Frosting on the Cake

Connie,
 Rather than ironing Grayer's sheets today, I'd like you to pack the following items for Mr. X.
His suits
Shirts
Ties
Underwear
Socks
      And anything else he uses.  These items should be packed and down with the doorman by three o'clock.  Please see that ou only use his luggage (see monogram).
 
"Nanny, have you seen Grayer's bow tie? I put it out last night." Mrs. X and Grayer are due at the April Tea for New St. Bernard's Families in twenty minutes. Mrs. X is rummaging through Grayer's drawers while I try to wrestle him into an ultrastarched oxford, complete with stays in the collar, and Connie, I assume, is somewhere in Mr. X's closet filling his monogrammed luggage.

"I need an elephant," Grayer says, pointing to the sketch pad on his diminutive table.

"One second, Grayer," I say, "Let me buckle your belt-"

"No, not that one." She sticks her head out from Grayer's walk-in closet.

"That's the one you put out." I add, "On the bed. Sorry."

"It doesn't go."

Kneeling down in front of him, I look him over-blue pinstriped shirt, khaki pants, white socks, brown belt. I don't see the problem, but I unbuckle him.

"Here," she says, handing me a green and red striped canvas belt.

I point down at the belt buckle. "See, G for Grayer."

"G?" he asks, looking down. "I need my card." I reach for the bus-pass holder on the dresser, which contains the vestiges of Mr. X's business card.

"No," she says, emerging from the closet. "Not today. It's like the interviews. Remember the interviews? No card."

"I want my card!"

"You can keep it in your pocket like a secret agent," I say, tucking it out of sight.

"I still can't find his f-ing bow tie."

"Nanny, I need an elephant." I pick up a gray crayon and draw an amorphous blob with big ears and a trunk, the extent of my artistic expertise. She starts throwing ties out of the closet.

"I want to wear my tie," he says, referring to the one that hangs to the floor.

"No. Not today." She goes storming out into the entrance hall where I can hear her voice echo off the marble. "CONNIE! CONNIE.'"

"Yes, ma'am?" Grayer is quiet, I keep my crayon in motion.

"I have just spent half an hour looking for Grayer's bow tie. Do you happen to know where it is?"

"No, ma'am."

"Is it too much to ask that you keep track of Grayer's clothes? Do I have to be on top of everything? The one thing I delegate to you-" She sighs heavily and then there's a moment of silence. "Why are you standing there? Go look for it!"

"I'm sorry, I just don't know where it could be, ma'am. I put it in his room with the other ones."

"Well, it's not there. And this is the second time that a piece of Grayer's clothing has gone missing this month. Now, if you're feeling that this is all too much responsibility for you, I'm sure we can rethink your role here."

"No, ma'am. I'll look for it. It's just that the clothes, need to be packed by three and it's two-thirty now. If Mr. X needs them-"

"Are you questioning who you work for? You work for me. And I am telling you to look for the tie. And if this confuses you, please let me know. Because, as far as I can recall, I am the one who pays you!"

I stand up shakily and start going through Grayer's closet myself. He comes and stands beside me, leaning his head against my hip. Connie joins us in Grayer's room, pulling the closet door further open.

"Connie, I'll look here," I say softly. "You take the laundry room."

As she crosses back through the front hall Mrs. X continues. "We could call Mr. X and see which he gives more of a shit about, whether his clothes get packed or whether his son has the right fucking tie to wear to his new school! Maybe he'll talk to you. Maybe he'll take your call, Connie."

"I'm sorry, ma'am." Five minutes of thorough, breathless searching uncovers nothing.

"Anything?" Mrs. X's face appears where she has lifted the dust ruffle.

"No, sorry," I say from under Grayer's bed.

"Goddammit! Grayer, come on, we have to go. Just put him in the one with the green polka dots." I slide out on my stomach.

"I want my daddy's tie!" He tries to reach for the peg where his father's tie hangs.

"No, G. You can wear it later." I gently pull his hand away, trying to motivate him toward the door.

"I want it now!" He starts to sob, red blotches appearing on his face.

"Shh, please, Grove?" I kiss his damp cheek and he stands still, tears making their way down into the starched collar. I straighten the knot and go to take him in my arms, but he pushes me away.

