Holiday Cheer at $10  an Hour

I turn the key and lean into the Xes' heavy front door, as has become my habit, but it only swings open a foot before getting stuck.

"Huh," I say.

"Huh," Grayer echoes behind me.

"Something's blocking the door," I explain as I reach my arm around and begin to grope blindly to identify the obstructing object.

"MOOOOMMMMMM! THE DOOR WON'T OPENNNN!!!" Grayer, wasting no time, uses his own approach.

I hear the slide of Mrs. X's stocking feet. "Yes, Grayer, Mommy's coming. I simply couldn't carry all my elfing past the door in one trip." She pulls the door open and is revealed, knee deep in piles of shopping bags on the foyer floor-Gucci, Ferragamo, Chanel, Hermes, and endless silver boxes with purple ribbon, the signature Bergdorf's holiday wrap. She holds what must have been the offending item, a large Tiffany blue package, under her arm and greets us. "Can you believe people actually get engaged this time of year? As if there isn't enough to do, I also had to run all the way to Tiffany's to pick up a sterling serving tray. They should at least have had the decency to wait till January-it's just one more month, really. I'm so sorry, Grayer, that I couldn't come to your party. I'm sure you had a wonderful time with Nanny!"

I put my backpack down in the coat closet and slip off my boots before crouching to help Grayer with his jacket. He gingerly protects the ornament we have just spent the past three hours constructing with his classmates (and their nannies) at his school's Family Christmas Party. He drops to the floor so I can pull off his wet boots.

"Grayer constructed quite the masterpiece," I say. "He's really a wizard with Styrofoam and glitter!" I look up at her as I place his boots on the mat.

"It's a snowman. His name is Al. He has a cold so he has to take lots of vitamin C." Grayer describes Styrofoam Al as if announcing him as the next guest on Letterman.

"Ah." She nods, shifting the Tiffany's package to her hip.

"Why don't you go look for a spot for Al to hang out?" I help him up and he shuffles off toward the living room with his artwork held in front of him like a Faberge egg.

I stand up, brush myself off, and face Mrs. X, ready to give the report.

"I wish you could have seen him this morning. He was totally in his element! He loved the glitter. And he really took his time with making it. You know Giselle Rutherford?"

"Jacqueline Rutherford's daughter? Of course-oh, her mother is too much. When it was her turn to do snack she brought in a chef and set up an omelette bar in the music corner. I mean, really. The rule is you are supposed to come with the snack prepared. Tell me, tell me."

"Well, Ms. Giselle insisted that Grayer do his snowman according to her color scheme-orange, because she's spending this Christmas in South Beach."

"Oh, how tacky." Her eyes are wide.

"She pulled Al right out of Grayer's hands and he landed smack in the middle of her orange glitter. I thought Grayer would lose it, but he just looked up at me and announced that Al's orange specks were simply crumbs from all the vitamin C he had to take for his cold!"

"I think he just has a knack for color." She begins to organize her bags. "So, how are finals going?"

"I'm in the home stretch and can't wait to be done."

She stands up and arches her back a little, making a fearful cracking sound. "I know, I'm just exhausted! It seems like the list just keeps on growing every year. Mr. X has a huge family and so many colleagues. And it's already the sixth. I cannot wait for Lyford Cay. Cannot wait. I'm exhausted." She gathers up her bags. "When are you off until?"

"January twenty-sixth," I say. Just two more weeks to go and then I have a whole month off from school and you.

"You should go to Europe this January. Do it while you're still a student, before you have Real Life to worry about."

Oh, so maybe my pending Christmas bonus will cover a plane ticket to Europe? Six hours in a Teletubby costume says I'm worth it.

She continues. "You should see Paris when it's snowing, there's nothing as charming."

"Except Grayer, of course!" We laugh together, as I try to sell her on her own child. The phone rings, interrupting us.

Mrs. X grabs a few more bags in each hand, tightens her arm around the Tiffany's package, and heads back toward her office. "Oh, Nanny, the tree's been set up. Why don't you and Grayer go down to the basement and bring up the ornaments?"

"Sure!" I call after her as I walk to the living room. The tree is a magnificent Douglas fir that looks as if it were growing right out of the floor. I close my eyes and inhale for a second before addressing Grayer, who's having an animated exchange with Al, the lone tree decoration teetering on the very tip of a low branch.

"Hey, looks like your man Al is getting ready to jump." I reach for the bent paper clip serving as Al's lifeline.

"DON'T! He doesn't want you to touch him. Only me," he instructs. We spend the next fifteen tedious minutes relocating Al while ensuring that only Grayer's hands do all the work. I stare up at the many feet of bare greens towering above us and wonder if anyone would notice if the rest of the Xes' ornaments didn't make it on this year. At the rate we're going, it might conceivably take Grayer well into his twenties.

I look down at him as he whispers to Al. "Okay, buddy," I say, "let's go to the basement and bring up the rest of your ornaments so they can keep Al company. They'll be there to talk him down if he gets too close to the edge again."

 "To the basement?"

 "Yup. Let's go."

"I got to get my stuff. Got to get my helmet and belt. You go to the door Nanny, I'll meet ya ... got to get the flashlight.. ." He runs to his room as I ring for the elevator.

Grayer glides back out into the vestibule just as the elevator door opens. "Oh, my God, Grove! All this for the basement?" He puts one sock-covered foot down to stop his skateboard in front of the elevator door. His bicycle helmet sits slightly askew and he has shoved a huge flashlight into his waistband, along with a yo-yo and what looks to be a monogrammed washcloth from his bathroom.

 "Okay, let's go," he says with complete authority.

"I'm thinking we should at least be wearing shoes for this adventure."

"Nah, don't need 'em." He rolls inside and the door closes behind both of us before I can catch it. "It's so cool down there, Nanny. Oh, man, oh, man." He nods his helmeted head in anticipation. Grayer has taken to peppering his commentary with "oh, mans" as of late, thanks to Christianson, a four-year-old of remarkable charisma who has a good foot in height over the rest of his classmates. In fact, when Al first made impact with the fateful orange glitter both Giselle's and Grayer's first utterance was a simultaneous "Oh, man."

