Читать книгу The Manny - Holly Peterson, Holly Peterson - Страница 11

I sat on the edge of Dylan’s bed, brushing the hair off his forehead. ‘I have some good news for you.’ He looked up at me.

‘What is it?’

‘Guess.’

‘You won the lotto?’

‘No.’

‘You’re going to quit your job?’

‘Dylan!’

‘Well?’

‘Dylan. I’m with you a lot.’

‘Are not.’

‘Sweetheart, you know I need to work, but it’s just a few days a week. We have dinner together all the …’

‘No, we don’t. You’re always working.’

‘Well, I am working a lot right now.’

‘So fine. Just admit it.’

‘OK. I admit I am working a lot on my piece. And I told you it was the biggest piece I’d ever done. And I want to do it well. And I want to be proud of my work.’

He rolled his eyes and turned away from me towards the wall.

‘Dylan. I love you and being your mom is the most important thing in my life.’

He pulled the covers over his head.

‘You know what? I’m not going to get into a debate about this. I know how difficult it is to have a mommy that works hard. I know you would prefer that I were here more. But I promise it will get better in just a few weeks’ time. But I have news. Something that’s going to make you happy.’ Intrigued, he now lay on his back, edging closer to me.

I turned out the light and lay down next to him with my elbow propping up my head. I caressed his forehead with my fingers, our bedtime ritual, and pulled his hair back.

‘A cell phone? My own cell phone? You said I had to wait till I was …’

‘It’s nothing like that. It’s not a thing. It’s a person.’ I massaged his eyebrows, outlining them down with my thumb and index finger. He closed his eyes, all dreamy, letting his anger go.

‘Tell me,’ he whispered.

‘You’re going to make a new friend, someone who is going to be so much fun for you.’

He sat up, appalled. ‘Oh maaaan! You said I didn’t have to see Dr Bernstein any more! I don’t want to see another feelings doctor. It’s so stupid.’

‘It’s nothing like that, Dylan.’

‘Someone at school?’

‘Nope, not …’

‘At sports? At the …’

‘Dylan, lie down.’ I pushed his shoulders down to get him to lie on his back once again. ‘You’re never going to guess, so just let me explain.’

‘OK.’

‘His name is Peter Bailey. You’re going to have your own friend in the house all the time. I mean, from after school on till bedtime. He’ll be here after school tomorrow.’

‘Like my own boy babysitter?’

‘Better than that. He’s about twenty-nine. He’s from Colorado. He’s an awesome skier, or snowboarder, I guess. He loves chess, works on chess computer games or other games making homework fun for middle school kids. And he’s super cool. I mean, really cool. He has long hair.’

My son had shifted into neutral. I thought he’d be ecstatic about the kinds of things he and Peter could do together – and relieved this wasn’t another Dr Bernstein. Of course, in retrospect, that was just my own hyped-up fairy-tale version of how Peter would glide into our lives.

I added, admittedly with forced enthusiasm, ‘What matters is he’s fun! He’s going to pick you up, take you to sports, anywhere you want! Even the batting cages at Chelsea Piers.’ Still nothing.

‘Honey. You’re not excited about batting cages? How come?’

He kept his eyes closed and shrugged his shoulders. This was heartbreaking. I thought this would bring joy to my little Eeyore; instead, it just made him sad. I had waited for this moment to tell him because I wanted him to go to sleep happy. His lip quivered.

I tried one more time. ‘You only get to go to the cages for birthday parties. I’m telling you this guy is going to take you there just on a regular weekday!’

He sat up. Then he turned on the light and looked at me with those squinty eyes. ‘Is this all because Dad’s never home?’

Kids are always smarter than you think.

‘Whoa.’ Peter Bailey handed me his coat the next afternoon and I searched for a hanger. ‘This closet is bigger than my bedroom.’ He peeked around the corner to the living room.

‘It still seems big to me, too. We just moved in a few months ago. But you’ll see, we run a very relaxed household.’

I had told him to dress casually, so he showed up for duty wearing two-toned Patagonia snowboard pants with pockets and zippers up the flaps on the sides. A worn-out flannel shirt covered up a T-shirt with a Burton logo on his chest. He had brown suede Pumas on his feet.

He took off his baseball cap and I gasped.

‘Oh, this.’ He pointed to a scab the size of a tangerine on his forehead. ‘That’s why I wore the cap. I slipped off the skateboard last week. Stupid. And I know it’s ugly. Sorry.’

