We Regret to Inform You

On Monday at noon I wait in the school courtyard, having watched Mrs. Butters pat each of her heavily bundled students on the head and send them off to waiting nannies, and still no Grayer.

"Mrs. Butters?" I ask.

"Yes?"

"Was Grayer in school today?"

"No." She grins at me.

"Okay, thanks," I say.

"Sure."

"Great."

"Well, then .. ." She nods her head, indicating this productive exchange is over and toddles back into the building, her velvet patchwork scarf blowing out behind her. I stand for a moment, unsure of what to do. I am just reaching for my cell phone when suddenly I am dealt a stunning blow to the back of my leg.

"Hi-yaa!"

I turn to see a small woman reproving a very large boy crouched in a menacing karate stance. "No, Darwin," she says, "no chopping the people."

"Where's Grayer? I want to play with his toys."

"I'm sorry, can I help you?" I say, rubbing my leg.

She gently pushes the boy's fingers off her face while patiently replying, "I am Sima. This is Darwin. We were supposed to play with Grayer today."

"I want to see his toys. NOW!" her charge screams up at me with both hands in a karate stance.

"It's nice to meet you, Sima. I'm Nanny. I guess Grayer must have stayed home today, but I didn't know he had a play date. Let me just call his mother." I dial the number, but Mrs. X's voice mail picks up and I click off. "Okay, well, let's go home, then!," I say, trying to be cheerful, but unsure of what we'll find once we get there. I help Sima with Darwin's bag and we trek through the slush to 721. I take an instant dislike to Darwin, as I have spent all of three minutes with him and am already in a perpetual state of flinching. Sima, on the other hand, is completely soft, almost graceful, in her efforts to deflect Darwin's chops.

I stick my key in the door and open it slowly, calling, "Hello? I'm here with Darwin and Sima!"

"Oh, my," Sima murmurs beside me as we make eye contact. The stench of roses is overwhelming. While Mr. X failed to return from what is becoming the longest business trip on record, he has, in his absence, been sending two dozen long-stemmed roses to 721 Park every morning since Valentine's Day. Mrs. X refuses to have them in her or Grayer's wing, but also can't seem to bring herself to throw them out. More than thirty vases fill the living room, dining room, and kitchen. Consequently, the air-conditioning is on, but that only seems to blow the cloying stench from one side of the apartment to the other.

Based on what I've pieced together from the florist cards, Mr. X promised to take his wife and child out to Connecticut this past weekend for "family time," making the last two heavenly days the first weekend I've had completely off in the month since Valentine's. "GRAYER! GRAAYYRR!" Darwin bellows at the top of his lungs before ripping away from his coat and running in the direction of Grayer's room.

"Please take your coat off and have a seat, I'll just go check with Grayer's mom and let her know that we're home." I put his bag down next to the bench in the front hall and slip my boots off.

"That's okay. I'll just keep my coat on, thank you." Her smile tells me that I don't need to explain the frigid temperature or the mortuary flowers. I attempt to weave my way around the vases toward Mrs. X's office, only to find it empty.

I follow the sound of the boys' hyena giggles to Grayer's room, where his bed is serving as a barricade in the war between a pajama-clad Grayer and Darwin. "Hi, Grover."

He's busy bombing Darwin with stuffed animals and looks up only briefly to acknowledge me. "Nanny, I'm hungry. I want breakfast now!"

"You mean lunch? Where's your mom?" He dives to avert a flying stuffed frog.

"I dunno. And I mean breakfast!" Huh.

I find Connie in Mr. X's office, turning Grayer's fort back into a couch. The room is the messiest I've seen any part of the apartment since I've been here. Small plates with leftover pizza crusts line the floor and every Disney video is strewn about, separate from its case. "Hey, Connie. How was your weekend?" I ask. "You're lookin' at it." She gestures to the mess. "I was here all weekend. Mr. X didn't show, and she don't want to be alone with Grayer. She made me come all the way back from the Bronx at eleven Friday night. I had to take my kids over to my sister's.

