refrigerator. I tiptoe over and open the freezer door to pull out the vodka, desperate to be knocked out.
But the icebox light reveals that my little survival swigs have made a noticeable dent in the reserves. I
hold the bottle under the tap before returning it to its spot under the frozen veggie burgers. I hate what
thistriphas reducedmeto.I swear,anotherweekand I'd bemixingcrackinthebathroom.
On my way upstairs I see that someone has finally taken the receiver off the hook in the living room.
It's about time. I crawl under the scratchy wool blanket to await sleep, half-dreaming of Ms. Chicago
parachutingontothefrontlawnatbreakfast.
I'm awakenedtwohourslaterbyGrayertrying toscrambleover metogettothebathroom.
28 1
"Nanny,it's time forbreakfast."
"In where? France?" I'm so exhausted I can barely see. I hold on to the wall as I follow him to the
bathroom and help him pull down his pajama bottoms. While he's relieving himself I pull open the
shade,squintingasthebathroomis bathedinorangelight.
I pull a sweatshirt onover mypajamasandweshuffledownstairs.
"Whatdoyouwantforbreakfast?" I ask,bendingover topickup thepuppy.
"No,Nanny,leaveit,"hewhines,turninghis backonthecage. "Leave itinthebox."
"Grayer,whatdoyouwantforbreakfast?"
"I don't know. Froot Loops?" he mumbles as I heave her up onto my shoulder. She barks and licks my
face.
"Sorry,bud, youknowweonlyhaveSoyFlakes."
"I hateSoyFlakes. I saidI wanttheotherkind!"
"I want a personal life, Grove. We can't always have what we want." He nods. I give him Soy Flakes,
whichhepokesatwhile I takethepuppyoutsidetorelieveherself.
At eight o'clock I wake at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Mrs. X descends in yet another
Nantucketoutfit sheboughtatSearle andcasually placesthephonereceiverbackonits cradle. "Grayer,
let's turnofftheTV. Whatdoyouwantforbreakfast?"
"Heal?I starttosay.
"I wantFroot Loops!I wantedit, butNannywouldn't give ittome."
"Nanny,whydidn't youfeedGrayer?" sheasks, turningoffthetelevision.
"I WANT IT! I NEED IT!" he screams like a baby into the dark screen, rousing the dog into a yelping
frenzy.
"Cut it out," I say quietly, and it silences him for a second until he remembers this isn't my show. Full--
on screamingensuesanddoesn't stopuntilhe's eatinghis secondchocolatedoughnutandthe
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TVisbackon.I yawn,wonderingifthey'd gethim a hookerifhecriedhardenough.
"I believe I've made it clear, Nanny," she says, looking down at the retriever as if she were vermin.
"That I don't like the dog in the living room. Please put it back in the garage." I pick up the puppy.
"HaveyoupackedGrayer's activitybagfortheclub?"
"No,I've beenkeepinghim company."
"Well, heseemsoccupiedforthemoment," shesays.
I nod,pickingupthebagwith myfreehand.
"Also, did you get more wipes?" What, with the private chauffeur you got me? I can't even get myself
to adrugstore, youfuckingfreak.
"Um, did Mr. Xpick themupwhenhewasatthestore?" I askjustasthephonerings.
Mrs. X picks up the receiver. "Hello?" She stares at me while gripping the receiver. "Hello!" She slams
the phone down, shaking the bamboo table. "I don't know if he did. Did you put it on the shopping
list?" Sherestsher handonherhip.
"I never sawyesterday's shoppinglist."
Shesighs. "Honey?"shecalls upstairs. "Didyougetmorewipes?"
Silence.We all stareexpectantlyattheceiling. Finally we hearthesoundof slowfootstepson thestairs.
Hedescendswearinghis tenniswhitesandmakes adirect beelineforthekitchen.
"Didyougetwipes?" sheaskshis back. "Honey?You know?thoselittlecloths I usetocleanGrayer?"
He keeps walking, then stops at the door, turns to me and says, "Tell my wife I got what was on the list," and disappears into the kitchen. I can hear Mrs. X exhale slowly behind me. Won-der-ful. Ladies andgentlemen, fortheremainderof theshowtheroleofFuckedwill beplayedbyNanny.
"What, in the name of Christ, is all this racket?" The senior Mrs. X stands in a Pucci zip-front robe in
thedoorway,flinging abejew!eledhandtowardthetelevision. "Canwe pleaseturnoffthatgodawfulpurpledinosaur?"
"No!" Grayerspewschocolatecrumbs onthecouch.