I shook my head. ‘No worry. Dylan will think it’s cool.’

Peter was a bigger guy than I remembered. Two minutes in, it was already strange having a full-grown man with a deep voice in my house in the middle of the day. And I hired him to be my nanny help? And with a graduate degree? He was so much taller than me. How could I boss him around? Stand on my tippy toes and order him to clean up those toys right now!? I felt panicky.

‘Peter, I’m just really excited about you being here.’

‘You don’t look it.’

‘Really. It’s going to be great. Just great!’

The early-afternoon light streamed through the yellow silk curtains in the living room and reflected off the piles of books on the coffee table and the two large Tupperware boxes on top of them. I motioned for Peter to sit in the small antique armchair while I sat next to him on the sofa.

‘So! Can I get you a drink?’

Would he ask for a guy drink, like a Corona?

‘Sure.’

I jumped up like a jack rabbit.

‘Ginger ale. If you don’t have that, Coke is fine.’

I got some ice out of the ice machine and started to put it in a crystal highball glass. Wait a minute, was I sending off the wrong signals? He wasn’t a guest; he was an employee.

Meanwhile, Peter was considering the Tupperware boxes. One had a sticker labelled CHILDREN’S MEDICINE, and the other HOUSEHOLD EMERGENCY MEDICINE. Next to the table was a cardboard box labelled: HOUSEHOLD EMERGENCY SUPPLIES – boxes I had put together that ghastly fall of 9/11. There was also a folder with two stapled copies of important phone numbers and addresses plus the daily schedules, all colour-coded by child and by academic, sports or cultural activity. My mother was a librarian at the local Cretin High School, so I grew up in a household where the Dewey Decimal system was used to organize the garage. It was all her fault I was a little compulsive at times.

I could hear the clock ticking on the mantelpiece while Peter sat, an attentive, polite look on his face. ‘Why don’t I explain to you how things work here …’

‘What things?’

‘Well, you know, the house, for instance. How it, it runs.’

‘You mean, like a little company?’

‘No. These are just schedules.’

‘Is there an employee handbook?’

‘Very funny. No, but we do have employees. Yvette the nanny and Carolina the housekeeper. They’re both wonderful women but it’s going to take a few days for them to get used to you.’

‘No, it’s not. Where are they?’ He stood up.

‘Wait! Let’s just, go over a few items … I mean, if that’s OK. I mean, are you OK? Are you OK being here?’

‘Yes. It’s been, like, seven minutes. Doing just fine so far.’ He smiled. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

Was I that transparent? I shuffled my papers nervously, still feeling like I didn’t know how to talk to this grown man without talking down to him. I didn’t want to sound patronizing. And then I thought how sexist it was that I could more easily boss around the women in my house (or try to), but not a man.

‘Dylan goes to St Henry’s School on 88th and Park. On Mondays, he has sports on Randall’s Island. It’s called the Adventurers. They pick the kids up on a bus, and then bring them home, but sometimes the moms drive so they can watch the games. You could drive him. Do you know how?’

‘Hmmm, driving …’

‘You don’t?’

‘Maybe you could teach me?’

‘Me?’

‘I’m just joking. I can drive.’

‘You can? OK, good.’ I had to start acting normal. This was ridiculous. ‘OK, I deserved that … I think I just meant, have you, like, driven a Suburban? One of those huge ones with three rows, in the city?’

‘How many guys who are thirty years old and who come from the Rockies do you think can’t drive an SUV?’

‘Not many. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry, it’s cool. It’s just, I’ve handled like thirty kids on my own so, you know, this is going to be just fine.’

‘It is?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That is sooo great.’ I sounded like I was praising a three-year-old. I could feel my face flush. ‘And on Fridays, he has cello, but not until five. At a great music school on 95th Street. Did you have any idea it’s been proven that kids who took music as young children do 40 per cent better in medical school.’

‘Huh?’

‘Yes. Something about integrating all the notes in their heads. The address is in the folder. On Wednesday, it’s woodworking – which really gives him a jump-start on geometrics and is great for sharpening fine motor skills and really focusing on seeing a project through from beginning to end. Then on Tuesdays and Thursdays, from three thirty to five thirty, or even six, that’s completely fine with me, you two …’

‘Whoa.’ He looked concerned.

‘Whoa? Excuse me?’