Wouldn't even pay for a taxi. She didn't say boo to that boy all weekend." She picks up a plate. "Last night I finally just told her I had to go home, but she didn't like it."

"Oh, my God, Connie, I'm so sorry. That sucks. She should've called me-I could at least have done the nights."

"What? And let the likes of you know she can't get her own husband home?"

"Where is she?"

She points me toward the master bedroom. "Her Highness came in an hour ago and went straight to her room."

I knock on the door. "Mrs. X?" I ask tentatively. I push it open and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. She is sitting on the ecru carpet, surrounded by shopping bags, her flannel nightgown peeking out from under her fur coat. The heavy grosgrain shades are drawn.

"Could you close the door?" She leans back against the bureau, breathing deeply into a wad of lavender tissue paper pulled from one of the bags. She wipes her nose and looks up at the ceiling. Afraid that anything that I ask will be the wrong question, I wait for her to lead.

She stares off into the darkness and then asks in a flat voice, "How was your weekend, Nanny?"

"Okay-"

"We had a great weekend. It was ... fun. Connecticut was beautiful. We went sledding. You should've seen Grayer and his father. It was adorable. Really, a great weekend."

O-kaaay.

"Nanny, is there any way you could come tomorrow morning and just..." She seems exhausted. "Maybe help Grayer get off to school. He's just so ... He wanted his pink pants and I didn't have the strength-"

"I SHOT YOU! YOU SHOULD BE DEAD!"

"NO! YOU ARE DEAD! DIE! DIE!"

The boys' voices get louder, as does the sound of stuffed animals being pelted down the hall.

"Nanny, take them out. Just. .. take them to the museum or something. I can't... I need to-"

"DIE NOW! I SAID DIE!"

"Absolutely. We can totally take them out. Can I get you any-"

"No. Please, just go." Her voice catches and she grabs more tissue from her bags.

As I gingerly close the door behind me, Grayer jumps out at the far end of the long hall. His eyes go to the door and then to me. He hurls his Winnie-the-Pooh at my head with a little too much force.

I take a quick breath. "All right, tough guy, let's get you dressed." I take his hand, leading him and Winnie back to his room.

"You have pajamas on, stupidhead," Darwin offers supportively as I hustle Grayer toward the closet.

In addition to putting on his current uniform of choice, the Collegiate sweatsuit he's been wearing almost daily since Christmas, he pulls one of his father's ties off a hook and loops it around his neck.

"No, Grove, you can't wear that," I say. Darwin tries to grab it out of his hands. "No, Darwin, that's Grayer's tie."

"See? See?" Grayer says victoriously. "You said it. It's mine. My tie. Mom said. She gave it to me." Not wanting to go back in her room to get the real story, I fix a quick knot, letting the tie dangle low beside his business card.

"All right, fellas, shake a leg. We got places to be, things to do! I have a very exciting afternoon planned, but the first one with his coat on will be the first to find out about it!" The boys scramble past me to tackle the floral obstacle course. I grab an armful of the stuffed toys off the floor and toss them back onto the bed on my way out.

In the front hall Sima is attempting to keep Darwin from smothering Grayer, who is flattened against the door. "He must breathe, Darwin."

"So, I was thinking, maybe Play Space?" I announce, realizing I still have my coat on as Darwin releases Grayer.

"YEAH!" The boys jump up and down on top of each other.

"Okay." Sima nods. "Play Space sounds very good." I hand her Darwin's jacket and pull on my boots.

While there are two Play Spaces, one on East Eighty-fifth and one on Broadway in the Nineties, we head up to the one on the East Side, as it has marginally cleaner sand. These indoor playgrounds are Manhattan's version of a fully equipped basement rec room. And, like everything else in the big city, it's for rent. So, similar to motels with hourly rates, a twenty gets you and your charge a good two hours to exhaust each other on their equipment.

Sima stands on the sidewalk with the boys while I get the strollers out of the trunk of the cab.

"IS NOT!"

