I open all the cabinets and the drawers, trying to familiarize myself with the equipment, as if holding eachWiisthofknifemighttellme thesecrettotheSt. SomethingI'm supposedtobepreparing.
Mysearchfor a recipeleads me out to her office where I find nothingbut a marked-up Neiman Marcus catalogandConnie,theXes'housekeeper,onher kneesscrubbingthedoorknobwith atoothbrush.
"Hi,doyouknowwhereMrs. Xkeepshercookbooks?" I ask.
"Mrs. X don't eat and shedon't cook." She redips the toothbrushin a jar of polish. "She got you cookin' fortheparty?"
"No?just dinnerforGrayer?"
"Can't seewhat's sospecialaboutthisparty. Shehateshaving
people here. We had, maybe, three dinners since she been here." She nods her head as she deftly scrubs aroundthekeyhole. "There's abunchof booksinthesecondguestroom. rythere."
"Thanks."
I continue roaming from room to cavernous room until I get to the guest suite. I skim the titles in the
floor-to-ceiling bookcase:
WhyShouldYouHavetheBaby?Stress andtheFertility Myth
They'reYourBreastsToo:TheNewWetNurseGuide
SoonerorLater WeAllSleepAlone:GettingYour In/antThroughthe
Night
TakingtheBiteOutofTeething
The Zen ofWalking. very Journey Begins with a First Step The Idiot's Guide to Potty Training The
Benefitsof theSuzukiMethodonYourChild's Left Brain
Development
The BodyEcology Diet forYourToddlerMaking theMost ofYour Four-Year-OUHow to PackageYour
Child;ThePreschoolInterview Makeitor Breakit:NavigatingPreschoolAdmissions
.. . And everything else you could possibly imagine in this genre to fill up four bookshelves right up
through:
City Kids Need Trees; The Benefits of a Boarding School Education The SATs. etting the Scene for
theRestofYourChild's Life
I standinsilencewithmymouthopen,forgetting,for afull moment,thecoquilles andbeets. Huh.
"I'm really concerned that you're going to fail out of school and be making other people dinner for the
restofyourlife!Thisis a redflag
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here, Nan. Now,if memory serves, you signed onto provide child care forthis woman.That's all, right?
Isshepaying youanymoreforthisextra service?"
"No.Mom, thisisnot agoodtime tobehaving?
"I mean,youshouldspend adaydownhereattheshelterkitchen.Getsomeperspective."
"Okay,thisis not agoodtime tobehaving?
"At least you'd be helping people who really need it. Maybe you should just pause for a second, look insideyourself,checkin?MOM!" I tightenmychintokeepthephonefromslippingoutfromunderone ear as I grip a boiling pot of beets in my hands. "I can't really look inside myself right now, because I am justcallingtofindhowtopreparecoquillessaywhat,fortheloveofChrist!"
"I'm helping," Grayer says, a small hand coming up over theedge of thecounter, groping for the paring
knifeI've justputdown.
"Gottago."
I lungefortheknife,sendingtwentycoquilles flyingontothefloor.
"Cool! It's just like the beach, Nanny! Don't pick 'em up, leave 'em. I'm gonna go get my bucket." He
scampers out of the kitchen as I drop the knife in the sink and crouch to collect the mollusks. I pick up
one, thenanother,but as I grab for the thirdthe first slides out of myhand, across thefloor,and directly
into a gray snakeskin high heel. I jerk up to see a redheaded woman in a gray suit standing squarely in
thedoorway.
Grayer comes skipping around the corner holding his sand bucket, but freezes behind her when he sees myface.
"I'm sorry,canI helpyou?" I stand,motioningforGrayer tocome tome.
"Yes," shesays, "I'm hereto do theseatingarrangement." Shesaunters past me intothekitchen, pulling
offherHermes scarfandtyingitaroundthehandleof herslate-grayGuccibriefcase.
Shekneelstoretrieve a coquilleandturnstohandittoGrayer. "Didyoulosethis?" sheasks.
Helooksupatme. "It's okay,Grove,"I say, reachingoutandtakingitfrom her. "Hi,I'm Nanny."
"Lisa Chenowith, general manager of the Chicago office. And you must be Grayer," she says, setting
herbriefcasedown.
"I'm helping,"hesays,usinghis buckettoscoopup theremainingseafood.
"I coulduse a helper."Shesmiles downathim. "Areyoulookingfor a newjob?"
"Sure,"hemumblesintohis bucket.
I dump the shells in the colander and turn off the stove. "If you just give me a minute, I'll show you to
thediningroom."
