Nanny Returns (20 page)

“Okay . . .”

“Seriously.”

“Right, of course, no, you seem all set. Can I talk to you in the hall for one second?” He slumps out behind me and I lower my voice. “I just need to know I said this, so indulge me here—after spending the night sitting up in a chair while they pumped your friend full of charcoal.” He looks flatly at me and I barrel on. “The whole drunk-high thing is a great way to check out from the bullshit you’re dealing with, but not so good for your brain, heart, or future, the things I care about—that Stilton cares about—okay?”

“Okay,” he says quietly, probably to shut me up. But way better than the go-fuck-yourself I was anticipating.

“Okay.” I turn back into the room, where Stilton is holding his own paper up to the glass.

“She has a newt,” he says. “Named Twinkle.”

“Excellent. So that’s great!” I walk to the window and bend to hug Stilton. And then turn to Grayer, who once again extends his hand. I shake it. “Call me, either of you, any time for any reason, okay?”

“Yup.” He seems to register me afresh. “She’s cool, Nan. And my dad’ll be home soon. Go back to whatever it is you do.”

“I’m a consultant, actually. I, um, help people work better together,” I offer, as he has never asked.

“Oh.” He smiles, tipping his head, his hair flopping to the side. “Yeah, I can see it. That’s a job?”

“Yes. Sort of, I’m getting it off the ground now. Trying to—”

“I should really get Stilton settled.”

“Right. Okay, so, bye, guys!” I smile broadly and back out of the room.

“In here,” Carter calls as I make my way up the fifty-foot hallway, seriously playing through if she’d notice if I quietly moved in with Grace. I follow her voice into …one of the most bizarre domestic spaces I’ve ever entered, including a yurt and an Icelandic model home. The yards of stone countertops and wood cabinets mean it must be a kitchen, but there are no discernible appliances of any kind, not even a sink.

“Researching a role?” I ask, pointing at the small mountain of pink and gray newsprint covering the island that sits in the middle.

“Yes, I’ll be playing Carter for the rest of my life.” She peers into a cabinet of metal canisters and extracts one marked “Ginger” and one marked “Mint.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“No, I’m sorry.” She smiles. “I’m tired.”

“Late night?”

“Well, it was a little more drama than I signed on for when they asked me to be honorary chair. I don’t like scenes. And I just came off the fourth He-Man movie.” She opens the canisters and extracts a tea bag from each. “Three months in Guatemala. Everyone got sick.”

“They’re doing a
fourth
?”

“I know. We’re so middle-aged. But they’re huge in Asia and sometimes running in front of a green screen makes a nice break from the death, death, crazy, ill, war, and sterile that are my usual stock and trade.” Carter stares at the antique Asian kettle on the counter as the first wisp of steam finds its way from the opening.

“Is that a …?” I point at the magical stone beneath it.

“I hate appliances.” She hugs herself. “I tried, I really tried. I thought, maybe I just hate cheap appliances, so when I moved in here I did the whole thing chef-grade.” She waves her swanlike arm at the wall. “Twelve-burner stove. Aga. The whole bit. But, you know? I just hate them. Ripped them all out.” The steam finally bursts from the kettle with a trainlike whistle. Carter reaches down and flips open a panel just under the counter and twists a knob to the left. She picks up the hammered metal handle, using the hem of her T-shirt as a buffer, and pours the water into two mugs. She walks over to the wall and pops out a flush metal lever to open a hidden fridge. “Milk?”

“Please.”

She pours it from a glass bottle. “I get it delivered every morning from a farm upstate. No hormones. It’s great.” She swivels the handle of the mug to me.

“And the stove?”

“Hidden under this granite.” She raps it with her small knuckles. “Which conducts brilliantly. It’ll crack eventually and need to be replaced, but I travel so much I get a good six months out of it at a time.”

“And a sink?” I ask, fascinated.