"IS TOO!"

"Can I help you?" she asks, evading Darwin's kick.

"No," I grunt. "That's okay." I'm just grateful to be out of his reach.

I maneuver the strollers to the sidewalk and we each grab a small hand. Probably to deter perverts from window-shopping, the Space is up on the second level and can only be reached by climbing an enormous, blue-carpeted staircase of child-size stairs that seems to stretch all the way up to wherever nannies go when they die. Grayer, undaunted, grabs the child-height railing and starts hauling himself up.

"Darwin, go up. Go up," Sima instructs. "Not down. Up." Darwin, completely disregarding her, plays some sort of leapfrog game that threatens to throw the methodical Grayer backward into a neck-breaking fall. I follow closely behind, dragging the collapsed strollers, my heels hanging off the edge of each stair.

When we eventually get to the top I park the strollers in the Stroller Corral and prepare to check in. Because of the inclement weather the place is packed and we get on a long line of overbundled children, exasperated nannies, and the occasional mother putting in her hour of quality time.

"Elizabeth, we can make wee-wee after we check in. Please just hold it!"

"Hello and welcome to Play Space! Who's checking in?" an overenthusiastic man in his mid-thirties asks from behind the bright red counter.

"He is!" I say, pointing down at Grayer. The man looks confused. "We are," I say, passing him Mrs. X's membership card. He looks her up in the files and once I hand over twenty dollars we each get name tags for ourselves and one to put on the stroller in case it wants to make friends.

"Hello, my name is Grayer. I'm with Nanny," his reads.

"Hello, my name is Nanny. I'm with Grayer," mine reads. We are instructed to wear them prominently and I plaster mine directly over my left ventricle, while Grayer prefers to stick his on the edge of his shirt, just above the dangling card and next to his father's tie. After Sima and Darwin are similarly linked, the four of us go and put our coats in our designated cubbies, along with our boots. In the food area I fork over another twenty for our lunch-two small peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and two juice boxes.

"DIE! DIE!"

"KILL HIM IN HIS BLOODY HEAD!"

"All right, enough already!" The Wicked Witch has a headache. "If you two can't eat lunch like nice, peace-loving young gentlemen, Darwin and Sima will have to sit at another table." They manage to argue in dulcet tones for the remainder of the meal while Sima and I exchange wan smiles across the table. She picks at her bologna sandwich and I make a few attempts to begin a conversation, but Darwin chooses these opportune moments to fling Goldfish in her face.

Before we can release them into the pen we go wash hands. The Technicolor bathrooms all have little sinks, low toilets, and high latches. Grayer pees like a champ and then lets me push up his sleeves so he can wash his hands.

"NO! I DON'T WANT TO! YOU DO IT! YOU PEE!" We can hear Darwin in the next bathroom.

I lean over and kiss Grayer on the top of his head. "Okay, G, let's hit the slopes," I say, as I pass him a paper towel so he can dry his hands and whatever else got sprayed by the sink.

"Daddy says that in Aspirin."

"Does he. Come on." I throw out the towel and extend my hand, but he doesn't move.

"When's my daddy taking me to Aspirin?" he asks.

"Oh, Grove ..." I crouch down. "I don't know, I'm, not sure if you are going skiing this year." He continues to look at me questioningly. "Have you asked your mom?"

He angles his body away from me, crossing his arms over the tie. "My mom says not to talk about him, so don't. Don't talk about him."

"Grayer, come on!" Darwin yells, kicking the door at its base.

"Hey! People have to pee out here!" A woman starts pounding above him.

"Grover, if you have questions, it's always okay to-" I say, standing and unlatching the door.

"Don't talk to me," he says, running past me to join Darwin by the gate.

"You have some nerve!" The woman who's been waiting hustles her child past me to the toilet. "I think it's unconscionable to keep a little girl waiting that long!" She narrows her heavily made-up eyes at me. "Who do you work for?" I take in her shellacked hair, her inch-long fingernails, her Versace blouse. "I mean it, who do you work for?"

