyourplate."

"I know,butcanyoupleasejustwaveyour magicwandforme?"

"Hmm, callMauriceatLutece andtell him I'll sendhimtherecipeforthecheesecakenextweek."

"You rock,Grandma."

"No,darling,I swing. Love you."

"Love you,too."Onemore callandit's backtolespetites ego-centrics. The city is on Valentine's overdrive as I walk over to ElizabethArden to meet my grandmother. Since the last Christmas decoration came down in January every store has had a Valentine's theme in the window; even the hardware store has a red toilet-seat cover on display. In Februaries past I would wait with exasperation on line behind men and women buying oysters/champagne/condoms, when I only wanted to pay for my grapefruit/beer/Kleenex and get on with my life. This year, I've got nothing but patience.

This is the very first Valentine's Day on which I have not been single. However, in observance of the traditionalsurvivalagendafortheone-day-when-being-single-is-just-not-okay,SarahandI mailedeach otherTigerBeatpinupsandI am accompanyingGrandma toour annualpampering.

"Darling, Saint Valentine's Rule Number One," she imparts as we sip our lemon water and admire our lacquered toes. "It's more important to show yourself a little love than to have a man who gives you somethinginthewrongsizeandcolor."

"Thanksforthepedicure,Gram."

"Anytime, darling. I'm going to go back upstairs for my seaweed wrap. Let's just hope they don't forget

me likelasttime. Really,theyshouldput a little buzzerinyourhand.Imaginebeingfound,covered

THE NANNY DIARIES

in seaweed and wrapped in a tarp by some poor janitor. Rule Number Two: Never take the last

appointmentoftheday."

1 thank her profusely, bundle up, bid her farewell, and go to pick up my hot date from nursery school.

Hecomes runningoutatnoon,holding alarge,crookedpaperheartthatleaves a trailofglitter

behindhim.

"Whatchagot there,buddy?"

"It's a Valentine. 1 made it. You can hold it." I take the heart and pass him the juice box I've been

keepingwarminmypocketashesettles inthestroller.

I look down at the heart, assuming it's for Mrs. X. "Mrs. Butters spelled for me. I told her what to say

andshespelledforme. Readit,Nanny,readit."

I almost can't speak. "I LOVENANNYFROM GRAYERADDISONX."

"Yup. That's whatI said."

"It's beautiful,Grover. Thankyou,"I say, startingtogetteary

behindthestroller.

"You canholdit,"heoffersashegripsthejuicebox.

"You know what? I'm going to put it safely in the stroller pocket so it doesn't get hurt. We've got a

specialafternoonaheadofus."

Despite the fact thatit's one of the coldest days of the year, I'm under strict instruction not to bring him

home until after French class. So I've made an executive decision to ignore all the usual guidelines and

take him to California Pizza Kitchen for lunch and then down ThirdAvenue to the new Muppet movie.

I wasworriedhemightbescaredof thedark,buthesingsandclaps all thewaythrough.

"That was so funny, Nanny. So funny," he says, as I buckle him back into his stroller and we sing the

themesong all thewayto

Frenchclass.

After I drop him offwith Mme. Maxime to faire lesValentines I runacross Madisonto Barneys to pick

up alittle somethingfor H. H.

"CanI help you?" thenotoriouslybitchyblondebehindthe

Kiehl's counter half asks, half spits. She has never been forgiven for once accusing Sarah of shoplifting

thetonershewastryingtoreturn.

"No, thanks, just browsing." I set my sights on another salesperson, a tall Eurasian man in an

expensive-looking black shirt. "Hi, I'm looking for a Valentine's present for my boyfriend." I love

saying it. Boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend. Yeah, I have the cutest boyfriend. My boyfriend doesn't like

woolsocks. Oh,myboyfriendworksatTheHague,too!

"Okay,well, whatkindofproductsdoesheprefer?" Right,I'm back.

"Oh,I don't know. Um, hesmells nice. Heshaves. Maybe someshavestuff?"

He shows me every conceivable product an aspiring model pulling in extra cash at Barneys might ever

wanttouse. ?

"Um, really? Lipliner?" I ask. "Becauseheplays lacrosse .. ."

Heshakeshisheadatmyshortsightednessandpulls outmoreesotericpastesandlotions.

"I don't want to imply that there's anything wrong with him, you know, give him something that fixes

anything. He doesn't need fixing." I finally settle on a stainless steel razor and watch him wrap it in red

tissuepaperandtie aredbowaroundtheblackbox.Parfait.

I greetGrayer outsidehis classroomwithhis coatheldout. "Bonsoir,MonsieurX. Comment 93 va?"

"Cavatresbien, Nanny.Merci beaucoup.Etvous?" heasks,wavinghis magicfingersatme.

"Oui,oui,tresbien."

Maxime leans her head out of the classroom to the row of cubbies where I'm bundling Grayer. "Grayer

is really coming along with his verbs." She smiles down at him from atop her Charles Jourdan pumps.

"But if you could take some time with him to practice the noun list each week, that would be

fantastique. If eitheryouor yourhusband?

THE NANNY DIARIES

"Oh,I'm nothis mother."

"Ah,monDieu!Jem'excuse."

"Non,non,pasdeproblem," I say.

"Alors,seeyounextweek,Grayer."

I trytopushhim homequicklybecause afrigidwindis whipping

downPark.

"As soonas we get upstairs," I say, crouchingin theelevator to loosenhis scarf, "I'm going to put some

Vaselineonyourcheeks,okay?You're getting alittle chapped."

"Okay.Whatarewegoingtodotonight,Nanny?Let's fly!Yeah, I thinkweshouldflyassoonaswe get upstairs." LatelyI've beenbalancinghim onmyfeetand "flying"himinhis room. "After bath, G, that's flying time." I push the stroller over the threshold. "What do you want for

dinner?"

I'm hanging up our coats when Mrs. X walks into the front hall in a floor-length red evening gown and

Velcrocurlers, alreadyintheheatofpreparationforherValentinedinnerdatewith Mr. X.

"Hi,guys. Didyouhave agoodday?"

"HappyValentine's Day, Mommy!" Grayershoutsingreeting.

"HappyValentine's Day. Oops,becarefulofMommy's dress."

Spatula.

"Wow, youlookbeautiful,"I say, pullingoffmyboots.

"You think so?" She looks down in consternation at her midriff. "I still have a little time. r. X's flight

fromChicagodoesn't landforanotherhalf hour. Couldyoucome helpme fora minute?" "Sure. I wasjustgoingtogetdinnerstarted.I thinkGrayer's pretty hungry."

"Oh.Well, whydon't youjustordersomethingin?There's

moneyinthedrawer."Well, I never.

"Great! Grayer, why don't you come help me order?" I keep a hidden stash of menus in the laundry

roomforemergencies.

"Pizza!I wantpizza,Nanny!Pleeeaaase?"

1 53

I raise an eyebrow at him because he knows I can't say "But you had pizza for lunch" in front of his

mother.

"Great. Nanny, why don't you call for a pizza, pop in a v-i-d-e-o and then come help me," she says as sheleaves theroom. "Hahaha, pizza, Nanny, we're having pizza," he laughs and claps wildly at his unbelievable good

fortune.

"Mrs. X?" I pushthedooropen.

"In here!" she calls out from the dressing room. She's standing in another floor-length red gown and

there's athirdhangingupbehindher.

"Oh, my God! Wow, it's beautiful." This one has thicker straps and red velvet leaf appliques trailing aroundtheskirt.Thecoloris a stunningcombination with herthickblackhair. Shelooksinthemirror andshakesherhead. "No,it's justnotright." I lookcarefullyatherinthedress. I

realizeI've never seenher arms or sternumbefore. Shelookslike a ballet dancer,tinyand all sinew. But sheisn't fillingoutthedress inthebustandit's hanging all wrong.

"I thinkmaybe it's thebustline,"I saytentatively.

She nods her head. "Breast-feeding," she says derisively. "Let me try on the third. Would you like some

wine?" I noticetheopenbottleof Sancerreonthedresser.

"No,thankyou.I shouldn't."

"Oh,comeon.Gotake aglass offthebar."

I walk throughto thepiano room where I can hearthe strains of "I'm Madeline!I'm Madeline!" coming

fromthelibrary.

WhenI get backshe's comeoutin a beautifulNapoleonicraw-silkgown, lookinglikeJosephine.

"Oh,muchbetter," I say. "Theempire waist reallysuitsyou."

"Yeah,butitisn't verysexy,isit?"

"Well... no,it's beautiful,butitdependsonthelookyou're goingfor."

THE NANNY DIARIES

"Breathtaking,Nanny. I wantto bebreathtaking."We both smile assheslips behindtheChinesescreen.

"I've gotonemore."

"Are yougoingtokeep all ofthese?" I eyethezeros onthedanglingpricetags.

"No,ofcoursenot. I'll returntheonesI don't wear. Oh,thatremindsme."Shesticksherheadaroundthe

screen. "CanyoutaketherestbacktoBergdorf'sformetomorrow?"

"No problem. I can do it while Grayer's at his play date." "Great. Can you zip me?" she calls out. I put

down my wine and go around to zip her into a stunningly sexy 1930s red sheath, "Yes," we both say as

soon as she looks in the mirror. "It's beautiful," I say. And mean it. It's the first one that uses her

proportions to its advantage, making her look sylphlike, rather than emaciated. Looking at her

reflection,I realizethatI am rootingforher,rootingforthem.

"So what do you think? Earrings or no earrings? I need to wear this necklace becausemyhusbandgave

ittome."Sheholdsup a strandof diamonds. "Isn't itbeautiful?ButI don't wanttooveracces!sorize."

"Doyouhaveanylittlestuds?"

ShestartsgoingthroughherjewelryboxandI takemywineover tothevelvet bench.

"These?" Sheholdsup a pairof diamondstuds?Orthese?"?

andrubies.

"No,definitely thediamonds.You don't wanttooverdothered."

"I went to Chanel today and got the perfect lipstick and look!" She sticks out her foot. Her toes are

paintedinChanelRedcoat.

"Perfect,"I say, taking asip.Sheputsinthestudsandgives herself aquickswipe with thelipstick.

"What do you think?" She turns for me. "Oh, wait!" She goes 1 over to the Manolo Blahnik bag on

thefloorandpullsout a boxcontaining a pair ofexquisiteblacksilksandals. "Toomuch?"

I 55

"No,no.They're gorgeous,"I say, assheslipsthemonandturnsformeagain.

"So,whatdoyouthink?Anythingmissing?"

"Well, I'd take the curlers out." She laughs. "No, really, it's perfect." I give her another once-over. "Um,

it's justthat..."

"What?"

"Doyouhave athong?"

She quickly looks backward in the mirror. "Oh, my God. You're right." She starts rifling through the plasticbags inher lingeriedrawer. "I think Mr. X gaveme apair onourhoneymoon." Oh,brilliant, Nan!

Brill-i-ant! Sendhercombingthroughthepantydrawer. "You can always go commando," I suggest urgently from the velvet bench where I'm downing the rest ofmywine.

"Got 'em!" shesaysandholdsupanexquisite, delicateblackLaPerla thongwithcreamsilkembroidery, whichI am pray-ing ishers. Thedoorbellrings. "NANNYYY!Thepizza's here!" "Thanks,Grayer!" I callback.

"Thesewill do.I'm all set. Thankyousomuch."

After Grayer and I polish off half a medium pie I remove a small cardboard box from my backpack.

"And now a special Valentine's dessert," I say, producing two chocolate cupcakes with red hearts on

them. Grayer's eyes widen atthedeparturefrom choppedfruit andsoycookies. I pour useach a glass of

milkandwedig in.

"Oh,whathavewehere?"We bothfreeze,cupcakesmidwaytoourmouths.

"Nanny bwought thpecial walentine's cucakes," Grayer explains defensively with a mouth full of

chocolate.

Mrs. X has pulledher longhair up into a loosechignonandfinishedher makeup.Shelookslovely. "Oh,

that's sonice. DidyouthankNanny?"

THE NANNY DIARIES

"Thankyou,"hesprays.

"The carshouldbe hereanyminute."Sheperches ontheedgeofthebanquette, every muscletensedfor

theintercombuzzer. Shereminds meofmyself inhighschool, all dressedup,justwaiting togetthecall

tofindoutwhoseparentswereoutof town,wherewewere meeting,wherehewasgoingtobe.

We awkwardly finishour cupcakeswhileshesits anxiously

besideus.

"Well.. ." ShestandsasI'm cleaningGrov offbeforereleasinghimfrom his boosterseat. "I'm justgoing

to go wait in my office. Will you let me know when they buzz up?" She exits, taking a quick glance

backwardattheintercom.

"Of course,"I say, wonderingjust howlate Mr. X will dareto pushit. "Okay, let's fly now, Nanny. Let's fly. an we?" He puts his arms out and does circles around me as I

clear theplates.

"G, you might be a little full. Why don't you go get your coloring books and we'll hang out in here so we canhearthebuzzer,

okay?"

For an hour Grayer and I sit in silence, passing crayons back and forth, looking up intermittently at the

silentintercom.

At eight o'clock Mrs. X calls me into her office. She's sitting on the edge of her office chair, an old

Vogue openonthedesk.Herminklieswaiting onthearmchair.

"Nanny, would you call Justine to find out if she knows anything? The number's on the emergency list

inthepantry."

"Sure,noproblem."

I don't getananswer atworksoI tryher cellphone.

"Hello?" I can hear silverware clanking in the backgroundand hate that I'm interrupting her Valentine's

dinner.

"Hello, Justine?It's Nanny. I'm so sorry to bother you, but Mr. X is runninglate and I was wondering if

youmightknowwhatflighthe's on."

"That's all backattheoffice?

"Mrs. X isjustgetting alittle anxious,"I say, trying toimparttheurgencyof thesituation.

"Nanny!I can't findtheredcrayon!" Grayer calls fromthebanquette.

"Look, um, I'm surehe'll beintouch."There's a pausewhereinI heartherestaurantinfull swing behind

her. "I'm sorry,Nanny,I reallycan't helpyou."AndthenI justknow,I knowit inthepit ofmystomach.

"Naa-nny,I'm stuck.I needthered!"

"Okay,thanks."

"Well?" Mrs. X asksfromover myshoulder.

"Justine wasn't in the office so she doesn't have his itinerary." I walk around her to search through the

bucket of crayons on the table, while Grayer slumps over his coloring book. Maybe this is it. Maybe I should just say something. But what? What do I actually know for a fact, here, really? What I know is thatMs. Chicagowas hereover a monthago. hings could've changedsincethen.Howdo I knowhe's not just running late? "Hey, why don't you check the Weather Channel?" I suggest, bending down to retrieve the red crayon, which has rolled under the bench. "Maybe there are delays out of O'Hare?" I reach my arm up over the table and place the crayon next to Grayer's fist. I stand back up. "I'll call the airline. Whodoeshefly?"

"Justine wouldknow. Oh,andcanyoucall Luteceandmakesuretheydon't giveawayourreservation?"

Shewalkshurriedlyouttowardthelibrary. Grayer slidesdownandrunsacrossthefloortofollowher. Justine's voice mail comes on three times, but, as she's basically left me to fend for myself, I keep calling.

"Hello?" Shesoundsannoyed.

"Justine,I'm sosorry.Whatairline doeshefly?"

"American.ButNanny,I reallywouldn't..." Hervoicetrails off.

THE NANNY

ARIES

"What?"

"I'm surehe'll call. I wouldn't bother to..."

"Okay.Well, thanks,bye."

I getthenumber frominformation,becauseI don't knowwhatelsetodo.

"Hello,thankyouforcallingAmericanAirlines. ThisisWendyspeaking.HowmayI help you?"

"Hello.Yes, I'm calling to find out if thereany delays on the flights from Chicagoto NewYork tonight,

or if apassengerXchangedhis flight?"

"I'm sorry,butI can't give outinformationonparticularpassengers."

"Well, canyoutell meifthereareanydelays?"

"Holdon, I'll check."Theotherlinebeeps.

"Hello,thisistheXes'residence. MayI askwho's callingplease?" I say.

"Who's this?" a malevoiceasks.

"Hi,it's Nanny?

"Who?"

"Nanny?

"Whatever. Listen,tellMrs. X myplaneis snowedinhereinChicago. I'll callher tomorrow."

"I'm sureshe'd liketotalkto?

"Can't now."Thelinegoesdead.

I click back.

"Hello,miss?Thanksforholding.Therearenodelays.All flightsarerunningonschedule."

"Thankyou,"I say, hangingup.Shit. Shit. Shit.

1 walk slowly through the living room and go stand outside the library, where Mrs. X and Grayer are

seatedonthenavyleathercouch,studying theweatherintheMidwest.

"So staytuned,becauseafter thebreakwe'll betalkingtoCindy

in Little Springs about what it's doing on her back porch," a perky voice says from the television. I feel

queasy.

"Nanny?" Sheroundsthedoor frame,nearlyknockingintome. "It justoccurredtome. all Justineand

getthenumberof his hotel.Theweather's fine. aybehis meetingranlate."

"Urn,actually Mr. Xjustcalledontheotherline,while I wasonholdwiththeairline, andthat's whathe

said.Hismeetingranlate. Sohesaidhe'll calltomorrownightand,uh?

Sheraisesherpalmuptosilenceme. "Whydidn't youcome getme?"

"He,um,hesaidhehadtogo?