The elevator stops at the lobby and Grayer rolls ahead of me, propelling himself with one foot, while keeping both hands on his waistband so that his packed pants don't succumb to gravity. By the time I catch up, he's already gotten Ramon to lead the way to the caged service elevator. "Ahh, Mr. Grayer. You must have important business down there, huh?"

Grayer is busy adjusting his tools and offers only a distracted "Yup."

Ramon smiles in his direction and then winks conspiratorially at me. "He's very serious, our Mr. Grayer. You got a girlfriend yet, Mr. Grayer?" The elevator jerks as we reach the basement. He slides the gate open and we step out into the bright, cold corridor, rich with the aroma of dryer sheets. "Cage 132-down to the right. Be careful now, don't get lost, or I'll have to come find you..." He winks again and, with a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows, pulls the door closed, leaving me beneath a dangling lightbulb.

"Grayer?" I yell down the corridor.

"Nanny! I'm waiting. Come onnnn!" I follow his voice around the maze of floor-to-ceiling cages lining the walls. Some are more packed than others, but each has the requisite luggage, ski equipment, and random pieces of bubble-wrapped furniture. I round the bend and see Grove lying on his stomach atop his skateboard under a sign that says 132, pulling himself along the wired wall by his hands. "Oh, man, it's gonna be so fun when Daddy comes home and does the tree. Caitlin gets us started and Daddy does the high-ups and we have hot chocolate in the living room."

"Sounds pretty cool. Here, I have the key," I say, holding it out toward him. He jumps up and down as I unlock the cage and then proceeds to deftly make his way in around the boxes. I let him lead as he's clearly made this trek before and I wouldn't know a storage locker from an Easy-Bake oven.

I sit down on the cold cement and lean back on the cage door facing that of the Xes. My parents used to daydream about storage space, sitting with both feet up on the trunk packed to bursting with our summer clothes that served as our coffee table. On occasion, we'd allow ourselves to talk about what we could do with one extra closet-much as a family in Wyoming might fantasize about winning the lottery.

"Do you know what you're looking for, Grove?" I call into the piles, as I haven't heard anything in a few minutes. Loud clanging noises break the silence. "Grayer! What's going on in there?" I start to stand up as his flashlight comes rolling out of the darkness and stops at my feet.

"Just getting my stuff out, Nanny! Turn the light on me, I'm going to get the blue box!" I click the high beam on and point it into the cage as directed, illuminating two dirtied socks and a little khaki rear end tunneling into the middle of the pile.

"Are you sure that's safe, Grayer? I think maybe I should ..." What, crawl in behind him?

"I got it. Oh, man, there's lotsa stuff back here. My skis! These are my skis, Nanny, for when we go to Aspirin."

"Aspen?"

"Aspen. Found it! Going to pass 'em out. Get ready. You get ready, Nanny, here they come." He is far into the boxes. I hear fumbling and then a glass ball comes flying out of the darkness at me. I drop the flashlight and catch it. It is handblown and has a Steuben mark on it, along with a red hook. Before I can look up another one comes flying out.

"GRAYER! FREEZE!" With the flashlight rolling around on the floor, casting a weird light on Grayer's boxes, I realize I've been letting Mickey Mouse run the show. "Back it up, mister, back it right on up. It's your turn to hold the flashlight."

"N oooooo."

"Gray-er!" It's the Wicked Witch voice.

"FINE!" He tunnels back out.

I hand him the flashlight. "Now let's try this again, only this time you'll be me and I'll be you."

When we get back up to the apartment Grayer marches ahead to establish a plan of attack while I gingerly set the box of ornaments down in the front hall.

"Nanny?" I hear a small voice call for me.

"Yes, G?" I follow him into the living room where a flamboyant Johnny Cash is on a ladder, decorating Grayer's tree.

"Pass me that box of doves," he says, not even turning to look at us. Grayer and I, standing safely by the door, survey the living room floor, which is littered with doves, gold leaves, Victorian angels, and strings of pearls.

"Get down. My dad does the high-ups."

"Hold on a sec, Grayer," I say as I pass off the birds to the man in black. "I'll be right back."

"You better get down or my daddy's gonna be mad at you," I hear Grayer challenge as I knock on Mrs. X's office door.

"Come in."

"Hi, Mrs. X? Sorry to bother you-" The room, ordinarily pristine, has been taken over by her "elfing" and stacks and stacks of Christmas cards.

"No, no, come in-what is it?" I open my mouth. "Have you met Julio? Isn't he a genius? I'm so lucky I got him-he is the the tree expert. You should see what he did at the Egglestons-it was just breathtaking."

"While I've got you, can I ask? Is a plaid taffeta skirt just too cliche for a Scottish Christmas party? I can't decide-"

"Oh! You should see-I bought the cutest twinsets today for Mr. X's nieces. I hope they're the right color. Would you wear winter-weight cashmere pastels?" She pulls out a TSE shopping bag. "I might exchange them-"

"I was just wondering," I cut in, "Grayer was really looking forward to decorating the tree. He said it was something he did with Caitlin last year and I was wondering if maybe I could just get him a small tree for his room that he could hang a couple of ornaments on, just for fun-"

"I really don't think it would be a good idea to be traipsing needles all over that part of the house." She searches for a solution. "If he wants a tree activity, why don't you take him to Rockefeller Center?"

"Well... Yeah, no, yeah, that's a great idea," I say as I open the door.

"Thanks-I'm just so overwhelmed!"

When I get back in the living room Grayer is holding a silver baby spoon on a string and tapping on Julio's ladder. "Hey! How about this? Where does this go?" he asks.

Julio looks down in disgust at the spoon. "That doesn't really gel with my vision-" Grayer's eyes start to well up. "Well, if you must. In the back. On the bottom."

"G, I've got a plan. Grab Al, I'll get your coat."