"Are youcookingfortheparty?" sheasks, gesturingtothesinkoverflowing with pans.
"No. t's his dinner," I say, scrapingburnedbeets outofthepot.
"Whatever happenedtopeanutbutter andjelly?" shelaughs,puttingher briefcasedownonthetable.
"Nanny,I wantpeanutbutter andjelly."
"Sorry, didn't mean to start a revolution," she says. "Grayer, I'm sure whatever Nanny is making you
will bedelicious."
"Actually, pb & j sounds perfect," I say, pulling out the peanut butter from the fridge. Once I've seated Grayer in his booster seat at the banquette I lead her to the dining room, where the long walnut table hasbeenreplacedbythreeroundones.
"Well, well," she murmurs as she steps in behind me. "She had them set up a whole day early. hat must have cost thousands." We both look down at the lavender-scented tables, festooned with shining silverware, sparklingcrystal, andgilt-edged chargerplates. "I'm sorryI won't behere."
"You won't?"
"Mr. X wants me back in Chicago." She smiles at me, then turns her attention to the rest of the room, admiring thePicassoover themantelandtheRothkoabovethesideboard.
I follow hertothelivingroomandthenthelibrary. Shetakesin
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each jewel-toned room as if appraising it for auction. "Beautiful," she says, fingering the raw silk drapes, "but a littleoverdone, don't you
think?"
Unaccustomed as I am to being asked my opinion in this household, I reachfor the right words. "Um ... Mrs. X has very definite tastes. Actually, since you're here, would you mind telling me if this looks okay?" I ask,bendingbehind Mr. X's desktoretrieve agift bag.
"Whatis it?" sheasks, pullingher hairover her shouldertopeer
inside.
"It's a gift bag for the guests. I wrapped them this morning, but I'm not sure if I did it right, because I couldn't find the right tissue paper and the ribbon Mrs. X wanted was out of stock? "Nanny?" She cuts me off. "Is anyoneonfire?" "Sorry?" I say, takenaback.
"They're justgiftbags. For a bunchofoldgeezers,"shelaughs, "I'm surethey're perfect. elax."
"Thanks, it just seemed like it was pretty important." She glances over my shoulder at the shelf of family pictures behind me. "I'm just going to check in with the office and then I'll do the place cards. Is Mrs. X coming backsoon?""Nottill eight."
She picks up the phone and bends over the mahogany desk to peer at a framed picture of Mr. X with Grayer atophis shouldersatthefootof a skislope.
"NAN-NY,I'M FIIII-NISHED!"
"Okay, well, let me know if you need anything else," I say from the doorway as she slips off her black pearlearringanddials. "Thankyou!" shemouths,giving me a thumbs-up.
Nanny,
As aruleI don. likeGrayertohavetoomanycarbohydratesbeforebed. TonightI. eleft all hisfoodalreadymeasuredoutonthecounter. Ifyoucouldjustputthebeets,thekale,andthekohlrabi inthesteamerfortwelve minutesthatshouldbeperfect, butpleasetrytostayoutofthecaterers?way.
You should probably give Grayer his dinner in his room. Actually, I might need to bring my dinner guests through when I give the tour. So it. probably best for you both to take your plates intohis bathroomwhileyoueat?in caseofspills.
p.s. I. counting on you to stay until Grayer is asleep and make sure that he doesn. intrude on the meal.
p.p.s. I. lneedyoutopickupGrayer. Halloweencostume
tomorrow.
"Martini, straight up. o olive." Having steamed Grayer's dinner intoan unrecognizablemush, burned myhandintheprocess, andnearlyscaldedGrayer several times,thenhavingto dineatop his toiletseat, I am truly ready to "take the edge off." I shift on the bar stool, wondering if, perhaps, I could work for that redhead from Chicago. ove to Illinois, try on investment banking, and spend my days preparing herpb & j.
I reach into my bag for my pay envelope and fish out a twenty for the bartender. It's thicker this week and I count over three hundred in cash. I realize that while I'm exhausted and probably on my way to somesort ofsubstance-abuseproblem, theupsideofworkingthreetimesas manyhours as I'd agreedto is that I'm making three times as much money. It's only the second week of the month and the rent is alreadycovered.Andthereisthatpair ofblackleatherpantsI've hadmyeye on ...
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I justneed half an hour of quiet before I can go home to Char-leneand her hairy pilot boyfriend. I don't wanttotalk,1 don't wanttolisten,andI mostdefinitely donotwanttocook.1 mean,goodGod,having your hairy boyfriend sleep over when you share a studio apartment. Not okay. Not okay at all. I am countingthedays untilshe's slottedfortheAsiaroute.