"I see."Shepressesher lipstogether. "Andwhatelse didhesay?"

I can feel small beads of perspiration rolling down my sides. "He said, um, he was just going to spend

thenightthere."I castmyeyes downtoavoidhergaze.

Shetakes a stepcloser. "Nanny,I wantyou.To tellme. Exactly.Whathesaid."

Pleasedon't makeme dothis.

"Well?" Shewaitsforananswer.

"Hesaidhewassnowedinandhe'll call youtomorrow,"I sayquietly.

Sheshudders.

I glance up. She looks as if I've just slapped her and I return my eyes to the floor. She walks back into

the library, picks up the remote and turns off the television, silencing and darkening the room. She

remains immobile, silhouetted against the lights of Park Avenue, her red silk gown shimmering in the

somberblueroom, herhandstill grippingtheremote.

Grayer's wide eyes stare up at me in the darkness from where he sits, hands carefully crossed in his lap. "Come on, Grayer. Let's get readyforbed."I extendmyhandandhewriggles offthecouchandfollows me withoutprotest.

THE NANNY DIARIES

Heisuncharacteristicallyquietwhile webrushteethandputonpajamas. 1 readhim Mais^ GoestoBed

about alittle mousewith asimple mission.

"'Maisybrushedher teeth.'Did Grayerbrushhis teeth?"

"Yes."

"'Maisywashedherfaceandhands.'Did Grayerwash his face

andhands?"

"Yes." Andsoonuntilhe's yawning andhiseyes areopening

andclosing.

I stand to kiss him on the forehead and realize his hand is clenching my sweater. I gently uncurl his

fingers. "Goodnight,

Grover."

I walk tentatively out into the cold, gray light of the marble foyer. "Mrs. X?" 1 call out. "I'm leaving.

Okay?" Noanswer.

I walk down the long, dark hall to her bedroom, through the numerous hot pools of light illuminating thepaintings. Thedoor is open. "Mrs. X?" I enter her bedroomand can hearthesoundof muffledcrying coming from

behind the closed dressing-room door. "Um, Mrs. X? Grayer's asleep. Do you need anything?" Quiet.

"I'm just gonna go, okay?" I stand right up against the door and can hear her weeping quietly on the

other side. The image of her curled up on the floor in her beautiful gown makesme put myhands to my

chest.

"Nanny?" avoice,strainingtosoundcheerful,calls out. "Is

thatyou?"

"Yes." I pickupour emptywineglasses fromthebedsidetable,

carefultokeepthemfromclinking.

"Okay,yougoonahead.Seeyoutomorrow."

"Um, there's still somepizzaleft. Doyouwantme towarmitupforyou?"

"No,that's okay. Goodnight."

"Are yousure? 'Causeit's notrouble."

"No,that's reallyfine. Seeyoutomorrow."

161

"Okay, good night." I walk back down the long beige hall to the kitchen, place the glasses in the sink,

and put out a fruit plate, just in case. I decide to wait till I get downstairs to cancel their expired

reservation.

I go back into the hall, grab my coat and boots, and pull my paper heart out from Grayer's stroller

pocket. It sprinklestheblack-and-white tile with a lightdusting of red glitter. I kneeland press myhand

over thesparkles,quicklyliftingthemupandbrushingthemintomybackpack.

Herlowsobsgive wayto adeep,animal-like keeningasI gentlyclosethedoorbehindme.

They all felt that there was no sense in their living together, and that any group of people, who had met together by chance at an inn would have had more in common than they, the members of the Oblonsky family and their servants. The wife did not leave her own rooms and the husband stayed away from home all day. Thechildrenstrayed all over thehouse,notknowingwhattodowiththemselves.

. NNAKARENINA

CHAPTER SEVEN

eRegrettoInformYou

OnMondayatnoonI wait inthe schoolcourtyard, having watchedMrs. Butters pateachof her heavily

bundledstudentsontheheadandsendthemofftowaiting nannies,andstill noGrayer.

"Mrs. Butters?" I ask.

"Yes?"

"Was Grayer inschooltoday?"

"No."Shegrins atme.

"Okay,thanks,"I say.

"Sure."

"Great."

"Well, then .. ." Shenodsher head, indicatingthis productiveexchangeis over andtoddlesback intothe

building, hervelvet patchworkscarfblowingoutbehind her. I standfor a moment,unsureofwhattodo. I am justreachingformycellphonewhensuddenlyI am dealt astunningblowtothebackof myleg.

"Hi-yaa!"

I turn to see a small woman reproving a very large boy crouched in a menacing karate stance. "No,

Darwin,"shesays, "nochoppingthepeople."

"Where's Grayer?I wanttoplaywith his toys."

"I'm sorry,canI helpyou?" I say, rubbingmyleg.

She gently pushes the boy's fingers off her face while patiently replying, "I am Sima. This is Darwin.

We weresupposedtoplaywith Grayertoday."

"I wanttoseehis toys. NOW!" her chargescreamsupatmewith bothhandsin akaratestance.

"It's nice to meet you, Sima. I'm Nanny. I guess Grayer must havestayed home today,but I didn't know

hehad a playdate. Let mejustcallhis mother."I dial thenumber,butMrs. X's voicemail picksup andI click off. "Okay, well, let's go home, then!," I say, trying to be cheerful, but unsure of what we'll find once we get there. I help Sima with Darwin's bag and we trek throughtheslush to 721.1 takean instant dislike to Darwin, as I have spent all of three minutes with him and am already in a perpetual state of flinching. Sima, on theother hand, is completely soft, almost graceful, in her efforts to deflect Darwin's chops.

I stickmykeyinthedoorandopenit slowly,calling, "Hello?I'm herewith DarwinandSima!"

"Oh, my," Sima murmurs beside me as we make eye contact. The stench of roses is overwhelming. While Mr. X failed to return from what is becoming the longest business trip on record, he has, in his absence,beensendingtwo dozenlong-stemmed rosesto721 Parkevery morningsinceValentine's Day. Mrs. X refuses to have them in her or Grayer's wing, but also can't seem to bring herself to throw them out. More than thirty vases fill the living room, dining room, and kitchen. Consequently, the air-conditioning is on, but thatonly seems to blowthe cloying stenchfrom one sideof theapartment to the other.

BasedonwhatI've piecedtogetherfromthefloristcards, Mr. X

THE NANNY DIARIES

promised to take his wife and child out to Connecticutthis past weekend for "family time," making the last two heavenly days the first weekend I've had completely off in the month since Valentine's. "GRAYER! GRAAYYRR!" Darwin bellows at the top of his lungs before ripping away from his coat andrunninginthedirectionofGrayer's room.

"Please take your coat off and have a seat, I'll just go check with Grayer's mom and let her know that we're home." I puthis bagdownnexttothebenchinthefronthallandslipmybootsoff.

"That's okay. I'll just keep my coat on, thank you." Her smile tells me that I don't need to explain the frigid temperature or the mortuary flowers. I attempt to weave my way around the vases toward Mrs. X's office,onlytofinditempty.

I follow the sound of the boys' hyena giggles to Grayer's room, where his bed is serving as a barricade inthewarbetween apajama-clad GrayerandDarwin. "Hi,Grover."

He's busy bombing Darwin with stuffed animals and looks up only briefly to acknowledgeme. "Nanny, I'm hungry. I wantbreakfastnow!"

"You meanlunch?Where's yourmom?" Hedives toavert aflyingstuffedfrog.

"I dunno.AndI meanbreakfast!" Huh.

I find Connie in Mr. X's office, turning Grayer's fort back into a couch. The room is the messiest I've seenanypart of the apartmentsince I've been here. Small plates with leftover pizza crusts linethe floor and every Disney video is strewn about, separate from its case. "Hey, Connie. How was your weekend?" I ask. "You're lookin' at it." She gestures to the mess. "I was here all weekend. Mr. X didn't show, and she don't want to be alone with Grayer. She made me come all the way back from the Bronx ateleven Fridaynight. 1 hadtotakemykids over tomysister's.

Wouldn't even pay for a taxi. She didn't say boo to that boy all weekend." She picks up a plate. "Last night1 finallyjusttoldher I hadtogohome, butshedidn't likeit."

"Oh,myGod,Connie,I'm sosorry.Thatsucks. Sheshould've calledme. couldatleasthavedonethe nights."

"What?Andletthelikesof youknowshecan't get herown husbandhome?"

"Whereis she?"

She points me toward the master bedroom. "Her Highnesscame in an hour ago and went straight to her

room."

I knock on the door. "Mrs. X?" I ask tentatively. I push it open and it takes a moment for my eyes to

adjust to the darkness. She is sitting on the ecru carpet, surrounded by shopping bags, her flannel

nightgownpeekingoutfromunderher furcoat.Theheavygrosgrainshadesaredrawn.

"Couldyou close the door?" She leans back against the bureau, breathing deeply into a wad of lavender

tissue paper pulled from one of the bags. She wipes her nose and looks up at the ceiling. Afraid that

anything thatI askwill bethewrongquestion,I wait forher tolead.

Shestaresoffintothedarknessandthenasks in a flatvoice, "Howwasyourweekend,Nanny?"

"Okay?

"We had a great weekend. It was ... fun. Connecticut was beautiful. We went sledding. You should've

seenGrayer andhis father. It wasadorable. Really, a greatweekend."

O-kaaay.

"Nanny,is thereany wayyou could come tomorrowmorning and just..." She seems exhausted. "Maybe

helpGrayer getofftoschool. He's justso ... Hewantedhis pinkpantsandI didn't havethestrength?

"I SHOTYOU!YOUSHOULDBEDEAD!"

"NO!YOUAREDEAD!DIE!DIE!"

THE NANNY DIARIES

Theboys' voicesgetlouder,asdoesthesoundofstuffedanimals beingpelteddownthehall.

"Nanny,takethemout. Just. .. takethemtothemuseumorsomething. 1 can't... I needto?

"DIE NOW!I SAID DIE!"

"Absolutely.We cantotallytakethemout. CanI getyouany?

"No.Please,justgo."Hervoice catchesandshegrabs moretissuefromherbags.

As I gingerly close the door behind me, Grayer jumps out at the far end of the long hall. His eyes go to

thedoorandthentome. Hehurls hisWinnie-the-Poohatmyheadwith a littletoomuchforce.

I take a quick breath. "All right, tough guy, let's get you dressed." I take his hand, leading him and

Winniebacktohis room.

"You havepajamason,stupidhead,"DarwinofferssupportivelyasI hustleGrayer towardthecloset.

In addition to putting on his current uniform of choice, the Collegiate sweatsuit he's been wearing

almost dailysinceChristmas, hepulls oneof hisfather's tiesoff a hookandloopsitaroundhis neck. "No, Grove, you can't wear that," I say. Darwin tries to grab it out of his hands. "No, Darwin, that's Grayer's tie."

"See? See?" Grayer says victoriously. "You said it. It's mine. Mytie. Mom said. She gave it to me." Not wanting to go back in her room to get the real story, I fix a quick knot, letting the tie dangle low beside his businesscard.

"Allright,fellas, shakea leg.We gotplacestobe, thingstodo!I have averyexcitingafternoonplanned,

but the first one with his coat on will be the first to find out about it!" The boys scramble past me to tackle the floral obstacle course. I grab an armful of the stuffed toys off the floor and toss them back ontothebedonmywayout.

Inthefronthall Sima isattempting tokeepDarwinfrom smoth!

1 67

eringGrayer,who isflattenedagainstthe door. "Hemustbreathe,Darwin."

"So, I was thinking, maybe Play Space?" I announce, realizing I still have my coat on as Darwin releasesGrayer.

"YEAH!"Theboys jump upanddownontopofeachother.

"Okay."Sima nods. "PlaySpacesoundsvery good."I handher Darwin's jacketandpullonmyboots.

While there are two Play Spaces, one on East Eighty-fifth and one on Broadway in the Nineties, we head up to the one on the East Side, as it has marginally cleaner sand. These indoor playgrounds are Manhattan's version of a fully equippedbasement recroom.And,likeeverything elseinthebig city, it's for rent. So, similar to motels with hourly rates, a twenty gets you and your charge a good two hours to exhausteachother ontheirequipment.

Sima standsonthesidewalkwith theboys whileI getthestrollersoutof thetrunkofthecab.

"IS NOT!"

"ISTOO!"

"CanI help you?" sheasks,evading Darwin's kick.

"No,"I grunt. "That's okay."I'm justgratefultobeoutofhis reach.

I maneuver the strollers to the sidewalk and we each grab a small hand. Probably to deter perverts from window-shopping, the Space is up on the second level and can only be reached by climbing an enormous, blue-carpeted staircase of child-size stairs that seems to stretch all the way up to wherever nannies go when they die. Grayer, undaunted, grabs the child-height railing and starts hauling himself up.

"Darwin, go up. Go up," Sima instructs. "Not down. Up." Darwin, completely disregarding her, plays some sort of leapfrog game that threatens to throw the methodical Grayer backward into a neck!breakingfall. I followclosely behind, draggingthecollapsedstrollers, myheelshangingofftheedgeof eachstair.

THE NANNY DIARIES

When we eventually get to the top I park the strollers in the Stroller Corral and prepare to check in. Becauseoftheinclementweathertheplaceis packedandwe geton alonglineof overbundledchildren,

exasperatednannies,andtheoccasionalmotherputting inherhourofquality time.

"Elizabeth,wecanmakewee-wee afterwe checkin.Pleasejustholdit!"

"Hello and welcome to Play Space! Who's checking in?" an overenthusiastic man in his mid-thirties asks frombehindthebrightredcounter.

"He is!" I say, pointing down at Grayer. The man looks confused. "We are," I say, passing him Mrs. X's membership card. He looks her up in the files and once I hand over twenty dollars we each get name tagsforourselves andonetoputonthestroller incaseitwantstomakefriends.

"Hello,mynameis Grayer. I'm with Nanny,"his reads.

"Hello, my name is Nanny. I'm with Grayer," mine reads. We are instructed to wear them prominently and I plaster mine directly over my left ventricle, while Grayer prefers to stick his on the edge of his shirt, just above the dangling card and next to his father's tie. After Sima and Darwin are similarly linked, the four of us go and put our coats in our designated cubbies, along with our boots. In the food area I fork over another twenty for our lunch. wo small peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and two juiceboxes.

"DIE! DIE!"

"KILL HIM INHISBLOODYHEAD!"

"All right, enough already!" The Wicked Witch has a headache. "If you two can't eat lunch like nice, peace-loving young gentlemen, Darwin and Sima will have to sit at another table." They manage to argue in dulcet tones for the remainder of the meal while Sima and I exchange wan smiles across the table. ShepicksatherbolognasandwichandI make afewattempts tobegin a conversation,butDarwin choosestheseopportunemomentstoflingGoldfishinher face.

Before we can release them into the pen we go wash hands. The Technicolor bathrooms all have little sinks, lowtoilets, andhigh latches. Grayer pees like a champ and then lets me push up his sleeves so he canwashhis hands.

"NO!I DON'TWANTTO!YOUDOIT!YOUPEE!"We canhearDarwininthenextbathroom.

I lean over and kiss Grayer on the top of his head. "Okay, G, let's hit the slopes," I say, as I pass him a papertowel sohecandryhis handsandwhateverelsegot sprayedbythesink.

"Daddysays thatinAspirin."

"Doeshe. Comeon." I throwout thetowelandextendmyhand,buthedoesn't move.

"When's mydaddytakingme toAspirin?" heasks.

"Oh, Grove ..." I crouch down. "I don't know, I'm, not sure if you are going skiing this year." He continuestolookatmequestion-ingly. "Haveyouaskedyourmom?"

He angles his body away from me, crossing his arms over the tie. "My mom says not to talk about him, sodon't. Don't talkabouthim."

"Grayer,comeon!" Darwinyells, kickingthedooratitsbase.

"Hey! Peoplehavetopeeouthere!"A woman startspoundingabovehim.

"Grover,ifyouhavequestions,it's always okayto?I say, standingandunlatchingthedoor.

"Don't talktome,"hesays,runningpast metojoinDarwinbythegate.

"You have some nerve!" The woman who's been waiting hustles her child past me to the toilet. "I think

it's unconscionableto keep a little girl waiting thatlong!" She narrows her heavily made-up eyes at me. "Who do you work for?" I take in her shellacked hair, her inch-long fingernails, her Versace blouse. "I meanit,whodoyouworkfor?"

"God,"I mutter,pushingpasthertoletGrayer intothepen.

Sima andI lift theboys ontothebrightblueslide. I lookover at

THE NANNY DIARIES

her to gaugeif she's one of those caregivers who feel compelled to staywithin two feet of their charges

at all times,taggingalongonevery move.

"I thinktheyshould ..."shesays,pausing,clearlytryingtoreadme,aswell.

I nod,waiting forthesign.

"... beokayif theyaretogether?Whatdoyouthink?"

"I agree,"I saywithrelief, givenGrayer's moodandDarwin's aggression. "CanI treatyoutodessert?"

Oncewe've settled at a table in full view of the slide, I pass Sima a cupcakeand a napkin. "I'm glad you

don't mindletting theboys play. I usually tryto setGrayer freeandthencome up here where I cankeep an eye on him and do myhomework. But there's always some nosy caregiver who's, like, 'Um, Grayer's in the ... sandbox.'And I'm supposed to fly across the room with a cry of 'Not... THE SANDBOX!' " I laugh,covering mymouthtokeepcrumbs fromfallingout.

