Earlier thismorningI stoodwarilystaringat atruckinour drive--
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wayas an old man unloadedthree large rental bikes, wondering with a heavy heart if this implied thatI was to ride with Grayer up on my shoulders.At this point, I doubt I'd so much as bat an eyelash if they suggestedthatI loadhimintomywombtomakemore roomintheLandRover.
Grayer had to explain to his father that he could only ride the red ten-speed propped up in the driveway if it had training wheels. I still can't tell if the man is totally clueless or just insanely optimistic about Grayer's capabilities.At any rate, one adult bike was exchanged for a smaller one and, to my.surprise, I was permitted to bow out of their excursion. They rode off toward town, leaving me with grand plans for a long jog, a leisurely bath, and a nap, but I seem only to have made it as far as sitting down on this deckchair inmyrunningshortsandsportsbratoputonmysneakers.Well, oneoutofthreeain't sobad.
I grope under the chair for my watch, grimacing as a sliver of wood slides under my fingernail. I pull thewatchoutandsuckgentlyontheafflictedfinger.They've beengoneforover anhour.
I head back inside, turn on the hot water in the kitchen sink and thrust my hand under it. I finally get a freemoment tomyself forthefirst time in a weekandI havetospenditcoaxingthis damn houseout of myveryskin!
Ring.Ring.Ring.
I don't even bothertomove fromwhere I'm leaningagainstthecounter. Shegives upafter thefifth ring. Sheseemstobelosinghersubtleedge.
The hot water proves to be unsuccessful, forcing me to gather a makeshift emergency kit, consisting of a corn holder, matches, and a neglected bottle of Ketel One from the freezer. As I set up shop at the kitchentableI staredownatthecrackedgreenlinoleum. I wish I couldcallup andorder a fill-in friend, like a guy orders a stripper. Some fabulous young woman would show up with Cool Ranch Dori-tos, margaritas,and a copyof Heathers. OratleastsomeoldJane
magazines. If I have to flip through Good Housekeeping from July of '88 one more time I'm going to bakemyself intoanapplepie.
I reach for the vodka, freezing when I think I hear the crunch of gravel in the driveway signaling their return. I untwist the top, pour a shot into a juice glass, and feel it roll onto my tongue. I pound the glass backonthetable,turningitover like a cowboy.
I lookover attheold, decrepitAMradioonthesideboard,andturnonthepower.
Ring.Ring.Ring.
"He's nothere!" I shoutover myshoulder.
I start rolling the knob, dropping my head on my arm as I spin past dribbles of news and oldie stations blurring through the ancient speakers in tiny bursts of static. I move the knob slowly, an astronaut listening for signs of life, trying to make out a Billy Joel* song amid the fuzz. My head lifts. It's not Billy ... it's Madonna!
I rolltheknob amillimeter, standingwith excitement atthefamiliar soundof "Holiday."I grabthecorn holder and shove it inby theknob to holdit in place, crank the volume up as high as it will go, and sing along with the next best thing to a fill-in friend. There is life beyond this place, myglitter-eyed, badass, blondfriend remindsme,lifewithoutthem!
" 'If we took a holiday, oohya? " I shimmy my Lycra-clad self around the kitchen, tossing the vodka back in the freezer to chill, forgetting completely about my finger, mosquito bites, and severe sleep deprivation. Within moments I am right there with her as she insists that I take some time to celebrate, (oohya), and kick, eighties style, into the living room, grabbing Grayer's monster truck for a microphoneandbeltingit outfor all I'm worth.
I am just slidingoffthebackof thecouch,when Mr. Xthrows openthescreendoorinhis DonnaKaran runningpants. I freezein a squat,truckin hand,but he barely notices me ashe hurls his cell phoneonto thericketywingchair andstridestothestairs. I joltuptolookout
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the front door, where the silhouette of Mrs. X moves closer from a heap of Grayer in the middle of the driveway. I leap over Graver's toys, run into the kitchen, dislodge the corn holder, kill the power, and runbackintothelivingroomjust asthefrontdoorswingsclosed.
She eyes mymidriff. "Get him readyfor his playdate, Nanny. He claims he scrapedhis knee, but I can't see anything. Just quiet him down. y husband has a headache." She breezes past me to the stairs, rubbingherowntemples. "Oh andsomething's wrong withhis cell. Checkit,will you?"
Mr. X screamsfromupstairs, "Where's mysuitcase?Whathaveyoudonewith mysuitcase!"