"Yo, yo, check this out!" The blond homeboy in the Brooks Brothers ensemble motions for his "posse" tocheckouthis PalmPilotatthecornertable. Classic.
Normally, I avoid Dorrian's and its preppy clientele like the clap. But it was directly on my path home and the bartender makes a terrific martini. And 1 did have to "take my edge off." Besides, off-season is usuallypretty safe,oncethey all returntoschool.
I count five white baseball hats huddled over their friend's new toy. Despite only being in college, they all have portable cellular devices of some kind or another hanging off their yuppy utility belts. The years change, the corduroy jackets of the seventies giving way to the flipped-up collars of the eighties, theplaidshirts ofthenineties, andtheGore-Texofthenewmillennium,but theirmentalityis asageless asthered-checkedtablecloths.
I am so riveted that I automatically follow their gaze when they turn to the door. In keeping with the tenor of my day, who should walk in but my very own Harvard Hottie, sans chapeau blanc. And he knows them. Ugh. I take a long swig as the vision I'd been savoring of him healing children in Tibet morphsintooneofhimin a suitontheflooroftheNewYork StockExchange.
"Is that good? You like that?" Oh God, there's one standing right next to me. Roll 'em up, kids, roll 'em up.
"What?" I ask, noting his South Carolina baseball hat, which proudly proclaims COCKS across the frontinthree-inchcrimson letters.
"Maaar-tiii-niiis. Pretty hard stuff, don't you think?" he says a little too close to my face and then
screamsover myhead, "Yo! Get
off your asses and give me a hand with these drinks, you lazy bitches!" H. H. comes over to assist with
thebeertransport.
"Hey,Grayer's girlfriend, right?" Hesmiles broadly.
Heremembered! No,badNanny. Stockexchange,stockexchange.Yet I can't helpnoting a comparative
lackofgadgetsadorninghis Levi's.
"I'm happy to report that he's out for the count after one reading of Goodnight Moon." I smile back in
spiteof myself.
"I hopeJoneshereisn't giving you ahardtime."Jonescracksup attheunintendeddoubleentendre. "He
canbe abit much,"hesays,glaringover myshoulderatJones. "Hey,youshouldjoinus."
"Yeah,I'm kindoftired."
"Please, just for a quick drink." I eye the group skeptically, but I'm swayed as his hair falls in his eyes
whenhepicksup thepitchers.
I follow him over and they make room for me to sit down.A round of boisterous introductions ensue in
whichI am compelledtoshakeevery clammy handatthetable.
"Howdoyouknowour boy, here?" onehatasks.
"'Causewe all gowayback?
"Back in the day." They bob their heads like chickens, repeating "back in the day" about a thousand
times.
"Theythinktherewas aday," H. H. saysquietly,turninghis headtome. "Sohow's workgoing?"
"Work!"Theearsof a hatprickup. "Where doyouwork?"
"Are youinananalyst program?"
"No?
"Are you amodel?"
"No,I'm ananny."There's anaudiblestir.
"Dude!" oneguysays,punching H. H. ontheshoulder.
"Dude,younever toldusyouknew ananneehhh."
I realize from their glazed smiles that they've just cast me in every nanny-themed porn film ever
screenedintheirfrathousebasements.
"So,"thedrunkestbegins, "isthedadhot?"
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"Hashehitonyou?"
"Urn,no.I haven't met himyet."
"Is theMomhot?" anotheroneasks.
"Well, I don't thinkso?
"Whataboutthekid?Isthekidhot?Hasheever made apass atyou?"They all speakatonce.
"Well, he's four,so?Thereis a hardnesstotheirtonethatdispels anyillusionofgood-naturedfun.I turn
to the gentleman who brought me over here, but he seems frozen, blushing deeply with his brown eyes
downcast.
"Are anyofthedads hot?"
"Right. If you'll excuseme?I standup.
"Come on". ones stares me down?you're trying to tell us you never fucked any of the dads?" My last
nervesnaps.
"How original of you. You want to know who the dads are? They're you in about two more years.And they're not fucking the nanny. They're not fucking their wives. They're not fucking anyone. Because they get fat, they go bald, they lose their appetites and drink, a lot, because they have to, not because they want to. So enjoy yourselves, boyz. 'Cause back in the day is gonna be lookin' real good. Now pleasedon't get up."MyheartpoundsasI pullonmysweater,grabmybag,andwalkout thedoor.
"Hey,holdon!" H. H. catchesup tomeas I stormacross thestreet. I turn,waiting for himtotellme that they all have terminal cancer and a reign of terror was their last request. "Look, they didn't mean anything bythat."Whichhedoesn't.