Sima giggles. "Yesterday, at a play date, the mother wanted me to color with Darwin, but if I put my crayon onhis drawing, he screams. Butshemademe sit there all afternoon,holdingthecrayon nearthe paper."Sheunwrapshercupcake. "HaveyoubeenwithGrayerforverylong?"

"Seven months. inceSeptember. Howaboutyou?" I ask inreturn.

"Two years now I have been with Mr. and Mrs. Zuckerman." She nods her head and her dark hair falls

in front of her face. I'm guessing thatshe's in her early forties. "We used to play with the other girl, she

wasverynice.Whatwashername?" Shesmiles andtakes asipfromher miniaturecartonof milk.

"Caitlin.Yeah, I thinkshewentbacktoAustralia."

"She had a sister there who was very sick. In the hospital. She was saving up to visit her last time we

had a playdate."

"That's terrible, I had no idea. She was wonderful, Grayer still really misses her? Out of the corner of myeye I seeDarwin,poised 171

on the yellow plastic step above Grayer, pulling Mr. X's tie taut around G's neck. For a brief moment

Grayer's choking. isfaceturningredashereachesup his handstoclutchathis throat.

Then the knot of the tie gives way in one swift tug. Darwin rips it from around Grayer's red neck and

runs, laughing, to the other side of the room, disappearing into the climbing apparatus. Sima and I leap

up,dispatchingourselves totheopposingfronts.

"Grove,it's okay,"I calloutasI approach.

He gives forth a blast of rage toward Darwin that silences the entire room. "GIVE THAT BACK!!

THAT'S MY DADDY'S!! GIVE IT BACK!!!!!!!" He starts to sob and shake. "MY DADDY'S SO

MADAT YOU!!HE'S SOMAD!!!!"

Hecollapses,shakingwith theforceofhis tears. "Mydaddy's somad,he's somad."

I pull him onto my lap and start murmuring in his ear as I rock him. "You are such a good boy. Nobody

is mad at you. Your daddy's not mad at you. Your mommy's not mad at you. We all love you so much, Grove."

I carryhimuptothefoodarea,whereSima is waitingwith thetie.

"I... want," he gasps, his breath coming in gulps, "my.. . mommy." I knot the tie gently around his neck

andhelphimupontooneofthegreenbenchesnexttome,making a pillowforhimwith mysweater.

"Sih-muh?AreyouSih-muh?" thewoman fromthebathroomasks.

"Yes?"

"Your Darwinisontheslidebyhimself," sheannounces.

"Thankyou."Sima smiles graciously.

"Byhim-self,"themothersays again,asifSima isdeaf.

"Okay,thankyou."Sima rolls her eyes atme, but goes over tomakesureDarwin doesn't somehowhurt

himself onthethree-footslide,whileI rubGrayer's backashefallsasleep.

THE NANNY DIARIES

I watch as she reaches out a hand to help Darwin place his legs over the top in preparation for his

descent. He rejectsher offerbysmackingher squarelyon thehead, thenlaughsandflies downtheslide. She stands for a moment with both hands on her head and then walks slowly back to our table and sits down.

"Darwin seems a little intense," I say. Actually, he seems like a potential homicidal maniac, but she must have stayed for a reason and ten dollars an hour isn't enough to subject oneself to gross bodily harm.

"Oh, no. He's just having a lot of anger because he has a new baby brother at home." She reaches up to

rubher head.

"Haveyouever talkedtothemabouthowhehits you?" I asktentatively.

"No. Well, they are so busy with the new baby. And he can be a very good boy." She takes little breaths asshespeaks.Thisishardlythefirsttime I've seenthis; everyplaygroundhasatleastonenannygetting the shit kicked out of her by an angry child. Clearly she doesn't want to talk about it, so I change the topic.

"You havesuch abeautifulaccent." I foldupthewrapperfrommycupcakeinto alittle square.

"I movedherefromSanSalvadortwoyearsago."Shewipesherhandswith a napkin.

"Doyoustill havefamilythere?" I ask.

"Well, myhusbandandsonsarethere."Sheblinks acoupleoftimesandlooksdown.

"Oh,"I say.

"Yes, we all came together, to find work. I was an engineer in San Salvador. But there were no more

jobsand we hopedtomakemoneyhere. Thenmyhusbandwasrejectedforthegreencard andhadtogo

backwith oursons,becauseI couldnotworkandtakecareofthem."

"Howoftendoyouseethem?" I askasGrayer shiftsfitfully inhis sleep.

"I trytogohome fortwoweeksatChristmastime, butthis year

1 73

Mr. andMrs. Zuckermanneededme togotoFrance."ShefoldsandunfoldsDarwin's sweater.

"Do you have pictures of your children? I bet they're beautiful." I am not sure what the positive spin is

on this situation or where to take this conversation. I know if my mom were here she would have

alreadyrolledSima upintheStoryTime rugandsmuggledhertothefirst safehouseshecouldfind.

"No,I don't keep a pictureonme. It's too ... hard . . ." Shesmiles. "SomedaywhenGrayer comes toplay

atDarwin's house,I will showyouthen.Whataboutyou? Doyouhavechildren?"

"No.Me?No,thankGod."We bothlaugh.

"Aboyfriend,then?"

"I'm working onthat," andI begin totell her about H. H. We shareslices of our own stories, theparts of

our lives the Zuckermans and the Xes neither partake in nor know about, amid all the bright lights and

colors, surrounded by a cacophony of screaming. It starts to snow outside the big windows and I tuck

my stocking feet beneath me while she rests her chin on her outstretched arm. Thus I while away the

afternoon with a woman who has a higher degree than I will ever receive, in a subject I can't get a

passinggradein,andwhohasbeenhomeless thanonemonthinthelasttwenty-four.

For the past week I've been arriving at seven to dress Grayer for school, before dropping him off with

Mrs. Butters and running madly down to class. Mrs. X never emerges from her room in the mornings

andisoutevery afternoon,soI wassurprisedwhenConnietoldme shewaswaitingformeinher office.

"Mrs. X?" I knockonthedoor.

"Come in." I push the door open with slight trepidation, but find her seated at the desk, fully dressed in

a cashmerecardiganandslacks. Despiteherbestefforts with creamblush,shestill looksdrawn.

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"Whatare youdoinghome soearly?" sheasks.

"Grayer had a run-in with some green paint so I brought him home to change before ice skating? The

phoneringsandshemotionsforme tostay.

"Hello?. . . Oh, hi, Joyce ... No, the letters haven't come yet... I don't know, slow zip code, I guess . .."

Her voice still sounds hollow. "All the schools she applied to? Really? That's fabulous ... Well, which

one are you going to choose?.. . Well, I don't know as much about the girls' schools... I'm sure you'll

maketherightdecision ... Excellent. Bye."

She turns back to me. "Her daughter got into every school she applied to. I don't get it, she isn't even

cute . . . Whatwere you

saying?"

"The paint. on't worry, he wasn't wearing the Collegiate sweatshirt when it happened. He made a

reallybeautifultreepicture?

"Doesn't hehave a changeofclothesatschool?"

"Yeah,I'm sorry. eusedthemlastweekwhenGiselledumped glueonhim andI forgottoreplaceit."

"Whatif hehadn't hadtime tochange?"

"I'm sorry. I'll bringittomorrow."I starttoleave.

"Oh, Nanny?" I stick my head back in. "While I've got you, I need to have a talk with you about

Grayer's applications.Whereis he?"

"He's watchingConniedust."Your chair-railmoldings. Witha

toothbrush.

"Good, have a seat." She gestures to one of theupholsteredwing chairs across from her desk. "Nanny, I

havesomethingterribletotellyou."Shecasts her eyes downtoherhandstwisting inherlap.

I can't breathe. I bracemyself forpanties.

"We got some very bad news this morning," she says slowly, struggling to get the words out. "Grayer

gotrejectedfromCollegiate."

"No."I quicklywipe thelookofreliefoffmyface. "I don't believe it."

"I know. t's just awful. And, to make matters even worse, he's been wait-listed at St. David's and St.

Bernard's. Wait-listed." She shakes her head. "So now our fingers are crossed for Trinity, but if, for

some reason, that too doesn't work out, then we're just going to be left with his safeties and I'm not

enthusiasticaboutthecollegeplacements atthoseschools."

"Buthe's adorable. He's smartandarticulate. He's funny. Heshareswell. I justdon't getit." I mean,lose thetie,what's nottoloveaboutthiskid?

"I've beengoingover everything all morning,justtrying tomakesenseofit."Shelooksoutthewindow.

"Ourapplicationcoachtoldushewas a shoo-inforCollegiate." "My father did say this was the most competitive year they've ever had. They were inundated with qualified applicants and probably had to make some really tough choices." Keeping in mind that the applicants are four and you can't exactly ask them if they have any thoughts on the federal deficit or wheretheyseethemselves infiveyears.

"I thought your father liked Grayer when he met him," she asks pointedly, referring to the rainy

afternoonI tookhimover tomyhousetopet Sophie.

"Hedid.Theysang 'RainbowConnection'together."

"Hmmm. Interesting."

"What?"

"No,nothing.Justinteresting,that's all."

"Mydad's notreallyinvolvedat all withtheadmissions process." "Right. Well, I wanted to talk to you because I'm concerned that dressing him in that Collegiate sweatshirt may have set Grayer's expectations in a certain direction and I want to ensure that? She's interrupted by the phone. "Hold on." She answers it. "Hello? Oh, hi, Sally .. . No, our letters haven't come yet... Oh,Collegiate. Congratulations,that's excellent...Well, Ryan's a veryspe--

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cial little boy . . . Yes, that would be great. I know Grayer would love to go to school with Ryan ... Yes,

dinner would be lovely . .. Oh, the four of us? I'll have to check my husband's schedule. Let's talk after

theweekend...Great. Bye!" Shetakes a deepbreathandclenchesher jaw. "WherewasI?"

"Grayer's expectations?"

"Oh, yes. I'm concerned that your encouragement of his fixation on Collegiate may have set him up for

a potentiallydeleterious self-esteem adjustment."

i(T___?

"No, please don't feel bad. It's really my fault for allowing you to do it. I should have been more on top

ofyou."Shesighsandshakesherhead. "ButIspoketomypediatricianthismorningandhesuggested a Long-term Development Consultant who specializes in coaching parents and caregivers through this transition. She'll be coming by tomorrow while Grayer's in piano and she's asked to speak with you separatelytoassess yourroleinhis development."

"Great. That sounds like a good idea." I go through the doorway. "Urn." I stick my head back in.

"ShouldI notlethimwearit today?"

"What?" Shereachesforhercoffee.

"Thesweatshirt."

"Oh. Well, he can wear it today and then we'll let the consultant tell us how to handle this situation

tomorrow."

"Okay, great." I go back out to where Grayer, seated in the banquette, is watching Connie polish the

stove, while absentmindedly playing with the tie around his neck, and wonder if perhaps we're not

focusingonthewrongpieceofapparel.

I sit in the chair next to Mrs. X's desk, waiting for the consultant, and surreptitiously try to read, upside

down,thenotesscrawledonMrs. X's notepad.Eventhoughit's probablynothingmorethana

glorified grocery list, the fact that I have been left alone in here makes me feel as if I should be covert.

If I had a camera hidden in a button on my sweater I would frantically try to photograph everything on

thedesk.I'm startingtomakemyself laughattheideaofitwhenthewoman enters,briefcasefirst.

"Nanny." She reaches out to firmly shake my hand. "I'm Jane. Jane Gould. How are you today?" She

speaks just a little too loudly, eyeing me over her glasses as she puts her briefcase down on Mrs. X's

desk.

"Fine,thanks. Howare you?" I am suddenlyverycheerfulandalso a littletooloud.

"Just fine. Thank you for asking." She crosses her arms over her cranberry-colored blazer and nods

rhythmically at me. She has very big lips made up in the exact same cranberry, bleeding into the lines

aroundher mouth.

I nodbackather.

She looks down at her watch. "So, Nanny. I'm just going to get my pad out here and we'll get started."

Sheproceedstomentioneachactionasshedoes ituntilshe's seatedinMrs. X's chair,penpoised.

"Nanny, our objective over the course of the next forty-five minutes is to assess Grayer's perceptions

and expectations. I would like you to share with me the understanding you currently hold of your role

andresponsibilitiessurroundingGrayer's criticalpathwith regardtothenextstratumofhis schooling."

"Okay,"I say, replayingherstatement inmyheadtolocatethequestion.

"Nanny, in your first quarter at the X residence, how would you characterize your performance in

relationtoGrayer's academicactivity?"

"Good. I mean, I was picking him up from school. But, honestly, there wasn't a lot of academic activity

to?

"I see,soyoudonotconsideryourself anactive, dynamicpartic--

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ipantinhis process. Howwouldyoudescribeyouragendaduringhis scheduledplaytime?"

"Right... Grayer really likes to play trains. Oh, and dress up. So I try to do activities that he enjoys. I

wasn't aware thathehadanagendaforplaytime."

"Doyouengagehim inpuzzles?"

"Hedoesn't likepuzzlessomuch."

"Math problems?"

"He's alittle young?

"Whenwasthelasttime youpracticedcircles?"

"I'm suresometime inthelastweekwehadthecrayons out?

"DoyouplaytheSuzukitapes?"

"Onlywhenhetakes a bath."

"Haveyoubeenreadingtohimfrom theWall Street Journal?"

"Well, actually?

"TheEconomist.7"

"Not really?

"TheFinancialTimes?"

"ShouldI be?"

She sighs heavily and scribbles furiously on her pad. She begins again. "How manybilingual meals are

youservinghim aweek?"

"We speakFrench onTuesdaynight,but I usuallyserveveg!gieburgers."

"AndyouareattendingtheGuggenheimonwhatbasis?"

"We gototheMuseumofNaturalHistory. eloves therocks."

"Whatmethodologyareyoufollowingtodress him?"

"Hepicks outhis clothesor Mrs. Xdoes.Aslongashe'll be

comfortable?

"You don't utilize anApparelChart,then?"

"Not really?

"AndI supposeyouarenotdocumentinghis choiceswith him

on aClosetDiagram." "Yeah,no."

"Norareyouhavinghim translatehis colorandsizesintotheLatin."

"Maybe later this year." She looks back at me and nods for a while. I shift in my seat and smile. She leansacrossthedeskandtakesoffher glasses.

"Nanny,I'm goingtohavetoraise a flaghere."

"Okay."I leanintomeether.

"I havetoquestion whetheryou're leveragingyour assets to escalateGrayer's performance." Having let the cat out of the bag, she leans back and rests her hands in her lap. I sense that I should feel insulted. 'Leverage myassets?'Umm, anyone?

"I'm sorrytohearthat," Isayearnestly,astheonethingabundantlyclearisthatI shouldbefeelingsorry.

"Nanny, I understand you are getting your degree in arts-in-edu-cation so, frankly, I'm surprised by the lackofdepthsurroundingyourknowledgebasehere."Okay,nowI knowI'm insulted.

"Well, Jane."Shestraightensatthesoundofhername. "I am trainedtoworkwithchildrenwhohavefar fewerresourcesattheir disposalthanGrayer."

"I see,soyoudon't perceivethisopportunitytobeinanarenainwhichyouare a value-add."What?

"I wanttoaddvalue toGrayer,buthe's reallystressedoutrightnow?

Shelooksskepticallyatme. "Stressed?"

"Yes, he's stressed.AndI feel. ndI am only anundergradhere, Jane,soI'm sureyou'll takethis with a grainofsalt. hebestthingI cangive himis somedowntime sothathis imaginationcangrowwithout being forced in one direction or another." Blood rushes to my face and I know I've gone too far, but

beingmadetofeellikeanidiotbyyet anothermiddle-agedwoman inthis officeis just a bitmorethanI canhandle.

She scribbles a few more notes and smiles evenly at me. "Well, Nanny, I advise you to integrate time forreflectionasyoucontinue

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to work with Grayer. Here are a series of Best Practices from other caregivers thatI suggestyou review and internalize. This is explicit knowledge, Nanny, explicit knowledge from your peers that must become tacit for you if Grayer is to reachhis optimal state." She hands me a bunch of papers with a big clip atthetopandstands,slidingherglasses backon.

I stand up, too, feeling 1 need, somehow, to clean this up. "I didn't mean to seem defensive. I care very deeply for Grayer and follow all of Mrs. X's instructions. The past few months he's insisted on the Collegiate sweatsuit almost every day. And Mrs, X even got him a few more so he would have one to wearwhentheotherswere inthewash.SoI justwanttobesurethatyouknowI?

Sheputsouther handformetoshake. "Right.Thankyouforyourtimethis afternoon,Nanny."

1 shakeher hand. "Yes, thankyou. I'll readthesethroughtonight. I'm surethey'll beveryhelpful."

"Come on, Grove, finish up so we can go play a game." Grayer has been pushing around his last tortellini for about five minutes. Thanksto Jane,it's already been a longafternoon for both of us. I look downathim, restinghis blondheadonhis arm andstaringhorizontally atthelastofhis dinner. "Whatsa matter? Not

hungry?"

"No."I reachforhis plate. "No!" Hegrabstheedge,causinghis

forktodrop tothetable.

"Okay,Grayer,just say 'Nanny,I'm notfinished.'I canwait."I

sitbackdown.

