Minding Ben (6 page)

“Thought so.”

“But I will not be dazzled.”

D
ame was gone when I went to pick him up. Dodo too. I had just returned to Eastern Parkway and could hear her through the door.

“If it was me, Sylvia, so help me God, she was on the street. Island people like to take too much advantage. After everything you do for that girl.”

With Sylvia, you always knew where you stood. She screamed when she was mad and a minute later, having heaved her anger off, asked if you wanted rice and peas and turkey wings. Dodo was pure bitch.

Sylvia came to my defense. “Nah, Dodo, Grace okay, man. And them children like she. When Derek and Micky come with home lesson, she have patience to sit down with them and do it.”

Dodo snorted. I jiggled my key in the lock for a few seconds before opening the door. “Afternoon, Sylvia. Dodo. Sylvia, I went down to Dodo's, but I guess you reach before me.”

Dodo sat on the couch, her mantis thighs tightly crossed and smoking a cigarette. She was unmarried, bitter, and had a fierce relationship with the Lord. She and Jesus had a deal with her Marlboros: for one-fifth of her salary, he turned away when she smoked.

She jumped in before Sylvia could say a word. “If you had come for Dame when you said you was going to be there, you would have found him.” Dodo laughed, and it turned into a phlegmy cough. She unfolded a crushed Marlboro Lights box and spat into it. “Must be some man she went and look for in the city. You don't know them young girls and them nowadays.”

I'd stopped trying to be nice to her. “Am I supposed to be answering you?”

“Grace, just make sure Derek and Micky get their home lesson finish for me please.”

At least Sylvia wasn't going to insult me in front of Dodo.

“When you finding out if you get the work?” Sylvia asked later that night.

“The man, Mr. Bruckner, say they looking to hire somebody soon, so if I don't hear anything by this weekend, I guess they hire somebody else.” My taking the negative track threw Sylvia. I didn't want to seem too enthusiastic about getting out of her apartment.

“I sure you will get it. White people like smart people to mind they children, not any and anybody.” She settled back into the sofa, and Dame, who was falling asleep in my lap, reached out and circled my waist.

The phone rang. Sylvia reached for the receiver on the floor next to her. I could tell by the way she spoke that the caller was white. Sylvia adjusted.

“Yes, she is right here, Miss Lady. Please hold on for a minute, please.” She tossed me the phone. With Dame in my lap, I couldn't get up to take the call.

“Hello?”

“Is this Grace?” My heart exploded. It was Mrs. Bruckner.

“Yes. Mrs. Bruckner?”

“Mr. Bruckner and I were very pleased with you today, and Ben cannot stop talking about you. Yours is the only name he remembers. Of course, you read for him better than anyone else.”

“Well, that's very good to hear,” I said stupidly.

“Anyway,” Mrs. Bruckner continued, “we want you to come in for a trial this weekend. Can you come at ten on Saturday, and work through Sunday morning? This way you'll get to spend a day with Ben and a night at the apartment to see if you're comfortable.”

Yes!
I smiled and tried to respond with calm. “Yes. Sure. That would be fine.” But when I looked over, Sylvia glared at me. “Can you hold on a second?” I asked Mrs. Bruckner.

“Sylvia, is the lady from the interview. They want me to come Saturday for a tryout and stay till Sunday morning. You mind? I mean, you want me Saturday?”

“Even if I wanted you to do anything for me you would still go your own way. Go ahead and do your work, Miss Grace.”

I unpaused the phone. “Mrs. Bruckner, Saturday is good. You said ten?”

Sylvia was off the couch and humming to herself. Her short nightie came only to the middle of her legs, and the extra flesh in her thighs squeezed together and spilled forward. “Well”—she folded over to pick Dame off my lap—“at least you could never say I make you call me Mrs. Anybody.”

I HAD TOO MUCH
on my mind to go to bed yet. From Dame's spot on the radiator, I looked out at the nighttime traffic going by on the parkway. I cracked the window two inches, and a strong draft picked up bits of paint from the sill and scattered them over the turtleneck I still wore from the morning. After a while the elevator door grated open, and I heard a soft slapping on the front door. I got up and let Bo in.

“What, Grace, like you was waiting for me?” He stank as usual of sweat and weed.

“Yes, Bo. I stay up till midnight waiting for you.” I turned away. “Now you reach I can sleep in peace.”

“Wait, Grace.” He leaned against the front door.

I turned back to him. “What, Bo?”

“Lend me fifty dollars till two weeks from now, please?”

“Bo, where I suppose to find fifty dollars?” I whispered. “I haven't worked since January.”

“So you don't have no money save?” He eyed me with his head slightly raised. His warmed breath smelled of rum.

I backed away. “No, I don't have no money save.”