"God," I mutter, pushing past her to let Grayer into the pen.

Sima and I lift the boys onto the bright blue slide. I look over at her to gauge if she's one of those caregivers who feel compelled to stay within two feet of their charges at all times, tagging along on every move.

"I think they should ..." she says, pausing, clearly trying to read me, as well.

I nod, waiting for the sign.

"... be okay if they are together? What do you think?"

"I agree," I say with relief, given Grayer's mood and Darwin's aggression. "Can I treat you to dessert?"

Once we've settled at a table in full view of the slide, I pass Sima a cupcake and a napkin. "I'm glad you don't mind letting the boys play. I usually try to set Grayer free and then come up here where I can keep an eye on him and do my homework. But there's always some nosy caregiver who's, like, 'Um, Grayer's in the ... sandbox.' And I'm supposed to fly across the room with a cry of 'Not... THE SANDBOX!' " I laugh, covering my mouth to keep crumbs from falling out.

Sima giggles. "Yesterday, at a play date, the mother wanted me to color with Darwin, but if I put my crayon on his drawing, he screams. But she made me sit there all afternoon, holding the crayon near the paper." She unwraps her cupcake. "Have you been with Grayer for very long?"

"Seven months-since September. How about you?" I ask in return.

"Two years now I have been with Mr. and Mrs. Zuckerman." She nods her head and her dark hair falls in front of her face. I'm guessing that she's in her early forties. "We used to play with the other girl, she was very nice. What was her name?" She smiles and takes a sip from her miniature carton of milk.

"Caitlin. Yeah, I think she went back to Australia."

"She had a sister there who was very sick. In the hospital. She was saving up to visit her last time we had a play date."

"That's terrible, I had no idea. She was wonderful, Grayer still really misses her-" Out of the corner of my eye I see Darwin, poised on the yellow plastic step above Grayer, pulling Mr. X's tie taut around G's neck. For a brief moment Grayer's choking-his face turning red as he reaches up his hands to clutch at his throat.

Then the knot of the tie gives way in one swift tug. Darwin rips it from around Grayer's red neck and runs, laughing, to the other side of the room, disappearing into the climbing apparatus. Sima and I leap up, dispatching ourselves to the opposing fronts.

"Grove, it's okay," I call out as I approach.

He gives forth a blast of rage toward Darwin that silences the entire room. "GIVE THAT BACK!! THAT'S MY DADDY'S!! GIVE IT BACK!!!!!!!" He starts to sob and shake. "MY DADDY'S SO MAD AT YOU!! HE'S SO MAD!!!!"

He collapses, shaking with the force of his tears. "My daddy's so mad, he's so mad."

I pull him onto my lap and start murmuring in his ear as I rock him. "You are such a good boy. Nobody is mad at you. Your daddy's not mad at you. Your mommy's not mad at you. We all love you so much, Grove."

I carry him up to the food area, where Sima is waiting with the tie.

"I... want," he gasps, his breath coming in gulps, "my.. . mommy." I knot the tie gently around his neck and help him up onto one of the green benches next to me, making a pillow for him with my sweater.

"Sih-muh? Are you Sih-muh?" the woman from the bathroom asks.

"Yes?"

"Your Darwin is on the slide by himself," she announces.

"Thank you." Sima smiles graciously.

"By him-self," the mother says again, as if Sima is deaf.

"Okay, thank you." Sima rolls her eyes at me, but goes over to make sure Darwin doesn't somehow hurt himself on the three-foot slide, while I rub Grayer's back as he falls asleep.

I watch as she reaches out a hand to help Darwin place his legs over the top in preparation for his descent. He rejects her offer by smacking her squarely on the head, then laughs and flies down the slide. She stands for a moment with both hands on her head and then walks slowly back to our table and sits down.

"Darwin seems a little intense," I say. Actually, he seems like a potential homicidal maniac, but she must have stayed for a reason and ten dollars an hour isn't enough to subject oneself to gross bodily harm.

