Читать книгу The Manny - Holly Peterson, Holly Peterson - Страница 9

The receptionist at work buzzed my phone. ‘Nathaniel Clarkson is here for you.’

I was hopeful. ‘Send him back, I’ll meet him halfway. Thanks, Deborah.’

I charged out my office door and almost knocked Charles over in the hallway. ‘Hey! It’s eleven in the morning. Nothing’s going on the air for hours, slow down, baby.’

‘Sorry. I have to meet someone. Don’t want him to get lost coming back here. I’ll call you.’

‘Who you meeting?’ he called after me.

‘Not meeting. Interviewing.’ Then I whispered with my hands cupping my mouth, ‘Mannies.’

‘Real professional thing to be doing in the office,’ he yelled over his shoulder as he walked back down the hall.

I didn’t care if it was professional or not. Who would notice exactly what I was doing anyway? They were all so crazed around the show. I had decided to do the manny interviews in the safety of the office because the first two guys I’d met at home had good résumés but looked a little off kilter; one had greasy hair with his warm-up suit hiked up too high on his crotch and the other never smiled once. Through a domestic help agency with a thorough vetting process over the past weeks, I’d already met about half a dozen young men who were interested in the afternoon job with Dylan: out-of-work actors or waiters, concert musicians looking for extra money, trainers hoping to get in a few extra hours. All wrong. They were either too talkative or too quiet, and all of them lacked the experience to handle a kid like Dylan. I was looking for someone who wouldn’t let Dylan manipulate them and wouldn’t let him fade into outer space.

Nathaniel seemed like a fine candidate on paper, his résumé impressive: he graduated from a reputable public school uptown with a 3.0 average. He hadn’t taken any college courses yet, but at twenty had spent most of his time coaching at a small charter school in Harlem. I’d called the principal, and he seemed to be well liked and a hard worker.

A black kid in an oversized hooded sweatshirt with a Tupac logo that covered his hands and hid part of his face waited for me in the reception area. Under the hood, he was wearing a do-rag, one of those stocking caps with a little knot on the top. ‘You must be …’

He stuck his hand out. ‘Nathaniel.’

‘Come on back,’ I said, trying to be as friendly as possible.

We walked into my office. He didn’t take his hood off and I could barely see his eyes.

I opened my manny folder and tried to keep an open mind: maybe this was the perfect antidote to Dylan’s malaise, maybe he needed a cool homeboy manny to contrast with his sheltered Grid life, maybe I needed a cool homeboy manny to help me chill out. His references told me this guy had hidden talents, a gift for bringing kids out. What the hell did I know about mannies? I had never hired one before. I looked over his résumé again.

‘So you coach a team in Harlem?’

He kept his head down. ‘Yeah.’

‘And is it just basketball or multiple sports?’

‘Both.’

‘Both? You mean basketball and a lot else?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Sorry, both what? Basketball and one other or lots of others?’

‘Just basketball, some baseball sometimes.’ He still didn’t look up.

Charles stopped in my doorway, checked out Nathaniel and looked at me like he thought I was insane. Then he walked in just to bug me and put the pressure on.

‘Oh, hi. Didn’t know you were doing some reporting here in the office.’ He sat down on my couch.

I sighed and gave him a look. ‘Charles, this is Nathaniel. Nathaniel, Charles is a colleague, he was just stopping by for a second.’ I turned to Charles. ‘But now, Charles, I’m going to ask you to leave because this is a confidential meeting.’ I gave him a fake, screw-you smile. He gave me one back and left.

Twenty minutes later after I had walked Nathaniel out of the office, Charles appeared again. When he didn’t have a story, he liked to come in my office and annoy me. I ignored him and kept typing, staring at the screen.

He sat down in front of me and put his elbows on my desk to get me to look at him. ‘You’re nuts, Jamie.’

‘What?’ I snapped.

‘Like Phillip’s really gonna go for you hiring a kid who looks like a badass dealer?’

‘Charles! You’re so racist. He’s a good kid, he works really hard, his mentor …’

‘Bullshit.’ He leaned back with his arms crossed behind his head. ‘You cannot hire a tough kid from the ‘hood for your manny job.’

‘How can you talk like that?’

‘Hey. He’s a brother. I’d like him to get the job. But I’m telling you, you’re out of your mind. This isn’t going to fly in your fancy-ass apartment with your uptight husband and the whole …’

‘It’d be good for Dylan. He was a good kid, smart, not that he actually said that much, but I could tell anyway he was. It’d bring Dylan down to earth,’ I answered, but not with great conviction.

‘You are the one stereotyping here, Jamie. Hiring a black kid who’s poor to help your kid be less spoiled? Like only a black kid knows or something?’