‘Yeah. Whoa. Let’s not even revisit that geometrics idea. But you’ve got, like, every day totally planned out?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘Well. I work. We live in New York, that’s just the way things are.’ He gave me a disapproving look which I took as overstepping some bounds. But I forged ahead, needing to show him who was in charge after all. ‘So, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, you just do what you want. You could just take him somewhere. Like there’s a Mars place in Times Square with video …’

‘I have lots of places in mind.’

‘You do? Like what?’ I spoke as if I didn’t trust him, as if he was going to take my son to a crack house.

‘I’d like to take him to the park at first, maybe shoot some hoops …’

‘He’s really freaked out about the basketball.’

‘I know. I know.’

‘Well, then you’ll have to tread lightly on the basketball …’

‘And you’re going to have to trust me. I told you, I’m not good at strict hierarchy.’

Oh, Jesus. Not only was this guy not going to be a star in the service industry, but also he couldn’t follow direction? ‘We’re talking about my son here.’

‘And I’m going to do whatever you want. Just try to trust me a little. Remember, I’m good with kids and I drive.’ He smiled.

My mobile phone rang for the second time from deep inside my bag. I had ignored another call, but I had been waiting a week for this one. On the caller ID it signalled Leon Rosenberg’s law firm.

‘Peter, just give me a second.’

I flipped open my cell. ‘Yes, Leon?’

‘I’ve now triple-checked with her,’ he was yelling into the phone. I pictured him leaning back in his leather chair chomping on his omnipresent cigar. Like a mafia don, he would be flicking some cigar ash off one of his hideous suits with a bold white stripe and too much sheen. At this point the networks were in an all-Theresa-all-the-time, full-on media feeding frenzy. The talk shows dissected the ramifications for Hartley’s political future, the prime-time magazine shows did profiles of her background – though they weren’t able to get anywhere near her – and the syndicated entertainment news shows just tried to blow as much steam into the story as they could. However, none of them advanced the story at all because the two principal players weren’t talking. ‘Most importantly, she knows you know what’s on the tapes and she’s going to confirm that while your cameras are rolling. Meaning the whole ass thing.’

Goodman and I had been negotiating the exact parameters of the interview with Leon Rosenberg: where it would be held, how much of the telephone tapes we could use, and, most importantly, that she understood she would need to verbally detail the sex – which Leon had just confirmed. Goodman would be so psyched. I punched my fist in the air.

‘And on the other details,’ said Leon, ‘Theresa’s ready this week to go ahead …’

At this moment, Peter opened the HOUSEHOLD EMERGENCY MEDICINE Tupperware box and pulled out three huge plastic bags: a lifetime’s supply of potassium iodide, Cipro and Tamiflu. He began reading the laminated card I had put inside for Yvette and Carolina about what to do in case of a dirty bomb explosion, anthrax attack or avian flu outbreak.

‘That’s great, Leon.’

‘Although she was hoping for a big-city extravaganza, she understands you will pay only for the hotel room and eighty-five dollars per diem for the two days she is in the city. But she needs to look good. She wants a spa day, facial, pedicure, manicure and other stuff.’

I pulled the other Tupperware box away from Peter and put it on the floor next to my feet. It was filled with EpiPens for peanut allergies and asthma inhalers and Benadryl – all for play date guests, not my kids. It seemed like half my kids’ friends had life-threatening nut allergies, and some of their moms were totally blasé about it. Sometimes they even forgot to remind us about it. I could see Peter thinking I was completely neurotic. Not that I wasn’t.

‘Leon, again please make clear to her this is not some syndicated entertainment show or a British tabloid. This is a top news division of a major network. We will pay for hair and make-up, period. We can’t pay cash for interviews or appear as if we’re delivering favours, like facials, to interview subjects. We have news policy standards to uphold.’

Leon guffawed and slammed something down hard on his desk. ‘Get off your high horse for a second and listen to yourself, sweetheart.’ He laughed again. ‘Oooooo weeeee. All high and mighty like Walter fucking Cronkite and you and I know the only thing you’re interested in is the ass-fuck thing.’

I winked at Peter to let him know this call was going to take a few moments. He stood up and leaned against the windowsill looking down on Park Avenue, then headed towards the other end of my living room, which opened up with pocket doors into Phillip’s study. Reaching into one of the bookcases on either side of the doorway, he pulled out How to Raise Children in an Affluent Environment, a book Phillip had read while I was pregnant with Dylan. I was horrified, but he was all the way across the room, so I couldn’t grab it from him.