“You think about the thing?”

“Yes, I think about the thing, but I not working, Bo. You know how long I will have to work to save three thousand dollars?”

He put his face a little closer to mine. “For a girl with education you really stupid sometimes, you know. You don't have to give me all the money one time. We get the license, do it the next day, and after that you give me, say, seven fifty. I sign what you need me to sign and you file the papers, scene? Then bam”—he pounded a fist into an opened palm—“first interview. If we pass that, you give me fifteen hundred. That is how much? Let me see.” Bo did the math mentally, and I was amazed. “Twenty-two fifty. After that you have a whole two years before you file for permanent. Things go good”—he slammed his fist again—“we done and you give me the last seven fifty. Divorce and talk done. Three thousand is a good good price, scene.” He scratched the back of his head.

Money talk always sobered Bo up. Now, after his rant, a foamy ball of
wappia
pooled in each corner of his mouth, and his thick black beard was speckled with white bolts of more spit.

“But if I don't have money, Bo I don't have it. You willing to go downtown for free?”

He laughed. “You mad or you crazy?”

From the bedroom Sylvia called out, “Bo and Grace, stop taking advantage, man. Night is time for people to sleep. Talk you business in the morning.”

“Grace, you mean to tell me you don't have a friend to lend you some money?” Bo asked. “What about that red girl you always on the phone with?”

“Now who crazy? Kathy in the same position like me.”

“All right. All I telling you is time running out.”

A
different concierge stood behind the desk in the Bruckners' lobby, a youngish white guy with crooked teeth, blond hair, and a head that came to a point at his nose and mouth, like the
manicou
rodent my father had hunted in Trinidad. A heel-kicking leprechaun was pinned on his lapel. The uniform that had made Duke look like a dictator hung on his skinny frame, and he resembled a tipsy toy soldier under the top hat.

“Let me guess, let me guess, let me guess.” He looked me up and down. “You're Grace and you're going to the Bruckners'.”

I nodded.

“Ahhhhhh”—he sounded like a cheering crowd—“ladies and gentlemen, Danny has done it again. How does Danny do it every time without fail? A round of applause, please, for Danny the Doorman.”

I smiled up at him. “Nice alliteration, Danny the Doorman. How do you know who I am?”

“Rule number one, Grace: never underestimate the men at the front desk. You'll be amazed at what we know.” He leaned over the desk and eyed the small nylon backpack Sylvia had lent me. “Hey,” he whispered, “so are you the Bruckners' new nanny?”

I wanted to be that more than anything, but the word rankled me. “I'm just here for the weekend. Take care.”

Upstairs, Mrs. Bruckner opened the front door. She wore skintight jeans tucked into cowboy boots and a yellow sweater with a deep V-neck. A knotted leather strap hung around her neck and rested on her cleavage.

“Hi, Grace. How are you? Is it very cold?”

“Morning, Mrs. Bruckner. It is freezing.” The apartment looked the same from Thursday morning, the couch still disheveled and a large pair of dirty sneakers, one side knocked over, on the rug.

“Come,” she said, and I followed her down the corridor, “let me show you where to put your things. Mr. Bruckner is getting Ben ready.”

The room she took me to wasn't really a room at all, just a small space partitioned from the kitchen by a jalousied sliding door set on tracks. A clothes dryer was mounted on the wall with a washing machine on wheels pushed under. On the other side a single bed with hospital-tucked sheets butted against an old dresser with beautiful red glass knobs shaped like acorns. A large window like the ones that let in so much light in the living room looked out on the street below, and from the twenty-second floor I could see shelves of empty brown terraces with dead plants and turned-over lounge chairs.

“If this weekend goes well,” Mrs. Bruckner said, “this will be your space. It's not big, but you'll spend most of your time in Ben's room or doing stuff around the apartment. You'll only be in here to sleep.”

This box was a shrine compared to Sylvia's. Besides my drawer, I had no space of my own in that apartment and in desperation had once jumped over the back of the couch to sit in the little triangular nook for solitude. I followed Mrs. Bruckner back through the kitchen. “So, no shul this morning?” I asked her.

She stopped short, and I stumbled to avoid her back. “What did you say, Grace?”

I knew she had heard me, but I repeated, “Temple. Mora and her family went every Saturday.”

Mrs. Bruckner stood in the middle of the kitchen and with one foot crossed behind the other rested her hand on the counter. “I think you'll find I'm a little different from your people in New Jersey. The Speisers.”

Together the words sounded like
despisers
. Already she was pissed at me, and I saw my chances for getting this job drain away. I had to remember that I was a domestic and not Mrs. Bruckner's friend.

