“So much for that.” He put the pot full of burnt steaks into the sink and ran hot water over them. “Can I interest you in a pizza tonight?” They had been eating pizza a lot, and they decided to invite Tracy to join them.
When she arrived, she helped Jane put the baby to bed. They all cleaned up the kitchen together. It was almost like the old days, except that someone very important was missing and they all felt it. And to make matters worse, she told them she was moving to Philadelphia. Jane looked stricken. It was like losing her second mother, and she was depressed for weeks after they saw her off at the airport.
And the next nurse didn't help. She was Swiss and had been trained as a baby nurse, which sounded perfect to him in the interview, but what she didn't say was that she must have been trained in the German army. She was rigid and inflexible and unkind. The house was immaculate, the dinners were small, the rules were ironclad and plentiful, and she slapped Alexander all the time. The poor child cried constantly and Jane hated to come home from school and find her there. Milk and cookies were not allowed, nor were treats of any kind, and they were not to speak at meals, except if their father was there. Television was a sin, music was a crime against God. Bernie decided that the woman was half crazy, and when Jane laughed at her inadvertently on a Saturday afternoon two weeks after she'd come, she walked across the room and slapped Jane hard across the face. Jane was so stunned she didn't even cry at first, but Bernie was trembling when he stood up and pointed at her. “Get out of this house, Miss Strauss. Immediately!” He took the baby from her, put an arm around Jane to comfort her, and an hour later, with an enormous bang, the front door slammed behind her.
And it was discouraging after that. He felt as though he had interviewed everyone in town, and he wouldn't have trusted any of them. The first thing he did was get a cleaning lady, but even that didn't help. His big problem was Alexander and Jane. He wanted someone to take care of them properly. They were beginning to look unhappy and bedraggled to him, and he was desperate to find someone to help him. He was beside himself as he ran home from work every day to take care of Alex and Jane. He had a daytime sitter temporarily, who could only stay until five o'clock. And his mother was right. It was difficult working all day, and then taking care of the children and the house and the laundry and the groceries and the cooking and the ironing and the backyard all night.
Their luck changed six weeks after school began. The agency called him again and he listened to the usual tale. Mary Poppins had turned up and she was waiting for him. According to the agency, she was perfect for the job.
“Mrs. Pippin is perfect for you, Mr. Fine.” He looked bored as he jotted down her name. “She's sixty years old, British, and was ten years in her last job, with two children, a boy and a girl. And”—the woman at the agency sounded victorious—“there was no mother.”
“Is that something to be particularly proud of?” It was none of their goddamn business.
“It just means that she is acquainted with this kind of situation.”
“Wonderful. What's the hitch?”
“There is none.” He had not been an easy client, and they were frankly annoyed at how suspicious he was of everyone they sent him. In fact, the woman made a note to herself as she hung up, if he didn't like Mrs. Pippin, they were not sending anyone else after that.
Mrs. Pippin rang the doorbell at six o'clock on a Thursday evening. Bernie had just gotten home and taken off his coat and tie. He had Alexander in his arms, and Jane was helping him start dinner. They were going to have hamburgers, for the third night in a row, with potato chips and buns and lettuce. But he hadn't had time to go to the store since the weekend, and somehow the rest of the meat had gotten lost on the way home, or they'd never brought it home in the first place.
Bernie opened the door and found himself staring down at a tiny woman with short white hair and bright blue eyes, in a navy hat and coat, and sensible black shoes that looked like golf shoes. And the woman at the agency was right. She did look like Mary Poppins. She was even carrying a tightly furled black umbrella.
“Mr. Fine?”
“Yes.”
“I'm from the agency. I'm Mary Pippin.” Her accent was Scots and he grinned to himself. It was like a joke. Not Mary Poppins. But Mary Pippin.
“Hello.” He stepped back, with a smile, and waved her to a seat in the living room, as Jane walked out of the kitchen, with a roll of hamburger in her hands. She was curious to see what they had sent this time. The woman was hardly taller than she was, but she smiled at Jane and asked her what she was cooking.
“How nice of you to take care of your dad and your little brother. I'm not much of a cook myself, you know.” She grinned, and almost instantly, Bernie liked her. And then he suddenly realized what the shoes were. They weren't golf shoes. They were brogues. She was Scottish through and through. Her skirt was tweed, her blouse was white and starched, and when she took her hat off, he saw that she even wore a hatpin.
“That was Jane.” Bernie explained as she went back to the kitchen. “She's nine, or will be soon. And Alexander is nearly eighteen months old now.” He set him down on the floor as they sat down and he took off at top speed for his sister in the kitchen, as Bernie smiled at Mrs. Pippin. “He doesn't stop all day, he wakes up all night. So does Jane.” He lowered his voice. “She has nightmares. And I need someone to help me. We're alone now.” This was the part he hated, and usually they just stared at him dumbly, but this woman nodded sensibly, with a sympathetic look. “I need someone to take care of Alexander all day, to be here when Jane gets home from school, to do things with them, to be their friend”—it was the first time he had said that, but somehow she seemed that kind of woman—“to cook for us, to keep their clothes neat… to buy their school shoes if I don't have time …”
“Mr. Fine”—she smiled gently—“you want a nanny.” She seemed to understand completely.