"I'm sorry,Elizabeth,"Mrs. X says,rubbinghertemples. "Wouldyoulikesomecoffee?"
"Black,likeink."Neitherwoman moves,indicatingthattheonusisonmetoproducethisinkycoffee.
"Elizabeth,whydon't yougositontheporchandNanny'11bringyourcoffeeoutthere?"
"Doyouwantmetocatchpneumonia?"
"Howaboutthekitchen,then?" Mrs. X asks,buttoninghercardigan.
"I don't supposemylazysonhasgonetogetthepaperyet?"
"No,butyesterday's isstill onthetable."
"Well, now that would have been useful yesterday. Honestly, I don't know why you insist on spending
your vacation here in this ... hut when you could have come and stayed with me on the Capeand Sylvia
wouldbeservingus all eggsrightnow."
"Nextyear,Elizabeth,I promise."
After returning the dog to her crate on the kitchen floor, I'm scoopinggrounds into the filter when Mrs.
Xcomes in. Mr. Xabruptlystandsupfromwherehe's beenstudyingTheEconomist atthekitchentable andgoesoutthebackdoor. She takes another long exhale, biting the side of her mouth. She opens the fridge, grabs a yogurt, holds
it for a second and puts it back. She brings out a loaf of bread, flips it around to look at the nutrition information and returns it to the shelf. She closes the door and pulls down the box of Soy Flakes from ontopofthefridge,giving it aonce-over.
"Dowehaveanygrapefruit?" sheasks.
"I don't think Mr. X gotany."
"Nevermind, I'll eatattheclub,"shesays, puttingbackthebox.
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She walksslowly over to me,tracingher fingersalongthe counter. "Oh, a boy calledhere for you a few
days ago.Itwas a terribleconnection,though..."
"Really? I'm sorry?
"He's notthekidwholives oneleven, ishe?" sheasks.
"Actually, um, yeah." I get a coffee cup out of the cupboard, silently willing her to drop the conversation. "I recognized the name, but it tpok me a few hours to realize from where. I was wondering how you
knew him. Did you meet in the building? Was Grayer with you?" The lurid image hangs between us of me not only having sex on her bed, but enabling said sex by letting Grayer take a nap. Hard to say whichshe'd findmore alarming.
"Yeah ... It's funny..."
"Well, he must be quite a catch for you." She walks toward the windows and looks out at Mr. X
standing in the yard with his back to the house as the fog lifts. "His mother was telling me that his last
girlfriend. he was so beautiful. Every time I saw her in the elevator I'd tell her she should go in for
modeling. And always so pulled together." She turns to eye my pajamas. "Anyway, she just went to
Europe on a Fulbright. I don't suppose you'd ever consider applying for a program like that? Though I
doubtNYUstudentsareeligibleforawards ofthatcaliber."
"Well... I wanted to work after graduation ... that is, I'm not really interested in international fieldwork
so? But she's already walked out. I lean against the avocado-green linoleum counter, my jaw gaping.
Thecoffeemachineclicks off.
"DearMrs. X,yousuck,"I mutterasI pour.
"Pardon?"I whiparound. Mr. Xstandsbehindme,stuffing adoughnutinhis mouth.
"Nothing.Um, canI helpyou?"
"Mymothersaidyouwere makingcoffee."
I pulldownanotherchippedcup,still having aminorFulbrightattack. "Doesyou
rmothertakemilkand
sugar?"
"Nope,black,black,black."
"ShouldI nothaveused a filter?" Helaughsandfor a secondhelooksjustlikeGrayer.
"Nanny!Where's thatcoffee?" I hustlebacktotheliving room,trying nottospill.
"So I said to him, if he thinks he's going to screw me he's got another think coming!" Mrs. X has a
painedexpressionasElizabethregalesher with thetrialsof gettingher poolproperlyserviced.
"Nanny, why don't you get him dressed? We're going over to the club. Honey, you and Mommy are
going to spend the whole day together watching Daddy play tennis." Grayer barely looks over from the
TV.
I kneeltodress himinfrontofSesameStreet.
"No, Nanny. I want to wear the Pooh shirt, I hate that one," he says when I hold up the Power Ranger
shirt.
"Poo shirt!That's disgusting!" ElizabethXcries asshestandstogoupstairs.
"It's Winnie-the-Pooh,actually,"I clarifyasshepasses.
I'm tuckingtheoffendingshirtintohis shortswhenMrs. Xcomes infromthekitchen.
Ring.
She pauses briefly to raise the receiver a fewinches and then slams it back down again. "No, that won't do."Shewavesdownatme. "We're goingtotheclub.Getoneof thoseLacosteshirtsI boughthim."