"No!" And he runs out of the room.

"Nanny?" Mrs. X calls, shrilly.

"Yes?" I walk to the hall.

"We'll be back at four in time for ice skating. Connie?" She shakes her head as Connie emerges from the laundry room, as if she is simply too disgusted and disappointed to speak. "I just don't know what to say. It seems to me we are having these sorts of problems on a regular basis now and I need you to do some serious thinking about your commitment level to this job-"

Mrs. X's cell phone emits a sharp ring.

"Hello?" she answers while motioning for me to help her on with her mink. "Oh, hi, Justine ... Yes, they'll be down by three ... Yes, you can tell him she's packed everything ..." She walks away from us into the vestibule. "Oh, Justine? Could you see that I get his room number at the Yale Club?... In case Grayer has an emergency and I need to get a hold of him . .. Well, why would I call you? She takes a deep breath. "Well, I'm glad you see that doesn't make any sense ... Frankly, I don't want your apology. What I want is my husband's phone number ... I refuse to discuss this with you!" She slams her cell phone closed with such force that it drops to the marble floor.

Both women kneel to grab the phone just as the elevator door opens, but Mrs. X gets there first. With a shaking hand she picks it up and drops it into her clutch. She puts her other hand to the floor to steady herself, her icy blue eyes even with Connie's brown ones. "We seem to be unable to communicate, Connie," she hisses through clenched teeth. "So let me be crystal clear. I want you to gather your things and get out of my house. I want you out of my house. That's what I want."

She stands with a shake of her mink and pushes a stunned Grayer into the elevator as the door closes.

Connie pulls herself up by the foyer table and walks past me back into the apartment.

I take a moment to collect myself before slowly shutting the front door.

I walk through the kitchen and find Connie standing with her back to me in the maid's room, her broad shoulders quivering in the small space. "God, Connie. Are you okay?" I ask quietly in the doorway.

She turns to me-her pain and outrage so rawly palpable on her face that I'm struck silent. She slumps down on the old tweed fold-out couch and undoes the top button of her white uniform.

"I've been here twelve years," she says, shaking her head. "I was here before her and I thought I'd be here after."

"Do you want something to drink?" I ask, stepping into the narrow gap between the couch and the ironing board. "Some juice maybe? I could try to get into the liquor cabinet."

"She wants me to leave? She wants me to leave?" I sit down on Mrs. X's steamer trunk. "I've wanted to leave since the first day she got here," she snorts, reaching for a half-ironed T-shirt and wiping her eyes. "Let me tell you something-when they went to Lyford whatever-I didn't get paid. I never get paid when they go away. Not my fault they're on vacation. I'm not on vacation. I still have three kids and plenty of bills to pay. And this year-this year-she asked him to declare me! They never declare me! Where am I supposed to come up with that kind of money now? I had to borrow money from my mother to pay all these taxes." She sits back and pulls off her apron. "When Mrs. X and Grayer flew to the Bahamas last year and I was going there too to see my family, she made me fly with them. Grayer spilled juice all over hisself at takeoff and she didn't have a change for him and he's sitting there cold and wet and crying and she just pull on that sleep thing over her eyes and ignore him the whole flight. And I didn't get paid for that! Oh, was I mad-that's why I'm not a nanny. You ever hear about Jackie?" I shake my head. "Jackie was his baby nurse, but she stayed till Grayer was two."

"What happened to her?"

"Well, she got a boyfriend. That's what happened to her." I look at her quizzically. "For two years she just worked, she'd only been here maybe a few years and didn't have too many friends. So she practically lived here and she and Mrs. X got on okay. I think they got together about Mr. X traveling and Jackie dating no one special- you know, man troubles. But then Jackie met someone-he looked like Bob Marley-and now she can't work Friday nights and she don't like to work the weekend if the Xes don't be in Connecticut. So Mrs. X starts in with how inconvenienced she is. But really, she jealous. Jackie had that glow, you know. She had that look about her and Mrs. X couldn't stand it. So she fired her. Nearly broke Grayer's heart. After that-he was like a little devil child."

"Wow." I take a deep breath.

