by Nancy Geary
Although her disposition was not nearly as sunny as her physical appearance, Grace took it in stride. There was so much to learn and, without her own mother to teach her, she knew she made mistakes. Sarah’s tears may well have been rooted in her own errors as she struggled to change a diaper without a safety-pin prick, to heat the bottle without scalding the formula, and to burp her daughter without applying too much pressure. Maternal skills required practice. The important thing was to maintain her patience even as her baby screeched with displeasure.
Still, it was disheartening that such a small creature harbored such a horrid temper and could make and sustain such an odious sound.
Occasionally, if Grace was honest with herself, she would admit her difficulties. The days of pottery classes, rearranging paperwork, and long walks on the Esplanade were over. When Sarah’s face became red from screaming, it was all Grace could do not to call the fire department. Once or maybe twice she’d been forced to leave the baby in her crib while she retreated to the living room and tried to drown out the shrieks with the stereo. But even Mick Jagger at full volume was no competition for Sarah.
Most of the time, though, she managed eventually to quiet her daughter. Then a rush of relief would wash over her as she stared down at her precious baby. After all, wasn’t this precisely what she’d wanted since the day she married? Pushing Sarah in a perambulator down Commonwealth Avenue, dressing her in a linen bonnet and the tiniest of baby booties, rocking her gently in her arms, the moments when her beautiful little girl cooed and smiled made up for all the hours when life seemed to have lost any semblance of order.
But when at nine months Sarah still wasn’t sleeping through the night, Bain put his foot down. Grace looked haggard. She’d lost weight. They hadn’t made love in more than a month, and when they had, she’d nearly fallen asleep beneath him. “This child is obviously too much for you to handle alone.” He wanted a nanny.
Grace was dismayed. She didn’t want help. She didn’t want to share the mothering, even the difficult moments. Sarah was her joy, truly. She just needed a bit more time to get into a better rhythm.
“You’ve had nine months,” Bain replied, firmly. “And if anything the situation has gotten worse.”
“We don’t have room,” Grace offered, trying to keep the desperation she felt out of her voice. As it was, Sarah’s crib barely fit in the study that doubled as a second bedroom. There wasn’t an inch of available closet space for live-in help, let alone room for another bed.
“You’ll move to Chatham for the summer. We have plenty of space. If the woman can get Sarah on a schedule by Labor Day, we won’t bring her back.”
“You mean we’d go without you? What would you do?”
“I’ll be just like every other husband and commute on the weekends. I can probably work my schedule so that I can spend Sunday night and drive up Monday morning. The guys with houses on Nantucket certainly cut back on their summer hours in order to make the ferry.”
Grace couldn’t imagine Bain by himself all week long. Who would buy his bran muffins or make his coffee? What would he do in the evenings? She dreaded the idea of being apart from her husband and living with a virtual stranger who would care for her daughter. The setup didn’t seem right. They were a new family. She was now a mother, but she was still Bain’s wife. She needed him. This was just a difficult phase, not one that required a separation.
“Grace, this makes perfect sense,” Bain said in the voice she knew meant the decision wasn’t open for discussion. “I’d rather have you for two good nights than continue in this manner.”
She could think of nothing to say. His comment left her feeling as though she were an overripe peach, unsuitable for anything but composting.
“Just find someone by the end of the week before we both lose our sanity.”
The next day while Sarah napped, Grace reluctantly contacted several agencies. The women on the other end of the telephone sounded perky and efficient. They wanted her data, and she could hear them typing in the background as she responded to their questions. All of them offered excellent candidates, women with years of experience as nannies, just exactly what she needed. But the agency fee was a percentage of the projected annual salary. The figure seemed way too high for someone who would only be in the Alcotts’ employ for a season.
At the grocery store on Charles Street, Grace scanned the bulletin board. It was covered by an array of messages—a stereo and tape deck, a used Chevrolet, and a dining set for sale, housecleaning services offered, a local veterinarian promoting his new office. At the bottom in awkward scrawl was a listing for a babysitter. Experienced grandmother. Good references available. Ninety dollars a week and no hiring fee.