"Oh."I nodathim. "Sotheytalktoevery girl likethat?Or justtheoneswhoworkintheirbuildings?"
He crosses his bare arms and hunches up against the cold. "Look, they're just friends from high school.
I mean,I barelyhangoutwith themany?
TheBadWitchcomes flying out. "Shameonyou."
Hestammers, "They're justreallydrunk?
"No.They're justreallyassholes."
We stareateachother andI waitforhimtosaysomething, butheseemsparalyzed.
"Well," I finally say, "it's been a long day." I'm suddenly utterly exhausted and keenly aware of pulsing
painfromtheburnonmyhand.
I forcemyself nottolookbackasI walkaway.
Nanny,
Thepartywas agreatsuccess. Thankyousomuchforyourhelp.
Theseshoes reallyare toomuch forme and MrX doesn. careforthecolor. Ifthey. eyour sizeyou. ewelcome tothem, otherwisepleasetakethemtoEncoreresaleshoponMadisonand84th. I haveanaccount.
By the way, have you seen the Lalique frame that was sitting on Mr X. desk? The one with thepictureofGrayerwithhisfatherfromAspen? Itseemstobemissing. Canyoucallthecaterers andseeiftheytookithomebyaccident?
I. lberecuperatingatBliss, somyphonewill beofffortherestof theafternoon.
PRADA! P-R-A-D-A. As in Madonna. As in Vogue. As in, watch me walk off in style, you khaki-wearing, pager-carrying, golf-playing, Wall Street Joumai-toting, Gangsta-Hip-Hop-listening, Howard Stern?worshiping,white-hat-backward-sporting,arrogantjerk-offs!
Nana also troubled Mr. Darling in another way. He had some' times a feeling that she did not admire him.
. ETERPAN
CHAPTER THREE
ight ofthe Bankin
ea
Afterpickingupsomesmall pumpkins todecorateonthewayhome fromschool,Grayer andIreturnto the apartment just in time for me to sign an invoice for over four thousand dollars. Grayer and I follow in awe as a deliveryman wheels a pair of six-foot wooden crates through the kitchen and deposits them in the
front hall. After lunch, we play Guess What's in the Crate. Grayer guesses a dog, a gorilla, a monster truck, and a baby brother. I guess antiques, newbathroom fixtures, and a small cage for Grayer (althoughI keepthatonetomyself).
I leave Grayer in the capable hands of his piano teacher at four-fifteen and return, as instructed, at five o'clock. I'm dressed like a grown-up for the Halloween party at Mr. X's office in my new leather pants and secondhand Prada shoes. I let myself in, only to come face-to-crate with a frenzied Mrs. X, who's trying topryoneopenwith a butcherknifeand a toiletplunger.
"Do you want me to call the super?" I ask, carefully angling myself past her. "He might have a crowbar."
"Oh,myGod,couldyou?" shepantsup fromwhereshe's crouchedonthefloor.
I gointothekitchenandbuzzthesuperontheintercom,whopromises tosendup thehandyman.
"He's onhis way. So,urn,what'sinthere?"
Shehuffsandpuffsassheworksatthecrate, "I had. gh?replicasofMufasaandSarabicostumes. w, dammit!. rom the Broadway production of The Lion King... unh. ustom made." She's going red in theface. "For thisstupidparty,argh."
"Wow, that's great.Where's Grayer?" I ask tentatively.
"He's waiting so you both can get dressed! We've got to hurry?we all need to be changed and ready to leavebysix."All? As the service doorbell rings I turn and walk slowly down the long hall to Grayer's room, where he's
had the good sense to hide from his plunger-wielding mother. I apprehensively push back the door to reveal not one, but two Teletubby costumes half lifting offGrayer's bed, like partially deflated balloons fromtheMacy'sThanksgivingDayparade.
DearGod.Shemust bekidding.
"Nanny, we're gonna match!" If I wanted to get dressed up in bizarre costumes I could be making way
moremoneythanthis.
With a long sigh I begin to wrestle Grayer into his yellow costume, trying to convince him it's just like
putting on feet pajamas, only rounder. I can hear Mrs. X running through the apartment. "Do we have
anypliers? Nanny,haveyouseenthepliers?Thecostumes arewired intothecrate!"
"Sorry!" I shouttoward thedirectionofher voice,whichchangesconstantly,like a passingsiren.
Thud.
Moments later she bursts into the room looking like a mud hut, headdress askance. "Do I wear makeup
with this?DoI wearmakeup with this?!"
The Nanny Diaries Page 6