"Grandma, Grayer. Grayer, this is Grandma."

My grandmother crouches down in her black satin pajama pants, her pearls clicking together as she extends her hand. "Pleased to meet you, Grayer. And darling, you must be Al." Grayer blushes deeply. "Well, are we doing Christmas or what? Everybody in who wants rugelach."

"Thanks so much, Gran. We were in desperate need of a surface to decorate." The doorbell rings behind us as I reach to take off Grayer's coat.

"A surface! Don't be ridiculous." She reaches over Grayer's head to open the door and there stands a huge tree with two arms wrapped around it. "Right this way!" she says. "Now, Grayer," she whispers, "you cover Al's eyes. It's all about the surprise." We kick off our boots and follow closely behind them into the apartment. I've got to hand it to her-she has the deliveryman place it squarely in the middle of the living room. She sees him out and returns to join us.

"Grandma, you really didn't have to get a-"

"If you're going to do something, darling, then do it all the way. Now, Grayer, let me hit the special effects and we'll get this soiree started." Grayer holds his hands carefully over Al's eyes as my grandmother turns on Frank Sinatra-"Can't find Bing," she mouths- and hits the lights. She's lit candles all about the room, setting a beautiful glow around our family pictures, and as Frank croons "The Lady Is a Tramp," it's breathtaking.

She leans down to Grayer. "Well, sir, whenever you're ready, I believe Al should meet his tree." We both make drum-roll noises as Grayer takes his hands off Al's eyes and asks him exactly where he would like to hang out first.

An hour later the two of us are lounging on cushions beneath the green boughs, sipping hot chocolate, while Grayer relocates Al at whim.

"So, how's the drama with your H. H.?"

"I can't get a read on him. I want him to be different from those boys, but there's really no good reason why he would be. Of course, if I never see him again it's pretty irrelevant."

"Keep riding the elevator, dear. He'll show up. So, how are finals going?" she asks.

"Only one more and I'm done. It's been insane-the Xes have been out at Christmas parties every night. I only study after Grayer goes to sleep, which, ultimately, is probably better than trying to concentrate over the sounds of Charlene and her hairy boyfriend-" She looks at me. "Don't even get me started."

"Well, just don't wear yourself out. It's not worth it."

"I know. But the bonus is bound to be good this year-she's mentioned Paris."

"Oh la la, tres bien."

"Nanny, Al wants to know why Daddy isn't doing the high-ups," Grayer asks quietly from behind the tree. I look over at her, unsure how to answer him.

"Grayer"-she smiles at me reassuringly-"has Nan told you about wassailing?"

He emerges. "What did you say?" He comes up close to her and puts his hand on her knee.

"Wassailing, darling. When you wassail-you make Christmas! You, little Grayer, are the very best gift you can give. All you do is knock on someone's door, someone you want to share the joy of Christmas with, and when they open it you sing your heart out. Wassailing-you've got to try it!" He lies down next to me and we look up through the branches with our heads together on a pillow.

"Grandma, you show me. Sing something," he says. I turn my head and smile at her. From where we lie she seems to be glowing as she leans against the chaise surrounded by candles. She begins to sing along with her Frank to "The Way You Look Tonight." Grayer closes his eyes and I fall just a little bit more in love with her.

A week later, in excited pursuit of Mr. X, Mrs. X and Grayer march eagerly ahead of me along the same corridor I chased Grayer down at the Halloween party. Boughs of greens and twinkling colored lights now hang where fake cobwebs had been.

Mrs. X pushes Mr. X's heavy office door open.

"Darling, come in." He stands, backlit by the setting sun, which pours in through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind his desk. I am immediately struck by his capability to exude relaxed power in this room with the lights on as well as off. He looks through me in Grayer's general direction. "Hey, sport."

Grayer tries to hand off the bag of Christmas presents we've brought for the charity his father's company supports, but Mr. X has already picked up the blinking phone.

I take the presents and lean down to unbuckle Grayer's toggle coat.

"Justine said something about cookies in the conference room. Why don't you take Grayer down there? I have to take this call and then I'll join you," Mr. X instructs, his hand over the mouthpiece. Mrs. X drops her mink on the couch and we file back out toward the sound of Christmas carols coming from behind the double doors at the end of the hall.

Mrs. X is a sugarplum vision in her Moschino green suit with red holly-berry trim and mistletoe buttons. To top it off, the heels of her shoes are miniature snow globes with a reindeer in one and Santa in the other. I am just grateful not to be dressed up as Frosty the Snowman, and wear my Christmas-tree pin with pride.

With a grand smile she pushes the doors open into the conference room, at the far end of which sits a small gaggle of women, whom I assume to be secretaries, opening a tin of cookies and playing Alvin and the Chipmunks on a tape player.

"Ooh, I'm sorry. I'm looking for the Christmas party," Mrs. X says, Stopping short at the head of the table.

"Would you like a cookie? I made them myself," a jolly-looking robust woman with Christmas-tree-light earrings calls back.

"Oh." Mrs. X seems confused.

The doors swing open again, narrowly missing Grayer and me. I inhale sharply as Ms. Chicago steps in to join our cluster. She maneuvers around us to get to Mrs. X, her tight flannel suit leaving little more to the imagination than her Halloween costume did.

"I heard there were cookies," she says as a sturdy-looking brunette comes flying in behind her, pushing us all forward against the table.

"Mrs. X," the brunette says, slightly out of breath.

"Justine, Merry Christmas," Mrs. X greets her.

"Hi, Merry Christmas, why don't you come with me to the kitchen and we'll get some coffee?"

"Don't be silly, Justine." Ms. Chicago smiles. "There's coffee right here." She walks over to the chrome pot and pulls out a Styro-foam cup. "Won't you go see what's taking them so long with those numbers?"

"Are you sure you don't want to come with me, Mrs. X?"

"Justine." Ms. Chicago raises an eyebrow and Justine walks slowly back out the double doors.

"Are we early?" Mrs. X inquires.