She walks over to the window and lifts the section of counter by its edge, which pops up like an old-fashioned throne toilet lid to reveal the stainless steel basin. “That way I can just toss things in there and I don’t have to see them. At least that’s the idea, but the thought of it is so gross I usually get up in the middle of the night and do the dishes.” She leans back against the—stove? sink? counter?—and dunks her tea bag in and out of her mug while I wait for biscuits to rise from the floor. “So, I wanted to ask you what their schedule is.”

“Grayer’s really the one to ask, but . . .” I think for a moment as I blow on the vapor wisping off my tea. “I’m guessing they’ll need a car to school. It’s on Ninety-second, off Madison. I know Grayer starts at eight thirty, not sure if it’s the same for the lower school. So coming from here, they should maybe be picked up by seven thirty just to be on the safe side. I’d ask Grayer how long it takes them to get going in the morning. My guess is if they’re up by six thirty they’re fine. I don’t know about getting home. Maybe Grayer can wait for Stilton at school or vice versa and they can take the subway down together. Do you have an extra set of keys or an alarm system? Maybe if you just leave a note with your doorman—”

Carter’s eyes well.

“Oh God, is it something I said?” I clank my mug onto the granite, hot water splashing over.

“No, sorry.” She dabs her eyes with the cuffs of her sleeves. “I’m just so tired, and this is my month off to sleep and I don’t want kids.”

I glance behind me at the doorway and drop my voice. “Should I bring them back—”

“No, they’re fine. He’s really excited they’re here. And me, too. It’s just, I mean, I’ve decided not to have any of my own, so it’s just intense to have kids around right now. You know there’ll be no polar bears or penguins by 2050? I will not raise someone to believe there’s a future when I know full well there isn’t,” she declares. “Do they have any allergies?”

“N-not that I know of,” I stutter. “Is their father going to be around?”

“I think he’s in Zermatt tonight—back tomorrow.” She opens a cabinet under the counter and tosses her tea bag inside. “God, he’s so great, isn’t he?” For the first time since we arrived, her energy lifts to the charisma that makes her leap off a screen. “I never saw myself getting remarried—” My tea goes down the wrong way. “You okay?” I cough, holding up the hand of fineness. “It’s just so refreshing to be with someone who has nothing to do with entertainment. Who can talk about global realities. A grown-up.” She looks into the yellow liquid and takes a sip. “He’s not pissing his money away on Maybachs and souped-up Ducatis. I mean, he gives so much to charity. And he’s scary smart—I’m so into him—sorry.” She whips her head up from the tea. “I forgot you’re her best friend.”
No!
No, I am not.

“I’m really not. But, congratulations.”

“Don’t tell anyone. I’m not wearing the ring till I do Letterman.”

“Of course.” Just how I rolled out my engagement. And as fun as this is. “Look, here’s my cell. You know, in case.” I pull out my wallet and hand her my card.

“So anything else? My assistant could take them to
Spring Awakening
. Would that be fun?” Yeah—maybe not the optimal week to introduce the seven-year-old to musical incest. “I tried on doing a proper Sunday dinner . . .”

“Oh, that would be great!”

“But then I thought …lamb …I don’t feel up to surrounding myself with pagan fertility symbolism right now.”

“Sure. Right …um, maybe once you recover from Guatemala,” I begin carefully, placing both hands on some hidden something to steady myself from dropping to my knees and begging. “It’s just the boys could
really
use some TLC right now. Especially Grayer. He’s been through so much—I think he’s been parenting Stilton for a while, if not from the beginning. He could really use some of his own.”

Her nose and brow accordion in on each other. “Isn’t he a little old for that? I mean, you get to a certain age and it’s, like, come on, kids, sink or swim.”

“You know, I should probably get going!” I bid her farewell and go back to stick another business card to Stilton’s lamp, right under a freshly taped-within-an-inch-of-her-nose Padma.

