Rules Get Broken (29 page)

I stopped. Nancy opened her eyes, and she looked deeply into mine. So deeply.

I kissed her forehead, her throat, then the base of her throat, as low as the denim shirt allowed. I reached for the top button of the denim shirt and unbuttoned it.

Nancy held me tighter. She kissed the side of my face once, twice, three times.

I buried my face between the denim folds and felt Nancy’s skin against my lips. The smell of soap and perfume and Nancy enveloped me once again. I unbuttoned the next button. Slowly. Painfully slowly. The folds of the denim shirt began to part.

Nancy looked at me with a strange look. Was it a look of sadness? Desire? Or was it a look of having finally arrived somewhere?

“Are you sure this is okay?” I asked softly.

“Yes,” she whispered, her breath hot in my ear. “I’m sure.”

I started my drive home from Nancy’s apartment shortly after two-thirty Sunday morning. I drove in silence, the only sounds the low hum of the engine, the higher-pitched hum of the tires on concrete, and the rhythmic clunk as they crossed expansion joints in the road surface. I’d been tempted to turn on the radio when I left Nancy’s, thinking music would ease the monotony of the drive home and help me stay awake, but I opted for silence instead. I knew the voice would come sooner or later, and I knew silence would enable its arrival, and I reasoned that the sooner it came, the sooner it would leave.

I shook my head in amazement at what had transpired over the last few hours.
I wonder if Nancy’s all right. If she’s happy tonight happened. Or if she’s crying hysterically right now, promising herself she’ll never see me again? I wonder why tonight happened in the first place. Does she think I’m the guy she’s been waiting for?

I slowed for a red light, came to a complete stop and waited. I looked to my right, then to my left, then straight ahead. Not another car was in sight. I was waiting for traffic to pass that didn’t exist.

“Nothing to say about tonight?” I said out loud to the voice.

I braced for an answer, but none came.

“Wonder what that means.”

The light changed to green, and I came up to speed slowly, deep in thought.

“Four weeks ago, you went crazy because I asked Nancy out to dinner. And because I kissed her. And asked if I could take off her dress. And tonight, nothing? Tonight of all nights? Why is that?”

I pondered my question as I drove past darkened homes, one after another. I wondered for a moment if anybody anywhere was still awake. Half a minute later high beams dropping to low beams from a westbound sedan as it rushed by assured me there was.

“Because tonight was so special? Is that it?” I asked. “Or are you in shock and still trying to figure out what to say? Or was tonight so wrong you’ve simply given up on me?”

I shook my head impatiently—impatient with myself, impatient with the voice.

“Or because tonight was so incredibly beautiful? Because nothing so beautiful, so tender could be wrong?”

I nodded in silent acknowledgement of that thought as I slowed for another red light and then accelerated when the light turned green before I reached the intersection.

“Is that it?”

Again no answer.

I was getting exasperated. I felt foolish talking to myself—the voice —like this, but I needed to know what the voice thought—what I thought.

“You know,” I said with an air of finality, “if you have something to say, you better say it now, because pretty soon I’m gonna be done listening.”

The road surface changed from concrete to macadam, and the hum of the tires dropped to a lower pitch. The clunk of the tires hitting expansion joints disappeared, and the hum of the engine seemed to get louder.

Suddenly the voice filled my head.
I’ve given up on you, pal. Simple as that! Because you’re not listening.

“I always listen,” I replied. “I just don’t always do what you tell me to do.”

You got that right
, the voice agreed.

“That’s it?” I asked, desperately wishing I weren’t so intent on introspection.

Oh, there’s more. Lots more. If you think you can handle it. Can you?

I didn’t answer.

I’ll take that for a yes
, the voice said harshly.
I got three points to make
, it said after several seconds,
and then I’m done.

First, I find it hard to believe you allowed tonight to happen. What were you thinking? Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Do you have any idea how much you’re going to end up hurting this girl?