Strains of a sobbing Grayer ripple through the house as I reach for my sweatpants, finger throbbing back tolife. I pick up Mr. X's cell phone.Thecaller IDshows that all thecalls are coming from theXes' apartment.
Ring.Ring.Ring.
I struggletoopenmyheavyeyelids inthedarkness.
Ring.Ring.
1 don't knowwhyhedoesn't justcallherandtellher he's not
coming back!
"Nanny!" Grayer cries out asthephonewakes himfor thethirdtime tonight.At this pointI'm aboutone ringfromcalling herandtellingherwhereshecanstickherphoneandherfoiegras.
Reachingacross thetwo-foot divide between our beds, I squeezeGrayer's sweatyhand. "The monster," he says, "is really scary. It's going to eat you up, Nanny." The whites of Grayer's eyes shine in the dark room.
I roll over onto my side to face him, while not letting go of his hand. "Think real hard, what color was themonster?I wanttoknow, 'causeI'm friendswith a few."
He's quietfor amoment. "Blue."
"Oh,yeah?SoundslikeCookieMonsterfromSesameStreet.Was hetryingtoeatme?" I asksleepily.
"You thinkit's CookieMonster?" heasks,his deathgriplighteningasherelaxes.
"Yup. I think Cookiewanted to play with us, but he scared you byaccident and was trying to tell me he
wassorry.Wanttocountsheep?"Or rings?
"No.Singthesong,Nanny."
I yawn. " 'Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer,' " I croon softly, feeling
his warm breath on my wrist. " Take one down, pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall.'
"Hishandgrows heavyandbyninety beershe's backtosleepforatleast afewmorehours.
I turnover on myrightside andwatch him, his chest gentlyrising and falling, his hand curled under his
chin,his faceforthemoment relaxedandpeaceful. "Oh,Grove,"I sayquietly.
The next morning, after indulging in three cups of unflavored coffee, and buying a case ofAfter Bite. I
standagainsttheonlypayphoneintown,franticallydialing thenumbers ontheplasticphonecard.
"Hello?" H. H. answers.
"Oh,thankGod.I thoughtI wasn't goingtocatchyoubeforeyouleft."I slump againstthepayphone.
"Hey! No,I wasjustpacking. yflight's nottilleight.Whereareyou?"
"At a pay phone. They left me in town while they went to a dog breeder." I fish the box of cigarettes I
boughtalongwith thephonecardoutof theplastic bagandripoffthecellophanewrapper.
"Adogbreeder?"
"Mr. X is hoping to buy a small furry replacement for himself. He's leaving this afternoon. I guess one
weekof familyvacation was
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about all he could take." I stick a cigarette in my mouth and light it, inhaling and exhaling quickly.
"This town must have some rule against businesses selling anything but scented candles, boats in a bottle, or flavoredfudge. Hell is ayacht-shapedcandle?
"N, just come home."A family walks by, each member in various stages of finishing ice-creamcones. I turnmybodyintothebooth,guiltily hidingthecigarette.
"But I've got to get moving money together. Ugh! When I think of all those times after work that I marchedstraighttoBarneys and blewhalf mypaycheckjust tocheer myself up, 1 couldshootmyself!" I take one last inhale and stub the cigarette out on the top of a nearby fence. "I'm so unhappy," I say quietly.
"I know,I canhearthat," hesays.
"Everyone here looks throughme,"I say, feelingmyeyes welling up with tears. "You don't understand. I'm not supposedtotalk toanybodyandeveryone acts asif I shouldbe gratefuljust tobeinNan-tucket, asifthiswere the
FreshAir Fundorsomething.I'm solonely."I'm reallycrying now.
"I respectyou somuch.You've madeit throughseven whole days! Hangin therefortheGrayermeister. So,whatareyouwearing?" I smileatthefamiliar question,blowingmynoseontothebrownpaperbag.
"A G-string bikini and a cowboy hat, what else. You?" I button the top button of my cardigan and pull upthewoolturtleneckclosearoundmychinas abiting windblows offtheAtlantic.
"Sweatpants."God,I misshim.
"Listen, fly safe and remember, no pot smoking with the porn stars. Repeat: tulip barges and Anne Frankmuseum. kay. Pornstars. otokay."
"Got it, partner, keep your hat on and shoot straight from? The phone abruptly clicks and a dial tone blares into my ear, signalingthe death of my phone card. I bang the receiver into the Plexi-glas. Damn, damn,damn.
I turnawayfromthephonebooth,preparedtogobuy alotof
fudge, when the old cell phone explodes in shrill beeping, causing me to trip into the hedge and bang myelbowonthewoodenfenceliningthepathway.