Mora had four children, and combined they didn't own as many toys as Ben had in his room. Two of the four walls were honeycombed with shelves built almost to the ceiling, and each square compartment held a toy or a box with a toy or stuffed animals or musical instruments. Mr. Bruckner, in brown corduroys and a plaid shirt, sprawled on the carpeted floor, a pileup of small cars crashed around his legs. Ben sat next to him holding a sippy cup in one hand and a worn plush frog in the other.

“Hey, buddy, look who's here. Do you know who this is?”

Ben looked over at me. “It's Grace. Hi, Grace. Can Grace read me a book when my tape is over?”

“She can read you any book you want, buddy. Grace is going to spend the whole day with you.” To me he smiled and said, “Hi, Grace. I see you made the final cut.”

“Morning, Mr. Bruckner. Hi, Ben. Who's that you're holding?”

“Rabbit.”

“Rabbit? Rabbit's a frog.” Miriam was watching us.

“I know he's a frog,” Ben said, “but his name is Rabbit.”

“That makes perfect sense to me. Hi, Rabbit the frog.”

“He just likes to be called Rabbit.”

Aware that I was exasperating the object of my employment, I tried again. “Okay. Hi, Rabbit. Hey, Ben, I think you and Rabbit have a very cool room.” I looked at the boxes on the shelves. “Maybe we can play with some of your toys.”

Mrs. Bruckner pressed the heel of her hand against the wood. “My dad built all the shelves in here, the ones in the hall too.” She turned to her husband. “Sol, you were supposed to be getting him ready, not watching a tape. Grace said it's cold. Find his snowsuit for when they're ready to go out.”

Go out?

She turned to me. “Okay, Grace, here's the plan. Mr. Bruckner and I are going out for the day and leaving you with Ben. While we're gone, straighten up our bedroom, Ben's room, and the kitchen, and just see what you can't do with the living room. Try and do that while Ben's finishing up the tape. After, take him to the playground for a bit.”

I looked at Mrs. Bruckner to see if she was serious. It was only about twenty degrees outside, and I couldn't believe anyone was at the park. “Are you sure you want me to take Ben out?”

“Oh, I'm sure.”

“Mir, if it's too cold—”

But she cut Mr. Bruckner off. “One thing I should tell you now. We like Ben to get fresh air every day, regardless of the weather. You can't keep him cooped up. There's a plastic cover to go over the carriage if it's raining or snowing, and he has boots and plenty of warm clothes. Another thing we found out that the last nanny did was go to her friend's house and spend the whole afternoon watching soaps when she should have been taking him outside. I cannot begin to tell you all the problems we have, have had with Carmen.”

Ben heard his mother say “Carmen.” “Where's Ya-ya, Mommy? I want to see Ya-ya.”

Mr. Bruckner glanced at his wife before reaching over and rubbing his son's hair. “You'll see Ya-ya soon. Maybe you'll have a new ya-ya, Ben. Do you want Grace to be your new ya-ya?”

“No, not Grace, Ya-ya.”

I wondered how long ago Ya-ya was fired and who had been minding Ben in the meanwhile.

“Sol,” Mrs. Bruckner said, “keep getting him ready and I'll finish showing Grace around. There'll be traffic on the Taconic.”

“It's Saturday morning, Mir.”

“Still.” I followed her into their bedroom. Spread across her unmade white sheets was a glossy black fur coat, and the top of her vanity was covered with tubs and tubes of makeup and brushes. “He called Carmen his ya-ya. We don't know where he got the name. To tell you the truth, Grace, she isn't—
wasn't
—a bad woman. Just not too bright. And then there was the train situation.”

“Mr. Bruckner told me about that.”

“We have strict rules about Ben. One is that we don't want him to go on the subway. There's all kinds of fricking crazies down there, and the steps, him in the carriage. Ugh”—she held up a hand—“God forbid. If Ben has to go to a doctor's appointment—his pediatrician is on the Upper East Side—we leave cab money. Or sometimes it's nice for him to ride the city bus uptown.”

In the kitchen, Mrs. Bruckner reached for a clear plastic cup on the counter. “This is the money cup. Every Monday morning Mr. Bruckner puts twenty dollars petty cash in here. Do you know what I mean by petty cash?”

“Yes.”

“The only thing we want is for you to put all the receipts from the supermarket, the pizza place if you take Ben for pie, whatever, in here. At the end of the week before you get paid, Mr. Bruckner or I will tally them up. If the total is a few cents off, fine, but generally if it's more than a dollar you're responsible for making it up. I think because it's your first day you should take Ben to Gino's for a slice. It'll help you guys bond. Let's see, what else?”