I buried my head in my hands. Maybe Charles was right – Nathaniel was monosyllabic and barely looked me in the eye. Clearly I was getting a little desperate. Most of the coaches I had contacted on my own and really wanted to hire had full-time jobs and were busy in the afternoons with their teams. Nathaniel was the one coach who was available.

I looked up at Charles. ‘But I need a man.’

‘You sure do.’ Charles was not a big Phillip fan.

‘Charles. I’m serious. I need an older, responsible male in the house in the afternoons, at least, taking Dylan to the park. Not a heavy-set Jamaican woman like Yvette who doesn’t know how to kick a soccer ball.’ I put my hands over my face. ‘The school called this morning. Again.’

‘Stomachache?’

‘Yeah. Came on five minutes before phys. ed. He goes to the school nurse, it’s not just basketball, it’s dodge ball, and now it’s soccer. At least after that basketball game, he was still doing gym.’

‘Make him go! I’m not a parent, but I watch you guys coddling your kids and, I’m telling you, it’s screwing them up. My momma was such an ass-kicker. And we weren’t poor; so don’t tell me it was some black thing to get out of the ghetto. She sure didn’t put up with any bullshit like this.’

‘I’m trying.’

‘So what’s the problem? Why is he still in the nurse’s office? Why is that allowed?’

‘Charles, it all looks simpler when you’re not a parent. You can’t force kids to …’

‘Hell, yes, you can!’

‘But he won’t leave the nurse’s office! The school shrink has to go in, with the gym teacher’s assistant, who can’t stay, because it’s the middle of class. But he won’t engage, just looks at them and says, “Hey, I said I’m not feeling well enough to play.” Then the teachers talk to him after school. They call me. Phillip and I go in to meet with them – of course Phillip, always wanting to present a united front to the school authorities, clears his schedule to come to these meetings, but can’t make it to a basketball game. What else do you want me to do?’

‘You need to be tougher. That’s exactly what’s fucked up. You should be tougher on him, then he’ll have no place to go and he will start coping.’

‘I am tough but you have to remember because he’s sometimes depressed, I just feel that he needs to be loved by me and feel safe with me to cry. He still does and if I play military commander role, he’s not going to come to me any more. Phillip doesn’t connect enough; tries to handle his little rough spots, but can’t seem to break through. And though he tells me not to worry, I know he’s secretly disappointed his son is so complicated.’

‘What happens with the basketball team?’

‘We make him go because I’m strict about it, like you say I’m supposed to be, but the coach says he won’t shoot, he’ll dribble and run around a bit. Kind of. Not really. But now it’s spread to just regular gym. Look. I know my kid. I know what he needs. I want to find a great guy every afternoon to kick his ass, just like your momma did, but in Central Park.’

Charles grabbed my wrist across the desk, converted. ‘You’re going to find the right guy. But it’s not any of the ones you just met. You know that.’

On an Indian summer day a week later and no further in my search, I walked across the park to my office after a business lunch on the East Side. I was in the middle of a call with Abby who was mortified by Goodman’s latest request.

‘I’m going to kill Goodman!’ she was screaming into my earpiece. ‘Literally I was daydreaming about it this morning on the subway.’

‘Oh, Abby. What now?’

‘You know Ariel LaBomba? The hot Latina weather girl from Good Morning New York?’

‘I guess. Maybe. Not sure.’

‘I promise you. She’s nothing great. But she does these adventure-travel-type pieces and Goodman wants to close the show with them, thinks she’s ready to jump from local to network.’

‘OK, so that’s not unusual. I’m sure she’s pretty.’

‘No. It gets worse. Listen to this: he’s meeting with her this afternoon and he wants to make sure I go down and wait for her outside the building.’

‘Not in the lobby? And his assistant can’t do this?’

‘Nope, he trusts me more. Then he wants me to take her down the block to the wrong entrance …’

I laughed. ‘I so know what’s coming next.’

‘Yes! Just so we can pass the bus stop ad with him anchoring on top of the World Trade Center rubble.’

‘Abby, wait …’

‘I hate that ad. He thinks it looks like Iwo Jima.’

Just then I happened upon a kind of Alice in Wonderland scene on the Great Lawn: about thirty kids were laying a huge chequerboard piece of fabric out on the grass. They were dressed in strange outfits too: A horse’s head, kings and queens, soldiers … was this some kind of performance piece? The director – a nice-looking guy in khakis, a Cassius Clay T-shirt and a baseball cap – was ushering each of them into position. Maybe he was running a rehearsal for an outdoor festival. This being New York, and the heart of Central Park where all the eccentrics come, I wasn’t surprised.

And then I realized: a human chess game. I couldn’t wait to get closer.

‘… Jamie, can you believe the Windex thing?’ Abby’s voice pierced through my headset.

‘What Windex thing?’