“Yes. That's right.” He thought briefly of the sloppy Norwegian who kept taking Liz' clothes and glanced at Mrs. Pippin's starched collar. He decided to be honest with her. “We've had a tough time, or actually, they have.” He glanced toward the kitchen. “My wife was sick for almost a year, before …” He could never say the words, even now. “And she's been gone for three months. It's a tremendous adjustment for the children.” And for me, he didn't add, but her eyes said she knew it, and he suddenly felt like sighing and lying on the couch, letting her take care of everything. Something about her suggested to him that she was absolutely perfect. “The job isn't easy, but it isn't overwhelming either.” He told her about the two women he'd had, the others he'd seen, and described exactly what he wanted. Miraculously, she seemed to find it entirely normal.
“It sounds wonderful. When could I start?” She beamed at him and he couldn't believe his ears.
“Immediately if you like. Oh, and I forgot to mention. You'd have to sleep with the baby. Is that a problem?”
“Not at all. I prefer it.”
“Eventually, we might move, but I don't have any plans at the moment.” He was vague and she nodded. “And actually …” There was so much in his head that he was confused now. He wanted to be completely honest with her. “One day, I may go back to New York, but I don't know anything about that right now either.”
“Mr. Fine”—she smiled gently at him—“I understand. Right now you don't know if you're coming or going, and neither do the children, and that's perfectly normal. Suddenly all of you have lost the mainstay of your existence. You need time to heal, and someone to watch over you while you do. I would be honored to be that person, thrilled if you would let me take care of your children. And whether you move to another house, an apartment, New York, or Kenya is not a problem. I'm a widow, I have no children, and my home is with the family I work for. Where you go, I go, if you want me.” She smiled at him as though speaking to a child and he wanted to giggle.
“That sounds wonderful, Mrs. Poppin … I mean Pippin…. Sorry. …”
“Not at all.” She laughed with him and followed him into the kitchen. She was tiny, but there was something powerful about her, and amazingly the children liked her. Jane invited her to stay for dinner, and when Mrs. Pippin accepted, she put another hamburger on, and Alexander sat on her lap until he had his bath, and then Mrs. Pippin went to discuss the financial arrangements with Bernie. She wasn't even very expensive. And she was exactly what he needed.
She promised to return the next day, with her things, “such as they are,” she apologized. She had left her previous family in June. The children were grown up and simply didn't need her anymore, and she had gone to Japan on a holiday, and come back through San Francisco. She was actually on her way to Boston, but had decided to check with the agency because she found the city so enchanting, and voila. The match was made in Heaven.
After she had left to go back to her hotel, while Jane was putting the baby to bed that night, Bernie called his mother.
“I found her.” He sounded happier than he had in months and he was actually smiling. You could almost hear it, and you could hear something different in his voice. Relief.
“Who did you find?” His mother had been half asleep. It was eleven o'clock in Scarsdale.
“Mary Poppin …actually, Mary Pippin.”
“Bernie”—she sounded firm and much more awake now—“have you been drinking?” She glanced disapprovingly at her husband, who had been awake on his side of the bed, reading his medical journals. He looked unconcerned. Bernie had a right to drink these days. Who wouldn't?
“No. I found a nurse. A Scottish nanny, and she's fantastic.”
“Who is she?” His mother was instantly suspicious, and he told her all the details. “She might be all right. Did you check her references?”
“I will tomorrow.” But the references checked out exactly as she had described them, and the family in Boston raved about their beloved “nanny.” They told him how lucky he was, and suggested that he keep her forever. And when she arrived the next day, he was inclined to. She tidied up the house, sorted the laundry, read to Alexander, found a brand-new suit for him to wear, and had him clean and combed for his father when he came home. And Jane was wearing a pink dress and pink hair ribbons and a smile in time for dinner, and suddenly he felt a lump in his throat remembering the first time he had seen her, lost at Wolffs with long braids and pink ribbons just like the ones Mrs. Pippin had put on for her that night.
The dinner wasn't wonderful, but it was decent and simple. The table was nicely set, and she played a game with both children afterwards in their room. By eight o'clock the house was neat, the table was set for breakfast, and both children were in bed, brushed, clean, read to, well fed, and cuddled, and as Bernie said good night to each of them, and thanked Mrs. Pippin, Bernie only wished that Liz could have seen them.
Chapter 25
It was the day after Halloween that Bernie came home and sat on the couch, glancing at his mail, and then up at Mrs. Pippin as she emerged from the kitchen wiping flour off her hands to hand him a message.
“Someone just called for you, Mr. Fine.” She smiled at him. She was a pleasure to come home to, and the children loved her. “It was a gentleman. I hope I got his name right.”