She stood with one leg crossed behind the other thinking about anything she might have forgot. “Well, I guess that's enough for today. The keys are always on the hook next to the front door, and here”—she pointed to the refrigerator—“is a list of phone numbers to call in case of an emergency. My in-laws live uptown, and if you ever can't reach us you should call them. We'll take you to meet them this evening.” Her fingernail tapped against another name on the list. “Nancy, Sol's sister, lives in the Village, and she's usually around. Any questions?”

I didn't know where to begin.

“No.”

“Okay, start on the dishes. I'll finish getting ready, and then you and Ben will have some time to get to know each other.”

She left, and I turned to face the sink. Something about the speed of the morning, that just an hour ago I was leaving Sylvia's apartment in Brooklyn and now here I was standing in this woman's kitchen about to wash her dirty dishes, struck me as absurd. I turned off the tap and walked out of the kitchen. But then I stood in the hall, not sure what to do. I could hear the TV and Ben's laughter, but Mr. Bruckner was still with his son. Miriam came out of her room and almost collided with me. “Everything okay, Grace?”

“Yes, Mrs. Bruckner. Only . . .”

“Yes?”

I decided to ask her about money. “Um, you know, we didn't talk about how much I'm getting for—”

She didn't let me finish. “Of course. Hold on.” She clacked off to Ben's room, and I went back to kitchen. There wasn't a flypaper from the ceiling, like at Sylvia's. And the yellow bananas in the fruit bowl looked plastic. Just as I was about to pick one up to see if it was real, she and Mr. Bruckner walked into the kitchen, he towering over her.

“Thirty-five dollars, Grace,” Mr. Bruckner said. “Is that good enough, you think?”

No. Of course it wasn't good enough. If they paid two hundred dollars a week usually, then they should at least be giving me forty dollars and train fare.

Mrs. Bruckner spoke up. “We figured that since you're starting at ten rather than at eight, which is when you would usually start, you shouldn't get the whole forty dollars, right? You're here till the morning, but you don't have to do any chores tomorrow. So thirty-five is more than fair. Don't you think?”

No. “I guess.”

“Tell you what,” Mr. Bruckner said, “you're taking Ben to Gino's, right? Get yourself a slice and a soda too. Our treat.” His wife looked up at him but didn't say anything.

“Thank you, Mr. Bruckner.”

Mrs. Bruckner turned and walked out of the room. He leaned like a coconut tree against the counter. “Here”—he handed me five dollars—“get whatever you want at Gino's, Grace. Ben'll only have a cheese slice, cut up, but you can get pasta or whatever else they have. My treat.”

I put the money in my pocket and thanked him again.

“Grace”—he folded his arms and looked at me—“I wish you would stop calling me Mr. Bruckner. My name is Sol. If you keep calling me Mister, then I'm going to start calling you Ms.”

I didn't say anything but wondered how come he never asked me to call him Sol in front of his wife.

I HAD MADE UP
my mind to spend no more than ten minutes at the playground. Ben, bundled into a winter suit, hat, mittens, and scarf, could barely bend his limbs. I unbuckled him from the carriage, and he tumbled forward, unable to bring his arms close to his body.

He chipped around to face me. “I go in the sandbox, Grace?”

I laughed and loosened his scarf. “Okay. You want your dump truck?”

He took the truck and sat in the cold sand. The playground was deserted. In the open square below was some kind of market. The stalls, peaked white plastic tents, some with green pennants snapping in the brisk wind, were pitched in a neat cluster. After three minutes I stooped at the edge of the sandbox and asked Ben if he was cold. “No siree, Grace!” he said. He filled the bed of his truck, dumped his load, and filled her up again.

I looked around. The sky was gray, and all the trees seemed dead. I felt homesick and alone. I wanted to be on the beach. I wanted to sit on my front steps in the hot sun reading a book or watching people walk up the road. I wanted a real Saturday market, not this tented mall in the middle of a city.

I tried to think.

I was here, in New York, and this was what I'd wanted since I was ten years old. But now that I was here . . . what?

“Hallo, Ben.” A West Indian voice interrupted my thoughts. The woman's hood came forward like a funnel and, except for her eyes and forehead with greasy bangs, completely obscured her face. She stopped her double-wide carriage with two unmoving, cocooned bundles. Ben looked up at her but didn't answer.

“Morning,” I said to her.

She looked at her watch. “Me guess me should say afternoon, morning done past.”

“You know Ben?”

“Of course me know Ben. Everybody know the little bad boy. Ain't you the little bad boy in the towers, Ben?” Her funnel swept me, and she asked, “You are his new babysitter?”

“I'm just working today.” I didn't feel like telling her any of my business. Again I asked her, “You work in the towers?” Again she didn't answer.

Instead she asked Ben, “You have a new ya-ya today, Ben?”

Ben looked up from his dump truck. “She's not my ya-ya, she's my Grace.”