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‘OK. So I’m very interested in this job.’
Omigod. ‘You are?’
CHAPTER SEVEN The Manny Makes his Debut (#ulink_af3f3c04-588f-5396-8295-1a8840a34d65)
I sat on the edge of Dylan’s bed, brushing the hair off his forehead. ‘I have some good news for you.’ He looked up at me.
‘What is it?’
‘Guess.’
‘You won the lotto?’
‘No.’
‘You’re going to quit your job?’
‘Dylan!’
‘Well?’
‘Dylan. I’m with you a lot.’
‘Are not.’
‘Sweetheart, you know I need to work, but it’s just a few days a week. We have dinner together all the …’
‘No, we don’t. You’re always working.’
‘Well, I am working a lot right now.’
‘So fine. Just admit it.’
‘OK. I admit I am working a lot on my piece. And I told you it was the biggest piece I’d ever done. And I want to do it well. And I want to be proud of my work.’
He rolled his eyes and turned away from me towards the wall.
‘Dylan. I love you and being your mom is the most important thing in my life.’
He pulled the covers over his head.
‘You know what? I’m not going to get into a debate about this. I know how difficult it is to have a mommy that works hard. I know you would prefer that I were here more. But I promise it will get better in just a few weeks’ time. But I have news. Something that’s going to make you happy.’ Intrigued, he now lay on his back, edging closer to me.
I turned out the light and lay down next to him with my elbow propping up my head. I caressed his forehead with my fingers, our bedtime ritual, and pulled his hair back.
‘A cell phone? My own cell phone? You said I had to wait till I was …’
‘It’s nothing like that. It’s not a thing. It’s a person.’ I massaged his eyebrows, outlining them down with my thumb and index finger. He closed his eyes, all dreamy, letting his anger go.
‘Tell me,’ he whispered.
‘You’re going to make a new friend, someone who is going to be so much fun for you.’
He sat up, appalled. ‘Oh maaaan! You said I didn’t have to see Dr Bernstein any more! I don’t want to see another feelings doctor. It’s so stupid.’
‘It’s nothing like that, Dylan.’
‘Someone at school?’
‘Nope, not …’
‘At sports? At the …’
‘Dylan, lie down.’ I pushed his shoulders down to get him to lie on his back once again. ‘You’re never going to guess, so just let me explain.’
‘OK.’
‘His name is Peter Bailey. You’re going to have your own friend in the house all the time. I mean, from after school on till bedtime. He’ll be here after school tomorrow.’
‘Like my own boy babysitter?’
‘Better than that. He’s about twenty-nine. He’s from Colorado. He’s an awesome skier, or snowboarder, I guess. He loves chess, works on chess computer games or other games making homework fun for middle school kids. And he’s super cool. I mean, really cool. He has long hair.’
My son had shifted into neutral. I thought he’d be ecstatic about the kinds of things he and Peter could do together – and relieved this wasn’t another Dr Bernstein. Of course, in retrospect, that was just my own hyped-up fairy-tale version of how Peter would glide into our lives.
I added, admittedly with forced enthusiasm, ‘What matters is he’s fun! He’s going to pick you up, take you to sports, anywhere you want! Even the batting cages at Chelsea Piers.’ Still nothing.
‘Honey. You’re not excited about batting cages? How come?’
He kept his eyes closed and shrugged his shoulders. This was heartbreaking. I thought this would bring joy to my little Eeyore; instead, it just made him sad. I had waited for this moment to tell him because I wanted him to go to sleep happy. His lip quivered.
I tried one more time. ‘You only get to go to the cages for birthday parties. I’m telling you this guy is going to take you there just on a regular weekday!’
He sat up. Then he turned on the light and looked at me with those squinty eyes. ‘Is this all because Dad’s never home?’
Kids are always smarter than you think.
‘Whoa.’ Peter Bailey handed me his coat the next afternoon and I searched for a hanger. ‘This closet is bigger than my bedroom.’ He peeked around the corner to the living room.
‘It still seems big to me, too. We just moved in a few months ago. But you’ll see, we run a very relaxed household.’
I had told him to dress casually, so he showed up for duty wearing two-toned Patagonia snowboard pants with pockets and zippers up the flaps on the sides. A worn-out flannel shirt covered up a T-shirt with a Burton logo on his chest. He had brown suede Pumas on his feet.
He took off his baseball cap and I gasped.
‘Oh, this.’ He pointed to a scab the size of a tangerine on his forehead. ‘That’s why I wore the cap. I slipped off the skateboard last week. Stupid. And I know it’s ugly. Sorry.’
I shook my head. ‘No worry. Dylan will think it’s cool.’
Peter was a bigger guy than I remembered. Two minutes in, it was already strange having a full-grown man with a deep voice in my house in the middle of the day. And I hired him to be my nanny help? And with a graduate degree? He was so much taller than me. How could I boss him around? Stand on my tippy toes and order him to clean up those toys right now!? I felt panicky.
