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,
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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
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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.
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"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!"<
br />
"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.
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