The Nanny Diaries Part 10

"Daddy, wait!" Grayer attempts to follow him out of the room, but the Dixie cup of grape juice slips from his grasp, staining both his shirt and the beige carpet a deep purple. Mercifully, we all turn our attention to the spill, gathering paper napkins and seltzer. Grayer stands whimpering while multiple manicuredhandsdab athis front.

"Nanny, I'd really appreciate it if you kept a closer eye on him. Just get him cleaned up.'ll be waiting inthecar,"Mrs. X instructs,placingheruntouchedcupofcoffeeonthetable,likeSnowWhite putting down the apple. When she looks back up she has pasted on a beaming smile for the secretaries.

"See you all nextweek!"

The next afternoon, having finished his lunch, Grayer announces our plans as he climbs down from his boosterseat.

"Wa.s.sailing."

"What?"

"I want to wa.s.sail. I'm going to make my own Christmas. I knock on the door, you open it, and I sing my heart out." I'm amazed that he's retained this from our visit over a week ago, but my grandmother doeshave awayofnestling herselfintopeople's memories.

"Okay,whatdoorwouldyoulikeme tostandbehind?" I ask.

"My bathroom," he says over his shoulder as he heads off with purpose toward his wing. I follow him andpositionmyself inthebathroomasdirected.A few momentslaterI hearhislittle knock.

"Yes," I say, "who's there?"

"NANNY,youarejustsupposedtoopenthedoor!Don't talk,justopenit!"

"Right. Ready when you are." I sit back on the toilet seat and start checking my hair for split ends, sensingthatthisgamemaybeslowtogetofftheground.

Again, asmall knock.I leanforward andnudgethedooropen,almost knockinghimover.

"NANNY,that's mean!You're tryingtopushme!I don't likethat. Startover."

Eleven knocks later, I finally get it right and am rewarded with a screaming rendition of "Happy Birthday" thatshakesthewindow-pane.

"Grover, why don't you try a little dancing while you wa.s.sail?" I ask when he finishes. "Really wow 'em?" I hopehemightquietdownifhehastodivert someenergytostayinginmotion. "Wa.s.sailing is not dancing, it is singing your heart out." He puts his hands on his hips. "Close the door and I'll knock,"he says, asif suggestingthis routinefor thefirst time. We playwa.s.sailing forabout half an hour until I remember that Connie, the housekeeper, is here and sic Grayer on her. I hear him from across the apartment, screaming "Happy Birthday" over her roaring vacuum and after five rounds go backtocollectwhatisrightfullymine.

"Wanttoplaycars?"

"No.I wanttowa.s.sail. Let's gobacktomybathroom."

"Onlyifyoudance,too."

"Oh,man,oh,man,thereisNOdancingwhenI wa.s.sail!"

"Come on,mister,we're calling Grandma."

One short phone call later and Grayer is not only dancing and singing the actual "Here we come a wa.s.sailing among the leaves so green," which is infinitely less painful, but I have been inspired with a delicious plan.

As I give Grayer's wa.s.sailing outfit (green and red striped turtle-neck, felt reindeer antlers, candy-cane suspenders) a final once-over for "ultra wa.s.sailyness," Mrs. X comes bustling in, Ramon in tow, laden with boxes.

Her cheeks are rosy, her eyes are glistening. "Oh, it is a zoo out there, a zoo! I nearly got into a fight with awoman atHammacherSchlemmer. utthemdownover there,Ramon. verthelastScrewPull, but I just let her have it, I thought there is no point descending to her level. I think she was from out of town. Oh, I found the most darling wallets at Gucci. Does Cleveland understand Gucci? I wonder.

hankyou,Ramon.Oh,I hopetheylikethem?Grayerwhathaveyoubeenup to?"

"Nothing,"hesays, whilepracticinghis soft-s...o...b..theumbrella stand.

"Before lunchwe made unsweetenedcookies anddecoratedthemand thenwe've beenpracticing carols andI readhimTheNightBeforeChristmas inFrench,"I say, tryingtojoghis memory.

"Oh, wonderful. I wish someone would read to me." She takes off her mink and nearly hands it to Ramon. "Oh,that's all, Ramon, thankyou."Sheclaps herhandstogether."So,whatareyouup tonow?"