"No!I wanttowearthisone!" Hepreparesforanothergale.
"Grayer, that shirt isn't appropriate," she says definitively. She picks up her handbag to wait for us while I wrestle himintothenewshirtandrebrushhishair.
"Nanny,his shortsare wrinkled.Oh,well, I supposethey'd justget wrinkledontherideover anyway."I wonder if she's considering making him stand in the car, hugging the front seat all the way to the NantucketYachtClub.
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"Grayer, stay by the car while Mommy and Nanny get our beach things," Mrs. X calls after him as he runs up onto the golf course abutting the club's parking lot. She sighs, opening the trunk, and begins to loadmeup. Mr. X andElizabethhavealreadytrottedofftothecourtsforhis firstgame.
"Thereyougo."I have astrawbagcontainingeveryone's clothingchangesswinging offmyrightelbow,
a duffel bag full of lotions, sand toys, and sporting goods hanging from the other elbow, and an enormous pile of beach blankets and beach towels in my arms, to which she adds two fully inflated floaties. I liftmychinobedientlysothatshecantucktheorangeplasticsecurelybeneathit.
"Grayer Addison X, I SAID WAIT" she screams into my face and over my shoulder, sliding her little yellow Kate Spade tote up to her elbow and sauntering forward, hand in hand with Grayer, yellow silk sarong billowing in the cool breeze. I tighten my arms around the pile, trying not to trip as I precariously navigate behind her. She greets the entire club as she passes, remembering each mother and child byname. I followher, thankfulthatthe floaties have positioned myheadat suchan angle that no one can tell if I'm rolling my eyes. Which I am. A lot. We kick off our sandals and walk down the woodenplankstothesand.
Sheweaves inandoutof umbrellas, beforepointingher headat aplot of emptybeachto indicatewhere I'm tosetup camp.Grayer skipsincircles aroundtheblanketasI layitout.
"Come on! Let's go swimming! Right now. Right now." I look over at Mrs. X, as I anchor the blanket with abag,but she's alreadyimmersed inconversation.
"Let's get your suit on, Grover." I take his hand to walk up to the cabana that someone named Ben's brother has lent us for the week while he's in Paris. I close the wooden door, leaving us in damp semi!darkness,with onlyslivers ofsunlightpeeringinthroughtheslats
and onto the white boards. He pulls open the door the moment his other foot is through the top of the shorts.
"Wait, G! Got to lather up." I hold up the Chanel Bebe SPF 62, which I am constantly forced to slather onhim.
"I hatethatstuff!" Hetriestomake arunforit,butI grab hisarm.
"Howaboutyouputit onmyfaceand I'll putit onyours,"I offer.
"Me first." He gives in. I squirt the white cream on his fingers and he smears it over my nose. I gently cover his, tryingtogethis cheeksatthesametime sowe cangetoutofthecabanabeforesunset.
"Nanny,we aretakingturns!Don't cheat," headmonishes, generouslyslatheringmyears.
"Sorry, Grove. I just want to hurry up and get this stuff on you so we can get out there and go swimming." I cover his earsandchest.
"I'll do it myself, then." He smears his hands on his arms and legs, covering about a fifth of his exposed skin.I benddowninthedoorway,attempting toeven itout,butherunsawayfrommebackdowntothe sand.Tenpedicuredtoesstopinfrontofme.
"Nanny, don't forget to put sunscreen on him. Oh, and there's a jellyfish warning today so you better bringeverything uptothepool. Seeyoulater."
I schlep our stuffback up to the pool, only to discover that the water is slowly being drained out after a small child had an "accident." We head over to the Little Schooners Playground, a bit of an overstatement for a rusted swing set in a shadeless, fenced patch of sand. The sun beats down mercilessly as Grayer attempts to play with the seven other children, none of whom is close to him in age.We all poolbeachsupplies,takingturnscoloring, throwing aball, andpickingour noses.
After he threatens to hurl a two-year-old off the swing set for her juice box, I leave our stuff and lead Grayer over totheclaycourts togetdrinkmoneyfrom Mr. X. For agoodtwentyminutes,
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we stumble along the bleachers in the heat searching for his match, but find it difficult to pick him out ofthecrowdofmiddle-aged menwearingvisors.
"That's him!That's mydad!" Grayerkeeps shoutinghopefully,pointingatvariousmen intenniswhites, onlytohavethemturnaroundwithdisconcertinglyunfamiliar faces.
When we finally spot him on the last court Grayer throws himself against the fence, gripping the wire with his fingersandscreaming,likeDustinHoffmaninTheGraduate.