Second, talk about taking advantage of someone! You take the cake, my friend. You’re thirty-four. She’s just turned twenty-five. You’ve been married nine years. She’s never been with a man before. Not until tonight at least. You’re a goddamned walking tragedy, and she feels sorry for you. And you let this happen. Unbelievable! You tell yourself tonight was beautiful? Tender? Maybe for you, my friend, but what about Nancy? How’s she going to feel tomorrow morning? How’s she going to feel after giving herself to you when you get your head straight and move on? Did you think about that? Did you? You know you didn’t.

And third, again I ask—what about Peg? How could you let tonight happen when Peg hasn’t been dead for two months yet? Unbelievable, John. Unbelievable.

Anyway, you wanted to hear from me, and now you have. And now you can ignore everything I’ve said.

“I will,” I answered angrily. “You know I will.”

Yeah
, the voice replied, with what I took to be a sigh.
I know you will.

I moved back into our house on Wednesday, October 1st, six weeks and three days from the day Peg died. I had wanted to move back sooner, but first I had to find someone to take care of Jennie and John.

I placed an ad in the
New York Times
on Sunday, September 7th, that read “Recently widowed 34-year-old man seeks today’s equivalent of Mary Poppins to care for 3-year-old girl and 8-month-old boy in delightful home in old section of Huntington, Long Island. The children are beautiful and well behaved and desperately need a special someone to take care of them. Are you that someone? If you think you might be, please send resume, references and salary requirements to
NYT
Box No. 11278.”

I thought the ad was great. But either the ad wasn’t as good as I thought or the demand for nannies was greater than I knew, because I received no replies that week or the following week or the week after that. A different approach was obviously needed. So on Sunday, September 28th, I pored through the Help Wanted section of the
Times
, highlighting employment agency ads, my plan being to contact these agencies on Monday morning.

But my calls Monday morning produced nothing for a multitude of reasons.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Herbert, but we only place people in homes here in Manhattan.”

Or, “I’m sorry, Mr. Herbert, but no one is going to want to assume responsibility for an eight-month-old. He’s simply too young.”

Or, “Have you worked with us before, Mr. Herbert? I see. Well, I’m sorry, but we limit our placements to families with whom we’ve worked in the past.”

Or, “And where is Mrs. Herbert? Oh, I’m so sorry. Well, unfortunately, we have a policy that prevents us from placing anyone in a home occupied by a single male. I do hope you understand.”

Or, “I’m sorry, but our ad was an attempt to find people. We don’t have anyone to send you now and haven’t had anyone for several weeks. There’s a very strong demand for nannies, you know.”

And on it went until my last call, to London Personnel. An Elaine Weisman took my call and listened to my story. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Herbert. Both for you and your children.” She paused. “When did Mrs. Herbert pass away?”

“August 17th,” I replied.

“And who’s been taking care of the children since then?”

“My parents. The children and I are living with my parents until I can find someone to take care of them.”

“I see. Well, maybe we can help. Which is saying something in this market. Anyway, I learned this morning that a woman we placed in a home about two years ago under similar circumstances—the wife died, and the husband needed someone to care for their little boy—has just been let go because the husband has remarried and no longer requires her services. She’s a Jamaican woman, 55, refined, very clean. Honest. Reliable. Very good with children. Has three of her own. Grown up now, of course. We’ve placed her in several homes over the last ten years, and our clients have always found her to be a wonderful addition to their families. Her name is Loretta Roberts. Would you like to meet her?”

“Yes!” I answered. “Absolutely. How…how do we do this?”

“You’re in Huntington now, I presume?”

“No, actually. I’m in Westbury right now. Where I work. I’m calling from my office.”

“I see. Well, is there a train station nearby? Because if there is and if I’m able to get in touch with Loretta, I can ask her to take a train out to you this afternoon from Brooklyn—where she lives—so you can meet her. And then, if you like her, you can introduce her to the children, show her the house, etc.”

“Today?”

“She’s available today, Mr. Herbert, but she won’t be for long, I assure you. If I were you, I’d meet with Loretta this afternoon and hire her immediately if you like her.”

“Wow. Well, there’s a Long Island Railroad station here in Westbury.”

“Wonderful! Would you be able to meet her at the station?”

“Of course. I just need to know what train she’ll be on.”