As soon as she got home, Grace called the number and spoke to Maryann O’Connor, who had a sweet voice and a Dorchester residence. A widow with seven grown children and twelve grandchildren, she had more experience than most professional child-care providers. “I’m sure we can agree that I’ve done my share of raising children—and I’ve seen it all,” she said, revealing a tinge of an accent and a warm laugh. Plus she loved to iron, would do light housework, and could cook, too.
The next day, Mrs. O’Connor arrived for her interview. She wore a floral dress and her gray hair in a bun. She smelled of perfumed soap.
They shook hands, and Grace felt her thick, warm palm. The sensation made her want to ask for a hug.
Mrs. O’Connor followed Grace into the kitchen. Grace offered her a cup of tea and apologized for the disarray. Sarah had just had lunch, and her high chair, the floor, and several of the cabinets were speckled with pureed carrots and lamb. The breakfast dishes hadn’t been done. “It’s not usually like this,” she said, sheepishly.
Sarah started to cry. No doubt her diaper was soiled, but Grace felt uncomfortable changing her with this woman watching. She didn’t want to fumble or make a mistake. So she bounced Sarah up and down in her arms trying to distract her, or calm her, or just plain quiet her for a moment. Instead the baby vomited.
As Grace mumbled excuses, Mrs. O’Connor reached for Sarah, nestled her on her substantial bosom, and began to sing an Irish ballad. Without breaking the melody, she removed the soiled bib, ran a dishtowel under warm water, and wiped the baby’s face. Sarah was silent. Then she smiled and cooed.
“You have a beautiful little girl,” Mrs. O’Connor said.
Grace filled with pride. “Yes, we think she’s very special.”
“But I can see she’s a lot of work. For a young mother, that is.”
Grace nodded.
“Common wisdom is that boys bring the trouble, but I can assure you there are plenty of little girls who can wreak just as much havoc. You must be a tad overwhelmed.”
“My husband thinks so.”
“Ah, one of those,” Mrs. O’Connor said, knowingly.
She rocked back and forth with Sarah still resting on her bosom. Grace watched, longingly. The platform actually looked like a cozy spot. She glanced down at her own paltry set of 32Bs.
“And he’s not the most sympathetic to exhaustion, now, is he?” Mrs. O’Connor continued. “Men are all alike—babies themselves. You’ll hear no complaints over making the children, but they don’t much care for tending them. And they don’t like any interference with their own attention.”
This woman seemed to understand everything.
“Let me guess. He thinks you’re too thin and complains that you’ve forgotten about his needs. I know how hard ’tis to be a good wife with a young one at home. And just wait until the siblings start arriving. Oh, Mother of God, that’s when the complications begin. But let me keep my big mouth shut or you’ll be too afraid to ever get back in bed with that man. And then I’ll have talked myself out of a job for sure.” She laughed again. “Don’t worry about a thing. Now you go take a bath and freshen up, and leave this darling—and this mess—to me.”
Grace nearly skipped out of the kitchen with the sounds of Sarah’s giggles and gu
rgles behind her. Bain had been right. She did need help. Maryann O’Connor would get their life back in order. She’d care for Sarah, the house, and even Grace herself. She could hardly wait for her husband to come home so that she could tell him the good news.
Mrs. O’Connor sat on the back porch in a rocking chair with Sarah on her lap. They were looking at a pair of robins that had settled into the lilac bush a few feet away. Sarah flapped her arms with excitement.
The summer had passed in relative bliss. Sarah loved the water and the sand, and spent hours sitting under a large umbrella with a plastic bucket and several shovels. Mrs. O’Connor was always at her side, clucking and tending, adjusting her sun hat, offering her snacks, and changing her diapers. Grace had filled several albums with pictures of her beautiful daughter’s first days at the beach.