‘Are you listening? He gave an intern, of course that bitchy leggy one, five bucks and asked her to go get some Windex and clean the bus stop ad.’

I watched the kids.

‘Hello?’ Abby yelled. ‘Windexing a bus stop? Get angry with me! You’re so distracted!’

‘Honestly, Abby, I am. I’m going to have to call you back.’

I watched the director. ‘I guess you should first move the pawns out.’

Two kids at either end took two steps forward on the chequerboard.

‘No, no, no!’ he called through cupped hands. ‘You can’t have two kids go at once! Didn’t Charlie go over that?’

He could have been about twenty-six to thirty-two, tall and solid. He walked with his back very straight, a sense of confident poise about him. Longish brown curly hair pulled behind his ears framed his square, open face. His blue eyes were alert and warm. I wouldn’t have called him classically handsome, but he was definitely attractive.

‘Didn’t Charlie tell you any key strategies? Can’t believe he calls himself a teacher! First the pawns in front of the queen, not the ones at the ends.’ The kids, laughing and joking now, moved back into their lines and the soldiers in front of each queen took two steps forward.

Two giggly teenage girls standing nearby, but not on the chequerboard, sidestepped closer to him. I noticed one of them patting her chest and secretly batting her eyes at Directorman. One leaned over and whispered in the other’s ear, then pushed her towards him. This guy was radiating light and they wanted some of it.

‘What’s next, kids?’

A tiny boy with a huge papier mâché horse head covering his entire upper body raised his hand. ‘Me, me!’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

The other horse shot up his arm.

‘You! In the red hat. Alex, right?’

‘I know! Because you want your knights out early to control the centre and attack the other team.’

‘Yessssss!’ the director yelled. He reached into his pocket and threw a tiny chocolate bar at the kid. ‘And do you only want the knights out early?’

Four kids screamed, ‘No!’

‘Then who else?!’

‘Bishops!’ shrieked an eager kid. ‘Get the knights and bishops out of the way so you can castle early and protect the king!’ Mr Director took a handful of candy from a bag and threw it in the air at the boy. The kids piled on each other trying to grab the pieces from the ground.

‘OK,’ I thought. ‘This guy is obviously knowledgeable about the game. I’m not crazy about all the candy, but he’s tough without being a prick, just maybe …’ I stepped up beside him and waited for a momentary break, when I could get his attention. Finally, he stopped issuing orders to give the kids a moment to figure out the next move on their own.

‘May I ask you a question?’

‘Sure.’ He turned to me and smiled briefly, but his eyes instantly went back to the game.

‘What are you doing?’

‘It’s a chess game. A human chess game.’

‘I got that far …’

‘Excuse me. What ARE you thinking, dude?’

He trotted over to a kid and picked him up by his shoulders and placed him in an adjacent square. ‘No candy for you!’ He yanked the lolly out of the kid’s mouth and threw it high over his shoulder. The others all hooted and laughed.

‘Soooo …’ I began again when he returned ‘… are you part of a school?’

He ignored me. ‘Jason, is that your name, kid? What are you doing over there?’

‘I mean, are these kids …?’

‘You move the bishop like that and it’s game over, buddy. You’re crazy! Think again.’

OK. He was preoccupied. I waited two minutes then tried again. ‘So. Sorry to bother you, but I’m just so curious. Is this for a school?’

This time he looked directly at me. ‘You really interested?’

‘I am.’

‘It’s not a school. This is a group from a summer camp for kids with special needs or special situations.’

‘Serious situations?’

‘Some very awful situations. Yes.’

‘Why chess?’

‘Because it’s hard, I guess. Must make ’em feel smart. Do you know anything about chess and kids?’

‘I have a son who’s nine.’

‘Does he play?’

‘They do it at school, but he hasn’t gotten hooked.’

‘Well, maybe you should get him hooked.’ He smiled. Major-kilowatt smile.

Bingo.

‘Are you also a teacher?’ I was so excited. I knew this was my guy. ‘Are you working at a steady job in this field?’

‘I’m not a teacher at all.’

Shit. I thought he was a professional. Maybe he wasn’t my guy.

‘I’m taking a break while I figure out some plans.’

He waved to the kids. ‘OK. You in the white shirt.’ He pinged a bubble gum at the girl’s head. ‘You, with the goofy smile, you’re in charge of the whites and Walter is going to do the blacks. You can argue with their moves, but they get the final say!’ When he saw that I wasn’t leaving, he stopped and rested his arm on the park gate and looked me in the eye.

‘I’m just subbing for a pal. He’s my roommate who’s a teacher in the public school system and a counsellor in the summer. I’m not an expert with kids like him.’ He picked up a pile of cloth on the ground and smiled. ‘Excuse me, if you don’t mind …’ Still. He was really good with them.