I wave to them as the elevator door closes, shouting up the shaft at the ceiling: “And the bike path on the Hudson! It’s really pretty! Get her to rent you bikes! And Battery Park—check out the ferries!
Gosee
Wicked!”

I step out to the lobby, struggling not to go back upstairs, trusting that I have to leave them with people actually legally involved in their lives, and walk toward the C train, trying,
trying
to stifle a Miss Clavel alarm that has just hit a deafening volume.

16

“This is totally unnecessary, Ingrid,” I say as I tug the thin plum-colored ribbon. It falls away from the diminutive cardboard box as she waits with bashful anticipation, her legs tucked under her desk chair.

“Oh, it’s just something little.” She drops her wrist, her bracelets clanking against the brushed steel. “I saw it in one of the shops on Atlantic and thought of you.”

“That’s so nice, I’m now consulting your very consciousness,” I joke, lifting off the top and reaching in for what I realize is a brass cheerleader’s cone for a charm bracelet. “Oh, Ingrid, I
love
it.”

“I thought it was less cheesy than pom-poms. Plus, metal pompom charms kind of look like …something else. It’s for your key chain or junk drawer, or whatever.”

“
Definitely
key chain.” I reach in my bag for my keys and clip the charm to the metal loop, holding it up so we can both admire how awesome it looks. “I
love
this. It may be one of the coolest gifts I’ve ever received. Thank you.”

“Well, you didn’t have to stay with me at the hospital all night.”

“Oh my God, there was no way I was leaving you to face that by yourself. But you were grace under fire, seriously.”

“Well . . .” Her eyebrows lift as she picks at a stray thread on the hem of her red cotton dress. “It wasn’t
my
father.”

“Amen. Speaking of, should we?” I stand, lifting my bag from her desk.

With a glance to the clock, she unfolds herself from her chair, slipping her bare feet back into her stretched-out flats. “Let me just grab my papers for next period and I’m right behind you.”

Janelle reaches out and proffers a large cardboard delivery tray from Pastis as we approach her desk outside Gene’s office. “Can you guys grab that?” As I take it from her, his door opens and a pale Darwin emerges, looking like he’s been living on that charcoal diet. The door shuts behind him.

“Hey.” Ingrid walks over, her arms crossing as she hunches against the air-conditioning driving from the vents artfully obscured by the crown molding. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay. Thanks.” He purses his lips and looks to the left of her.

Janelle’s intercom emits a buzz and she waves at us before readjusting her knit poncho. “You two can go on in.”

“Later,” Darwin murmurs, but Ingrid reaches out to his forearm as he goes to pass. He looks down at the point of contact and then at her. “I want you to know it’s my opinion that, despite the code of conduct, I believe you should stay here and get support. I’m gonna fight Gene on this. I’m not participating in any effort that leads to your or Chassie’s expulsion.”

He blinks, his face wavering between guarded and stricken. “Well …your prerogative.”

“It is.” She affirms. “See you in class.” She squeezes before releasing him to reach for the doorknob. Waiting for Darwin to lumber past, I follow her inside, tray first, where I’m surprised to see that, in addition to the Zuckermans dominating the central couch and a hovering Gene and Tim—Sheila is in attendance. Sitting catty-corner to Grant, she wears a pinched expression above a short-sleeved white organza blouse and perches cross-legged beside a man I don’t recognize. Khaki suit, brown wing tips, manila file resting on his lap. General air of boredom and annoyance. Another Jarndyce dad? Are they overseeing the expulsion?

