He chipped around to face me. “I go in the sandbox, Grace?”
I laughed and loosened his scarf. “Okay. You want your dump truck?”
He took the truck and sat in the cold sand. The playground was deserted. In the open square below was some kind of market. The stalls, peaked white plastic tents, some with green pennants snapping in the brisk wind, were pitched in a neat cluster. After three minutes I stooped at the edge of the sandbox and asked Ben if he was cold. “No siree, Grace!” he said. He filled the bed of his truck, dumped his load, and filled her up again.
I looked around. The sky was gray, and all the trees seemed dead. I felt homesick and alone. I wanted to be on the beach. I wanted to sit on my front steps in the hot sun reading a book or watching people walk up the road. I wanted a real Saturday market, not this tented mall in the middle of a city.
I tried to think.
I was here, in New York, and this was what I’d wanted since I was ten years old. But now that I was here . . . what?
“Hallo, Ben.” A West Indian voice interrupted my thoughts. The woman’s hood came forward like a funnel and, except for her eyes and forehead with greasy bangs, completely obscured her face. She stopped her double-wide carriage with two unmoving, cocooned bundles. Ben looked up at her but didn’t answer.
“Morning,” I said to her.
She looked at her watch. “Me guess me should say afternoon, morning done past.”
“You know Ben?”
“Of course me know Ben. Everybody know the little bad boy. Ain’t you the little bad boy in the towers, Ben?” Her funnel swept me, and she asked, “You are his new babysitter?”
“I’m just working today.” I didn’t feel like telling her any of my business. Again I asked her, “You work in the towers?” Again she didn’t answer.
Instead she asked Ben, “You have a new ya-ya today, Ben?”
Ben looked up from his dump truck. “She’s not my ya-ya, she’s my Grace.”
She swung her funnel in my direction. “All me can tell you, child, is to watch out for your new boss lady. That woman is pure snake, and I wouldn’t trust she if me was you.”
I hated that kind of mysterious talk. I didn’t know this woman’s name, she wouldn’t tell me if she worked in the towers or not, and she spoke to Ben like I wasn’t there, but then she tells me to watch out for who I assume to be Mrs. Bruckner.
“You mean Mrs. Bruckner? Why?”
Standing motionless and pushing her carriage back and forth, she countered my question with a question of her own. “Where you from, Grace?”
For spite I answered, “Brooklyn,” and Ben, with perfect timing, decided he was cold. “Grace, is it time to go have some pizza pie?” he asked.
I pulled out my best Brooklyn accent. “It sure is, buddy.”
Chapter 7
While Ben napped, I straightened his parents’ room, trying to match the right lids to the opened pots of foundation and tubes of lipstick. Mr. Bruckner’s worn shorts were on one side of the bed and Mrs. Bruckner’s panties, yucky side up, on the other. White people, I thought, and used a blush brush to balance the two pairs together at arm’s length to the laundry basket. By three-thirty I was bored. I rang Kath but got only the intro to Bob Marley’s “Jammin’ ” on her answering machine. I called Sylvia, and Micky picked up. “Hi, Grace, when you coming home? I want you to help me with my homework. Grace”—she didn’t pause—“you living with them white people now?”
“No, Mick, I’m just doing some work today.”
“But why don’t you work for my mammy, Grace? My mammy could pay you and you could take care of us.”
“Where is your mammy?”
“Laundromat. Grace, the little boy more cuter than Dame?”
“No baby in the world cuter than Dame, Mick. You know that.”
“Yeah, but Dame don’t talk, Grace. Mammy tell Tanty Dodo that I talk when I was one year old and Derek born talking and Dame not saying boo, only smiling like Guy Smiley.”
“All babies different, Mick. I bet you Dame will start talking soon.”
“You promise, Grace?”
I didn’t know what to say. “How about when I come tomorrow we sit and teach Dame some words?”
“You coming home tomorrow, Grace?” Micky sounded so happy.
“Yep, in the morning.”
“Grace, you promise?”
This time I could. “I promise.”
I hung up. Without the sound of my own voice, the room was perfectly still. If I strained, I could hear the faint ticking of the sunflower clock, the hum of the refrigerator, and the whisper of air coming through the vent. It would be nice to live someplace like this, to sprawl on the couch in the afternoon sunlight and read for hours. Not just to be the help. The phone rang, and, startled, I knocked the lamp clean off the side table, shattering the bulb.