'VaaAAAAaadddDDdyyyyYYYYyyyyyy!!!!"
Elizabeth hisses at us disapprovingly as Mr. X marches over with a murderous look in his eye. I guess Grayer "the politicalprisoner" doesn't fitinwith theimagehe's beencultivating all morning.
"Come on now, sport, don't cry," he booms for the whole court to hear. I put my hands gently on Grayer's shoulders to pull him back. "Get him out of here!" he whispers fiercely as soon as he's close enough that he won't be overheard. "And here." He pulls his cell phone from his belt and thrusts it throughthefenceatme. "Takethisgoddamnthingwithyou."
He stalks back to his game before I can ask him for the money. I look up to Elizabeth, but she glares straight in front of her, blowing smoke coolly to the side. I shove the phone deep into my pocket, and pickupGrayer,who's screaming,andlughim,stillscreaming,totheparkinglot,becauseI havenoidea whereelsetogo.
When I am about two minutes from teaching Grove how to drink from the sprinklers we finally track downMrs. Xatthegolfcourse.
"There you are!" she exclaims, as if she's been looking for us for hours. "Grayer, are you hungry?" He droopstothegrass,still holdingmyhand.
"I thinkhe's thirsty,actually?
"Well, theBenningtonshaveinvited afewfamilies totheir
house for a barbecue. Won't that be fun?" He plops down on the lawn, red faced and sweating, forcing me topickhimupandfollowherasshestrollsbacktothecar,sippingfromher Perrier.
When we pull into the Benningtons' drive the first thing I notice is the Filipino man in a white jacket walking a poodle around the fountain. The second is that there are at least fifteen cars parked on the gravel. How do you throw together an impromptu barbecue for fifteen families when the Benningtons left the club only minutes before us?As we walk through the white gate at the side of the house to the poolareatheanswerbecomes apparent.You callthehouseonyourcell phoneandmobilizeyourstaff.
I stand there, absorbing the realization that there is no way my wedding is going to be as nice as this informal little barbecue. It's not just that the impeccably manicured lawn goes right down to the water, or thateverything isinfullbloom, orthatanothermanin a white jacketis tendingbar,servingicecubes that all havegrapesfrozeninthem, while a thirdflips filet-
mignon burgers;it's not even thattableswith starched floral tablecloths have been set up all over the lawn; what finally gets me are the watermelons sculptedintothebustsof formerpresidents.
I am startled by Grayer, fully revived from the contraband can of Coke his dad absentmindedly handed him, dumping a hot dog on my foot. He has ketchup all over himself, including his Lacoste shirt. I couldn't bemore pleased.
"Come on, Grover, let's get you another dog." He and I eat our lunch, and then I sit nursing a vodka-tonic while he runs around thelawn with theother kids. Bynow I knowbetter than totalk to anyof the guests.
I see the Horners arrive with an attractive tan woman in tow. Caroline brings her over to meet Mrs. X while Jacktakesthegirls tothegrill. I watchwith curiosity asMrs. Xswitches herselfon,her hands
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going to her pearls, her face a mask of compassion. This must be Caroline's divorcee from California. After a few minutes Mrs. X loses steam, holds up her empty glass to signal her need for a refill, and departs.
Jack joins the two women, bringing with him a hot dog and Mr. X. The foursome engage in animated conversation for some time until Lulu skips over and pulls her parents away. Mr. X and the tan woman starttowalkover towhereI'm sitting. I quicklyslump downinthechairandclosemyeyes. NotthatMr.
X couldpickmeout of alineup.
"Well,"I hearhimsayastheypass by, "I haveseasontickets, soifyou'd liketogo..."
"Doesn't yourwife gowith you?" sheasks.
"She usedto,butshe's sowrappedupwith oursonlately..."Your who?
I sit back up to check if Mrs. X has noticed her husband's stroll down to the water, but she's embroiled
with Mrs. Longacre. Mypocketstartstovibrate.
"Whatthe... ?" I pull Mr. X's pulsingphoneoutandtrytoswitch it offwithoutspillingmydrink, hitting
buttonsatrandom.
"Hello?" I hear avoice calloutfrommypalm.
"Hello?" I instinctivelyraisethephonetomyear.
"Whoisthis?" awoman's voicedemands.
"Nanny,"I say. There's noneedtoaskwho sheis.
"Nanny?" Shesoundslikeshe's crying. "Is hethere?"
"No," I say, craning my neck to see down to the water, but Mr. X and his new friend have disappeared.
"I'm sorry,look,I've gottago?
"No.Don't hangup.Please. Pleasejusttellmewhereheis,"shebegstearfully.
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