“Oh, fantastic! I’m starving!” Suddenly a woman I immediately place as Chassie’s mother scuttles in from behind us, her disarrayed blond hair billowing Calèche, before the door clicks closed. She lunges for the tray, grabbing the cup marked “latte” and throwing my balance off. “Was that Darwin I just passed in the hall? Wow, he’s grown. NFL material, eh?” Patricia Warner smiles at the Zuckermans. “Gene, you should know, it’s hard to find the ladies’ room. You might want to stick something on the door that’s a little more lady-in-a-skirt. I don’t really think of seahorses as female-identified.” After a half beat of surveying the options in front of my chest, she plucks up a wax paper bag and drops onto the other end of the couch from Sheila, reaching into the butter-seeped paper and emerging with the ripped-off claw of a croissant. “I got home last night from the airport and there’s not a single piece of food in the house, just six sticks of butter in the freezer and some very old Skinny Cows.” She rolls her eyes. “Teenage girls.” She pops the whole thing in her mouth to Tinsley Zuckerman’s ill-concealed horror. I realize I am also watching Patricia Warner chew and, after sliding the tray onto the turtle table, settle myself on the remaining empty couch, gallantly taking the end closest to Grant. It’s hard to reconcile this blousy blonde with the whippet-thin star I worshipped in the eighties—my bedroom walls traced her journey from finding sunken treasure to befriending misunderstood robots to seducing married men.

“You must be Ms. Wells.” Patricia turns full wattage to Ingrid.

“Yes, hello.” Ingrid steps forward and puts out her hand. Patricia takes it and pulls her down into a hug, her fingers extending the last bit of croissant past Ingrid’s back. “Thank you so, so much. You were there when I couldn’t be.”

“Of course.” Ingrid’s neck turns the crimson of her dress as she straightens, and I notice Grant’s redden in turn.

“I brought you something.” Patricia rummages in her shell pink Hervé Chapelier tote to extract a program from her show. “Here. It’s signed by all of us, even Albee.”

“Oh, thank you.” Ingrid takes it and seats herself beside me, holding the slightly crushed gift atop her class materials.

“I’m just so glad Chass and Darwin were surrounded by the love of the school community when it happened, am I right?” She glances to the Zuckermans. “Did they send over any jam?” she asks, a crumb wedging in the coral lipstick feathering at the corner of her mouth.

Gene bends to rifle the cardboard unsuccessfully. “I’m sorry, Patricia. As soon as the table arrives from Denmark for the private dining room I’ll be able to host you all properly.”

“No matter.” She licks away the crumb. “Maybe you could teach my daughter the basics of a grocery list.” She adjusts the folds of her loose peach sweater, which drapes down long in the front. “I mean, she has the housekeeper at her disposal.” Yes, as soon as we get through the drugs and alcohol we can take on everything else she puts in her body, right down to your skin care.

“How is she feeling?” Gene asks.

“Oh, Chass’s
fine.
” Patricia tosses her buttery fingers. “She’s sleeping it off. Good for her. She won’t make the same mistake twice.” She laughs. “That’s what you should be prepping for college—how to make a grocery list and don’t mix your drugs.”

Tinsley sniffs. “We’ve tried to keep Darwin a bit more sheltered than that.”

“Chass’s my best friend,” Patricia rejoinders. “She can’t see pictures of me in the dining room with Mickey Rourke or Robbie Downey or her father, for Christ’s sake, and think I didn’t live the go-go eighties. I don’t lie to her. Ever.”

“Okay, so let’s get down to business.” Gene walks back to rest one hip on his desk and clasp his hands over his raised knee, putting the bad mother–off on pause. “We’re glad you could all make time to come in while you’re in the city.”

Mrs. Zuckerman rearranges the pleats of her floral skirt. “I wanted to fly home yesterday—my youngest’s Bar Mitzvah is in less than two weeks—but Grant insisted we stay.”

“Since Chass’s still in the hospital, there’s nothing much for me to do except finish going through my mail and check on the plants. Tonight I fly back. God bless her, I didn’t have to miss one performance. Jeremy Irons said yesterday’s matinee was transcendent.” She smiles, pleased. “And my assistant set up everything for you, Gene, to fly over to see the show.”

“That’s so kind, Ms. Warner,” Gene says, a bit awkward.

“Patricia, please. And not at all. I’m just sorry I didn’t think of it sooner. I’ve arranged a lovely suite at the Dorchester for you and your wife July Fourth weekend and a little dinner in your honor that Sunday night.”