“Let me call you back after I reach Loretta, and I’ll give you her arrival time in Westbury then, okay?”

“That’s fine.”

“Where can I reach you the rest of today?”

“At my office number. 516-334-6500.”

“Good. Now, Mr. Herbert, we haven’t talked about Loretta’s salary or about our fee structure yet, so let me take a moment on that. Loretta was making $325 a week at her last position, and I’m certain she’s asking for that now. Is that a problem?”

“No. That won’t be a problem.”

“Our fee is four weeks salary, $1,300 in this case, payable after Loretta’ first full week of employment. But the fee is fully refundable if for any reason you’re not satisfied with her performance during her first four weeks with you. Is that satisfactory?”

“Yes, that’s satisfactory,” I answered, not caring what Loretta cost if she allowed the kids and me to take even one small step in the direction of normalcy.

“Excellent. Then I’ll talk to you again as soon as I’ve reached Loretta. Good-bye, Mr. Herbert.”

At two-forty that afternoon I was standing in front of my car, watching an eastbound train leave the Westbury station. As the last car rolled out, ten or eleven people came out of the doors below the passenger platform. Several of them were men in suits who had probably taken the afternoon off to enjoy this beautiful September day. Four were white women, three in business suits, one in some sort of uniform. The last two people out of the doors were both black women, but one, not as well dressed as the other, immediately got into a waiting taxi. The better-dressed woman stood to the right of the doors, unsure as to where to go next.

She was about five foot three. Her skin was a very dark brown, and she looked quite trim in a brown skirt, black turtleneck sweater and low heels. She wore her hair in a close-cut Afro and was beginning to show a little gray at the temples. She was attractive and well groomed.

I crossed the street from the parking lot where I’d been waiting and approached her slowly to give her a chance to get her bearings and move on if she were not Loretta Roberts. But she stood where she was and when she saw me walking towards her, she smiled.

“Mrs. Roberts?” I asked.

“Mr. Herbert?” she replied.

We shook hands, and her grip was strong. She had an accent that was a combination of Jamaican and English that transformed “Mr. Herbert” into “Meestah Erbert.” It sounded nice.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Loretta,” I began. “Was your train ride okay?”

“Oh, it was fine,” she said with a warm laugh. “Very fine.”

“My car’s parked across the street,” I said as I started to lead her away from the station house doors. “I thought we’d drive out to Huntington first, which is where I live, so you can see our house. Is that all right?”

“I’d certainly like to do that before I go back to the city tonight, Mr. Herbert,” Loretta answered softly, “but perhaps I could meet the children first?”

I smiled, and I tried not to jump to any conclusions, but I couldn’t ignore the fact that Loretta was more interested in meeting my children than in seeing where she might be living.

“That’s fine with me, Loretta,” I replied. “We’ll go over to my parents’ house first—that’s where the children and I are staying—and I’ll introduce you to Jennie and John. Then, when you’re ready, we’ll go out to Huntington, and I’ll show you our house.”

We got into my car, and I pulled out of the parking lot, turned right onto Railroad Avenue and continued up Railroad to Post Avenue, reaching Post just as the light turned red. As I waited for traffic to allow me to make a right turn, I asked Loretta how long she’d been out of work.

“Really only today,” she replied. “Yesterday was my last day with the family I’ve been with for the last two years.”

“You didn’t waste any time looking for a new position, did you? Not even one day off.”

“I’m not a wealthy person, Mr. Herbert. If I don’t work, I can’t afford my rent. And if I can’t afford my rent, I lose my apartment, which is really all I have.”

“I see. I gather you live alone?”

“I do, yes.”

The light changed to green, and I turned onto Post heading north through the village of Westbury.

“But you’re married, yes?” I asked.

Loretta laughed. “Oh, yes, I’m married. I just don’t live with my husband anymore.”

“Where does your husband live?”

“He’s in Jamaica. Where he’s been ever since I left over thirty years ago to go to England to make a better life for my children and me. He was quite happy with the life we had, and he made it clear to me that if I had the notion to go to England, I would have to go without him. So I did.” She gave a sigh and lifted her head slightly higher, as if in defiance of the man she’d left behind so long ago.