Without Bain during the week, Mrs. O’Connor’s presence gave her considerable freedom. It took Grace less time than she’d expected to adjust to leaving Sarah behind, but Mrs. O’Connor encouraged her. At the end of the day, she escaped to the shoreline with a folding chair, a striped towel, and, on occasion, an evening cocktail and a Tupperware container of sliced cheddar and Wheat Thins. She’d walk along the beach, take a swim in the cold Atlantic water, and then find Prissy, who was often finishing her work in the low tide. Not only did Grace welcome the conversation, but it brought her considerable pleasure that Prissy actually seemed to enjoy her company. She’d even put down her rake, come sit in the sand by Grace’s chair, and share her drink and snack.
“So, how’s mothering going?” Prissy asked one evening as she extended a rake in Grace’s direction.
Grace shook her head. The novelty of clamming had quickly passed; she was content to sit in her folding chair and watch. She settled back against the mesh supports and drank seltzer water from a plastic tumbler. “In all honesty, I don’t know how I was surviving without Mrs. O’Connor. She’s a godsend, truly.”
“What did I tell you about babies? You should have listened to me instead of getting yourself knocked up.”
Grace laughed. “What a way to speak!” Although she could be crude, Prissy’s blunt manner was part of her appeal. “Besides, I find my husband irresistible.” She blushed, disbelieving that she’d uttered the words. There was something about the presence of her friend that made her normal inhibitions relax.
“Isn’t it just in the Bible that sex and procreation are synonymous? Last time I checked, you were entitled to enjoy each other without ending up with offspring.”
“Bain doesn’t want to use birth control.”
Even from a distance, she could see Prissy’s raised eyebrows.
“It’s just . . . I think it’s a source of pride for him that we might have a large family.”
“Then you’d better train him to be an assistant nanny, too. One won’t be enough.”
“That’s for certain,” Grace said, sighing. “It is hard work, harder than I ever imagined. If I’m honest, I’m exhausted most of the time. I had some notion that motherhood would be simple, constantly rewarding, and endlessly fulfilling. Who knew I’d be so wrong?” She forced a laugh. “I shouldn’t admit it. I never could to Bain.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
“Thanks.” She scanned the shoreline. Two seagulls pecked at something in the sand. “Mrs. O’Connor really is a saint. I feel as though she’s given me this great gift—a gift of time for myself, for our conversations, for even just going to the grocery store. I didn’t realize before how easy it was to get a quart of milk. I pulled into the parking lot, jumped out, found what I wanted, paid, and went home. Now I have to get Sarah in and out of the car, then worry about whether she’ll wet her diaper while I push her in the carriage, or if we’ll lose her pacifier or her teething ring along the way. I panic if she starts to cry. Everyone stares at me as though I’m this horrible mother. I guess I now appreciate how simple life once was.”
“Sarah will grow up and go about her business. You and Bain can have peace and quiet in your old age.”
“If we get there is the better question. Her crying makes Bain absolutely crazy. Last Saturday, I thought he might walk out on all of us. We’d come back from a party, and I think Bain might have had one too many gin and tonics. We walked inside and heard screeching as loud as a siren. Even with Mrs. O’Connor’s efforts to quiet her, nobody could sleep. I couldn’t believe how long she lasted. It wasn’t until after three that Sarah settled down.”
“So don’t let the woman go.”
“No, I can’t. I don’t know where I’d be without her.”
“Then make sure she signs a life contract, or at least a contract until your youngest child reaches maturity—something along those lines.”
“She may not want to stay forever.”
“Well, as I said before, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Prissy paused, rubbed her forehead with a muddy hand, and then asked, “Why do you still call her Mrs. O’Connor?”