“Well, thank you,” he says, now clearly delighted. But the smile drains from his face when his eye catches Grant’s. “Anyway, we want to review the events of Saturday night and how you ended up being dragged here in the first place.”

“I just want to say,” Ingrid jumps in bravely. “I know the student conduct code is explicit on this point, but I think both Chassie and Darwin need our support more than we need them expelled.”

Grant shifts abruptly forward, his arms raising as if he might fly across the turtle and take Ingrid’s throat. His wife puts a steadying hand on his arm to lower them back to his lap. “Well, now, let’s not—no.” Gene jumps in. “The point is, Patricia, Grant, Tinsley, we wanted to let you know that we are taking this situation extremely seriously.”

“So we’re going to help them, work with them,” Ingrid affirms with relief.

“If I may.” The man in the wing tips leans forward.

“This is Mr. Macmillan, our legal counsel.” We all nod as Gene makes the introduction. I can’t help but savor the warning these parents are about to get. I reach over and grab myself a croissant.

“Gene, why don’t you begin with your prepared remarks,” Macmillan prompts.

Gene takes a sip of water and launches in a tone both loud and formal enough for a commencement speech. “In light of the incident on Saturday evening—”

Macmillan clears his throat.

“
Your handling
of the incident, Ingrid,” Gene corrects himself.
What?
“One in a number of mishandlings over the last month.”

“Mishandlings? What have I mishandled?” Ingrid twists to Gene. I look to Sheila, but she has transitioned from pinched to unreadable.

“You were alarmist.” Grant slams his hands on the turtle. “You jeopardized the reputation of the children’s families and the school—”

“
I
jeopardized your reputation?” Ingrid strains for control.

“There were press at the event and the hotel has a physician on call. It’s not the kind of reckless thinking that we value at Jarndyce,” Macmillan intercedes.

“Therefore,” Gene concludes, “you leave the school no choice but to terminate your contract—effective immediately.”

“Ms. Wells.” Macmillan extends a form. “If you’ll kindly sign this document.”

She takes it with a shaking hand and, stunned speachless, I lean in to scan over her shoulder what amounts to a fully binding nondisclosure.

Ingrid lays the document on the turtle. I look around the circle of impassive faces for a reflection of sanity, ending with Patricia. But she merely looks to the floor, sinking into herself, the folds of her sweater swallowing her like she did the devoured croissant. “You can’t make me sign anything.”

“That depends on what kind of options you want to give yourself,” Tim retorts evenly.

“Ingrid.” Gene stands upright. “I want to be able to write you a recommendation—” Sheila barely perceptibly shakes her head and, pained, he changes tack. “Just sign the thing so we can give you a severance check.”

“Severance check.” Grant snorts derisively.

“Please.” Gene implores.

“She’s entitled to have a lawyer review that,” I say to Macmillan.

He flattens his eyes at me, just another of his long days of having to explain things to morons. “The only way she gets the benefits Gene just outlined for her is if that document leaves this room signed.”

“So, if I don’t?”

“You’ll be hard-pressed to find a school that will hire you,” Sheila answers.

“Wait.” Ingrid swipes the air with her hand. “What are you going to tell the students? When do I talk to them—”

“Well, actually, we need to follow the board’s new protocol for terminations.” Gene stares at the carpet as if it were a Teleprompter. “In keeping with the transfer of other best practices from the financial industry, in which our board members are leaders, there is now a guard in the waiting area who will escort you to your desk. You can take your jacket and your, uh . . .”

“Bag.”
Shelia jogs his memory.

“Right, your bag. And all your personal things will be sent to you. So can you sign? We don’t need to drag this out any longer, do we?” His eyes plead.

Ingrid numbly takes the pen from the lawyer’s outstretched hand, stares at it—and drops it atop the papers. Standing, she walks past all of us, turns, mouth open, eyes darting around the room.