"Oh, no. He's just having a lot of anger because he has a new baby brother at home." She reaches up to rub her head.

"Have you ever talked to them about how he hits you?" I ask tentatively.

"No. Well, they are so busy with the new baby. And he can be a very good boy." She takes little breaths as she speaks. This is hardly the first time I've seen this; every playground has at least one nanny getting the shit kicked out of her by an angry child. Clearly she doesn't want to talk about it, so I change the topic.

"You have such a beautiful accent." I fold up the wrapper from my cupcake into a little square.

"I moved here from San Salvador two years ago." She wipes her hands with a napkin.

"Do you still have family there?" I ask.

"Well, my husband and sons are there." She blinks a couple of times and looks down.

"Oh," I say.

"Yes, we all came together, to find work. I was an engineer in San Salvador. But there were no more jobs and we hoped to make money here. Then my husband was rejected for the green card and had to go back with our sons, because I could not work and take care of them."

"How often do you see them?" I ask as Grayer shifts fitfully in his sleep.

"I try to go home for two weeks at Christmastime, but this year Mr. and Mrs. Zuckerman needed me to go to France." She folds and unfolds Darwin's sweater.

"Do you have pictures of your children? I bet they're beautiful." I am not sure what the positive spin is on this situation or where to take this conversation. I know if my mom were here she would have already rolled Sima up in the Story Time rug and smuggled her to the first safe house she could find.

"No, I don't keep a picture on me. It's too ... hard . . ." She smiles. "Someday when Grayer comes to play at Darwin's house, I will show you then. What about you? Do you have children?"

"No. Me? No, thank God." We both laugh.

"A boyfriend, then?"

"I'm working on that," and I begin to tell her about H. H. We share slices of our own stories, the parts of our lives the Zuckermans and the Xes neither partake in nor know about, amid all the bright lights and colors, surrounded by a cacophony of screaming. It starts to snow outside the big windows and I tuck my stocking feet beneath me while she rests her chin on her outstretched arm. Thus I while away the afternoon with a woman who has a higher degree than I will ever receive, in a subject I can't get a passing grade in, and who has been home less than one month in the last twenty-four.

For the past week I've been arriving at seven to dress Grayer for school, before dropping him off with Mrs. Butters and running madly down to class. Mrs. X never emerges from her room in the mornings and is out every afternoon, so I was surprised when Connie told me she was waiting for me in her office.

"Mrs. X?" I knock on the door.

"Come in." I push the door open with slight trepidation, but find her seated at the desk, fully dressed in a cashmere cardigan and slacks. Despite her best efforts with cream blush, she still looks drawn.

"What are you doing home so early?" she asks.

"Grayer had a run-in with some green paint so I brought him home to change before ice skating-" The phone rings and she motions for me to stay.

"Hello?. . . Oh, hi, Joyce ... No, the letters haven't come yet... I don't know, slow zip code, I guess . .." Her voice still sounds hollow. "All the schools she applied to? Really? That's fabulous ... Well, which one are you going to choose?.. . Well, I don't know as much about the girls' schools... I'm sure you'll make the right decision ... Excellent. Bye."

She turns back to me. "Her daughter got into every school she applied to. I don't get it, she isn't even cute . . . What were you saying?"

"The paint-don't worry, he wasn't wearing the Collegiate sweatshirt when it happened. He made a really beautiful tree picture-"

"Doesn't he have a change of clothes at school?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry-he used them last week when Giselle dumped glue on him and I forgot to replace it."

"What if he hadn't had time to change?"

"I'm sorry. I'll bring it tomorrow." I start to leave.

"Oh, Nanny?" I stick my head back in. "While I've got you, I need to have a talk with you about Grayer's applications. Where is he?"

"He's watching Connie dust." Your chair-rail moldings. With a toothbrush.

"Good, have a seat." She gestures to one of the upholstered wing chairs across from her desk. "Nanny, I have something terrible to tell you." She casts her eyes down to her hands twisting in her lap.