One of the kids had stepped off the chessboard, and turned his back to the game. His shoulders were hunched up around his ears. Mr Director tried to drape the cloth on the kid’s shoulders, but he shrugged it away. He stuffed some candy down the back of his shirt, but the kid didn’t laugh. He threw the cloth on the ground and got down to business with the distressed kid, dragging him a few feet away to talk to him privately.

I couldn’t help but notice how his worn-out khakis traced the lines of his impossibly hard ass. I put down my tote bag full of newspapers and waited.

Mr Director flicked the kid’s baseball cap up. ‘Darren, c’mon.’ He held the kid’s shoulders and tried to manoeuvre him back into the group. Darren just slowly shook his head and then pushed the brim of his hat further down. Mr Director smacked the cap off the kid’s head. Darren didn’t think it was funny. He put it back on and pulled it down real hard. Something was wrong.

The Mr Director bent his knees and looked up under the kid’s hat, and then sucked hard on a lollipop as if it helped him focus.

‘Talk to me, man.’

Darren shook his head.

‘Russell! Take over.’ Russell, an older kid on the sidelines, waved back.

Mr Director put one arm around Darren’s shoulder and another on his arm and led him over to a park bench about thirty feet away. Darren, who seemed about eleven years old, wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. I was riveted. A few minutes passed and he seemed to be breaking through, gesticulating wildly. The kid started to laugh and this cute guy knocked his baseball cap off again – this time they both laughed – and Darren raced back and took his place again on the board.

All right, I thought. He doesn’t look like a psychopath. He doesn’t smell like a psychopath. Obviously, the kids like him. Let’s try this again.

‘Sorry …’

His expression was direct and polite. I was sure he wasn’t a native New Yorker.

‘You again?’ He smiled at me.

‘Yes, me again. I have a question.’

‘Want to get into the game?’ He cocked an eyebrow.

‘No … I mean, yes. My kid might.’

‘I’m afraid the group is pretty tight-knit. They’ve been together the whole summer …’

‘No, no, not that. I just was wondering,’ I asked, ‘do you have a full-time job?’

‘Yeah, I’m CFO of Citigroup. This is the investment banking division.’

I laughed out loud. ‘Seriously. Is this your job?’

‘No, it’s not.’

‘Do you have a job?’

‘Does it look like I have a job?’

‘Do you want a job?’

‘Are you hiring?’

‘Well, maybe. Do you know what a manny is?’

‘A what?’

‘Oh, God. I apologize. Let me start over. My name is Jamie Whitfield.’ I pulled out my business card and handed it to him. ‘I work at NBS News. I have three children. And I live nearby. Do you work with kids often in any capacity?’

He kept one eye on the group of kids. ‘Not really.’

‘You don’t work with kids? Like ever?’

‘I mean, I can fill in. They’re in no danger here, maybe have a little sugar high, that’s all.’

He just seemed like a guy who wouldn’t take any nonsense from Dylan and might turn things around. Maybe he had some free hours. Obviously if a real teacher asked him to control a group like this …

‘And what’s your name, and, if you don’t mind me asking, I have another question …?’

‘It’s Peter Bailey.’

I didn’t know how to begin, so I just blurted out: ‘I’m looking to fill a really good job that is high-paying. Afternoons and evenings.’

‘OK, so maybe I’m interested in a really good job that’s high-paying. What kind of job?’

I took a breath. ‘It’s complicated.’ I needed a few seconds to come up with my marketing strategy.

‘OK.’

‘I have a son. He’s nine. He’s, well, he’s kind of down. A bit depressed even.’

‘Clinically depressed?’ Now I had his full attention.

‘Well, no, there’s no formal diagnosis, he just had some panic attacks. Can’t perform at sports any more really because of them.’

‘And how do you see me fitting into this?’

‘Well, I don’t know, maybe the chess …’

‘I know how to play chess. But I’m not a chess tutor. Though the high-paying part might make me a good chess tutor.’ He grinned.

‘Well, not just a chess tutor exactly, but yes, why not, some of that.’

‘I see.’

My cell phone buzzed inside my purse. I reached to turn off the ring tone and saw Goodman was calling. Maybe he wanted more Windex.

‘Look, you need to get back to them and I have somewhere I’m supposed to be. You have my card. If you wouldn’t mind, please call me in the morning and I’ll tell you more.’

‘Sure. I’ll call you. Nice to meet you.’

I stopped for a moment and then walked back to him. ‘Can I just ask you one thing?’

He nodded.

‘How did one person get thirty-two kids with huge papier mâché contraptions on their heads into the middle of Central Park?’

‘Hey. I didn’t do anything. I had help: them.’ Then he turned back to the kids.

And as I wandered back to the West Side, I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face.