"Nanny!" Mrs. X comes bustling in. "Nanny." She's about to speak when she sees Grayer and the lone

tortellini. "Didyouhave a gooddinner,Grayer?"

"Yes," hesaysintohis arm.

Butshe's alreadyfocusedher attentionbacktome. "Couldyou

come out here for a minute?" I follow her into the dining room where she turns and stops so abruptly I

accidentallysteponherfoot.

"I'm sorry,areyouokay?"

She grimaces. "I'm fine. I just finished with Jane and it's paramount that we have a family meeting, to

break the news to Grayer together about the r-e-j-e-c-t-i-o-n. So I'll need you to call Mr. X's office and

findoutwhenhecouldbescheduledtoattend. Thenumber's inthepantry?

"Mrs. X?" Janecalls asshecomes intothehall.

"Sure. No problem. Right away."I quickly slip back intothekitchen. Grayer is still making slowcircles

with his fork,thetortellini inorbit. 1 hoverover himfor a moment while listeningtoJaneandMrs. Xin

thehallway.

"Yes, I've just spoken with Nanny. I'm going to see how soon my husband can come home for this

meeting,"Mrs. Xsays, waxingprofessional.

"His presenceis reallyunnecessaryas longasGrayer perceives his primary caregiver tobepresent.You

should just go ahead andspeakwith him yourself." Jane's voice moves toward thefront door and I head

forthephone.

"Mr. X's office,Justinespeaking.HowmayI helpyou?"

"Justine? Hi,it's Nanny."

"Hi. Howareyou?" sheasksover thedinof a printer.

"Hanginginthere. Howaboutyou?"

"Busy," she sighs. "The merger is making things crazy around here. I haven't been home before

midnightintwoweeks." "Thatsucks."

"Well, hopefully Mr. X'll get a huge retention bonus and spread a little of it around." Don't count on it.

"So,is Mrs. Xlikingtheflowers?"

"What?"

"Theroses. thoughtitwasoverkill, but Mr. Xjusttoldmetoputin astandingorder."

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"Yeah,itkindof feelslike astandingorder," I confirm.

"I'll makesuretomorrow's bouquethas morevariety.What's herfavoriteflower?"

"She likespeonies,"I whisperasMrs. X breezespast Grayertostandinfrontofme,expectantly.

"Where am I goingtofindpeoniesinMarch?" Justinesighsagainastheprinter makes a clackingsound.

"Ugh,I can't believe thisthingis brokenagain.Sorry,never mind, I'll do it.Anythingelse?"

"Oh,right. Mrs. X wantstoschedule a family meeting about...". glanceover her shoulderatthepasta

pusher?thelittle one.Whencouldhebehere?"

"Let's see ... I couldpush a meetingup ..."I canhearher flippingpages. "Tuh,tah,tah . .. Yeah, I canget

himback toNewYork byWednesdayat four. I'll havehimthere."

"Great.Thanks,Justine."

"Anytime."

I hangupthephoneandturnto her. "Justine saidthathecanbe

hereWednesdayatfour."

"Well, if that's really the soonest he can make it... I guess that will have to do." She glances down to

adjusther sparklingengagement ring. "Janesaidit wascrucialthathebehere,so . . ."

Right.

"I mean,theWall StreetJournal!He's four!"

"Jesus," my dad exclaims just as Sophie pushes her nose between our legs. "Your mom still wants you

outofthere."

"I can handle it." I jog forward a few steps and Sophie circles, ready for her next run. "And there's no

wayI couldleaveGrayer

rightnow."

Dad runs to the bottom of the hill. "Sophie! Come on!" Sophie looks confused. "Over here!" he calls.

Sophieturns 180degreesfrom

my heels and takes offin his direction against a cold gust of wind that blows her ears even farther back.

As soon as she reaches him, running just below his gloved hands, I call to her and she gallops back up

toward me, and then the two of us run down the slope until we are beside him on the main promenade thatrunsalongtheuptownstretchofRiversidePark.

"Readyforyourinterviewtomorrow?" Sophierolls intohis shinsinanefforttocatchup.

"I'm kindof nervous, butProfessorClarkson's beenpracticingwith usinclass. I'd reallyliketohavemy jobfornextyearlinedupsoon."I hunchmyshouldersagainstanothergustofcoldwind.

"You'll knock 'em dead. Go long!" I run back up the hill toward the edge of the trees and look back downjustasthestreetlightturns on,makingitappeardarkeraroundus.

I lookup intotheyellow glow,composing awish alongthelines of "starlight,starbright." "Oh,electric gods of the tristate area, I'm just wishing for a real, honest-to-goodness job with set hours and an office where the boss's underwear isn't drying in the bathroom. Someday I'd like to be able to help more than one child at a time?children who don't come accessorized with their own consultants. Thank you. Amen."

The subway car is suddenly flooded with sunlight as we surface high over the streets of the South Bronx. I feel that twinge of excitement I always do when a train car moves aboveground, flying over thecityonits skinnyrailslikeanamusement-parkride.

I pull mylessonplanout of mybackpackandstareat it forthe millionth time. Theopportunity to join a conflict-resolution team for city schools is exactly the kind of job I've been training for. Plus, it would begoodtoworkwithteenagersandtake a breakfromthetinyfolk.

Thetrainpulls to astopandI stepoutintothecoldsunshine. I

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make my way down the steps of the platform to the street and discover that I am not four blocks away from my interview, but fourteen. I must have misunderstood the woman on the phone. I check my watch,pickingupthepace. I wastoonervous this morningtohavebreakfast, buttheninety-minute trek hasrevived myappetite. I walk/rundownthelongstreets,knowingI shouldeatorriskpassingoutmid!lesson.

Fully out of breath, I run into a tiny newspaper stand, grab a bag of peanuts, and stuff them in my backpack. One door down 1 ring the buzzer next to a taped piece of hand-colored paper that reads "CommunitiesAgainstConflict."

A voice blares unintelligibly out through the static and the door clicks, letting me into a stairwell, once painted green, and lined with posters of children in playgrounds looking gravely into the camera. I examine each print as I climb the stairs and, judging by the haircuts and bell-bottoms, guess these are promo posters circa the early seventies, around the time that this organization was founded. I buzz again at the top step and am greeted by loud barking, before a large hand pulls the door slightly ajar. "Snowflake,stay! STAY!"

"I'm here for the interview?" I say, looking around for another door, assuming I've mistakenly interrupted aresidentinthebuilding.A palewoman's faceappearsinthecrack.

"Yeah, Communities Against Conflict. You're in the right place, come on in, just be careful of Snowflake;he's always tryingtofree

himself."

I shimmy through the small opening she's made in the door and practically come face-to-face with a humongousblackshepherdandtherestof anequallylargewoman inoveralls andwaist-length, graying blond hair. I smile, bendingdowntopetSnowflake,whois tryingtogetpasther widelyplantedlegs.

"NO!" shescreams.

I joltup.

"He'snotreally apeopleperson.Areyou,Snowflake?" Shepats 1

the dog gruffly on his head with her free hand, as the other holds a stack of manila folders. Having adequatelywarnedme,shelets Snowflakecheckmeoutwhile I stayperfectlystill.

"I'm Reena, the executive director of Communities. You are?" She fixes me with an intense stare. I try toget areadonher,attempting tofigureoutwhoshewouldlikeme tobe.

"Nan.I thinkI wassupposedtomeetwithRichard."I aimforsolidandwarm, without a hintofcheerful.

"Nan? I thought your name was Naminia. Shit. RICHARD!" Reena bellows at me and I almost duck. Sheturnsbackto herfiles. "He'll behere in a minute. RICHARD!" shescreamsagain, thistime intothe filingcabinet.

"Okay! I'll just have a seat." I try to demonstrate that I am someone who can take care of herself, as I sense independenceis of value here. I turn around to discover that the two chairs designated to the few feet serving as a waiting area are both piled with overflowing boxes of yellowing brochures. I opt for standingbythewall andgettingoutofReena's way, asthisseems tobe aCommunities value, aswell.

A door flies open at the far side of the room and a man with a pasty complexion, who looks related to Reena and whom I presume to be Richard, emerges. He squints at me in his glasses, breathing heavily with the effort of getting around her and the dog to greet me. He is sweating profusely and has a wilted cigarette stuckbehindhis ear.

"Naminia!"

"Nan,"Reenagruntsover a file.

"Oh, Nan... I'm Richard, the artistic director. Well, I see you've met Reena and Snowflake. Why don't we get right to it! Let's go into the Feelings Room and get you set up." He shakes my hand and exchangesglanceswith Reena.

I followhimtotheFeelingsRoom,which isaboutthesamesizeastheoffice,butwithout all thedesks.

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"So have a seatthere,Nan."I do,readytotellmywhole,wonderful story. Readytoknock 'emdead.

"Now let me tell you about myself..." Richard begins. He leans back in the plastic folding chair and proceeds to explain abouthis decadesspentin social work, howhe met up with Reena at a rally against the superintendent, their years traveling the globe to gather methodologies for conflict resolution, and the host of "virtually thousands of kids" that he has personally trained to "make the world a better place." He also goes on extensively about his misguided childhood, the "illegitimate" son who doesn't

call him anymore, and his recent attempts to quit smoking. I zone in and out, keeping a beaming smile

onmyfaceanddeveloping a fixationonthepeanutsinmybag.

About an hour later he finally says, "So I see here that you are minoring in gender studies, what does

thatmean?"

He scans the resume 1 faxed in, squinting to read the blurred print. 1 follow his gaze to the top of the

pagetodiscover thatI am "Naminia of4ishEast90 somethingStreet."Ahh,Naminia.

"Well, I'm in the home stretch of a major in child development and I was very interested in

supplementingthis work?

"So you're not a feminist bitch, then?" He has a good, hearty laugh, taking a Kleenex out of his pocket

andwipingdownhis forehead.

I attempt a weak laugh. "As I was saying, I've been completing my thesis with Professor Clarkson and

havebeeninterningthis semesteratanafter-schoolprograminBrooklyn?

"Right. So let's get you up and running! Let me grab Reena and we'll get started with your session." He

stands. "REEENA!" Loudbarkingensuesintheother room.

I pull my lesson plan out of my backpack while Snowflake bursts in, followed by Reena. I walk to the

othersideoftheroomandwrite mynotes ontherollingblackboard.

I take a deepbreath. "I haveprepared a sessiononpeerpressureforfourteen-year-oldsingradenine.As

you'll seeontheboardhere

I havewritten thesekeyterms. I wouldbeginbyaskingthegrouptoworktogethertoconstruct?

"Teacher!Teacher!" Richardis wavingwildlyfromthebackof theroom.

"I'm sorry,areyounotreadyformetostart?" I ask,unsureof whatishappening.

Heballsup apieceofpaperandthrowsitatReena,whostartstomockcry.

"Teacher! Reena said a bad word!" Reena continues to boo-hoo, causing Snowflake to circle her,

barking.

"I'm sorry,Richard,itwas myunderstandingthatwe were justdoinganoverview."Buttheyare intheir

ownworld,throwingpaperateachother andfakecrying.

I clearmythroat. "Okay,thesessionyou askedme-to preparewasforteenagers,um, butI canmodifyit

for preschoolers." I glance at my notes and frantically try to downscale the plan for a different age

group.I turnbacktofacetwohugeadults andonehugedog,hidingbehindchairs andlaunchingpaper.

"Um, excuse me? Excuse me? OKAY, CLASS!" I say loudly, giving sway to my frustration. They turn

backtome.

Reenastandsup,breakingcharacter. "Howare youfeelingrightnow,Nan?"

"Sorry?" I ask.

Richard gets out his notebook. "How do you feel about us in this moment? What does your gut say?"

Theylookatme expectantly.

"Well, I thinkperhapsI misunderstoodthedirectives?

"Shit, Nan. Do you have rage in there?Do you hate us? We are just not feeling the love. 1 want to hear itfromyou.Howisyourrelationshipwith yourmother?"

"Reena,franklyI'm unclearhowthis relatestomyabilities to?

Reena puts her hands on her large hips and Snowflake circles her heels. "We're a family here. There are noboundariesintheFeelingsRoom.You've gottocome inherewith trustandloveandjust

THE NANNY DIARIES

gofor it. Here's thething,Nan.We're reallynotlookingtohire whitewomen rightnow."

She is so comfortable with this statement that I'm tempted to ask how many openings they have for white, feminist bitches. Even more bizarre, why a person of color might have a better time discussing theirmaternalissueswith complete strangers.Whitestrangers,nonetheless.

Richard stands, soaked with sweat and coughing a smoker's cough. "We have just gotten way too many resumesfrom whitegirls.You don't speakKorean,doyou?" I shakemyhead,speechless.

"Nan, we're trying to model diversity here, to represent an ideal community. SNOWFLAKE, HEEL!" Snowflake wanders back from where he has been sniffing around my bag. He passes me with his head down,swallowing thelastof mypeanuts.

I look at both of their very white faces against the backdrop of bright rainbows painted on the peeling wall behindthem. "Well,thankyoufortheopportunity,youhave avery interestingorganizationhere."I quicklygathermythings.

They walk me to the door. "Yeah, maybe next semester, we'll be doing some fund-raising work on the EastSide.Wouldyoubeinterestedinthat?" I pictureintroducingReenatoMrs. X attheMetsoshecan askher abouther rage.

"I'm really looking for fieldwork right now. Thanks, though." I get out the door and go directly to Burger King for an extra large fries and a Coke. Folded into an immobile red seat I sigh deeply, comparing Reenaand Richard with Janeand Mrs. X. Somewhereout there must be peoplewho believe in a middle ground between demanding children to "feel their rage" and overprogramming children so everyone can pretend they don't have any. I take a long sip of my soda.Apparently, I'm not going to be findingitanytime

soon.

"See, if I have two jellybeans and you have one jellybean, together we have three jellybeans!" I hold outthejellybeans tomakemypoint.

"I like the white ones and the ones that taste like banana. How do they do that, Nanny? How do they makeittastelikebanana?" Grayerlinesup thecoloredcandylikerailroadtracksonhis bedroomcarpet.

"I dunno, G. Maybe they mush up a banana and they mush up the jelly and then they mush it all togetherandcookitin a beanshape?"

"Yeah! A bean shape!" So much for math. "Nanny, try this one!" Yesterday's peony arrangement came

with aGrayer-sizetinofjellybeans.

"How about the green ones? How do they make those? We both hear the door slam. Only three hours

late,notbad.?

"DADDY!!" HerunsoutoftheroomandI followintothehall.

"Hey,sport.Where's yourmother?" HepatsGrayer ontheheadwhile looseninghistie.

"Here I am," she says and we all turn. She is wearing a powder-blue pencil skirt, kitten heels, a

cashmere V-neck sweater, eye shadow, mascara, and blush. Va-voom. If this were the first time my husband had been home in three weeks, I'd get dolled up, too. She smiles shakily beneath her rose lipstick.

"Well, let's get this started," he says, barely glancing at her before heading to the living room where Jane left her charts and diagrams. Grayer and his mother scamper in behind Mr. X and I am left behind inthefronthall. I take aseatonthebench,resumingmyroleaslady-in-waiting.

"Darling," Mrs. X begins with a bit too much enthusiasm. "Shall I have Connie get you a drink? Or perhaps some coffee? CONNIE!" I jump about three feet and Connie comes flying out of the kitchen, herhandsstill wet.

"Jesus,doyouhavetobesoshrill?No. I justate," Mr. X says.

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ARIES

Connie stops just short of entering the room. We exchange glances and I make room for her on the

bench.

"Oh. Oh, all right. So, Grayer, Mommy and Daddy want to talk to you about where you're going to

schoolnextyear."Mrs. Xattempts a secondopening.

"I'm goingtoCollegiate,"Grayer offers,trying tobehelpful.

"No,sweetie. Mommy andDaddyhavedecidedthatyouaregoingtoSt. Bernard's."

"Burnurd?" he asks. There is a moment of silence. "Can we play trains now? Daddy, I got a new train,

it's red."

"So,sweetie.You can't wearthebluesweatshirt anymore, okay?" shesays. Connierollshereyes atme.

"Why?"

"BecauseitsaysCollegiateonitandyou're goingtoSt. Bernard's? Mr. Xsays withexasperation.

"ButI likeit."

"Yes, sweetie. We'll getyou aSt. Bernard's sweatshirt."

"I liketheblueone!"

I lean in and whisper to Connie. "Oh, for the love of God, let him wear it inside out. Who cares?" She

throwsher handsup.

Mrs. X clears her throat. "Okay, sweetie. We'll talk about this later." Connie disappears back into the

kitchen.

"Daddy,come see mytrains! I'll showyou the newone. It's red and really,really fast!" Grayer flies past

me towardhisroom.

"Thatwas a complete wasteof time. Heclearlycouldcareless," Mr. X says.

"Well, Janefeltitwasimportant?sheretortsdefensively.

"Who the hell is Jane?" he asks. "Look, do you have the slightest idea of what it means to be in the

middleof amerger?I don't havetime forthis?

"I'm sorry,but?

"Do I have to be on top of everything?" he growls. "The one thing I delegated to you was his schooling

andnowit's all fuckedup."

"It was averycompetitive year!" shecries. "Grayerdoesn't playtheviolin!"

"Whatthefuckdoestheviolin havetodowith anything?"

"Maybe if you'd spend an hour of your precious time with us he might have done better in his

interviews," shespits back.