"Early for what?" Ms. Chicago asks, pouring two cups of coffee.

"For the family Christmas party."

"That's next week-I'm surprised your husband didn't tell you. Shame on him!" She laughs, handing the coffee to her. Grayer squeezes past Ms. Chicago's exposed knees, swaggering down to the other end of the table to wow the secretaries out of a cookie.

Mrs. X stammers, "Well, um, my husband must have gotten the dates confused."

"Men," Ms. Chicago snorts.

Mrs. X shifts the Styrofoam cup to her left hand. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

"Lisa. Lisa Chenowith," Ms. Chicago smiles, "I'm Managing Director of the Chicago branch."

"Oh," Mrs. X says, "nice to meet you."

"I'm so sorry I couldn't get to your dinner party-I heard it was lovely. Unfortunately, that slave-driver husband of yours insisted I hightail it back to Illinois." She tilts her head to the side and smiles brilliantly like a canary-filled cat. "The gift bags were adorable- everyone just loves the pens."

"Oh, good." Mrs. X raises her hand protectively to her collarbone. "You work with my husband?" And with that I decide to make helping Grayer pick out the perfect reindeer cookie my personal mission.

"I'm heading up the team working on the Midwest Mutual merger. Isn't it awful? Well, I'm sure you know."

"Truly," Mrs. X says, but her voice rises, betraying her uncertainty.

"Getting them down to eight percent was such a coup. You must have had some sleepless nights over that one," she says, shaking her Titian hair in sympathy. "But I told him if we push the sell date up and save them the liquidation costs, they might bend-and they did. They bent right over."

Mrs. X stands very straight, her hand clenched tightly around the Styrofoam. "Yes, he's been working very hard."

Ms. Chicago struts to our end of the table, her lizard-skin pumps silent on the plush carpet. "And you're Grayer. Do you remember me?" she bends down to inquire.

Grayer places her. "You don't wear pants." Oh, sweet Jesus.

Just then the door opens and Mr. X strides in, his broad frame towering in the doorway. "Ed Strauss is on the phone-he wants to go over the contract," he calls down the table to Ms. Chicago.

"Fine," she says, smiling, as she walks slowly back up the room past Mrs. X. "Merry Christmas, everybody." As she reaches Mr. X she adds, "It was so lovely to finally meet your family."

His jaw clenched, Mr. X closes the door swiftly behind them.

"Daddy, wait!" Grayer attempts to follow him out of the room, but the Dixie cup of grape juice slips from his grasp, staining both his shirt and the beige carpet a deep purple. Mercifully, we all turn our attention to the spill, gathering paper napkins and seltzer. Grayer stands whimpering while multiple manicured hands dab at his front.

"Nanny, I'd really appreciate it if you kept a closer eye on him. Just get him cleaned up-I'll be waiting in the car," Mrs. X instructs, placing her untouched cup of coffee on the table, like Snow White putting down the apple. When she looks back up she has pasted on a beaming smile for the secretaries. "See you all next week!"

The next afternoon, having finished his lunch, Grayer announces our plans as he climbs down from his booster seat.

"Wassailing."

"What?"

"I want to wassail. I'm going to make my own Christmas. I knock on the door, you open it, and I sing my heart out." I'm amazed that he's retained this from our visit over a week ago, but my grandmother does have a way of nestling herself into people's memories.

"Okay, what door would you like me to stand behind?" I ask.

"My bathroom," he says over his shoulder as he heads off with purpose toward his wing. I follow him and position myself in the bathroom as directed. A few moments later I hear his little knock.

"Yes," I say, "who's there?"

"NANNY, you are just supposed to open the door! Don't talk, just open it!"

"Right. Ready when you are." I sit back on the toilet seat and start checking my hair for split ends, sensing that this game may be slow to get off the ground.

Again, a small knock. I lean forward and nudge the door open, almost knocking him over.

"NANNY, that's mean! You're trying to push me! I don't like that. Start over."

Eleven knocks later, I finally get it right and am rewarded with a screaming rendition of "Happy Birthday" that shakes the window-pane.

"Grover, why don't you try a little dancing while you wassail?" I ask when he finishes. "Really wow 'em?" I hope he might quiet down if he has to divert some energy to staying in motion.

"Wassailing is not dancing, it is singing your heart out." He puts his hands on his hips. "Close the door and I'll knock," he says, as if suggesting this routine for the first time. We play wassailing for about half an hour until I remember that Connie, the housekeeper, is here and sic Grayer on her. I hear him from across the apartment, screaming "Happy Birthday" over her roaring vacuum and after five rounds go back to collect what is rightfully mine.

"Want to play cars?"

"No. I want to wassail. Let's go back to my bathroom."

"Only if you dance, too."

"Oh, man, oh, man, there is NO dancing when I wassail!"

"Come on, mister, we're calling Grandma."

One short phone call later and Grayer is not only dancing and singing the actual "Here we come a wassailing among the leaves so green," which is infinitely less painful, but I have been inspired with a delicious plan.

As I give Grayer's wassailing outfit (green and red striped turtle-neck, felt reindeer antlers, candy-cane suspenders) a final once-over for "ultra wassailyness," Mrs. X comes bustling in, Ramon in tow, laden with boxes.

Her cheeks are rosy, her eyes are glistening. "Oh, it is a zoo out there, a zoo! I nearly got into a fight with a woman at Hammacher Schlemmer-put them down over there, Ramon-over the last ScrewPull, but I just let her have it, I thought there is no point descending to her level. I think she was from out of town. Oh, I found the most darling wallets at Gucci. Does Cleveland understand Gucci? I wonder-thank you, Ramon. Oh, I hope they like them- Grayer what have you been up to?"

"Nothing," he says, while practicing his soft-shoe by the umbrella stand.

"Before lunch we made unsweetened cookies and decorated them and then we've been practicing carols and I read him The Night Before Christmas in French," I say, trying to jog his memory.