‘All right, Leon. We’re talking about a guy who used to run a Christian television network, a guy with four children who’s been married for thirty years to a June Cleaver lookalike, a guy who’s in bed with Focus on the Family, the Christian Coalition, and even the Promise Keepers. So there’s a little bit of hypocrisy here that is the main thing. But you are right, the, uh, exact sexual manifestations of this hypocrisy are quite interesting to us. Especially with the irony involving the anti-sodomy laws. That is kind of delicious. I won’t deny that. But, remember, we cared a lot about this story before we had that little item.’

‘That’s a twenty-five-million-dollar item, baby.’

‘It is. And let’s just leave it at that.’

‘OK, sweetheart, while you’re leaving it at that, one more thing.’ I breathed deeply and deliberately into the phone while awaiting his umpteenth request. I mouthed, ‘So sorry!’ to Peter. He shook his head and mouthed, ‘Don’t worry.’ He closed the book and walked over to the large box next to the coffee table.

‘And Goodman understands that he is to mention her lawyer …’

Peter was now riffling through the HOUSEHOLD EMERGENCY SUPPLIES box. Out came a Department of Homeland Security pamphlet, which he glanced at and threw back in the box. Next, he pulled out an Israeli gas mask, took it out of its protective plastic bag and started reading the instructions.

‘Yes, Leon, we will mention you by name and have the rolling video of you that you like, not the one on the windy day where your hair looks like Don King’s …’

Peter put on the gas mask. Then he pulled out a full-body, orange bio-terror fall-out suit, checked the label, held it up against his shoulders and anchored it down with his chin pushed into his neck.

The front door slammed. It was only two o’clock in the afternoon. I knew Carolina was in the kitchen, Yvette was still in the park with both younger children, and Dylan was in school. No one usually came through the door unannounced. I stretched my head around to the front hall while Leon began explaining exactly which video of himself he wanted us to use.

Phillip’s overcoat flew across the foyer. Shit. Just after lunch and Phillip is home? I knew he wasn’t travelling and he had never once come home like this in the middle of the day without calling. He walked into the living room with a man I’d never seen before only to find Peter with a gas mask on and the orange suit.

‘Jamie, what in God’s name is …?’

Peter pulled the gas mask off. His turn to have Don King hair. He politely put his hand out to Phillip.

‘No, no!’ I screamed at him.

Peter stopped dead in his tracks and gave me a ‘What the hell, lady? I’m just introducing myself here!’ look.

From my cell phone: ‘You don’t have that shot, baby? The one I mean?’

‘No. I mean not you, Leon. I do, Leon. I know exactly what you mean. I was just …’ I waved my hand for Peter to come sit down right here, now, young man! I pointed to his chair. ‘You want your hair flat like in the shot where you’re wearing the trench coat and yellow silk scarf and matching silk socks – not like the one where it looks like a huge Frisbee. I remember. Is that all?’

Phillip shook his head and walked down the hall with his guest. Then the doors of his study closed behind him.

‘All right, Leon. Thanks for the confirmation on Theresa. Goodbye.’

I hung up the phone and breathed out deeply.

‘I’m sorry,’ Peter said. ‘I was just trying to be courteous …’

‘No. I’m the one who has to apologize. It’s just this big story again, and I wanted to introduce you to my husband in calmer circumstances.’

‘I see.’

‘So sorry to interrupt again, Peter.’ I stood up. ‘I just need to check on him. Excuse me just for a second.’ I tiptoed across the living room and put my ear against the sliding doors.

‘Damnit, Allan. I left the papers here to keep them out of the office. Obviously.’

‘So where are they now? If you kept them here, they better be here.’

Allan who? I knocked on the door and heard a lamp smash on the floor. The pocket doors slid open a notch and my normally composed husband put his face through the minimal crack he had opened.

‘Yes?’

‘Phillip, it’s two o’clock in the afternoon on a work day. You give me no warning that you’re coming home. Why are you here? Who are you with?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘I heard you talking to someone named Allan.’

‘Oh, him.’

‘Yes, him. Allan.’ Still no acknowledgement from my husband. ‘Why are you being so weird, Phillip? This is our home.’

‘Why are you being so weird? What is the deal with the guy trying on the orange suit?’

‘I’ll explain later. Why are you home?’

‘Some papers I need to find. In my study.’

‘And this Allan guy is helping you find them?’

‘Yes. He’s helping me find them. Yes. Are we done now? I’m sorry, honey, but I’m really stressed out. Would it be possible to be left alone from here on in? Actually two Diet Cokes would be great. With limes. On the sides of the glass. Don’t drench them in the Diet Coke.’