"My precious time? My precious time? I am bashing my brains out eighty hours a week so you can

stand there in your pearls, with your eight-thousand-dollar curtains and your 'charity work,' and questionhowI spendmytime?!Who's goingtopayhis tuitionbills, huh?You?" "Honey." She softens. "I know you're under a lot of pressure. Look, since you're already home, why

don't we talk about it over a nice relaxing dinner? I made a reservation at that place you love, down by the river." Her kitten heels make little clicks as she walks over to him. Her voice drops. "We could get a roomatthePierre,maybetheonewiththedoubleJacuzzibath ... I've reallymissedyou."

It's quiet for a minute and thenI distinctly hear the sound of themkissing. Their lowlaughter drifts into

thehallway.

I'm just about to sneak off to Grayer's room when Mrs. X coos{ "Should I send a donation to St.

Bernard's with thetuitioncheck,sowe getoffontherightfootwith them?"

"Therightfoot?" He's againindignant. "Correctme ifI'm wrong,buthaven't theyalreadyacceptedhim?

"Butifwehaveanotherboy?

"Look, I've got to get back to the office. The car's waiting downstairs. I'll call you later." Mr. X swiftly

passes me,still wearingtheovercoathepresumablynever took off. Thedoor slamsloudlybehindhim. "Daddy? WAIT!!!!" Grayer comes running out with his red train. "DADDY!!!" He throws himself, screaming,againstthefrontdoor.

Mrs. X walks slowly into the hall and stands for a moment, glaring through Grayer at the front door until hereyes glazeover,thenwalksrightpastbothofustoherbedroom.

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"DADDY.1.'.'" He convulses with sobs, bending over, while holding tightly onto the doorknob. "1 WANT DADDY.'.'!" I sit down on the floor and reach out to hold him. He drops his head between his danglingarmsandawayfromme. "NOOOoooo.I wantmyDADDY!!!"We heartheelevator doorslide closed. "DON'TLEAVE.'.'.'.'"

"Ssshhh, 1 know." I circle my arms to pull him onto my lap. "I know, Grove." We sit on the floor as his tearsmake adark, wetspotonthekneeofmyjeans.I rubhis backandmurmur, "It's okay,Grove. Shhh, it's okaytobesad.We'll justsithereandbesadfor alittle while."

"Okay,"hesays intomypantleg.

"Okay."

PART THREE

Mammy had her own method of letting her owners know exactly where she stood on all matters. She knewitwasbeneaththedignityofquality white folkstopaytheslightestattentiontowhat adarkysaid, even when she was just grumbting to herself. She knew that to uphold this dignity, they must ignore whatshesaid,even ifshestoodinthenextroomandalmost shouted.

. ONEWITHTHEWIND

CHAPTER EIGHT

Frosting ontheCake

Connie,

RatherthanironingGrayer. sheetstoday,I. likeyoutopackthefollowingitems for Mr. X. Hissutis Shirts Ties Underwear Socks

Andanythingelseheuses. Theseitemsshouldbepackedanddownwiththedoormanbythree o. lock. Pleaseseethatouonlyusehisluggage(seemonogram).

"Nanny, have you seen Grayer's bow tie? I put it out last night." Mrs. X and Grayer are due at theApril Tea forNewSt. Bernard's Families intwentyminutes. Mrs. XisrummagingthroughGrayer's drawers

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while I try to wrestle him into an ultrastarched oxford, complete with stays in the collar, and Connie, I assume, issomewherein Mr. X's closetfillinghis monogrammedluggage.

"I needanelephant," Grayersays, pointingtothesketchpadonhis diminutive table.

"Onesecond,Grayer,"1 say, "Let mebuckleyourbelt?

"No,notthatone."ShesticksherheadoutfromGrayer's walk-in closet.

"That's theoneyouputout." I add, "Onthebed.Sorry."

"It doesn't go."

Kneeling down in front of him, I look him over. luepinstriped shirt, khaki pants, white socks, brown

belt. I don't seetheproblem, butI unbucklehim.

"Here,"shesays,handingme a greenandredstripedcanvasbelt.

I pointdownatthebeltbuckle. "See,GforGrayer."

"G?" he asks, looking down. "I need my card." I reach for the bus-pass holder on the dresser, which

containsthevestigesof Mr. X's businesscard.

"No,"shesays, emerging fromthecloset. "Nottoday. It's liketheinterviews. Remember theinterviews?

Nocard."

"I wantmycard!"

"You cankeepitinyourpocketlike asecretagent," I say, tuckingitoutofsight.

"I still can't findhis f-ingbowtie."

"Nanny, I need an elephant." I pick up a gray crayon and draw an amorphous blob with big ears and a

trunk,theextentofmyartistic expertise. Shestartsthrowingties outofthecloset.

"I wanttowearmytie,"hesays, referringtotheonethathangstothefloor.

"No. Not today." She goes storming out into the entrance hall where I can hear her voice echo off the

marble. "CONNIE!CONNIE.'"

"Yes, ma'am?" Grayeris quiet,I keepmycrayoninmotion.

"I havejustspenthalfanhour lookingforGrayer's bowtie. Doyouhappentoknowwhere itis?"

"No,ma'am."

"Is ittoomuchtoaskthatyoukeeptrackofGrayer's clothes?DoI havetobeontopofeverything?The

one thing I delegate to you? She sighs heavily and then there's a moment of silence. "Why are you

standingthere?Golookforit!"

"I'm sorry,I justdon't knowwhere itcouldbe, ma'am. I putitinhis roomwith theotherones."

"Well, it's not there.And this is the second time that a piece of Grayer's clothing has gone missing this

month. Now, if you're feeling that this is all too much responsibility for you, I'm sure we can rethink

yourrolehere."

"No,ma'am. I'll lookfor it. It's justthattheclothes,needtobepackedbythreeandit's two-thirty now. If

Mr. X needsthem?

"Are you questioning who you workfor?You workfor me.AndI am telling youto lookfor thetie.And

ifthis confusesyou,pleaseletme know. Because,asfarasI canrecall,I am theonewhopays you!" I stand up shakily and start going through Grayer's closet myself. He comes and stands beside me, leaninghis headagainstmyhip.Conniejoins usinGrayer's room,pulling thecloset doorfurtheropen.

"Connie, I'll lookhere,"I saysoftly. "You takethelaundryroom."

As she crosses back through the front hall Mrs. X continues. "We could call Mr. X and see which he

gives more of a shitabout,whether his clothes get packedor whetherhis sonhas therightfuckingtie to

weartohisnewschool!Maybehe'll talktoyou.Maybehe'll takeyourcall, Connie."

"I'm sorry,ma'am." Five minutesofthorough,breathless searchinguncovers nothing.

"Anything?" Mrs. X's faceappearswhere shehasliftedthedustruffle.

"No,sorry,"I sayfromunderGrayer's bed.

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"Goddammit! Grayer, come on, we have to go. Just put him in the one with the green polka dots." I

slideout onmystomach.

"I wantmydaddy's tie!" Hetriestoreachforthepegwherehis father's tiehangs.

"No, G. You canwearitlater."I gentlypull his handaway,tryingtomotivate himtowardthedoor.

"I wantitnow!" Hestartstosob,redblotchesappearingonhis face.

"Shh, please, Grove?" 1 kiss his damp cheek and he stands still, tears making their way down into the

starchedcollar. I straightentheknotandgototakehiminmyarms,buthepushesme away.

"No!"Andherunsoutof theroom.

"Nanny?" Mrs. Xcalls,shrilly.

"Yes?" I walktothehall.

"We'll bebackatfourintime foriceskating.Connie?" SheshakesherheadasConnieemergesfrom the

laundryroom, asifsheis simplytoodisgustedanddisappointedtospeak. "I justdon't knowwhatto say. It seems tome we are having thesesortsof problems on a regularbasis nowandI needyou to do some seriousthinkingaboutyour commitment leveltothisjob?

Mrs. X's cellphoneemits a sharpring. "Hello?" she answers while motioning for me to help her on with her mink. "Oh, hi, Justine ... Yes, they'll be down by three ... Yes, you can tell him she's packed everything ..." She walks away from us into the vestibule. "Oh, Justine? Could you see that I get his room number at the Yale Club?... In case Grayer has an emergency and I need to get a hold of him . .. Well, why would I call you? She takes a deep breath. "Well, I'm glad you see that doesn't make any sense ... Frankly, I don't want your apology. What I want is my husband's phone number ... I refuse to discuss this with you!" She slams her cell

phoneclosedwith suchforcethatitdropstothemarble floor.

Both women kneel to grab the phone just as the elevator door opens, but Mrs. X gets there first. With a shakinghandshepicksit

I 99

up and drops it into her clutch. She puts her other hand to the floor to steady herself, her icy blue eyes even with Connie's brown ones. "We seem to be unable to communicate, Connie," she hisses through clenched teeth. "So let me be crystal clear. I want you to gather your things and get out of my house. I wantyouout ofmyhouse.That's whatI want."

Shestandswith a shakeofher minkandpushes a stunnedGrayerintotheelevator asthedoorcloses.

Conniepulls herselfup bythefoyer tableandwalkspast mebackintotheapartment.

I take a moment tocollect myself beforeslowlyshuttingthefrontdoor.

I walk through the kitchen and find Connie standing with her back to me in the maid's room, her broad shouldersquivering inthesmall space. "God,Connie.Areyouokay?" I ask quietlyinthedoorway.

She turns to me. er pain and outrage so rawly palpable on her face that I'm struck silent. She slumps downontheoldtweedfold-outcouchandundoesthetopbuttonofher whiteuniform.

"I've been here twelve years," she says, shaking her head. "I was here before her and I thought I'd be hereafter."

"Do you want something to drink?" I ask, stepping into the narrow gap between the couch and the ironingboard. "Some juicemaybe?I couldtrytogetintotheliquorcabinet."

"She wants me to leave? She wants me to leave?" I sit down on Mrs. X's steamer trunk. "I've wanted to leavesincethefirstdayshegothere," shesnorts,reachingfor a half-ironedT-shirt andwiping hereyes. "Let me tell you something. hen they went to Lyford whatever. didn't get paid. I never get paid when they go away. Not my fault they're on vacation. I'm not on vacation. I still have three kids and plenty of bills to pay. And this year. his year. he asked him to declare me! They never declare me! Where am I supposedtocome upwith thatkindof moneynow?I hadtoborrowmoneyfrom

THE NANNY DIARIES

mymother to pay all thesetaxes."She sits back and pulls offher apron. "When Mrs. X and Grayer flew totheBahamaslastyearandI wasgoingtheretootoseemyfamily,shemademeflywith them. Grayer spilled juice all over hisself at takeoff and she didn't have a change for him and he's sitting there cold and wet and crying and she just pull on that sleep thing over her eyes and ignore him the whole flight. And I didn't getpaid forthat!Oh, was I mad. hat's whyI'm not a nanny.You ever hearaboutJackie?" I shakemyhead. "Jackie washisbabynurse,butshestayed tillGrayer wastwo."

"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.

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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!"

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"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

a niceplace."

"Yeah?Carter,getoffhim!" I lookover justasGrayerisreleased

from a deathgrip.

"Wow, Carter,how'd youdothat?Showme,showme!" Grayer's eyes arealightatthediscovery.

"Oh,great," I say. "Nowhe'll beleapingouttoputme in a chokehold."

"A swift kick to the groin and they're down in no time," she says, winking at me. Where has she been

thiswholeyear? I couldhavehad a playgroundbuddy. "Hey,youwanttoseetheterrace?"

"Sure." I follow her out to a stone balcony overlooking the garden and the back of the brownstones on

theothersideoftheblock.We standundertheawningastherainsplattersthetipsofour shoes.

"It's beautiful,"I say, mybreathcoming inlittlepuffsof vapor. "It's arealnineteenth-centuryenclave."

Shenods. "Cigarette?" sheasks.

"You cansmoke?"

"Sure."

"Carter's momdoesn't mind?"

"Please."I takeone.

"So,howlonghaveyoubeenworkinghere?" I ask asshestrikesthematch.

"About a year. It's a little nuts, but compared to the other jobs I've had.... I mean, when you live in, you

know." She shakes her head, blowing smoke into the drizzle. "They run your life while you live in a closet off the kitchen.At least here I've got a great space. Those round windows?" She points with her cigarette. "That's my bedroom and that, there, is my sitting room. And my bath has a Jacuzzi. It was meanttobe aguestsuite,but,well,guestsare a littleoutofthequestion."

"Wow. Not a baddeal."

"Well, it's full-time duty."

"Are theynice?"

She starts laughing. "I guess he's not bad. e's never really around, which makes her a bit off her

rocker.That's whytheyneeded alive-in?

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"Yoo-hoo! Lizzie!Are you outthere?" I freeze,trying not to exhale, a tinytrail of smoke escapingfrom

mynostrils.

"Yeah, Mrs. Milton. We're outside." She casually stubs out her cigarette on the balustrade and throws it intothegarden.I shrugandfollowsuit. "There you are!" she says as we come back into the kitchen. Mrs. Milton, a Matel blonde, sits on the

floorin a peach-silk robe,sniffinganddelicately wiping hernose, while theboys runaround her. "Now, who's this?" Her voice has a slight Southern lilt. "That's Grayer," Lizzie says. "And I'm Nanny." I extendmyhand.

"Oh, Grayer! Grayer, I saw your momma at Swifty's. Well, every time we're at Lotte Berk we keep sayingwehavetoget ourboys together.Andthenthereshewashavinglunchandwe said,well,wejust have to make a plan, and here you are! Grayer!" She picks him up and holds him upside down, in fluffy mules, no less. Grayer seems to be trying to make eye contact with me, clearly uncertain how to respond to this outpouring of affection. She puts him down. "Lizzie! Lizzie, darlin', don't you have a datetonight?" "Yeah,but?

"Shouldn't youbegettingready?" "It's onlyfour."

"Nonsense. Go relax. I want to spend some time with my Carter. Besides, Nanny can help me." She hunkersdown. "Hey,boys, youwannamake a cake?We havecakemix,right,Lizzie?" "Always."

"Great!" Her silk robe billows out behind her as she crosses to the kitchen, revealing long, tanned, and very nakedlegs. I realize as she turns that she is completely au naturel beneath her robe. "Now,let's see

... eggs... milk."Shepullseverything outandsets itonthecounter. "Lizzie, wherearethepans?"

"In thedrawer undertheoven." Shegrabs mywrist andwhis!

pers, "Don't let her burn herself." Before I have chanceto ask if and whythis is likely she's run upstairs toherroom.

"I likechocolatecake,"Grayer says,castinghis vote.

"We only havevanilla, sugar." Mrs. Miltonholds uptheredbox.

"I likevanilla," says Carter.

"At mybirthday,"Grayer continues, "I had acake. It lookedlike a footballanditwasreallyreally big!"

"Woohoo! Let's have some music." She pushes a button on the Bang & Olufsen stereo above the counter and Donna Summer comes blaring out. "Come on, sugar pie. Come and dance with Momma." Carter shakes his arms and bobs his knees. Grayer starts off slowly with a head wiggle, but by "On the Radio"helets thejazzhandsfly.

"Lookin' good, boys!" She takes a hand of each and the three of them bounce through all of Donna Summer's Greatest Hits right up through "She Works Hard for the Money," while I quietly start cracking eggs and greasing the pan. I put the cake in the oven and turn around in search of an oven timer,toseeMrs. Miltontwirling nearthePlayskool village. I have a MissClavel feeling.

"I'm just going to go use the powder room," I say to no one in particular. I open every door off the pantry,attempting tolocate abathroom.

Turningonthelightin a small room,I discover fourmannequinsin aVconfigurationwearingsequined gowns, each with a banner across her middle. Miss Tucson. Miss Arizona. Miss Southwest. Miss Southern States. There are tiaras and scepters, framed news clippings and a baton, all carefully displayed inglass cases.

I slowly inspect every dress, each sash, and then go over to the far wall, which is covered in glossy, framed photographs of Mrs. Milton. he Vegas showgirl. Which, I guess, is where you go after being

Miss Southern States. There is row after row of photographs of her in various sequined costumes and headdresses,wearingthick

THE NANNY DIARIES makeup and false lashes. In each she's sitting on some celebrity's lap, everyone from Tony Bennett to Rod Stewart. And then 1 see it, halfway down the wall, almost hidden, a snapshot of Mrs. Milton in a short, skintight white dress, Mr. Milton, his eyes rolled back in his head, and the preacher. The caption ontheframe reads, "TheAil-Night ChapelofLove,August12,199-."

I turnoutthelightandfindthebathroom.

WhenI come backoutMrs. Miltonis peeringforlornlyinthe

oven.

"You didit."

"Yes, ma'am." I justsaid "ma'am."

"You didit."Sheseems tobehaving troubleabsorbingthe

information.

"It's almost done,"I offerreassuringly.

"Oh, goodie! Who wants frosting?" She pulls six tubs of different-flavored frosting out of the fridge.

"Carter, get the food dye." Grayer and Carter mambo over. She grabs sprinkles, silver balls, and candy confetti from the cupboards and starts squirting the food dye Carter hands her directly into the tubs. "Ooohwee!" She's laughinguncontrollablynow.

"Mrs. Milton,"1 say, standingbackwith apprehension, "I think

it's timeforGrayer andmetogo."

"Tina!"

"I begyourpardon?"