"Oh, wonderful. I wish someone would read to me." She takes off her mink and nearly hands it to Ramon. "Oh, that's all, Ramon, thank you." She claps her hands together. "So, what are you up to now?"

"I was going to let Grayer practice his caroling-"

"WASSAILING!"

"-on some of the elderly in the building, who might appreciate a little holiday cheer!"

Mrs. X is beaming. "Oh, excellent! What a good boy you are and that'll keep him o-c-c-u-p-i-e-d. I have so much to do! Have fun!"

I let Grayer press for the elevator. "Which floor, Nanny?"

"Let's start with your friend on eleven."

We have to buzz three times before we hear "Coming!" from inside the apartment. As soon as the door opens it's apparent the hour and a half of "practicing" was well worth it. H. H. leans against the door frame in faded Christmas-tree boxers and a well-worn Andover T-shirt, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

"HERE WE COME A-WASSAILING.' AMONG THE LEAVES SO GREEN.'.'/" Grayer is red faced, swaying back and forth, with his jazz hands splayed and antlers waving. For a split second it crosses my mind that he might literally sing his heart out.

"LOVE AND JOY COME TO YOU.'.'.'" His voice ricochets around the vestibule, bouncing off every surface so that it sounds as if he's a chorus of emphatic wassailers. A wassailing riot. When it appears he has reached his conclusion, H. H. bends down and opens his mouth.

"AND GOD BLESS YOU.'.'.'" This move mistakenly places him at ground zero to be blasted with the spit and sweat of Grayer's effort, which is then followed by an even louder finale.

"Well, good morning to you, too, Grayer!"

Grayer collapses onto the vestibule floor, panting to catch his breath. I smile beguilingly. Make no bones about it; I am a girl with a mission. I am here to get a Date. A Real Date with a plan and a location and everything.

"We're caroling-" I begin.

"Wassailing," a small exasperated voice pipes in from the floor.

"Wassailing around the building."

"Can I have a cookie now?" Grayer sits up, ready to be rewarded for his efforts.

H. H. turns into his apartment. "Sure. Come on in. Don't mind my pajamas." Oh, if you insist. We follow his boxer-clad body into what is essentially the Xes' apartment, only two floors higher, and one would never guess that we were even in the same building. The walls in the front hall are painted a deep brick red and are decorated with National Geographic type black-and-white photographs between kilim tapestries. There are sneakers lining the floor and dog hair on the carpet. We make our way into the kitchen where we practically trip over a huge, graying yellow Lab lying on the floor.

"Grayer, you know Max, right?" Grayer hunkers down and with uncharacteristic gentleness rubs Max's ears. Max's tail animatedly pounds the tiles in response. I look around; instead of the large island that Mrs. X has in the middle of the room, there's an old refectory table piled high at one end with the Times.

"Cookies? Anyone want cookies?" H. H. asks, brandishing a Christmas tin of David's cookies that he has pulled from a teetering pile of holiday baked goods on the sideboard. Grayer runs over to help himself and I force myself to focus.

"Just one, Grover."

"Oh, man."

"Do you want milk with that?" He heads to the fridge and returns with a full glass.

"Thank you so much," I say. "Hey, Grayer, anything you want to say to our host?"

"Thanks!" he mumbles, his mouth full of cookie.

"No, man, thank you! It's the least I can do after such a powerful performance." He smiles over at me. "I can't remember the last time someone sang to me when it wasn't my birthday."

"I can do that! I can do 'Happy Birthday'-" He puts his glass down on the floor and places his hands into the jazz position in preparation.

"Whoa! We have done our fair share of wassailing already-" I put my hand out to shield us from another round.

"Grayer, it's not my birthday today. But I promise I'll let you know when it is." Teamwork, I love it.

"Okay. Let's go, Nanny. Got to wassail. Let's go now." Grayer hands H. H. his empty glass, wipes his gloved hand across his lips, and heads for the door.

I stand up from the table, not really wanting to leave. "I'm sorry I never caught up with you that night; their party ran really late."

"That's all right, you didn't miss anything. The Next Thing was having a private party, so we just ended up getting pizza at Ruby's." As in the Ruby's that is exactly twenty feet from my front stoop. The irony.

"How long are you home for?" I ask without batting an eyelash.

"NA-NNY. The elevator's here!"

"Just a week and then we go to Africa."

The elevator door waiting, my heart pounding. "Well, I'm around if you want to hang out this weekend," I say as I step in beside Grayer.

"Yeah, great," he says from the doorway.

"Great." I nod my head as the door slides closed.

"GREAT!" Grayer sings as a warm-up to our next performance.

Short of writing my number on a piece of paper and shoving it under his door, I leave 721 Park on Friday night knowing there is no way I am going to see H. H. before he leaves for Africa. Ugh.

That night I make Sarah, who's home for Christmas vacation, accompany me to a holiday party being given downtown by some guys in my class. The whole apartment is festively decorated in glowing jalapeno-pepper lights and someone has glued a cutout of a large penis onto the picture of Santa in the living room. It takes less than five minutes to decide that we don't want a Bud Light from the bathtub, a fistful of corn chips from a filmy bowl, or to take any of the frat boys up on their gracious offers of quick oral sex.

We head Josh off on the stairs.

"No fun?" he asks.

"Well," Sarah says, "I love to play strip quarters as much as the next girl, but-"

"Sarah!" Josh cries, giving her a hug. "Lead on!"

Several hours later find me doing a martini-sodden rendition of the wassailing story for Sarah in a corner booth at the Next Thing while Josh hits on some fashionista at the bar. "And then ... he gave him a cookie! That must mean something, right?" We do an interpretive dance of every subtle nuance of the entire five-minute exchange until we have completely wrung the encounter of any meaning it might possibly have had. "So then he said 'Great' and then I said 'Great.'"

Saturday morning I wake with my shoes still on, a killer hangover, and only one day to buy presents for my entire family, the Xes, and the many little people I've taken care of over the years. The Gleason girls have already sent over two glitter pens and a rock with my name painted on it-I've got to get my act together.