Shoot.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Grace.” It was Mr. Bruckner. “Just checking in. Everything okay?”
“Oh, Mr. Bruckner . . . I’m so sorry. Everything’s fine except the phone made me jump.” I looked down at the clear pieces of glass scattered like thin ice across the wooden floor. “The lamp fell over and the bulb broke.”
“Did the lamp break?”
I stooped to check. “No, just the bulb.”
“Okay, so sweep up the glass. Look in the linen closet, the one before Ben’s room, for new bulbs. Everything should be fine. What else is going on?”
“I finished straightening up, and now I’m waiting for Ben to finish napping.”
“Good. Look, Grace, sorry about this morning.”
I was curious what exactly he was sorry for—the little money they were giving me for the day, or that I had to take Ben to the playground in the freezing cold?
“Mir’s been under the weather lately, but I know she likes you. And, as I told you before, you’re very high on our list.”
“Thanks, Mr. Bruckner.”
“Sol,” he corrected. “So, come down to the lobby at six.”
“Sol?”
“Yes?”
“I have to change for dinner?”
He laughed. “No, Grace, we’re just going up to my parents’. You look great the way you are.” In the background, I could hear country and western, the only music that my mother liked besides hymns. Sometimes, on Saturday, Hel and I would slow-dance together doing twirls and dips, while she sang along in her high, unbalanced voice to “Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys” and “Patches.” Of course we liked best the raunchy calypsos and American pop songs, but the violins just now on the phone made me realize how much of my mother was under my skin.
BEN AND I PLAYED crash with toy cars in the room off the lobby. It looked different without the crowd of waiting women. “Move your legs, Grace,” he ordered and then vroomed a small truck on the carpet. “We’re going to have an accident.”
“Drive carefully, then,” I warned him and skidded my car dangerously close. We crashed hard.
“See, Grace”—he sat back on his heels—“now we’ve had an accident.”
“Oh, man.” We were deciding whether or not we needed an ambulance when Mr. and Mrs. Bruckner walked in.
“Mommy. You’re back. Daddy. Mommy and Daddy are back, Grace.”
I stood. “Told you they were coming back.”
Mrs. Bruckner held Ben awkwardly. Sol took him from her arms. “Okay, let’s get going. Grace, do you need to get anything from upstairs?” He sat Ben high on his shoulders. “Mir, we’re all set? You need to run up for anything?”
“I look okay?” she asked him, pressing the fur at her hips.
“You look great. Okay, buddy, ready to go see Nana and Big Ben?”
Ben tried to deepen his voice. “Big Ben, choo choo.”
Mr. Bruckner stopped at the car. “How are we going to do this, Mir?”
She stopped too. “Do what?”
“Fit. Ben’s car seat is behind your seat, and I need legroom
up front.” He turned to me. “Look at Grace’s long legs. There’s no way she’s fitting comfortably behind me.”
Miriam came back to the pavement and faced her husband. I looked away. “So what do you want to do? Why don’t you pull up your seat so Grace gets some room for her long legs?” The doorman and the concierge were both looking at us.
He was oblivious to her tone. “No, that won’t work. I’ll be too bunched up.”
“I’ll sit behind Mr. Bruckner,” I said before he suggested something stupid like I sit up front with him. “I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?” He looked straight at my legs. Mrs. Bruckner got in the front passenger seat and closed the door hard.
She was silent for most of the drive, and so was I. Ben talked nonstop, giving his parents a minute-by-minute replay of our afternoon as we drove through sheer walls of skyscrapers. “I played in the sand, and then Grace pushed me on the swing, but the slide was too cold.” I was amazed at how much detail he remembered. “And then we saw Evie.”
Mr. and Mrs. Bruckner said, “You did?” at the same time.
“You met Evie, Grace?” Mrs. Bruckner asked.
“A woman with a big hood and a double carriage? She stopped and talked to us, but she didn’t tell me her name.”
Mr. Bruckner laughed a little. “Evie all right. I didn’t know she worked on weekends.”
“She works always,” I heard Mrs. Bruckner say, and then she said something else under her breath that I didn’t quite catch.
We drove alongside a never-ending park until Mr. Bruckner found an empty spot. I looked out the window. “Is this Central Park?”