"Oh, you ain't heard the bad part. Jackie called me six months later. She couldn't get a new job because Mrs. X wouldn't give her a reference. You know, no reference, they think Jackie stole or something. So she got two years missing on her resume. And the agency didn't want to send her out no more." She stands up and wipes her hands slowly down her skirt. "That woman is pure evil. They have six nannies in four months before Caitlin-no one stayed. And one got fired for giving him a corn muffin in the park. Don't you never feed him if you want to keep your job, you hear? And Mr. X-keeps porn in his shoe closet, the naaasty kind."

I'm trying to take this all in. "Connie, I'm so sorry."

"Don't you be sorry for me." She tosses the crumpled t-shirt onto the couch and marches with purpose into the kitchen. "You just watch out for yourself." I follow her.

She opens one of the empty Delft cookie jars on the counter and pulls out a handful of black lace, slamming it down on the table in front of me.

PANTIES!

"And I found these under the bed-"

"Right under the bed?" I can't help asking.

She tilts her head down at me. "Mm-hm. Now he's got the other one running all around here, acting like she owns the place. It took me two days to get the stink of her perfume out of here before Mrs. X got back."

"Should somebody tell her? Do you think somebody should tell Mrs. X about this woman?" I ask, dizzy with relief at finally being able to consult a colleague.

"Now, you listen here. Ain't you been here for the last hour? It's not my problem. And don't you make it your problem, either. It's none of our business. Now you better pack up Mr. X's things-I gotta get out of here." She reaches around and unties her apron, dropping it onto the counter.

"So, what are you gonna do?"

"Oh, my sister, she works up the block, she always knows people who are lookin' for housekeepers and whatnot. I'll find something. It'll be less money, if that's possible. But I'll find something. I always do."

She walks into the maid's room to collect her things, leaving me staring down at the black silk thong, screaming like profane graffiti against the peach marble table.

Nanny,
 Today you have a play date with Carter after tennis.  Please be there by three.  The Miltons live at 10 East 67th Street and I think you'll be staying for supper.  I'm having dinner at Bolo.
 I still can't find Grayer's bow tie.  Did you take it home?  Please check.
 Thanks.

Grayer is still crying when we finally get a cab. While I'm not allowed to walk him down doormanless side streets, his after-school activities routinely maroon us in desolate, cabless neighborhoods where any minute I'll be forced to choose between Grayer or my life. I haul him into the taxi, throw the tennis racket in after him, and pull the rest of the equipment in with me.

"Sixty-seventh and Madison, please." I look at Grove. "How's your head? Any better?"

"It's okay." He slows down to a whimper, but it sounds like a whimper with staying power. He was looking the wrong way when the pro turned on the ball feeder.

"How about golf, G? I think we should try golf. Smaller balls, less damage." He looks up at me with wet eyes. "Come here." He leans across the seat and puts his head in my lap. I run my fingers through his hair and play with his ears just like my mom used to do. The motion of the car soothes him and before we even reach Mid-town he's asleep. He must be wiped. What a different life we'd all be living if he was only allowed to nap.

I pull back my raincoat sleeve to look at my watch. What will an extra fifteen minutes matter?

"Driver? Can you make a loop up to 110 and then back down the West Side and across the Sixty-eighth Street transverse?"

"Sure, lady. Whatever you say," I look out the window at the gray sky and pull my coat closer around me as round raindrops hit the windshield, still waiting for April showers to feel like they could lead to May flowers.

"Grover, wake up. We're here." He's a little groggy and wiping his eyes when I press the town house's doorbell, the racket slung over my shoulder.

"Hello?" an English voice says from the intercom.

"Hi! It's Nanny and Grayer." There's no reply. I reach over and press the talk button again. "We have a play date with Carter."

"Really?" There's a pause. "Well, come on up, then." The buzzer sounds and I push the heavy glass door open, while Grayer stumbles ahead of me into the marble entrance foyer. Past the grand staircase, at the back of house, is a solarium, whose long windows reveal a garden. Raindrops steadily fill the stone fountain.

"Hello?" a young voice asks. I look up from where I'm wrestling Grayer's coat zipper. A little boy Grayer's age with blond, curly hair is standing on the landing, his hand looped through the banister, leaning away on a diagonal. "Hi. I'm Carter." I've never seen this boy before and realize Grayer hasn't, either.

"I'm Grayer."