I wolf down tomato sauce on toast, drink a liter of water, grab a double shot of espresso on the corner, and ba-da-bing, I am alive with the Holiday Spirit.

An hour later I emerge from Barnes and Noble Junior a good $ 150 lighter, prompting me to do a little math as I walk down Park. Forget Paris, I'm going to need that stupid bonus just to pay off Christmas.

I walk down Madison to Bergdorf s to get a Rigaud candle for Mrs. X. It may be tiny, but at least she'll know it wasn't cheap. As I stand on line for the all-important stiver gift wrap I try to figure out what to get the four-year-old who has everything. What would make him really happy, short of his father actually making an appearance to do the high-ups? Well... a night-light, because he's scared of the dark. And maybe a bus-pass holder that could keep that card protected before it completely disintegrates.

As I'm on Fifty-eighth and Fifth, the logical thing would be to cross the street to FAO Schwarz's enormous Sesame Street section to find him a Grover night-light, but I can't, can't, can't.

I debate which would be faster, taking the train to a Toys "R" Us in Queens or navigating a few thousand square feet of bedlam just a block away. Against my better judgment, I drag myself across Fifth to wait in line with the entire population of Nebraska in the cold for over half an hour before being ushered into the revolving doors by a tall toy soldier.

"Welcome to our world. Welcome to our world. Welcome to our world of toys," blasts relentlessly from mysteriously placed speakers, making it sound as if the eerie, childlike singing is coming from within my own head. Yet it cannot drown out the tortured cries of "But I waaaant it!!  I neeeeed it!!" that also fill the air. And this is only the stuffed-animal floor.

Upstairs is total chaos; children are firing ray guns, throwing slime, sports equipment, and siblings. I look around at parents who share my "let's just get through this" expression and employees trying to make it to lunch without sustaining serious bodily injury. I slither to Sesame Street Corner where a little girl of about three has prostrated herself on the floor and is sobbing for injustice everywhere.

"Maybe Santa will bring you one, Sally."

"NoooOOOoooOOOOoooOOOooooooooOOOoooooOOOO!" she howls.

"Can I help you?" asks a salesgirl wearing a red shirt and glazed smile.

"I'm looking for a Grover night-light."

"Oh, I think we sold out of Grover." The last half hour of standing in line says you didn't. "Let's take a look." Yes, let's.

We go to the night-light section where we are faced with an entire wall of Grover. "Yeah, sorry, those went fast," she says, shaking her head as she begins to wander off.

"Yeah, this is one," I say, holding it up.

"Oh, is he the blue guy?" Yes, he's the blue guy. (Don't even get me started! No one at Barnes and Noble Junior had even heard of Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile. Come on, you work in a children's bookstore, it's not like I'm asking for Hustler.)

I take my place in line for gift wrap and use the opportunity to practice my transcendental meditation amid more children wracked with sobs.

On Monday morning Mrs. X pops her head into the kitchen while I'm cutting fruit. "Nanny, I need you to run an errand for me. I went to Saks to pick up the gifts for our help and, like a ninny, I forgot the bonus checks. So I've put handbags on hold and I'd like you to make sure that each check is put inside the right bag. Now, I've written it all down and the name of each person is on the outside of each envelope. Justine gets the Gucci shoulder bag, Mrs. Butters gets the Coach tote, housekeeper gets the LeSportsac and the Herve Chapeliers are for the piano and the French teachers. Make sure they gift-wrap everything and then just come home in a cab."

"No problem," I say, excitedly estimating where I fit in between Gucci and LeSportsac.

Tuesday afternoon Grayer has Allison over, an adorable Chinese girl from his class who will proudly tell anyone who asks, "I have two daddies!"

"Hello, Nanny," she always says, curtsying. "How's school? Love your shoes." She just kills me.

The phone rings as I'm rinsing out their hot carob mugs. "Hello?" I say, hanging the towel neatly on the oven door.

"Nanny?" I hear a tentative whisper.

"Yes," I whisper back, because one does.

"It's Justine, from Mr. X's office. I'm so glad I got you. Can you do me a favor?"

"Sure," I whisper.

"Mr. X asked me to go pick out some things for Mrs. X and I don't know her size or what designer she likes, or the colors." She sounds genuinely panicked.

"I don't know," I say, surprised to find I don't have her measurements committed to memory. "Wait, hold on." I go pick up the extension in the master bedroom.

"Justine?"

"Yes?" she whispers. Is she under her desk? In the ladies' room?

"Okay, I'm going in the closet." Her "closet" is actually a large chocolate-brown dressing room, complete with a long velvet bench. Mrs. X's paranoia is such that I'm sure she's convinced I not only snoop around in here on a daily basis, but am, in fact, wearing her underwear right now. On the contrary, I'm in a cold sweat and debate putting Justine on hold again so I can call Mrs. X on her cell phone to confirm that she's really, really far away.

Regardless, I start gently riffling the merchandise and answering

Justine's questions. "Size two ... Herrera, Yves Saint Laurent... Shoe size seven and a half, Ferragamo, Chanel... Her purses are Hermes-no outside pockets and she hates zippers ... I don't know, pearls, maybe? She likes pearls." And so on and so forth.

"You've been a lifesaver," she gushes. "Oh, one more thing. Is Grayer doing chemistry?"

"Chemistry?"

"Yeah, Mr. X told me to go buy him a chemistry set and some Gucci slippers."

"Right." We both laugh. "The Lion King," I say. "He loves anything to do with The Lion King, Aladdin, Winnie-the-Pooh. He's four."

"Thanks again, Nanny. Merry Christmas!" After clicking off I take one last look around at the tower of cashmere sweaters, each one wrapped with tissue and individually stored in its own clear drawer, the wall of shoes, each stuffed with a satin triangle, the racks of fall, winter, and spring suits, going from lightest to darkest, from left to right. I tentatively pull open a drawer. Each pair of panties, every bra, every pair of stockings, is individually packed in a Ziplock baggy and labeled: "Bra, Hanro, white," "Stockings, Fogal, black."