"CallmeTina!You can't leave," shecalls over her shoulderasshescoops a fingerfulof frostingintoher

mouth.

"1 DON'T WANT TO GO HOME!" Grayer panics, his fists tightly clenching a bouquet of plastic

spoons.

"See, nobody has to leave. Now, who ... wants ... frosting?" She reaches into two of the containers,

pullingouttwo handfulsoffrostingandcatapultingthem, oneatCarter,oneatGrayer. "Frosting fight!" She hands a tub to each boy and the frosting starts flying. I try to duck behind the island, but Tina hits me squarelyacrossthe

chest. I haven't been in a food fight since middle school, but I grab a tub of pink and fling a small handfulather. ustpaying herbackforthesweater. ndthenI'm out.

"Ooh-hah!" They are laughing hysterically. The boys roll on the floor, mushing frosting in each other's hair. Tinagrabssomesilver balls andsprinklesthemover theboys likesnow.

"What's goingondownthere?" Lizzie's sternEnglishvoicecalls fromupstairs.

"Ooh, we're in trouble," she says. "Carter, I think we're in trouble." They all crack up again. Lizzie comes intothekitcheninherterry bathrobeandslippers.

"Oh, my God." She looks around. There is frosting everywhere, dripping off the French tiles and the topiariesliningthewindow.

"Oh,Lizzie,wewere justhavingfun.Loosenup!Don't besoBritish."

"Tina!" Lizzie uses myWickedWitchvoice. "Goget inthetub!"Tinalookscrestfallenandstartsto cry, sinkinginherrobeandrevealing a bittoomuchof herimpressive superstructure.

"ButI...We were ... We were justhaving fun.Pleasedon't tellJohn.You hadfun,didn't you,boys?"

"I had fun. Don't be sad." Grayer gently touches her head, patting bits of pink frosting into her blonde hair.

Tina looks at Lizzie and wipes her nose on her sleeve. "Okay, okay." She hunkers in front of the boys. "Mommy's gonna go take a bath, okay?" She pats each one on the head and then walks over to the banister. "You come back real soon, Grayer, you hear?" she murmurs to herself as she disappears down thestairs.

"Good-bye, Tina!" Grayer shouts. And with a little backward wave she's gone. I wait for Carter to protest, but he's quiet. We strip theboys and Lizzie gives me a pair of Carter's pajamas and a plastic bag forGrayer's clothes.We putonThejungleBookandtrytocleanupthekitchen.

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"Dammit," Lizzie says, scrubbingon her hands andknees. "Mr. Milton mightcome home tonightand if he sees this he'll send her back to Hazelden and it's terrible for Carter, her disappearing for weeks at a time when his father travels so much. It absolutely devastates him." Lizzie wrings out the sponge. "He askedme togo with her. oHazelden.SoI could,you know,figureout whenshewoulduseagainand intervene."

"What's she on?" 1 ask, though I already have a pretty good idea. "Coke. Alcohol. Prescription stuff whenshecan't sleep." "Howlonghasthisbeengoingonfor?"

"Oh, years," she says, squeezing out her sponge into the bucket. "I think since she came to New York. She fell in with some really posh junkies, celebrities and the like. He leaves her alone here all the time, so it's hard for her. But there's no prenup, soI guess he's just waiting for her to OD." Well, this certainly putspantiesinperspective. "I knowI shouldquit, butmyvisa extensionis attachedtothisjob.If I leave Carter it means going home and I really want to stay in America." I just wring out my sponge, not knowingwhatto say. "Here,whydon't youguys pushoff? I'll finishthis." "You sure?"

"Oh, yeah.Tomorrow it'll be something else." Grayer and Carter are loath to be parted, but we manage toget all thewaydownstairs andoutthedoor.

"Good-bye, Carter!" he shouts as I hail a cab. "Good-bye, Tina!" Since we're only going four blocks it seems ridiculous, but in addition to everything I was carrying before, I'm now sporting a plastic bag of Grayer's clothesandmyraincoatin a shoppingbagsomysweaterdoesn't shedsprinklesonit.

"Whathappenedtoyouall?" James asksashehelpsusoutof

thetaxi.

"We got in a foodfightwithTina,"Grayer explainsashepads

aheadof meinCarter'sTiggerpajamas.

21 1

Upstairs I turn on the bathwater and put some tofu dogs on the stove while Grover plays in his room.

"Hello?" a strangevoicecalls fromthemaid's room.

"Hello?"

A woman I've never seenbeforeemergesfromthedarkness,wearingConnie's uniform.

"Hello, I'm Maria," she says in a South American accent. "I was waiting for Mrs. X and must have

fallenasleep.I didn't wanttojustleaveonmyfirstdaywithoutsayinggood-bye."

"Oh ... hi. Hi, I'm Nanny. I take care of Grayer." I introduce myself for the third time today. "Actually,

Mrs. X is out to dinner and probably won't be back till late.You go on home and I'll tell her you waited

whenshegets back."

"Oh,great.Thanks."

"Whoareyou?" Grover standsblockingthedoorwayinhisbriefs.

"Grayer, this is Maria." Grayer sticks his tongue out, turns and runs back to his room. "Grayer" I turn

back toher to apologize. "I'm sorry. Please don't takeit personally. He's had a reallylong day."I gesture tomybuttercreamsoddenselfwith ahalf-smile. "ActuallyI wasjustgonnagogive himhis bath.Really, it's okaytoleave. Nottoworry."

"Thanks,"shesays,foldingher coatover herarm.

"No problem. See you tomorrow." I smile at her. I walk through the apartment, turning on lamps

Conniecleanedonlytwodays ago.

I go into Grayer's room, where he's still dancing in his underwear in front of his closet mirror. "Come

on,Baryshnikov."I plunkhiminthebath.

"That was so fun, Nanny. Remember when she threw the frosting and it hit my butt?" He convulses in

giggles again. I sit down on the toilet while he soaps up the wall, plays with his frogmen, and hums a

little Donna.

"G, you almost done?" I ask when I'm tired of using his baby comb to scrape the frosting from my

sweater.

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"Beep'beep.Toot-toot. Beep-beep.Toot-toot." Heshakeshis soapytushinthewater.

"Come on,it's late."I holdupthetowel.

"Whatdidthegirls do?"

"Who?"

"Thebadgirls.You know,Nanny,thebad,badgirls." Heshakes

his hips. "Whyare theybad?"

"Theydidn't listentotheirnannies."

Mrs. X didn't seem to noticeas shebreezedpast me toher bedroomthat,in a torrentialApril downpour,

I left wearing only a T-shirt, carrying my sweater and coat in a shopping bag. I wait for the elevator, gingerlyputtingmysweater backonsoI don't freeze. I gotasmuchfrostingoutofmyhair asI couldin the laundry room, but I'm still crumbling out a few hardened bits when the elevator door opens. "Oh, shit." He looks flustered. "Hi!" "Hi!" I can't believe it! "What are you doing here?" "Oh, man," he says, crestfallen, "I wasgoingtosurpriseyou.I hadthiswholeplan,with flowersandeverything?

"Well, mission accomplished! What happened to Canciin?" I step into the elevator, shaking at the

unexpectedsightofmy H. H. inmuddyjeansandmyNYUsweatshirt. "Thatwasjusttothrowyouoffthescent. wasgoingtobewaiting inthelobbytomorrownight. na suit. We were going to go dancing." I beam at him and he gives me a once-over. "Looks like you and Grayer havebeendoingperformance artagain."

"Well, I've just returned from the Play Date in Hell with a crackhead mom. And I'm not being metaphorical, I mean an actual crackhead. She was coked up out of her mind, determined to be Betty fuckingCrockerandwegotdraggedrightintoit?

"God, I missed you," he interrupts, grinning from ear to ear as the door opens to the lobby. He leans over towipetracesof frosting

213 gently off my eyebrow and, without a second thought, I reach my arm under his to press the button for theeleventhfloor.Thedoorpolitely slidesclosed.

It is a carnalfrostingfrenzy.

Wrapped in his navy flannel sheet, I perch on the edge of H. H.'s kitchen table as he throws a dryer

sheet in with my clothes. He closes the metal door. "Hungry?" He turns, illuminated by the light from

theneighbors'kitchen.

"Whatdoyouhave?" I askasheopensthefridge.

"My mom usually leaves a pretty stocked kitchen when she knows I'm going to be here by myself.

Tortellini?" Hebrandishes apackage.

"Ugh,ifI never seeanothertortellini? I shuffleover topeerintotherefrigeratoralongsidehim.

"Lasagna?" heasks.

"Ooooh,yes, please."

"Howaboutsomewine?"

I nod, grabbing a bottle of red and pushing the door closed with my hip. I lean against the fridge and

watchhim pullout platesandsetusup atthetableinhispolka-dot boxers. Gome.

"ShouldI heatthisup?" heasks,kissing mybareshoulderashepasses.

"Probably.Wantsomehelp?"

"No, you sit down." He hands me a wine glass. "You've had a hard day, frosting girl." He pulls

silverware outof a drawerandcarefully lays itoutonthetable.

"So,whereareyour parents?"

"TheytookmybrothertoTurkeyforhis break."

"Whyaren't youinTurkey?"I sipmywine.

"BecauseI'm here."Hesmiles.

"Hereisgood."I pour a secondglassandhandittohim.

THE NANNY DIARIES

Helooksover atme,illuminatedbythelightfrom themicrowave. "You lookbeautiful."

"Oh, this old thing? It's a toga from the L. L. Bean collection." He laughs. "You know, I'm doing Latin

with Grayer now. HowoldwereyouwhenyoustartedLatin?"

"Umm . .. fourteen?" Hepulls thelasagnaoutof themicrowave andcomes over with twoforks.

"Well, you must have been a late bloomer, because he's four. He's wearing a tie now, have I mentioned

that?Not a child's tie,thefull-grown, hangS'to-the-floor-on-himkind." "Whatdoeshis momsay?"

"She doesn't even notice. She's been pretty off the deep end?she fired Connie for, like, no apparent

reasonandConnie's beentheresincebeforeGrayer wasevenborn."

"Yeah,thatmandrives his wives tothebrink." "Wait. hat?"

"Yeah, when Mr. X was cheating on his first wife, she completely laid into James in the lobby right in

front of some board members." I start choking on lasagna. "His first who?!" "His first wife, um,

Charlotte,I think,maybe."Helooksincredulouslyatme. "You didn't know?"

"No,1 didnotknow. Hewasmarriedbefore?" I havetostandup,hoistingmysheetwith me. "Yeah, but it was, like, a long time ago. I just assumed you knew." "Why would I know?! Nobody tells me anything. Oh, my God. Does he have any other kids?" I start pacing around the table. "I don't know. don't thinkso." "Whatwasshelike?Whatdidshelooklike?Didshelooklike

Mrs. X?"

"I don't know. Shewaspretty. Shewasblond?

"Was sheyoung?"

"I was akid.I dunno. hejustseemedlike agrown-up tome."

"Not helping.Think.Howlongweretheytogether?"

"Jeez,maybeseven,eightyears?

"Butnokids, huh?"

"Unlesstheykeptthemintheirstoragebin." I pausebythesinktoentertaintheideafor a briefmoment.

"So,why'd theysplit?"

"Mrs. X,"hesays, taking a bigforkfuloflasagna.

"Whatdoyoumean, 'Mrs. X'?"

"Canwe talkaboutyouinthesheetsomemore?" Hereachesoutforme asI pass.

"No.Whatdoyoumean, 'Mrs. X'?"

"Hewashaving anaffairwith Mrs. X."

"WHAT??!!" I nearlydropthesheet.

"Will youpleasesitdownandhavesomelasagna?" Hepointshis forkatthechairoppositehim.

I sit down and take a gulp of mywine. "Okay, but you have to begin atthe beginningand leavenothing

out."

"Okay, according to my mom, Charlotte X was a big art collector. She bought everything at Gagosian,

where your Mrs. X worked. Apparently, Charlotte sent Mr. X over to approve one of her larger

purchasesand ... theyhitit," hesays, grinning.

"Mrs. X??!!!" I cannotimagineMrs. X hitting it. Period.

"Yeah,andsometimes hewouldbringherherewhenhis wifewasawayandthedoormenstartedtalking.

Sopretty sooneveryone inthebuildingknew."Hestaresintohis wineglassbeforesipping.

"I justcannot. Cannot,cannot,cannotbelieve it."

"Well... it's true. I sawitwith myowntwelve-year-old eyes. Shewashot."

"Shutup,"I splutter.

"No,shewasredlipstick,tightdress, heels, thewholething.She ... was... hhhooot."

"Just finishthestory."

"Well, Seven Twenty-one Legend goes Charlotte found stockings that didn't belong to her and went racingdowntothelobby,

THE NANNY DIARIES

clutching them in her hand, and completely lost it at James, wanting to know who had been up in the apartment. Shemovedout a fewweekslaterandyourMrs. X movedin."

I putthewine glass down. "I cannotbelieve you didn't tellme aboutthis," I say, suddenly a little cold in mysheetasthehightenorofemotion fromtheninthfloorcatchesup withme.

"Well, you've been so stressed out? He puts down his fork. I push sharply back from the table and step over to the dryer. "So, if I don't know about it, then it doesn't affect me." I pull out my damp clothes. "Such fucking Boy Logic. I'm sorry. ave I been bringing you down with this little job of mine?" "Look, Nan,I said I was sorry."Hestands. "No you didn't. You did not sayyou were sorry." Warm tears fill myeyes asI tryawkwardly topullonmydampsweater withoutrevealingmyself beneaththesheet.

He comes around the table and gently takes the sweater. "Nan, I'm sorry. Lesson learned: tell Nan everything." Hereacheshis handaroundmybarewaist.

"It's justthatyou're theonlypersoninmycornerandtofindoutyou're holdingoutonme?

"Hey,now,"hemurmurs, pullingme againsthim. "I am the

mayor ofyourcorner."

I mush my face into his collarbone. "I'm sorry, I'm just so burned out. I know I'm way too consumed by this job. I really don't want to care if he had a first wife. I really don't want to spend tonight talking aboutthem."

He kisses the top of my head. "Well, then, how about some music?" I nod up at him and he goes to the stereoonthecounter."So I guessDonnaSummer isout?"

I laugh, willing myself to return to the eleventh floor. I shuffle up behind him and wrap us both in the sheet.

I take another sip of my third cup of coffee and try to stay awake as I wait for Grayer's dinner to finish steaming through. Despite my afterglow it's still been a very long day on only two hours' sleep. I push up the sleeves on the faded heather crewneck H. H. gave me this morning so that I wouldn't be coming to work in the same clothes I wore yesterday. Not that these people would notice if I came to work wearing a clownnoseandpasties.

AsI slidethesteamedkaleontohis plate,Grayer slidesdown,stomachfirst, offhis boosterseat.

"Whereyougoing,little man?" I ask, popping asteamedcarrotinmymouth.

He pads over to the refrigerator and turns to admonish me. "I said not to call me that! No more 'little man'! I want some juice. Open the refrigerator," he says with his hands on his hips and his tie dangling over his pajamas.

"Please,"I sayover his head.

"Please! Open it! I want juice." His exhaustion from this afternoon's round of tutorials is starting to show.

I pull thefridge open andreachfor themilk. "You knowthere's no juice with dinner. Soy milk or water, take your pick." "Soy milk," he decides, reaching up with both arms. "I'll get it for you, Grove. Why don't yougetbackupinyourseat?" I walkback tothetablewith theEdensoy.

"NO! I want to. I want to, Nanny. Don't walk with it. Let me? He's so cranky when it gets near mytime toleave,makingthelastpartofmyshiftthemost trying.

"Hey, take it easy. Come on over and let's do it together," I suggest cheerfully. He pads back and stands at the table, his head level with the cup. She hates it when I let him pour. Not that I'm a huge fan of the task myself, as it can take forever and frequentlyconcludes with me down on my hands and knees with a sponge. However,givenhis badmood, I'd ratherjustdoitwith himthansendhiminto

THE NANNY DIARIES

a tantrum fifteen minutes before I have to leave for my eight o'clock class. He reaches his hands up to placethembelowmineontheboxandwepourthesoymilktogether,spillingonly marginally.

"Great job!There you go, little ma. rover. Climb back up and let's knock dinner off." He climbs onto his booster seat,stabbinghalfheartedly atthelimp vegetables, completely forgetting theglass of milk. I look at my watch and decide rinsing offthe dishes will be the most productive way to pass my last few minuteshere,asheseemsinnomoodtochat.

I place the last pot in the dryer rack and turn to check on Grayer just in time to see him lift up the cup andverydeliberately pouritonthefloor.

"Grayer!" I run over with the sponge. "Grayer! Why did you do that?" I look up from the floor. He is sheepish, biting down on his bottom lip, clearly a little shocked at himself. He shifts away from me in his booster. I crouch next to him. "Grayer, I asked you a question. Why did you just pour your milk on thefloor?"

"I didn't want it. Stupidhead Maria will clean it up." He drops his head back and looks up at the ceiling. "Stop talking to me." Soy milk seeps up my wrists where the sweater has come unrolled. A wave of exhaustionbreaksover me.

"Grayer, that is not okay. It's a waste of food. 1 want you to climb down here and help me clean this up." I push back his chair and he kicks out at me, narrowly missing my face. I swerve back, stand up, and turn away from him to count to ten. I look at my watch to make a plan before I turn around and do anything I'll regret. Jesus, she's fifteenminuteslate. Myclass startsinforty-fiveminutes.