"Hello?" The same English voice calls down the stairs. "Just leave your gear anywhere and come on up." I throw our wet coats on the floor and drop our gear beside it.

"Go ahead, G." He runs up after Carter. I begin my ascent; on the first floor I pass a Venetian living room at the front of the house and a Deco dining room at the back. As I reach the second floor, featuring the Empire master bedroom and a man's study done in the African vein, lots of antelope heads and a zebra-skin rug, I'm audibly panting. I chug up to the third level, which has a large mural of Winnie-the-Pooh painted on the landing, and I'm guessing it is Carter's floor.

"Keep going!" I hear encouragement being shouted from above.

"You're almost there, Nanny! Lazy!"

"Thanks, G!" I call up. I finally drag myself, sweating, to the fourth floor, which has been opened up into a large family room cum kitchen.

"Hi, I'm Lizzie. Stairs a bit much, eh? Want some water?"

"That would be lovely. I'm Nanny." I extend the hand that isn't clutching my abdomen. She's maybe a few years older than me, wearing a gray flannel skirt, sky-blue oxford shirt, and a navy cardigan tied around her shoulders. I recognize her as part of the community of high-class British imports who regard this as a noble profession, requiring training and certification, and they dress accordingly. The boys have already run off to the corner, where a village of plastic Playskool houses are set up, to play what sounds like Sack the Serfs.

"Here." Lizzie hands me the water. "I thought we'd just let them blow off steam for an hour and then plunk them in front of The J-u-n-g-l-e B-o-o-k"

"Sounds great."

"I don't know what I'm going to do when Carter learns how to spell. Learn sign language, I guess."

I stare at the rococo kitchen cabinets, the distressed French tiles, the egg and dart moldings. "This is an amazing house. Do you live in?"

"I have a little flat on the top floor." I look over at the stairs and realize that, yes, there is another floor.

"You must be in amazing shape."

"Try doing it with a knackered four-year-old in your arms."

I laugh. "I've never met Carter before. Where does he go to school?"

"Country Day," she says, taking my empty glass.

"Oh, I used to look after the Gleason girls - they went there. It's a nice place."

"Yeah - Carter, get off him!" I look over just as Grayer is released from a death grip.

"Wow, Carter, how'd you do that? Show me, show me!" Grayer's eyes are alight at the discovery.

"Oh, great," I say. "Now he'll be leaping out to put me in a choke hold."

"A swift kick to the groin and they're down in no time," she says, winking at me. Where has she been this whole year? I could have had a playground buddy. "Hey, you want to see the terrace?"

"Sure." I follow her out to a stone balcony overlooking the garden and the back of the brownstones on the other side of the block. We stand under the awning as the rain splatters the tips of our shoes.

"It's beautiful," I say, my breath coming in little puffs of vapor. "It's a real nineteenth-century enclave."

She nods. "Cigarette?" she asks.

"You can smoke?"

"Sure."

"Carter's mom doesn't mind?"

"Please." I take one.

"So, how long have you been working here?" I ask as she strikes the match.

"About a year. It's a little nuts, but compared to the other jobs I've had.... I mean, when you live in, you know." She shakes her head, blowing smoke into the drizzle. "They run your life while you live in a closet off the kitchen. At least here I've got a great space. Those round windows?" She points with her cigarette. "That's my bedroom and that, there, is my sitting room. And my bath has a Jacuzzi. It was meant to be a guest suite, but, well, guests are a little out of the question."

"Wow. Not a bad deal."

"Well, it's full-time duty."

"Are they nice?"

She starts laughing. "I guess he's not bad-he's never really around, which makes her a bit off her rocker.That's why they needed a live-in-"

"Yoo-hoo! Lizzie! Are you out there?" I freeze, trying not to exhale, a tiny trail of smoke escaping from my nostrils.

"Yeah, Mrs. Milton. We're outside." She casually stubs out her cigarette on the balustrade and throws it into the garden. I shrug and follow suit.

"There you are!" she says as we come back into the kitchen. Mrs. Milton, a Matel blonde, sits on the floor in a peach-silk robe, sniffing and delicately wiping her nose, while the boys run around her. "Now, who's this?" Her voice has a slight Southern lilt. "That's Grayer," Lizzie says. "And I'm Nanny." I extend my hand.