The doorbell rings and I jump about sixteen feet, panting with relief when I hear Grayer let Henry, Allison's father, in. I slide the drawer shut and walk calmly out to the hall, where a bemused Henry is watching Grayer and Allison trying to tag each other with their scarves.

"Okay, Ally, I have to get dinner started. Let's get it together." He finally catches her, steadying her between his knees to tie her scarf.

I hand over her small loden coat as Henry secures her hat and ushers her into the vestibule.

"Say good-bye to Allison, Grayer." I nudge him and he waves frenetically with both hands.

"Good-bye, Gray-er. Thank you for a lovely afternoon! Au revoir, Nanny!" she cries as the elevator opens.

"Thanks, Nan," Henry says, turning and accidentally swinging one of Allison's boots right into another member of the X family.

"Oh!" Mrs. X flinches.

"I'm so sorry," Henry says, as Allison buries her head in his neck.

"No, please, I'm fine. Did you all have a good time?"

"Yes!" Grayer and Allison shout.

"Well," Henry says, "I better get back and start dinner. Richard'll be home soon and I need to get the ornaments down."

"Your nanny's day off?" she asks with a knowing smile.

"Oh, we don't have a nanny-"

"You have two daddies to do the high-ups?" Grayer interrupts him.

"My goodness," Mrs. X says quickly, "however do you manage?"

"Well, you know, they're only this age once."

"Yes." She looks a little pinched. "Grayer, say good-bye!"

"I already did, Mommy. You're late."

The door slides shut.

Much later that night I ride down in the elevator half-asleep, entertaining the fantasy of walking along the Seine humming "La Vie en Rose." It's twenty past twelve on the twenty-second. Only twenty-four more hours to go until a month off and money in my pocket.

" 'Night, James," I say to the doorman, just as he opens the door for H. H., rosy cheeked and carrying a Food Emporium bag.

"Hey, there. Just get off work?" he asks, smiling.

"Yup." Please don't let me have steamed chard between my teeth.

"That was some fine wassailing. You train him?"

"Impressed?" I ask carefully with my upper lip curled down.

Enough patter, wher is the date?

"Listen," he says, loosening his scarf, "are you doing anything right now, 'cause I just have to run upstairs. My mom's in a Christmas baking frenzy and we ran out of vanilla."

Oh. Now?

Okay, now works for me.

"Yeah, great." As the numbers go from one to eleven and back again I quickly run to the beveled mirror and groom like a madwoman. I hope I'm not boring. I hope he's not boring. I try to remember if I shaved this morning. Ugh, I'll be so bummed if he's boring. And let's try not sleeping with him. Tonight. I'm applying a furtive swipe of lip gloss as the elevator approaches "L."

"Hey, have you eaten yet?" he asks as James opens the door for us.

" 'Night, James," I call over my shoulder. "It depends on what you mean by eating. If you consider a fistful of Goldfish and a few dry tortellini a meal then I'm stuffed."

"What are you up for?"

"Well." I think for a moment. "The only places with open kitchens right now are coffee shops and pizza. Take your pick."

"Pizza sounds good. Is that okay?"

"Anything not in this building sounds fabulous."

"Here, sit on my jacket," he says as he closes the empty pizza box. The Metropolitan Museum steps are cold and it's starting to seep up through my jeans.

"Thanks." I tuck his blue fleece under me and look down Fifth Avenue at the twinkling holiday lights of the Slanhope Hotel. H. H. pulls the container of Ben and Jerry's Phish Food out of a brown paper bag.

"So what's it like working on the ninth floor?"

"Exhausting and weird." I look back at him. "That apartment has all the holiday warmth of a meat locker and Grayer has a lone Styrofoam snowman hanging in his closet, because she won't let him put it anywhere else."

"Yeah, she's always struck me as a little high-strung."

"You have no idea, and with the holidays it's like working for a drill sergeant with ADD-"

"Come on, it can't be that bad." He nudges me with his knees.

"Excuse me?"

"I used to baby-sit in the building. You eat some food, play some games-"

"Oh, my God. That is not my job at all. I spend more time with this kid than anybody" I slide an inch away from him on the step.

"What about on the weekends?"

"They have somebody in Connecticut. They're only alone with him for the drive out and back-and they do that at night so he's asleep! There's no coming together. I thought maybe they were just waiting for a holiday, but apparently not. Mrs. X is having Christmas by herself at Barneys, so she's been sending us all over town, with the rest of America, mind you, just to get him out of the house."

"But there's so much cool stuff to do with a kid this time of year."

"He's four. He slept through the Nutcracker, the Rockettes scared the shit out of him, and he developed some kind of weird heat rash while waiting for three hours to see Santa at Macy's. But mostly we just stand in line for the bathroom. Everywhere. Not a cab to be found, not a-"

"Sounds like you have definitely earned some ice cream." He hands me a spoon.

I have to laugh. "I'm sorry, you're the first grown-up without shopping bags that I've talked to in a good forty-eight hours. I'm just a little Christmased out at the moment."

"Oh, don't say that. This is such an awesome time of year to be living in the city, all the lights and the people." He gestures to the sparkling Christmas decorations on Fifth Avenue. "It makes you appreciate that we're lucky enough to live here year round."

I dig into the carton, tracing a swirl of caramel. "You're right. Up until two weeks ago I would have said it was my favorite time of year." We pass the Phish Food back and forth and look over at the wreaths in the Stanhope's windows and the little white bulbs burning on the awning.

"You seem like a holiday kind of girl."

I blush. "Well, Arbor Day is really when I go all out."

He laughs. Oh, sweet God, you are hot.

He leans in. "So, do you still think I'm an asshole?"

"I never said you were an asshole." I smile back.

"Just an asshole by association."

"Well..." AAAAAAHHH!!!! HE'S KISSING ME!!!!!

"Hi," he says softly, his face still almost touching mine.

"Hi."

"Can we please start over and put Dorrian's really, really far behind us?"