Tears spring to my eyes again as I march solemnly to Annie's Candle Shack, their appointed meeting place. I shove the cigarette pack deep into the pocket of my jeans just as the Land Rover pulls into the parking lot. I can hear barking coming from the trunk of the car, but Grayer looks joylessly out through thewindow.
"Let's get going. I want to make the noon flight," Mr. X says as I strap myself in beneath the canoe and heavyraindropssplatterthewindshield.
Sharpbarkingricochetsthroughthecar.
"Makeit stop,Nanny!" Grayer saysgrumpily. "I don't likethat."
Mr. X turns offthecarandthe Xes joginto thehouse, evading thelast of thedrizzle, while I struggleto unbuckle Grayer and carry the whimpering crate in after them. I set the wooden box down on the shag rug, lifting the retriever puppy out, just as an elderly woman with shoulder-length gray hair emerges fromthekitchen.
"Grandma!" Grayer criesout.
"Ah, there you are. I thought I must have the wrong house," she says, untying her scarf and
maneuveringcarefully soasnottotouchthemildewedwalls.
"Mother." Mr. X looks as if he's just been zapped with a stun gun, but then recovers, moving forward
automatically tokiss heronthecheek. "Whatareyoudoinghere?"
"Well, that's a finewaytogreet your mother.Your charming wife calledme yesterdayand invited me to enjoy this refugee camp you probably paid a bundle for," she says, looking up at the peeling paint. "Although, honestly, I don't know why I couldn't have come tomorrow," she says to Mrs. X. "I caught the nine thirty. I tried calling from the ferry, but the line was busy, and as much fun as it would have beentowait intherainandeatoneofthefried breadproductsavailable for
THE NANNY DIARIES purchaseatyour charming stationI decidedtohail a cab."I standjustoutside oftheir triangle,takingin the grande dame who has spawned this family. I've only met women like Elizabeth X when my
grandmother has dragged me to Vassar reunions for the class of 1862. She's real Boston Brahmin, part KatharineHepbum, partOscartheGrouch. "Elizabeth,welcome."Mrs. Xglides forwardtogive her mother-in-law aguardedkiss. "CanI takeyour
coat?" Call theunion. rs. X istaking acoat!
Elizabeth slips out of her beige Burberry trench, revealing a blue and white polka-dot pleated dress.
"Darling?" Mrs. X says to Mr. X, who still looks stunned. "You're always saying how you two don't get
tospendenoughtime together,soI thought I'd giveyou alittle surprise."
"I saidhi, Grandma,"Grayersays impatiently.
She bends her knees slightly with her hands on her thighs. "You look just like your father. Now, run
along."Shestraightensup. "Who's this?Andwhat's that?"
"Elizabeth, this is Nanny. She looks after Grayer." I shift the puppy to my left arm and reach out to
shakeherhand.
"Lovely." Sheignoresthegestureandreachesintoherpursetopullout apackofBensonandHedges.
"That's Grayer's newdog," Mr. Xsaysjovially.
"I hateit,"Grayer saysfromthecouch.
"Wouldyoulike a cocktail,Mother?"
"Scotchandsoda,dear,thankyou."
"Oh,I thinkwe onlyhavevodka,Elizabeth,"Mrs. Xsays.
"Send.'m sorry,whatwasyourname?" Elizabethasks me.
"Nan,"I say.
"I cango,Mother."
"I just traveled three hours through torrential rain to spend time with my son. My son who, from the
lookofit, mighthave aheartattack anyday."Shepatshis protrudingstomach. "SendNan."
"Well, Mother,theinsurancedoesn't cover?
Sheturnstome. "Nan,canyoudrive?"
"Yes."
"Doyouhave, onyourperson, a validdriver's license?"
"Yes."
"Son,give herthekeys. Dowe needanythingelse?" sheasksMrs. X.
"No,I thinkwe haveeverything, Elizabeth."
"The Clarks and the Havemeyers are coming by tomorrow, and knowing you, dear, there's only rabbit
food.Nan,comewith me tothekitchen. I'll make alist."
I dutifully follow her into the avocado-green kitchen, dragging the dog crate behind me as I go. I park
theboxnearthetableandplacethepuppygentlybackonher towel.AssoonasI latchthecagedoorshe resumesher yapping. Elizabeth throws open a few cupboards, while I take a piece of paper from the pad by the phone. "This
place is quite a shithole," she mutters to herself. "Okay." She starts dictating. "Scotch, gin, tonic,
Clamato, tomato juice, Tabasco, Worcestershire, lemons, limes." She opens the fridge and tuts with
disgust. "What the hell is soy milk? Does a soybean have udders? Have I missed something? Carr's
watercrackersandmorebrie. Canyouthinkof anythingelse?"