"Oh, Grayer! Grayer, I saw your momma at Swifty's. Well, every time we're at Lotte Berk we keep saying we have to get our boys together. And then there she was having lunch and we said, well, we just have to make a plan, and here you are! Grayer!" She picks him up and holds him upside down, in fluffy mules, no less. Grayer seems to be trying to make eye contact with me, clearly uncertain how to respond to this outpouring of affection. She puts him down. "Lizzie! Lizzie, darlin', don't you have a date tonight?"

"Yeah, but-"

"Shouldn't you be getting ready?" "It's only four."

"Nonsense. Go relax. I want to spend some time with my Carter. Besides, Nanny can help me." She hunkers down. "Hey, boys, you wanna make a cake? We have cake mix, right, Lizzie?"

 "Always."

"Great!" Her silk robe billows out behind her as she crosses to the kitchen, revealing long, tanned, and very naked legs. I realize as she turns that she is completely au naturel beneath her robe. "Now, let's see ... eggs... milk." She pulls everything out and sets it on the counter. "Lizzie, where are the pans?"

"In the drawer under the oven." She grabs my wrist and whispers, "Don't let her burn herself." Before I have chance to ask if and why this is likely she's run upstairs to her room.

"I like chocolate cake," Grayer says, casting his vote.

"We only have vanilla, sugar." Mrs. Milton holds up the red box.

"I like vanilla," says Carter.

"At my birthday," Grayer continues, "I had a cake. It looked like a football and it was reallyreally big!"

"Woohoo! Let's have some music." She pushes a button on the Bang & Olufsen stereo above the counter and Donna Summer comes blaring out. "Come on, sugar pie. Come and dance with Momma." Carter shakes his arms and bobs his knees. Grayer starts off slowly with a head wiggle, but by "On the Radio" he lets the jazz hands fly.

"Lookin' good, boys!" She takes a hand of each and the three of them bounce through all of Donna Summer's Greatest Hits right up through "She Works Hard for the Money," while I quietly start cracking eggs and greasing the pan. I put the cake in the oven and turn around in search of an oven timer, to see Mrs. Milton twirling near the Playskool village. I have a Miss Clavel feeling.

"I'm just going to go use the powder room," I say to no one in particular. I open every door off the pantry, attempting to locate a bathroom.

Turning on the light in a small room, I discover four mannequins in a V configuration wearing sequined gowns, each with a banner across her middle. Miss Tucson. Miss Arizona. Miss Southwest. Miss Southern States. There are tiaras and scepters, framed news clippings and a baton, all carefully displayed in glass cases.

I slowly inspect every dress, each sash, and then go over to the far wall, which is covered in glossy, framed photographs of Mrs. Milton-the Vegas showgirl. Which, I guess, is where you go after being Miss Southern States. There is row after row of photographs of her in various sequined costumes and headdresses, wearing thick makeup and false lashes. In each she's sitting on some celebrity's lap, everyone from Tony Bennett to Rod Stewart. And then I see it, halfway down the wall, almost hidden, a snapshot of Mrs. Milton in a short, skintight white dress, Mr. Milton, his eyes rolled back in his head, and the preacher. The caption on the frame reads, "The All-Night Chapel of Love, August 12, 199-."

I turn out the light and find the bathroom.

When I come back out Mrs. Milton is peering forlornly in the oven.

"You did it."

"Yes, ma'am." I just said "ma'am."

"You did it." She seems to be having trouble absorbing the information.

"It's almost done," I offer reassuringly.

"Oh, goodie! Who wants frosting?" She pulls six tubs of different-flavored frosting out of the fridge. "Carter, get the food dye." Grayer and Carter mambo over. She grabs sprinkles, silver balls, and candy confetti from the cupboards and starts squirting the food dye Carter hands her directly into the tubs. "Ooohwee!" She's laughing uncontrollably now.

"Mrs. Milton," I say, standing back with apprehension, "I think it's time for Grayer and me to go."

"Tina!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Call me Tina! You can't leave," she calls over her shoulder as she scoops a fingerful of frosting into her mouth.

"I DON'T WANT TO GO HOME!" Grayer panics, his fists tightly clenching a bouquet of plastic spoons.

"See, nobody has to leave. Now, who ... wants ... frosting?"............