Grace considered the question. She hadn’t ever thought about it. The days had turned to weeks. She and Mrs. O’Connor were almost friends; they certainly were familiar with each other. “She’s older, sort of like a friend of my parents. You know, those people you knew as a child and always called Mrs. So-and-so, and then suddenly you’re a grown-up, too, and yet you can’t make the transition to call them by their first name? That’s how it feels to me. As if I’ve known her forever but still can’t call her anything other than her formal name because it was how we were originally introduced. She calls me Mrs. Alcott. I want her to know I have the same respect for her. And she’s never said to call her Maryann.”
“That’s probably a distance thing, her way of maintaining boundaries.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. It must be hard not to become too attached.” Grace shrugged. “I can’t imagine raising someone else’s child.”
“It’s a hell of a lot easier than raising your own,” Prissy remarked.
On the weekend evenings of July and August, Grace and Bain socialized. From the moment they’d purchased the house, there had been invitations: The neighbors, a slightly older couple with three children and a live-in housekeeper, invited them over for dinner; the minister from St. Christopher’s and his wife took them out on a large sailboat for a tour of Morris Island. They’d been put up at the Chatham Beach and Tennis Club, a membership process that involved myriad cocktail parties and several hours of mixed doubles games. After only the first summer, Grace felt welcome in the community. And three years later, Grace and Bain Alcott were so ensconced that she no longer thought about their social life. It was simply a part of who they were.
Bain seemed pleased each week when he arrived on Friday evening to find her more tan and relaxed than when he’d left her the Monday morning before. “Thank God for Mrs. O’Connor,” he’d say, laughing. “I wouldn’t want to keep you too busy.”
It almost felt as though they were on their honeymoon again.
“I don’t want this life to end,” she whispered one night as she lay beside him. Labor Day was only ten days away. Her linen nightgown and his cotton boxer shorts lay on the floor beside the bed. “It seems too good to be true.”
Bain agreed.
And so that night they’d decided to keep Mrs. O’Connor on in their employ when they returned to Boston. Sarah was sleeping through the night. The woman could live in her own apartment in Dorchester, arriving in the morning and departing after the supper dishes were done.
Now, watching Mrs. O’Connor and Sarah on the porch imitating the birds, Grace knew they’d made the right decision. She would tell Mrs. O’Connor that afternoon when she returned from the hairdresser. She knew the woman would be pleased. She seemed to genuinely adore Sarah. Grace would even offer a ten-dollar-a-week raise.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” she announced as she leaned over and kissed her little girl’s head. Against her lips, the soft curls felt like down.
“When is Mr. Alcott to be expected?”
“Shall I answer?”
Grace paused for a moment. Mrs. O’Connor didn’t normally answer the telephone. She had difficulty with taking messages and had botched several numbers, causing Grace some degree of embarrassment. They’d even missed a cocktail party on account of a transcription error. But this would be Bain calling, and he’d been in a meeting when she’d tried to reach him earlier. “Yes, please. If you could tell him we’re expected at the Marshalls’ for drinks at six thirty, I’d appreciate it.”
“Very well, then. Take your time. We’ll be fine.”
Chapter Seven
Grace had heard and seen the flashing blue lights even before she’d turned into her own driveway. Mrs. O’Connor, she’d thought with panic. Had she slipped? Had her heart failed?
An alternative scenario didn’t occur to her.
A young policeman with sandy hair and strong arms blocked the door.
Grace paused to catch her breath. “Poor woman. Will she be all right?”
He didn’t reply.
“You must let me in. I have to get my daughter. She’s just a baby.”
He turned his head to look inside but didn’t move his body from blocking her way.
“Please,” she said with more urgency. She envisioned Sarah left in her crib, no doubt screaming for someone to lift her out. Grace blamed herself. They’d asked too much of Mrs. O’Connor. She wasn’t young, and she was a bit overweight. And the house did get hot by the late afternoon. “You must let me pass.” She stopped speaking and waited for a reply, but none came. Then she realized. There was no sound of crying. There were no baby shrieks. “Where . . . is . . . my . . . baby?” She lurched forward, gasping for air. Suddenly all she wanted was to hear the abrasive infant screams that had worn down her nervous system.