I turn back to him and respond steadily. "Fine. Stay there, then. I'm going to clean this up and then it's time for bed.You are breaking rules and thattells me thatyou are very tired.Too tired for stories." "I'M NOTHUNGRY!" Hebursts intotears,slumping downinthebooster. I wipeup themilk,trying tokeep

H. H.'s sweaterawayfromthewet floor,andsqueezethespongeoutintohis plate.

By the time I've gotten everything into the dishwasher Grayer has tuckered himself out and is ready to forget about the whole incident. I place his tie over his shoulder and carry him back to his room, noting that I now have a leisurely twenty minutes to make it to Washington Square for Clarkson's lecture and have not received so much as a phone call from this child's mother. I keep hearing the whir of the elevatorandperkingup,readyforhertowalkinthedoorandtakeover soI cancabittoclass.

I peel Grayer down to his birthday suit. "Okay, go in the bathroom and pee, please, so we can put on your nighttime pull-ups." He runs into the bathroom and I pace; I only ask to leave before eight on Thursdaynights, forGod's sake.You'd thinkshecouldmanagejustonenightoutof five.

The bathroom door swings open and Grover stands in the door frame in a naked ta-da, arms over his head,tiehangingover his privates. Herunspastmetothebedandgrabs his pajamatop.

"If I put 'em on can we read a book?One book?" He struggles to pull the striped shirt over his head and myheartgoesouttohim.

I sit down on the comforter to help, turning him to face me between my knees. "Grayer, why did you pourthemilkonthefloor?" I ask softly.

"I feltlikeit,"hesays, restinghis handsonmyknees.

"Grove, it hurt my feelings because I had to clean it up. It's not okay to be mean to people and it is not okay to be mean to Maria. It makes me very sad when you call her 'stupidhead'because she's my friend andshe's goingtodonicethingsforyoueveryday."I leanforwardandcirclehiminmyarms asheputs his fingersupinmyhair.

"Nanny,sleepover onthefloor,okay?Justsleepover andthenwecanplaytrainsinthemorning."

"I can't, G. I haveto go home and feed George.You wouldn't wantGeorge not to have anydinner. Now go pick out one book and we'll read it. One." He heads over to the bookcase. The front door mercifully clicks openandGrover runsoutintothehall. Five minTHE NANNY DIARIES

utes! I havefive minutes toget toclass! 1 followright behindhim andwe bothcatch up toMrs. X,clad in a Burberry trench, about a foot from her office. It is clear from her hunchedshoulders and quick step thatshehadnointentionofcoming intoGrayer's room.

"Mommy!" Grayer wrapsaroundherfrom behind.

"I haveclass,"1 say, "I havetogo.Um, it's ateightonThursdays?

She turns to me as she attempts to spatula Grayer from her leg. "I'm sure you can still make it if you take a cab,"shesaysdistractedly.

"Right. Well, it's eight now, so ... I'll just get my shoes, then. Good night, Grayer." I scurry into the hall topullmystuffon,hopingtheelevator hasn't gonedownyet.

I hear her sigh. "Mommy's exhausted, Grayer. Go get into bed and I'll read you one verse from your Shakespearereaderandthen

it's lightsout."

Down on the street I run past the doorman to the corner and flail madly for a cab, hoping, at least, to make it downtown for the closing summary. I unroll the window completely, promising myself that I'll clarify myhoursbeforenextweek's class andknowingthatI probablywon't.

A few days later I pull out from my mailbox, in addition to the usual barrage of J. Crew and Victoria's Secret catalogs, two envelopes which give me pause. The first is on Mrs. X's creambusiness stationery, usuallyreserved forher committee work.

April 30DearNanny,

I would like to share with you a matter of concern to Grayer's father and myself. It has come to our attention that after you left in such a hurry last night there was a puddle of urine found beneath the small garbagecaninGrayer's bathroom.

I understand that you have your academic obligations, but I am, frankly, alarmed by your lack of awareness of such a situation.As per our agreement, inthehours during which you workhere we are to receive your utmost and constant attention. Such a glaring oversight gives me pause as to the consistencyofyourperformance.

Pleasereviewthefollowingrules:

1. Grayer istowearpull-ups whenhegetsintobed.

2. Grayer isnottodrinkjuiceafter five P.M.

3. You are tobesupervisinghimat all times.

4. You are tobefamiliarwiththecleaningsuppliesandusethemaccordingly.

I trust you will review the consistency of your care and note that if an incident of this nature repeats

itselfI shallnothavetopayyouforthathour. I donotexpectthatwewill havetodiscussthis again.

Hopeyou bothhave funonyour playdate withAlex! Pleasebe suretopick up mycoatat thetailors', it

shouldbereadyafter two.

Sincerely,

Mrs. X.

Right.

The second envelope is lined in Crane's tomato red. I pull out a wad of hundred-dollar-bills held

togetherby asterlingmoneyclipengravedwith anX.

DearNanny,

I will be returning from Chicago the third week of June. I. appreciate it if you could see that the

apartmentis stockedwith thefollowing:

Lillet = 6bottles

Foie gras?6

Teuscherchampagnetruffles?1box

Steaks?2

Godivachocolateicecream?2pints

Oysters ?4dozen

Lobsters?2

Lavenderlinenwater

Keepthechange,

Thanks,Ms. C

Whatisupwith thesewomen andlavenderwater?

Thequadroonnursewaslookeduponas ahugeencumbrance,onlygoodtobuttonupwaists andpanties andtobrushandparthair; sinceitseemedtobe alawofsocietythathair mustbepartedandbrushed.

. HEAWAKENING

CHAPTER NINE

Oh ...my ...God

Sarah cracks her front door open to the extentthe chain will allow, revealing flannel cloud pajamas and a pencil holding her blond bun in place. "Okay, half an hour. hat's it. I mean it, thirty minutes. I'm home tocramformyorgofinal,notsortthroughtheXes'dirty laundry."

"Why did you schlep yourself all the way back into the city to study?" Josh asks as Sarah unlocks the chainandlets usintotheEnglundfamily's fronthall.

"Haveyouever met,Jill,myroommate?"

"I don't thinkso,"Joshsays,takingoffhis jacket.

"Don't worry. ou're notmissing much. he's atheatermajorandher 'final'isperforming fiveminutes ofher lifefortheheadsofthedepartment. hrowyourstuffonthebench. oshe's constantlystanding up in our room, saying 'Dammit!', and sitting back down. I mean, how hard is it to sit and read a magazinefor five minutes?" She rolls her eyes. "Do youguys wantsomething to drink?" We followher

into the kitchen, which still has the same yellow daisy wallpaper that it did when we were in kindergarten.

"Sing Slings."I requestSarah's speciality.

THE NANNY DIARIES

"Coming right up," she says, stretching to pull a cocktail shaker and sour mix out of a high cabinet.

"Have aseat." Shegesturestothelonggreentablebythewindow.

"It would be much cooler if this were a round table, like we could be the Knights of the Panty

Roundtable,"Joshsays.

"Josh,"I say, "thepanties aren't thefocusrightnow. heletteris?

"We have aroundcoffeetableintheliving room,"Sarahoffers.

"We are totallydoingthis at aroundtable,"Joshdecides.

"Nan, you know the way," Sarah says, handing me a bag of Pirate's Booty. 1 lead Josh into the living

room and plop down on the Persian carpet around the coffee table. Sarah follows with a tray of

SingaporeSlings. "Okay,"shesays,carefullyslidingthetrayontothecoffeetable. "Theclockisticking

. pillit."

"Let's justseethegoods,"Joshsays, taking a sip.

I reach into my backpack and pull out the Ziploc baggie, along with Ms. Chicago's letter, and lay them

ceremoniously in the middle of the table. We sit in silence for a moment, staring at the evidence as if

theywereeggsabouttohatch.

"Man,itreallyis a fuckingpantyroundtable,"Joshmurmurs, reachingouttowardthebag.

"No!" I say, slappinghis hand. "Thepanties stayinthebag?thatistheoneconditionof theRoundTable.

Gotit?"

He folds his hands primly in his lap, sighing. "Fine. So, for the edification of the court, would you care

toreviewthefactsofthecase?"

"I foundMs. Chicagopractically hangingoutinMrs. X's bedfourmonthsago,andthen, all of a sudden,

1 received a letteratmyhome?

"ExhibitA,"Sarahsays, wavingtheletter.

"WhichmeanssheknowswhereI live! She's huntedme down!Istherenowhereformetohide?"

"It's soover theline,"Sarahconfirms.

"Oh,doesNanhave aline?" Joshasks.

"Yes! I have a line. It's drawn right across Eighty-sixth Street. They cannot come to my home!" I feel

myself startingto gethysterical. "I have a thesis paperto write! Exams to take!A jobtofind!WhatI do not have. s time. I cannot be running around NYU with Mr. X's mistress's underwear in my bag. I cannotbejugglingtheir secretson a fullcourseload!"

"Nan, look," Sarah says gently, reaching around the table to put her hand on my back. "You still have

power here. Disengage. Just give it all backandcallit a day."

"Give it all backtowho?" I ask.

"Totheskank,"Joshsays. "Mail thatshitbacktoher andlether knowyoudon't wanttoplay."

"ButwhataboutMrs. X?If this all comes outandshefindsoutI hadthepanties anddidn't tellher?

"What's shegonnado?Kill you?" Sarahasks. "Putyou injailfortherestof your life?" Sheholds up her

glass. "Send 'embackandquit."

"I can't quit. I don't have time to look for another job and my Real Job. t whatever school I can

convincetohireme. on't starttill September.Besides". openthebagofcheesepoofs, finishedwith

myboutofself-pity?I justcan't leaveGrayer."

"You're gonnabeleavinghimatsomepoint," Joshreminds me.

"Yeah,butif I wanttostayinhis lifeI can't endonbadterms with her," I say. "Butyou're right. I'll send

thisstuffback."

"Andlook,thatonly tookustwentyminutes,"Sarahsays. "Which still leaves tenminutesforyou torun myorgoflashcardswith me."

"Thefunnever stops,"I say.

Josh leans over to give me a hug. "Don't sweat it, Nan, you'll be fine. Hey. et's not overlook the fact that you guessed Ms. Chicago's panties would be black lace thongs, like, months before we found 'em. That's gotta be a marketableskill."

I empty my glass. "Well, if you know a game show on which I can turn that into ready cash, lemme know."

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I survey the disheveled piles of books, highlighted photocopies, and empty pizza boxes strewn all over my room thatI've accumulated since I got home from work Friday. It's fourA.M. and I've been writing for forty-eight straight hours, which is significantly less time for my thesis than I allotted myself. But, shortof leavingGrayer tocareforhimself intheapartment,I didn't reallyhave achoice.

I glance over at the brown manila envelope that's been resting against my printer since The Panty Roundtable aweekago.Tapedandstamped,itonlyremains tobeceremoniouslydepositedin a mailbox after I deliver my thesis in four hours. Then Ms. Chicago and NYU will be well on their way to becoming a distantmemory.

I grab another handful of M&M's out of the quarter-pound bag. I probably have all of five pages to go, butcanbarelykeepmyeyes open.A loudsnoreeruptsfrombehindthescreen.Fuckinghairy pilotidiot.

I stretch my arms out to yawn, just as another guttural snore punctuates the silence, sending George dartingwith intensepurposeacross theroomanddiving into a neglectedheapofdirty clothes.

I'm so tired I feel like my eyes are filled with playground sand. Desperate to regain some semblance of lucidity, I step carefully around the debris to locate myheadphones and plug them into the stereo. I pull them onto my head and crouch down to spin the tuner until I find thumping dance music. I rock my head to the rhythm, turning the volume up until I feel the beat make its way down to my lucky turtle socks. I stand up to dance around in the small radius allowed me by the headphone cord. Bongo drums fill myearsandI shimmywildlyamid thebooks,eyes closed, willing myadrenalinetoperkmeup.

"NAN!" I open my eyes and slightly recoil at the sight of Mr. Hairy in a T-shirt and boxers, one hand carelessly scratching in his shorts. "WHATTHE HELL? IT'SALMOST FOUR IN THE MORNING!" hebellows.

"Sorry?" I slidetheheadphonesoffmyears, noticingthatthis

action does not decrease the volume. He points exasperatedly at the stereo where my floor show has unpluggedtheheadphones.

I lunge for the off button. "God, sorry. My thesis is due tomorrow and I'm so tired. I was just trying to wakeup."

Hestompsofftotheother endofthestudio. "Whatever,"hegrumbles intothedarkness.

"As long as you're comfortable!" I mouth silently in his direction. "As long as you're happy, sleeping hereevenwhenCharleneis flyingall-nighters fromYemen!As longasmyrent-paying-utilities-paying!can-only-get-to-the-bathroom-during-daylight-hours selfisnotdisturbingyou."I roll myeyes andhead backtothecomputer. Fourhours, fivepages. I grabanotherhandfulofM&M's; let's go,Nan.

The alarm wakes me at six-thirty, but it requires quite a few bleeps and one very disgruntled "WHAT THE HELL?" to raise mywearyhead offthe pillow. I look at the clock; sixty minutes of sleep in forty-eight hours ought to do me just fine. I uncurl from the tight fetal position in which I passed out mere secondsagoandreachdowntopullon a pairofjeans.

Pink light spills in through the open window, illuminating the disarray, which looks as if librarians came over and partied very hard. The computer hums loudly, mixing with the chirps of birds outside. I lean over the chair and wiggle the mouse to get past the screen saver and click Print. I click again on OK, appreciating that my computer feels compelled to check in with me at least twice regarding all major decisions. I hear the Style Writer run its warm-up swipe and shuffle groggily off to the bathroom tobrushmyteeth.

By the time I return not a stitch of progress has been made. "Jesus," 1 mutter, checking the Print Monitor to seewhat's In theQueue.A message pops up on the screentonotify me thatError Seventeen hasoccurredandthatI shouldeither rebootor calltheservicecenter. Fine.

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I press save and shut down the machine, careful to pull out the disk on which I saved the five-thirty

A.M. version. I restart as instructed, while pulling on boots, tying a sweater around my waist, and waiting for the screen to light up again. I check my watch: six-fifty. One hour and ten minutes to shove this behemoth under Clarkson's door. I press a myriad of buttons, but the screenremains dark. Myheart pounds. Nothing I press can cajole my computer back to life. I grab the disk, my wallet, keys, the Ms. Chicagopackage,andrunoutoftheapartment.

I jog up to SecondAvenue, both arms waving over my head to hail a cab. I leap into the first one that languorously pulls over, trying to remember where, in the maze that is NYU's campus, the computer center islocated.For somereason1 havebeenunabletocommit most campuslocationstomemoryand suspectsomeFreudianconnectionbetweenlogistics andmyfearof bureaucracyisresponsible.

"Uh, it's offWest Fourth, um, and Bleecker,1 think.Just headin thatdirection and I'll tell you when we get close!" Thedriver takes off,brakingsharplybefore eachlight. Thestreets are pretty empty, savethe street cleaners whirring past and the men in suits and overcoats disappearing, briefcase first, down subway steps. Why this paper has to be in at eightA.M. is utterly beyond me. Some people get to mail in their final papers. Oh, who am I kidding? If that were the case, I'd just be in a frantic cab ride to the postoffice.

I hopoutof thetaxi onWaverlyPlace,takingthedisk,mywallet,andkeys justas agirlin a shinyoutfit and smeared makeup shoves me aside to get in the cab. I catch the unmistakable whiff of a long night out. eer, stale cigarettes, and Drakkar Noir. I am comforted by the reminder that my life at this moment couldbeworse?Icouldbe a sophomoredoingtheWalk/CabRideofShame.

It's a littlepastseven-fifteenbythetime I findmy way, almost bysmell, tothemaincomputer centeron thefifthflooroftheeducationbuilding.

"Needtoseeyour ID," a girlwith greenhair andwhite lips mumbles from behind a large Dunkin' Donuts cup clutched at chin height. I riffle through my wallet a moment beforeremembering thatthecardshe's referringtocurrentlysits atthebottomof mybackpack,

uponwhichGeorgeisprobablypeacefullyasleep.

"I don't have it. But I just need to print something out; it'll only take five minutes, I swear." I grip the counterandpeerintentlyat her. Sherollsherheavily kohledeyes.

"Can't," she says, pointing halfheartedly at the list of rules printed out in black-and-white on the wall behindher.

"Okay!Okay,here,let's see,I havemysophomoreIDand ..."I tugcardsmadlyoutof theirleatherslots. "Um, and a librarycardtoLoeb.See,itsays 'senior'onit!"

"Nopicture, though."SheflipsthroughherX-Mancomic book.

"PLEASE, I am begging you. Beg-ging. I have, like, twenty-eight minutes to get this printed and handed in. It's my thesis; my entire college career hangs in the balance here. You can even watch me while I print!" I am startingtohyperventilate.

"Can't leavethedesk."Shepushesher stoolback afewinches,butdoesn't lookup.

"Hey! Hey, you, in the ski hat!" A stick-thin boy with a name tag dangling from the chain around his neckglancesover fromwhereheloungesneartheXerox. "Do youworkhere?"

He saunters over in blue patent leather pants. "Wants to print, but doesn't have ID," the help desk girl informs him.