‘Peter, I’m just really excited about you being here.’
‘You don’t look it.’
‘Really. It’s going to be great. Just great!’
The early-afternoon light streamed through the yellow silk curtains in the living room and reflected off the piles of books on the coffee table and the two large Tupperware boxes on top of them. I motioned for Peter to sit in the small antique armchair while I sat next to him on the sofa.
‘So! Can I get you a drink?’
Would he ask for a guy drink, like a Corona?
‘Sure.’
I jumped up like a jack rabbit.
‘Ginger ale. If you don’t have that, Coke is fine.’
I got some ice out of the ice machine and started to put it in a crystal highball glass. Wait a minute, was I sending off the wrong signals? He wasn’t a guest; he was an employee.
Meanwhile, Peter was considering the Tupperware boxes. One had a sticker labelled CHILDREN’S MEDICINE, and the other HOUSEHOLD EMERGENCY MEDICINE. Next to the table was a cardboard box labelled: HOUSEHOLD EMERGENCY SUPPLIES – boxes I had put together that ghastly fall of 9/11. There was also a folder with two stapled copies of important phone numbers and addresses plus the daily schedules, all colour-coded by child and by academic, sports or cultural activity. My mother was a librarian at the local Cretin High School, so I grew up in a household where the Dewey Decimal system was used to organize the garage. It was all her fault I was a little compulsive at times.
I could hear the clock ticking on the mantelpiece while Peter sat, an attentive, polite look on his face. ‘Why don’t I explain to you how things work here …’
‘What things?’
‘Well, you know, the house, for instance. How it, it runs.’
‘You mean, like a little company?’
‘No. These are just schedules.’
‘Is there an employee handbook?’
‘Very funny. No, but we do have employees. Yvette the nanny and Carolina the housekeeper. They’re both wonderful women but it’s going to take a few days for them to get used to you.’
‘No, it’s not. Where are they?’ He stood up.
‘Wait! Let’s just, go over a few items … I mean, if that’s OK. I mean, are you OK? Are you OK being here?’
‘Yes. It’s been, like, seven minutes. Doing just fine so far.’ He smiled. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
Was I that transparent? I shuffled my papers nervously, still feeling like I didn’t know how to talk to this grown man without talking down to him. I didn’t want to sound patronizing. And then I thought how sexist it was that I could more easily boss around the women in my house (or try to), but not a man.
‘Dylan goes to St Henry’s School on 88th and Park. On Mondays, he has sports on Randall’s Island. It’s called the Adventurers. They pick the kids up on a bus, and then bring them home, but sometimes the moms drive so they can watch the games. You could drive him. Do you know how?’
‘Hmmm, driving …’
‘You don’t?’
‘Maybe you could teach me?’
‘Me?’
‘I’m just joking. I can drive.’
‘You can? OK, good.’ I had to start acting normal. This was ridiculous. ‘OK, I deserved that … I think I just meant, have you, like, driven a Suburban? One of those huge ones with three rows, in the city?’
‘How many guys who are thirty years old and who come from the Rockies do you think can’t drive an SUV?’
‘Not many. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry, it’s cool. It’s just, I’ve handled like thirty kids on my own so, you know, this is going to be just fine.’
‘It is?’
‘Yeah.’
‘That is sooo great.’ I sounded like I was praising a three-year-old. I could feel my face flush. ‘And on Fridays, he has cello, but not until five. At a great music school on 95th Street. Did you have any idea it’s been proven that kids who took music as young children do 40 per cent better in medical school.’
‘Huh?’
‘Yes. Something about integrating all the notes in their heads. The address is in the folder. On Wednesday, it’s woodworking – which really gives him a jump-start on geometrics and is great for sharpening fine motor skills and really focusing on seeing a project through from beginning to end. Then on Tuesdays and Thursdays, from three thirty to five thirty, or even six, that’s completely fine with me, you two …’
‘Whoa.’ He looked concerned.
‘Whoa? Excuse me?’
‘Yeah. Whoa. Let’s not even revisit that geometrics idea. But you’ve got, like, every day totally planned out?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘Well. I work. We live in New York, that’s just the way things are.’ He gave me a disapproving look which I took as overstepping some bounds. But I forged ahead, needing to show him who was in charge after all. ‘So, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, you just do what you want. You could just take him somewhere. Like there’s a Mars place in Times Square with video …’
‘I have lots of places in mind.’
‘You do? Like what?’ I spoke as if I didn’t trust him, as if he was going to take my son to a crack house.
‘I’d like to take him to the park at first, maybe shoot some hoops …’
‘He’s really freaked out about the basketball.’
‘I know. I know.’
‘Well, then you’ll have to tread lightly on the basketball …’