I smile. "Hi, I'm Nan..."

"Nanny? Nanny!"

"Right. What?"

"Your turn. It's your turn." Poor G, this is the third time he's had to snap me back from the steps of the Met where my brain has taken up permanent residence.

I move my gingerbread man from an orange square to a yellow square. "Okay, Grove, but this is the last game and then we've got to try on those clothes."

"Oh, man."

"Come on, it'll be fun. You can do a little fashion show for me." The bed is piled with Grayer's wardrobe from last summer and we need to figure out what, if anything, still fits so that he can be properly outfitted for his vacation. I know putting together a resort wardrobe is hardly how he wants to spend his last afternoon with me, but orders are orders.

After we put away the game I kneel on the floor and help him in and out and in and out of shorts, shirts, swimming trunks, and the world's tiniest navy blue blazer.

"Owww! Too small! It hurts!" His arm chub has been compressed like a hot-dog bun with a rubber band around the middle by the little white Lacoste tee.

"Okay, okay, I'm getting you out, be patient." I peel him out of the shirt and hold up a stiff Brooks Brothers oxford.

"I don't like that one so much," he says, shaking his head, then, slowly, "I think . . . it's ... too .. . small," he says intently.

I look down at the buttons on the sleeve and the starched collar. "Yeah. I think you're right-way too small. You probably shouldn't wear it anymore," I say conspiratorially, folding the offending item and putting it on the reject pile.

"Nanny, I'm bored." He puts his hands on either side of my face. "No more shirts. Let's play Candy Land!"

"Come on, just one more, G." I help him into the blazer. "Now walk down to the end of the room and back-let me see how gorgeous you are." He looks at me like I'm crazy, but starts to walk away, looking back over his shoulder every few steps to make sure I'm not up to something.

"Work it, baby!" I shout when he reaches the wall. He turns and eyes me warily until I whip out an imaginary camera and pretend to take pictures. "Come on, baby! You're fabulous. Show it off!" He takes his jazz-hands pose at the end of the carpet. "Woohoo!" I catcall as if Marcus Shenkenberg had just lost his towel. He giggles, throwing himself into the show as we make pouty lips at each other.

"You're gorgeous, dahling," I say, leaning down to take off the blazer and kissing the air by both his cheeks.

"You'll be back really soon, right, Nanny?" He shakes his arm free. "Tomorrow?"

"Here, let's look at the calendar again so you can see how fast it's going to go and you'll be in the Bahamas-"

"Litferrr Cay," he corrects.

"Right." We lean in to look at the Nanny Calendar I made. "And then Aspen, where there'll be real snow and you can sled and make snow angels and a snowman. You're going to have an awesome time."

"Hello?" I hear Mrs. X call out. Grayer runs to the front hall and I take a moment to fold the last little shirt and then follow him.

"How was your afternoon?" she asks brightly.

"Grayer was a very good boy-we tried on everything," I say, leaning against the doorway. "The pile on the bed is the stuff that fits."

"Oh, excellent! Thank you so much."

Grayer is bouncing up and down in front of Mrs. X and pulling on her mink. "Come see my show! Come in my room!"

"Grayer, what have we discussed? Have you washed your hands?" she asks, evading his grasp.

"No," he answers.

"Well, then, should you be touching Mommy's coat? Now, if you sit on the bench I have a surprise for you from Daddy." She rummages through her shopping bags as Grayer slumps onto the paisley cushion. She pulls out a bright blue sweatsuit.

"Remember how you're going to big boy's school next year? Well, Daddy just loves Collegiate." She flips the sweatshirt around to reveal the orange lettering. I step forward to help Grayer pull it over his head. She stands back while I roll the sleeves up into little doughnuts at his wrists.

"Oh, you are going to make your daddy so happy." Grayer, delighted, whips out his jazz hands and starts to pose as he had done in the bedroom. "Honey, don't fling your arms about." She looks down at him in consternation. "It's weird."

Grayer looks to me for an explanation.

Mrs. X follows his gaze. "Grayer, it's time to say good-bye to Nanny."

"I don't want to." He stands in front of the door and crosses his arms.

I kneel down. "It's only for a few weeks, G."

"Noooooo! Don't go. You said we could play Candy Land. Nanny, you promised." The tears start to roll down his cheeks.

"Hey, you want your present now?" I ask. I go in the closet, take a deep breath, put on a big smile, and pull out the shopping bag I brought with me.

"This is for you, Merry Christmas!" I say, handing Mrs. X the Bergdorf's box.

"You shouldn't have," she says, setting it down on the table. "Oh, yes, we have something for you, too."

I look surprised. "Oh, no."

"Grayer, go get Nanny's present." He runs off. I pull the other box out of the bag. "And this is for Grayer."

"Nanny, here's your present, Nanny. Merry Christmas, Nanny!" He comes running in holding a Saks box and thrusts it at me.

"Oh, thank you!"

"Where's mine?! Where's mine?!" He jumps up and down.

"Your mom has it and you can open it after I leave." I quickly pull on my coat as Mrs. X is already holding the elevator.

"Merry Christmas," she says as I get in.

"Bye, Nanny!" he says, waving wildly, like a marionette.

"Bye, Grayer, Merry Christmas!"

I can't even wait till I get outside. I'm imagining Paris and handbags and many trips to Cambridge. First I open the gift tag.

I rip the wrapping paper, pull the box apart, and start grabbing fistfuls of tissue.

There's no envelope. Oh, my God, there's no envelope! I shake the box upside down. Tons of tissue comes cluttering out and then something black and furry falls to the elevator floor with a thud. I drop to my knees, like a dog over a bone. I reach down, pushing the mess I've made aside to uncover my treasure and it's earmuffs. Only earmuffs.

Just earmuffs.

Earmuffs!

EARMUFFS!!

. and ... and

Mamnvy felt that she owned the O'Haras, body and soul, that their secrets were her secrets; and even a hint of mystery was enough to set her upon the trail so recklessly as a bloodhound.

-GONE WITH THE WIND