I can't breathe. I brace myself for panties.

"We got some very bad news this morning," she says slowly, struggling to get the words out. "Grayer got rejected from Collegiate."

"No." I quickly wipe the look of relief off my face. "I don't believe it."

"I know-it's just awful. And, to make matters even worse, he's been wait-listed at St. David's and St. Bernard's. Wait-listed." She shakes her head. "So now our fingers are crossed for Trinity, but if, for some reason, that too doesn't work out, then we're just going to be left with his safeties and I'm not enthusiastic about the college placements at those schools."

"But he's adorable. He's smart and articulate. He's funny. He shares well. I just don't get it." I mean, lose the tie, what's not to love about this kid?

"I've been going over everything all morning, just trying to make sense of it." She looks out the window. "Our application coach told us he was a shoo-in for Collegiate."

"My father did say this was the most competitive year they've ever had. They were inundated with qualified applicants and probably had to make some really tough choices." Keeping in mind that the applicants are four and you can't exactly ask them if they have any thoughts on the federal deficit or where they see themselves in five years.

"I thought your father liked Grayer when he met him," she asks pointedly, referring to the rainy afternoon I took him over to my house to pet Sophie.

"He did. They sang 'Rainbow Connection' together."

"Hmmm. Interesting."

"What?"

"No, nothing. Just interesting, that's all."

"My dad's not really involved at all with the admissions process."

"Right. Well, I wanted to talk to you because I'm concerned that dressing him in that Collegiate sweatshirt may have set Grayer's expectations in a certain direction and I want to ensure that-" She's interrupted by the phone. "Hold on." She answers it. "Hello? Oh, hi, Sally .. . No, our letters haven't come yet... Oh, Collegiate. Congratulations, that's excellent... Well, Ryan's a very special little boy . . . Yes, that would be great. I know Grayer would love to go to school with Ryan ... Yes, dinner would be lovely . .. Oh, the four of us? I'll have to check my husband's schedule. Let's talk after the weekend... Great. Bye!" She takes a deep breath and clenches her jaw. "Where was I?"

"Grayer's expectations?"

"Oh, yes. I'm concerned that your encouragement of his fixation on Collegiate may have set him up for a potentially deleterious self-esteem adjustment."

"I..."

"No, please don't feel bad. It's really my fault for allowing you to do it. I should have been more on top of you." She sighs and shakes her head. "But I spoke to my pediatrician this morning and he suggested a Long-term Development Consultant who specializes in coaching parents and caregivers through this transition. She'll be coming by tomorrow while Grayer's in piano and she's asked to speak with you separately to assess your role in his development."

"Great. That sounds like a good idea." I go through the doorway. "Urn." I stick my head back in. "Should I not let him wear it today?"

"What?" She reaches for her coffee.

"The sweatshirt."

"Oh. Well, he can wear it today and then we'll let the consultant tell us how to handle this situation tomorrow."

"Okay, great." I go back out to where Grayer, seated in the banquette, is watching Connie polish the stove, while absentmindedly playing with the tie around his neck, and wonder if perhaps we're not focusing on the wrong piece of apparel.

I sit in the chair next to Mrs. X's desk, waiting for the consultant, and surreptitiously try to read, upside down, the notes scrawled on Mrs. X's notepad. Even though it's probably nothing more than a glorified grocery list, the fact that I have been left alone in here makes me feel as if I should be covert. If I had a camera hidden in a button on my sweater I would frantically try to photograph everything on the desk. I'm starting to make myself laugh at the idea of it when the woman enters, briefcase first.

"Nanny." She reaches out to firmly shake my hand. "I'm Jane. Jane Gould. How are you today?" She speaks just a little too loudly, eyeing me over her glasses as she puts her briefcase down on Mrs. X's desk.

"Fine, thanks. How are you?" I am suddenly very cheerful and also a little too loud.

"Just fine. Thank you for asking." She crosses her arms over her cranberry-colored blazer and nods rhythmically at me. She has very big lips made up in the exact same cr............