“Yup.”
“This is the Central Park?”
“The one and only, Grace. Hey, buddy, tell Grace what Nana and Big Ben take you to see in Central Park.”
“The penguins,” he answered and clapped his hands.
Mr. Bruckner unfastened Ben and carried him.
“There are penguins in Central Park?” I looked at them both, and Mrs. Bruckner laughed.
“There’s a small zoo with penguins, a polar bear, and some other animals,” she said. “Ben is crazy about the penguins.”
I got out of the car and looked around. Lights twinkled through an unending bank of trees, their bare branches overlapping in the early winter dusk. I bet that, come summertime, the wall of leaves would be impenetrable, that inside there’d be lush lawns and secret gardens hidden from the busy city outside. At home I knew the names of all the trees and bushes, but these skeletons were unfamiliar. Were they oaks and elms and maples, like Mora had shown me in New Jersey? Would they bloom in the springtime and sprout tiny leaves in that almost fluorescent shade of green? I took a deep breath. I could feel at home here. Anyplace where there were trees and plants felt familiar to me, even if I didn’t know their names.
Mr. and Mrs. Bruckner were looking at me, smiling. I couldn’t believe it. I, Grace Caton, formerly of the seaside village of Morne Diable, Trinidad, was standing outside the Central Park, the enchanted forest in the middle of New York City. I didn’t know what lay in front of me—I barely knew what lay behind me—but here, for this one moment, it was perfect. How I wished Hel was with me.
And there were penguins? I laughed aloud.
I couldn’t wait.
“THEY ARE ’ERE.” THE door was opened by an old woman in a white dress, a frilly little maid’s cap, and crocheted booties. Her eyes widened when she saw me. “Hallo, Sol. Miriam.” She reached for Ben. “Come and give old Jane her kiss.”
Ben flew to Jane and kissed her brown cheek. Sol kissed her lips. She shot me a look. “Come in, come in.” Both Mr. and Mrs. Bruckner eased out of their shoes, and I bent to undo my bootlaces.
“Come,” Jane said, “in we go. You done braught in a draught with you.”
The apartment was like a museum. Paintings of fruit spilling out of horns, lilac-y colored water lilies, people at parties, a woman either getting into or out of a bathtub, and a small bronze statue of a ballerina clasping her hands behind her back. The carpet under my feet was thick and deep, and I wanted to stop and pinch the fluffy pile with my toes. But I didn’t, I just walked with Jane and Mrs. Bruckner deeper and deeper into the dimly lit apartment.
I saw the old man first. His face covered in either freckles or liver spots and his rheumy eyes the same bright green as his son’s and grandson’s. Even with him seated deep in the chair, I could tell that he was very tall. He wore a cardigan buttoned up to the middle over a gray sweater, gray trousers, and brown suede slippers.
“Hello there,” he said in a strong voice. “I can’t get up from this damn chair, but come shake my hand.” I walked over and put my hand into his. “I’m Benjamin. I used to be a Mister and even a sir, but everyone calls me Big Ben now.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, sir.”
“Ah”—he shook his head—“you weren’t listening.”
I smiled at him. “It’s very nice to meet you, Big Ben. I’m Grace.”
“That’s better. Grace. Hello, Miriam. You’re looking very well.”
“You always say that, Big Ben.” Miriam bent to hug him. “Where’s Ettie?”
Mr. Bruckner had taken himself over to a large chair, right next to the lit fireplace. I didn’t know apartments could have fireplaces.
“Hey, Janey, can I get a beer?”
His father wagged a finger. “Shame on you, asking old Jane to get you a beer. Get it yourself, and get me one too. Does Grace want a beer?”
“No, thank you.”
“And none for you either,” Ettie Bruckner said to her husband as she glided in. She fitted so right with the paintings and sculptures in her apartment mansion. Her silver hair was bobbed, and a looped double strand of black pearls hung around her long, ropy neck. She wore flowy black pants with a shiny black shirt opened to show her freckly chest. She was beautiful.
“Hi, Mom.” Mr. Bruckner rose and kissed her cheek. “Don’t you look fantastic for an old girl.”
“Nana.” Ben ran toward her. She caught him midstep and hoisted him high up on her hips. “Mmmm”—she posed with the two of them—“my beautiful boys.”