I reach out and touch his arm, stretching to read his name. "Dylan! Dylan, I need your help. I need you to escort me to a printer so that I can print out my thesis, which is due, four blocks from here, in, like, twenty-five minutes."I trytobreathesteadily inandoutwhilethetwoconfer.

Heeyes meskeptically. "Thethingis... we've hadsomepeoplecoiningintousethecenterfortheirown purposes. Not students,I mean,so .. ." Hedrifts off.

"At seven-thirtyinthemorning,Dylan?Really?" I trytogeta

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handle on myself. "Look, I can even pay you for the paper. I'll make a deal with you. You watch me printandifTOGETHER,youandme,we generateanything other than a thesis paperyoucanthrowme out!"

"Well..."Heslouchesagainstthecounter."You couldbefromColumbiaor something."

"With a sophomore ID from NYU?" I wave the plastic card in front of his face. "Think, Dylan! Use your head, man!Whywouldn't I just print up there?Whywould I come all the waydown here to sneak past you and your partner if I could just waltz into the computer lab three feet from my dorm room, all the way uptown1. Oh, God, I do not have another minute to argue with you two. What's it going to be? Am I going to fail out of college and have a cardiac arrest right here on the linoleum or are you two going to give me FIVE FUCKING MINUTES AT ONE OF YOUR GAZZILLION FREE COMPUTERS?" I pound my keys on the countertop for emphasis. They stare at me blankly while PatentLeatherPantsweighstheevidence.

"Yeah ... Okay. But if it's not your thesis then ... I'm going to have to rip it up," I am already way past him, diskjammedintoterminalnumber six,clickingPrintlike amadwoman.

I slowly emerge from the deepest of sleeps, pulling mysweater offmyfaceto check the time. I've been out cold for almost two hours. Too tired even to make it to Josh's, somehow, in a total fog, I found this stanky couch in the far corner of the Business School lounge where I could finally give way to my exhaustion.

I sit up and wipe the drool off the side of my mouth, getting a lusty gaze from a man highlighting his Wall Street Journal in a chair nearby. I ignore him and pull my wallet and keys from where I had stored them for safekeeping, under my butt in between the orange cushions, and decide to treat myself to the fancycoffeefrom thegourmet espressoshop.

AsI walkdownLaGuardiaPlacespringisinfull bloom. The

May sky is warm and bright and the trees in front of Citibank are thick with buds. I smile up into the cloudless sky. I am awoman whohas takenthisplacebythehornsandmadeit! I am a woman whowill,

against all bureaucraticodds,probablygraduatefromNYU!

I take my five-dollar cup of coffee to a bench in Washington Square Park, so I can bask in the sun, restingagainst theshinyblack lusterof thewrought-ironbench.Thereare fewpeopleintheparkatthis hour,mostlychildrenanddrugdealers, neitherofwhomcandisturbmyreverie.

A woman strolls over to the bench across the way pushing a toddler in a plaid stroller and clutching a McDonald's bag under her arm. She sits, rolling the child to face her as she unwraps two Egg McMuffins and passes one to the stroller. The pigeons cluster around my feet, pecking at the brick. I have an hour before I have to pick up Grayer; maybe I should window-shop for a cute little sundress, somethingtowearinthewarmsummer nightstocomeasI sipmartiniswith H. H. ontheHudson.

I watch the woman pull another container out of the bag and mull over how lovely hash browns would taste right now, gazing absentmindedly at the little backpack hanging loosely on one of the stroller handles. Yes, hash browns and a milk shake, maybe chocolate. My eyes trace the pink border of the cartoon on the front of the backpack. Little pear-shaped figures. All in different colors with shapes on their heads. They are all... I squint to make out their names ... They are all Teletubbies. I spit coffee in a goodthree-footprojectileinfrontofme.

Oh, my God. OH, MY GOD. I struggle to breathe as the pigeons jitter away. Flashes of Halloween, the dark limo ride home, the mink held close around Mrs. X's face, Grayer racked out beside me. I remember Mr. X snoring and Mrs. X talking and talking. Chattering on and on about the beach. I am in a clammy sweat. I putmyhandsover myforehead,tryingtopiecetogetherthememory.

"Oh,myGod,"I sayoutloud,causingthewoman tograbher

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food and stroll quickly to a bench closer to the street. Somehow I have managedto suppress for the last seven months thatI sat in the back of a limo and agreed to go to Nantucketwith the Xes, thattoo many vodkatonicsactually mademerequestthatshe "bringit on."

"Oh. My. God." I pound the bench with my fists. Shit. I mean, I do not, do not want to live with them. It's bad enough here in the city where I can go home at the end of the day. Am I going to see Mr. X in his pajamas?Hisunderwear?Arewe evengoingtoseehimatall?

What would she possibly be hoping for? A little family vacation? Are they going to thrash it out over the hookedrug? Beateach other senseless with canoe paddles? Put Ms. Chicago up in the guest house? Ms. Chicago?

"FUCK!" I leap up, patting myself down. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." I have keys, I have coffee, I have a wallet. "I have no rucking envelope." I jerk in about five different directions as I run through the last two hours and the multitude of places I could've left it. I sprint back to the coffee place, the orange couch, Dr. Clarkson's mailbox.

I stand,wheezingandsweaty,infrontofthecomputer centerhelpdesk.

"Look, man, you've gotta clear out or for real we're gonna have to call security." Dylan tries to sound authoritative.

I can't speak.I'm sick.I wastrying tohaveintegrity. Instead,I'm thegirl whostoleeighthundreddollars and apair ofdirty underwear. I'm afelonand afreak.

"Dude, I mean it, you better get out of here. Bob's on the noon shift and he's not nearly as cool as me." Noon.Right. GottagograbGrayeranddraghimtoDarwin's birthdayparty.

"STOP IT! I DON'T LIKE THAT!" Grayer screams, his face flattened into the metal rails that line the upperdeckoftheboat.

I crouch down to whisper in his assailant's ear. "Darwin, if you do not step away from Grayer in the nexttwosecondsI'm goingto

throw you overboard." Darwin turns in shock to my smiling face. Good Witch/Bad Witch on three hoursof sleepandouteighthundreddollars; kid, youdon't wanttomess withme today.

He falters a fewfeet back and Grayer, a red imprint runningacross his right cheek where it was pressed against the pipe, wraps himself around my leg. Grayer has only been the focus of Darwin's torture for the past few minutes, joining the ranks of fifty other terrorized birthday-party guests, held prisoner for thelasttwohoursontheCircleLine JazzfestCruise.

"Darwin! Honey, it's almost time for your cake. Go on over to the table so Sima can help you with the candles." Mrs. Zuckerman glides over to us in her Gucci ballet flats and matching pedal pushers. She is a vision in pink and gold and, coupled with her multitude of diamonds, practically blinding in the afternoonsun.?

"Well, Grayer, what's the matter? Don't you want cake?" She tosses her three-hundred-dollar highlights in Grayer's direction and leans against the rail beside me. I'm far too tired for small talk, but am able to putonwhatI hopeis a charmingsmile.

"Greatparty," I finallymuster,hauling Gup ontomyhip andout of harm's way, so hecan lookover my shoulderintothewhite-crested wakebehindus.

"Sima and I have been planning it for months. We really had to put our heads together to top last year's overnight at Gracie Mansion,but I just said 'Now, Sima! Creativity is partof the special something you bringto ourfamily,sogotoit!'And I tell you, shehas reallydoneit." Screamsemergefrom thesternof the boat and Sima races past us, panic-stricken. Darwin follows closely behind, lunging out after her with aflamingTiffany's lighter.

"Darwin," Mrs. Zuckerman admonishes him lightly, "I said to help Sima, not set her on fire." She laughs gaily, taking the lighter from him and clicking the top down. She hands it sternly to a red-faced Sima. "See that he doesn't run around with this next time. I shouldn't have to remind you that it was a gift fromhis grandfather."

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Sima accepts the sterling silver box, without lifting her eyes. She takes Darwin's hand and pulls him delicately backtohis cake.

Mrs. Zuckerman leans in to me, the gold Cs on her glasses gleaming. "I'm so lucky, really. We're like sisters." I smile and nod. She nods back at me. "Please give my regards to Grayer's mom and please be sure to tell her that I have the name of a great d-i-v-o-r-c-e lawyer for her. He got my friendAlice ten percentaboveher prenup."

I instinctively putmyhandonGrayer's head.

"Well, you two have fun!" She tosses her hair to the other shoulder and walks back to the cake melee. I guess Mr. X's residenceattheYale Clubhasbecome common knowledge.

"So, Grove, ready for some cake?" I shift him to my other hip, straighten his tie and touch his cheek wherethepipeimprinthadbeen.His eyes areglassy andhe's clearly asexhaustedas1 am.

"Mytummy hurts. I don't feelgood,"hemumbles. I trytoremember whereI sawabathroomsign.

"What kind of hurt?" I ask, attempting to define the nuances of motion sickness versus heartburn to a four-year-old.

"Nanny, I? He moans into my shoulder before pitching forward to throw up. I manage to aim him over the edge so that the Hudson can receive the thrust of his vomit, leaving my sweater dripping with only about athird.

I rub his back. "Grover, it's been a very long day." I wipe his mouth with my hand and he nods his head intomyshoulderinagreement.

TwohourslaterGrayer isholdingthefrontofhis pantsandbouncingonhis NikesintheXes'vestibule.

"Grove, please just hold it one more second." I give the front door a last shove and it finally gives way. "There. Go!" Herunspastme.

"Oof!" I hear a thud. I push the door farther open and see Grayer sprawled on a pile of beach towels, felledby aTracyTookerbox.

"G,youokay?"

"Thatwassocool,Nanny. Man,youshouldhaveseenit. Standthere,I'm gonnadoitagain."

"Yeah, no." I squat down to take off his sneakers and pull off his pukey windbreaker. "Next time you might not be so lucky. Go pee." He runs off. I gingerly tiptoe over the hatbox, the pile of towels, two Lilly Pulitzer shoppingbags, three L. L. Beanboxes, and a bagof charcoalbriquettes. Well, we're either goingtoNantucket,or moving totheburbs.

"Nanny? Is that you?" I look over and see that the dining room table is completely covered in Mr. X's summer clothes, theonlythingsof his thatConnieandI hadn't packedup.

"Yes. We justgothome,"I call,moving twoBarneys bags outoftheway.

"Oh."Mrs. Xcomes out,holdinganarmful of pastelcashmere sweaters. "You're coveredinvomit." She

recoilsslightly. "Grayerhad a bitof anaccident?

"I really wish you'd keep better track of what he eats at those parties. How is Mrs. Zuckerman?" "She

sendsyouher regards?

"She's so creative. She always throws the best birthdays." She stares at me expectantly, eagerly waiting

formetoreenacttheafternoon,complete with sockpuppetsandcommedia dell arte. I am justtootired.

"She,um,wantedtopasson a referral." "Yes?"

I take a deepbreath, bracingmyself. "She saidthatshe,uh, knows a reallygoodlawyer."I lookdown at

Mr. X's clothes.

"Nanny," she says icily, "these are my husband's clothes for the trip." She turns away from me and her

voice becomes resiliently perky. "I haven't started packing myself, yet. No one can tell me what the weather will be like. Some of our friends broiled, some nearly froze." She drops the sweaters onto the table,sendingseveral balled-up tennissocksrollingontothefloor. "Maria!"

THE NANNY DIARIES "Yes, ma'am." Mariapushesopentheswingingdoor tothe kitchen. "Canyoufoldthese?" "Yes, ma'am. Right away." She ducks back in the kitchen. "I don't want to overpack, but I also don't

want to have to do laundry while I'm there and I have no idea if they even have a decent dry cleaner on

theisland.Also, thatreminds me,we'll beleavingonthefifteenth,promptly ateightA.M.?

"Is that Friday?" I ask. She looks up at me. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you, it's just that the

fifteenthisthedayofmygraduation." "So?"

"So,I won't beabletoleaveateight?

"Well, I don't think we can delay our departure on your account," she says, walking to the bags in the

fronthall.

"No, the thing is, my grandmother is throwing a party for me that evening, so I really can't leave until

Saturday."I followher.

"Well, therentalstartsonFriday,sowe can't leaveonSaturday,"shesays,asifexplainingtoGrayer.

"No,I understandthat. I'm sureI couldtake a busuponSaturday. I'd probablybetherebyfiveorso."

I follow her back to the dining room table where she adds her shoppingbags to the stockpile. "So what

you're basically tellingme isthat,ofthefourteendays we needyou, youwill notbe available fortwoof

them. I don't know, Nanny. I just don't know. We're invited to the Blewers' for dinner on Friday and the PiersonbarbecueonSaturday.I justdon't know?Shesighs. "I'll havetothinkaboutthis."

"I'm really sorry. If itwere anything else. But I reallycan't miss mygraduation."I benddowntopick up theerrantsocks.

"I supposenot.Well, letmediscuss itwith Mr. Xand I'll letyouknow."IfI canmiss mygraduation?

"Okay, also, I wanted to ask you about getting paid, becausemy rent is due this week?And you haven't paidmeinthreeweeks.AndI nowoweyour husband's girlfriendeighthundreddollars.

"I've beenso busy. I'll trytogettothebankthisweek.Thatis,assoonasyouwrite upyour hoursforme, soI cangoover them? SheisinterruptedbynakedGrayerpeekingaroundthedoorway. "GRAYER!" sheshouts. We bothfreeze. "Whatisthehouserule?" Helooksupat her. "Nopenisesinthehouse?" "That's right. Nopenises inthehouse.Wheredopenisesstay?"

"Penisesstayinthebedroom."

"Yes, in the bedroom. Nanny, would you see that he gets his clothes on?" Grayer walks solemnly ahead

ofme,his barefeetmakingslidingnoises onthemarble.

I seetheballed-up clothes onthefloorofthebathroom.

"I hadanaccident." Hepushesatoneof his woodcarswith his toes.

"That's okay."I pickuptheclothesandturnonthebathwater. "Let's getyoucleanedup,okay,bud?"

"Okay."Heputshis arms out forme topickhim up.I pulloffmydirty sweatshirt and lifthim up.As we

wait for the tub to fill I bounce him a little and walk back and forth. He gives the weight of his head to my shoulder and I wonder if he might be falling asleep. I walk him over to the mirror, wrapping him in a toweltokeephimwarm, anddiscover inthereflectionthathe's suckinghisthumb.

Nanny,

I don. knowifyouwerefactoringtheferryintoyour calculations,butI havetopointouthtatit canaddanotherfullhourtothejourney. Iwaswonderingif youcouldeither(a)catchtheeleveno. lock bus Friday night, which would get you to Nantucket at 6am or (b) take the 6am bus Saturday morning,whichwouldgetyoutherebyone,intimeforthebarbecueifwe golate. Let me know,

DearMrs. X,

I really appreciate your looking into alternate transportation for me. While I in no way want to

inconvenience you, I feel it would be impractical to commit to an earlier start time as I have to attend a number of graduation events on Friday evening. I will be in Nantucket by 7 P.M. and, of course, anticipateyouwill adjust mypayaccordingly.

Speakingofwhich,I waswonderingifyou've hadthechancetogettothebankasmyrentisdue.

Pleasefindattached a listof myhoursasyourequested.Again,I reallyappreciatetheoptions.

Thanks! Nanny

Nanny,

Iam alittlepuzzledbyyourrecalcitranceregardingourdeparture. However,Istillhopethatwe canreachacompromise. Perhapsyoucouldarrivebythreeandtake ataxitothePiersons?

DearMrs. X,

As I, of course, do not wish to be anything other than accommodating I might be able to make it there bysix.

Nanny

Nanny,

Never mind. The woman the housecleaning agency furnished us with will look after Grayer until yougetthere.

p.s. I would like to have a conversation regarding the hours you listed for Wednesday the third. I believe I tookhimshoppingthatday.

DearMrs. X,

I defer to your records regarding the 3rd. Also, as I mentioned, I'll need to leave by two on Thursday becauseI havemythesisdefense. Thanks,Nanny

DearMrs. X,

Just a quickreminder thatmythesis defenseistomorrow,so I'll needtoleaveat2 o'clocksharp.Also,if youcouldpayme,thatwouldbegreat.

DearMrs. X,

I'll seeyouattwo!

"Where is she!" I look at the oven clock for the millionth time in five minutes. 2:28. I am supposed to be defendingmy thesis in exactly forty-seven minutes. Myentire academic career is aboutto culminate withoutmeas apanelof professorsinterrogatesanemptychairaboutchilddevelopment!

"Don't shout."Grayer looksup, his eyebrows scrunched.

"I'm sorry,Grove. Will youexcuseme for asecond?"

"Are yougonnapee?"

"Yes. Don't forget your milk." I leave him finishing his melon and walk into the maid's bathroom, turn

onthefaucet,shutthe

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door, flush the toilet, and scream into a hand towel. "FUCK!" My voice is absorbed by the terry cloth.

"Where the fuck is she? Fucking fuck." I sit down on the bathroom floor, tears starting to well at the cornersof myeyes.

"Fuck." I shouldhavewritten "two o'clock"with lipstickonevery mirrorintheapartment!I shouldhavepinned a hugenumber two on the end of her pashmina when she wanderedout this morning!I debate grabbing Grayer and runningdown Madison screaming her name like Marion Brando. My frustration becomes a hysterical silentgiggle, tearsstill runningdownmyface.