“I'm sure you did. Thank you.” He took the slip of paper and glanced at it as she walked away. The name didn't mean anything to him at first, and as he walked into the kitchen to make himself a drink, he questioned Nanny. She was breading fish for dinner, and Jane was helping, while Alexander played on the floor with a pile of small, bright-colored boxes. It was the kind of scene Liz would have created around her as she worked, and it gnawed at his heart to see them. Everything still made him miss her. “Was that the man's first or last name, Mrs. Pippin?”
“I didn't get a chance to write down his first name, although he said it.” She was busy breading the fish, and didn't look up at Bernie. “The last name was Scott.” It still didn't mean anything to Bernie. “The first was Chandler.”
His heart stopped as she said it, and he went back to the living room to look at the number. He thought about it for a long time, and didn't say anything about it at dinner. It was a local number, and Chandler was obviously back for more money. Bernie was thinking of ignoring the message when the phone rang at ten o'clock that night and he had a premonition as he picked it up. And he was right. It was Chandler Scott.
“Hi there.” There was the same aura of false cheer about him as before and Bernie was not impressed.
“I thought I made myself clear last time.” There was no hospitality in his voice.
“Just passing through town, my friend.”
“Don't let us stop you.”
Chandler laughed as though Bernie had said something very, very funny.
“How's Liz?” He didn't want to tell him what had happened. It was none of his goddamn business.
“Fine.”
“How's my kid?”
“She's not your child. She's mine now.” It was the wrong thing to say and Bernie could hear him bridle.
“That's not how I remember it.”
“Really? How's your memory on the ten thousand dollars?” Bernie's voice sounded hard, but Chandler sounded slimy.
“My memory's okay, but my investments didn't turn out so hot.”
“Sorry to hear it.” Then he was back for more money.
“Me too. I thought maybe we'd have another little talk, you know, about my kid.” Bernie's jaw went taut beneath his beard and he remembered his promise to Liz. He wanted to get rid of the guy once and for all, and not have him come back once a year. In fact, it had been a year and a half since they'd given him the money.
“I thought I told you last time that it was a one-shot deal, Scott.”
“Maybe so, my friend, maybe so.” Something in his voice made Bernie want to smash his face in. “But maybe we'll have to play this one one more time.”
“I don't think so.”
“Are you telling me the pot's run out?” Bernie hated the way he talked. He sounded like exactly what he was. A two-bit con man.
“I'm telling you I'm not playing this game with you again. Got that, buddy?”
“Then how about a little visit with my daughter?” He played a cool hand of poker.
“She's not interested.”
“She will be if I take you to court. How old is she now? Seven? Eight?” He wasn't sure.
“What difference does it make?” She was nine, and he didn't even know that.
“Why don't you ask Liz how she feels about it?”
It was blackmail in the purest sense and Bernie was sick of him. He wanted him to know there was no game to play with Liz now. “Liz doesn't feel anything about it, Scott. She died in July.” There was a long, long silence.
“Sorry to hear that.” For a moment he sounded sober.
“Does that end our conversation?” He was suddenly glad he'd told him. Maybe the bastard would go away now, but he had sorely misjudged him.
“Not quite. The kid didn't die, did she? What did Liz die of anyway?”
“Cancer.”
“That's too bad. Anyway, she's still my kid, with or without Liz, and I imagine you'd just as soon see me get lost. And for a price, I will be happy to do that.”
“For how long? Another year? Nah, it's not worth it to me, Scott. This time I'm not buying.”
“Too bad. I guess I'll just have to go to court and get me some visitation.”
Bernie remembered his promise to Liz and decided to bluff him anyway. “You do that, Scott. Do anything you want. I'm not interested.”
“I'll get lost for another ten thousand. Tell you what, I'll make you a deal. How about eight?”
Bernie's skin crawled just thinking about him. “Go screw yourself.” And with that, he hung up. He would have liked to kick the guy in the guts. But three days later Chandler did it to him instead. A notice arrived in the mail, through a lawyer on Market Street, that Chandler Scott, father of one Jane Scott, ex-husband of
Elizabeth O'Reilly Scott Fine, was requesting visitation with his daughter. Bernie's hands trembled when he read the letter. He was ordered to appear in court on November seventeenth, fortunately without the child. But his heart pounded as he read the words, and he dialed Bill Grossman's office.
“What do I do now?” Bernie sounded desperate. Grossman had taken the call immediately. He remembered Bernie's first call on the subject.
“You go to court, it looks like.”
“Does he have any rights?”
“Did you ever adopt the child?”
His heart sank at the question. There was always something happening, the baby, Liz getting sick, the last nine months, then their adjustment…. “No … I haven't…. Dammit, I meant to, but there was no reason. Once I bought him off, I figured we'd seen the last of him for a while.”
“You bought him off?” The lawyer sounded worried.
“Yeah. I paid him ten thousand bucks to get lost a year and a half ago.” It had actually been twenty months. He remembered it perfectly, it was right before Liz had had the baby.
“Can he prove it?”
“No, I remembered what you said about it being against the law.” Grossman had said it was considered like buying black-market babies. You could not buy or sell a child to anyone, and in effect, Chandler Scott had sold Jane to Bernie for ten thousand dollars. “I paid him in cash, in an envelope.”
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