“Hi, Ettie,” Miriam said. I remembered Mrs. Bruckner asking her husband before we left the towers if she looked okay. The daughter-in-law in cowboy boots, tight jeans, and leather strap knotted around her neck looked tired and overblond. Wrong, somehow. “Hello, Miriam.” Then she turned to me. “And who is this?”
Ben touched his grandmother’s necklace. “Grace, Nana. Say hi, Grace.”
“Hi, Grace,” I said, and everyone except Miriam laughed.
“Well, Grace”—she stared at me—“you remind me of the village girls from Burkina Faso.” Ettie raised her voice. “Big Ben, remember Burkina Faso? That plank mask is from there.” She pointed to a wall of African masks staring unbelievingly at their surroundings. “Now, Grace, don’t think I compare all black people to Africans. It’s just that you are quite striking. Extraordinary eyes, don’t you think, Miriam? Are you sure you want to be a nanny, Grace, and not a fashion model in New York City?”
Right then, between her husband and her mother-in-law, I knew Mrs. Bruckner wasn’t going to hire me. I started thinking about next week’s Irish Echo. I hadn’t renewed my ad, but hopefully there’d be jobs to call. Or maybe I would make some signs, charm my striking, leggy way past liveried doormen, and post them in the laundry rooms of all the buildings we had just driven past.
“Thank you,” I said and then paused. “Mrs. Bruckner?” I wasn’t quite sure what I was thanking her for and then was unsure what to call her. If Miriam was Mrs. Bruckner, then was she Mrs. Bruckner too? Big Bruckner?
“Please call me Ettie, dear. That Mrs. Bruckner business makes me sound like a schoolteacher.” She turned to Miriam. “Don’t tell me you’ve got Grace calling you Mrs. Bruckner. But then you are a schoolteacher.” She put her arms akimbo. “Grace, I give you permission to call her Miriam. Solomon, are you party to this?”
He was back with his beer. “I’ve told her to call me Sol since the interview, Mom.” He walked over to his wife, grabbed her in a gentle chokehold, and kissed the top of her head.
Ben said to his grandfather, “The choo-choo train,” and shot out of the room.
Big Ben looked after his grandson, and his green eyes brightened. To Sol he said, “Give me a hand, boy.”
Sol hoisted his father gently, and Big Ben followed Ben out.
“Is Nancy coming tonight?” Miriam asked.
“She was.” Ettie relaxed into her husband’s chair. “But then she decided to march.”
“March?” Sol took a long swallow. “March for what?”
“Don’t you read the paper? The old Irish fools don’t want gays and lesbians marching in their parade, and I guess they decided to hold their own?”
“Is she that desperate?” Sol asked. “Did you remind her she’s a Jew?”
“Ah yes.” Ettie leaned forward. “But you forget she’s a lesbian Jew, and, regardless of what I say, lesbian is her chosen definitive adjective.”
Sol yawned. “Nancy needs to get laid.”
Miriam laughed. “Maybe that’s why she went.”
I focused on the plank mask.
“How are you feeling today, darling?” Ettie stretched a hand and gave Miriam the briefest touch on the knee. Her short nails were a polished cream. “Would you like a drink?”
“A cold zin spritzer would be divine, but I’ll just have orange juice. Grace, ask Jane to please pour me a glass of juice.” The please I noticed was for Jane.
In the kitchen I asked Jane how long she’d been working for the Bruckners.
“Too damn long. Every day me tell them I am ready to go back to Jamaica. One of these days I am just going to get on a plane and go.”
“Well”—I took in the glass cabinets that reached to the ceiling and the double-door fridge—“I’m just arriving.”
“Grace them call you? Grace, don’t make the mistake you see I make in this America, you hear me.” She placed a glass and a white cloth napkin on a small wicker tray. “I don’t know you situation, child, but work for these people, let it be a stepping-stone and not the whole island, you hear me?” She put four ice cubes from an ice bucket into a separate glass and laid a pair of miniature tongs on the napkin. “Take my advice and try and get all this for yourself instead of stopping and wondering how the white people, the Jews, the Japanese—whoever—get what they have.” She poured some foamy orange juice from a pitcher and handed me the tray. “Get it for yourself and don’t never content yourself with no scraps.”
Minding Ben Page 7