"Um, macadamianuts, pretzels,andpotatochips?"
"Perfect." My grandmother taught me that when entertaining WASPs, the key is to put out only a tiny
silver bowl of eachitemand suddenlyevenPringles haveclass. "Son!Canyoupleaseput thatgoddamn
doginthegarage!Theyelping isgiving me a migraine!" sheshouts.
"Coming,Mother." Mr. andMrs. Xenter thekitchen.
"I couldn't agree more, Elizabeth. Nanny, help Mr. X carry the crate into the garage," Mrs. X instructs
me.
I takethefrontendof thecrateandtrytomakereassuring
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noises to the puppy as we carry her out to the cold garage. Her brown eyes stare up at me as she tries to
steadyherself. "There,there,goodgirl,"I murmur.
Mr. X looksatme asifhecan't quitefigureoutwhoI'm talkingto.
Mrs. X follows us down the rickety wooden steps as we lower the crate onto the damp cement floor.
"Nanny, here are the keys." She holds them up as she comes over. "Oh, good." She looks down with
disdain. "I think it'll bemuchhappierout?
Mr. X grabs her by the elbow and steers her into the corner by the boiler. "How dare you invite her
without consulting me," he growls through clenched teeth. Still waiting for the keys, I crouch down to
adjustthepuppy's towel, tryingtomakemyself asunobtrusive aspossible.
"Buthoney,itwas a surprise. 1 wasjusttryingto?
"I knowexactlywhatyouweretrying todo.Well, I hopeyou're happy. I reallyhopeyouare."Hepivots
inhis loafersandstorms backintothekitchen.
She stands with her back to me in the corner, facing the rusting trash cans. "Oh, I am." She reaches up
and smooths her fingertips across her forehead. "I'm so happy. Really fucking happy," she says quietly
intothedarkness.
Shewalksshakilypastme,backup thestepstothekitchen,thecarkeys still clenchedinherfist.
"Um, Mrs. X?" I say, standingasshereachesthesplinteringdoor.
Sheturns,hermouthpursed. "What?"
"Um, thekeys?" I ask.
"Right." Shehurls thematmeandstepsthroughthekitchendoortorejoinher family.
He was determined to show who was master in that house, and when commands would not draw Nona
nursery. Hewasashamedofhimself, andyet hedidit.
. ETERPAN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
angan<
imper
Moments after finally surrendering to unconsciousness I wake to sobbing. I pull myself out of bed and
liedownbesideGrayerashethrashesaround,battling themonsterswhohavechasedusout ofourrest.
"Shhh. Shhh." I try to take him in my arms, but not before one of his flailing limbs manages to whack
me intheeye. "Ow,shit." I situp.
"I would appreciate it if you didn't use thatkind of languagein frontof Grayer." I look over to seeMrs.
X silhouettedinher mutton-sleeved nightgownbythedoorway. "Well?" sheasks,making noattempt to
come closer.
"I thinkhehad anightmare."
"Okay, then. Just try to keep him quiet. Mr. X has his tennis tournament today." She disappears back
downthehall, leavingusalone.
"Shhh,I'm righthere,Grove,"I whisperasI strokehis back.
He shakes, turning his head into my neck. "No you're not. You're gonna go away." He begins to sob
againstmyshoulder.
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"Grove,I'm here. I'm righthere."
He pulls back slightly and raises himself onto his elbow, puts his small fingers on my cheek and turns
myfaceto his. In thedim glowof the Grover night-light he looksintentlyinto myeyes. I hold his gaze,
taken aback by the intensity of his expression, as if he were trying to memorize me. When he's finished
heliesbackdown,his bodyslowlyrelaxingasI curlaroundhim,whispering ourmonstersaway.
Unable to get back to sleep, I exhale the last of my cigarette into the shed, stubbing the smoke out into
thewetgrass, andlookbackatthehouseframedbythemoonlight.
"Woof!"Thestill unnamedXpetnestles againstmyankles.
"Shhh, you," I say, reaching down to scoop her up like a baby, her slick paws brushing my chin. I
carefully makemywaythroughthewet grassuptothebackdoor,pullingitopenslowly andcringingat
theunavoidablecreak.I stepoutofmydamptennisshoesintothekitchen.
She wriggles to get free as I nestle her into the crate. Shaking with agitated exhaustion, I stare at the
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