"I wasgoingtoletGrayerpracticehis caroling?

"Wa.s.sAILING!".

". nsomeoftheelderly inthebuilding, whomightappreciatea littleholidaycheer!"

Mrs. X is beaming. "Oh,excellent!What a goodboy you areand that'll keep him o-c-c-u-p-i-e-d. I have somuchtodo!Havefun!"

I letGrayerpress fortheelevator. "Which floor,Nanny?"

"Let's startwith yourfriendoneleven."

We have to buzz three times before we hear "Coming!" from inside the apartment.As soon as the door opens it's apparent the hour and a half of "practicing" was well worth it. H. H. leans against the door frameinfadedChristmas-tree boxersand a well-wornAndoverT-shirt, rubbingsleepout ofhis eyes. "HERE WE COME A-Wa.s.sAILING.'AMONG THE LEAVES SO GREEN.'.'/" Grayer is red faced, swaying backandforth,with his jazz handssplayedand antlers waving.For a splitseconditcrosses my mindthathemightliterally singhis heartout.

"LOVEAND JOY COME TO YOU.'.'.'" His voice ricochets around the vestibule, bouncing off every surfacesothat.i.tsoundsasifhe's a chorusofemphatic wa.s.sailers.A wa.s.sailing riot. Whenit appearshe hasreachedhis conclusion, H. H. bendsdownandopenshis mouth.

"AND G.o.d BLESS YOU.'.'.'" This move mistakenly places him at ground zero to be blasted with the spitandsweatofGrayer's effort,whichisthenfollowedbyaneven louderfinale.

"Well, goodmorningtoyou,too,Grayer!" Grayer collapses onto the vestibule floor, panting to catch his breath. I smile beguilingly. Make no bonesabout.i.t;I am agirl with a mission.I am heretoget aDate.A RealDatewith aplanand alocationandeverything.

"We're caroling?I begin.

"Wa.s.sailing," a small exasperatedvoice pipesinfromthefloor.

"Wa.s.sailing aroundthebuilding."

"CanI have acookienow?" Grayersits up,readytoberewardedforhis efforts.

H. H. turns into his apartment. "Sure. Come on in. Don't mind my pajamas." Oh, if you insist. We follow his boxer-clad body into what is essentially the Xes' apartment, only two floors higher, and one wouldnever guessthatwe wereeven inthesamebuilding.Thewallsinthefronthallarepainted adeep brick red and are decorated with National Geographic'tjpe black-and-white photographs between kilim tapestries. There are sneakers lining the floor and dog hair on the carpet. We make our way into the kitchenwherewe practicallytrip over ahuge,grayingyellow Lablying onthefloor.

"Grayer, you know Max, right?" Grayer hunkers down and with uncharacteristic gentleness rubs Max's ears. Max's tail animatedly pounds the tiles in response. I look around; instead of the large island that Mrs. X hasinthemiddleoftheroom,there's anold refectorytablepiledhighatoneendwith theTimes.

"Cookies? Anyone want cookies?" H. H. asks, brandishing a Christmas tin of David's cookies that he has pulled from a teetering pile of holiday baked goods on the sideboard. Grayer runs over to help himself andI forcemyself tofocus.

"Just one,Grover."

"Oh,man."

"Doyouwantmilkwith that?" Heheadstothefridgeandreturnswith a fullgla.s.s.

"Thankyousomuch,"I say. "Hey,Grayer,anything youwanttosaytoourhost?"

"Thanks!" hemumbles,his mouthfullof cookie.

"No,man,thankyou!It's theleastI candoafter such apowerful performance."Hesmiles over atme. "I can't remember thelasttime someonesangtomewhenit wasn't mybirthday."

"1 cando that!I can do 'HappyBirthday'? Heputs his gla.s.s down on thefloor andplaces his hands into thejazzpositioninpreparation. "Whoa! We have done our fair shareof wa.s.sailing already? I put myhandout to shield us from another round.

"Grayer,it's notmybirthdaytoday. ButI promise I'll letyouknowwhenitis."Teamwork,I love it.

"Okay. Let's go, Nanny. Got to wa.s.sail. Let's go now." Grayer hands H. H. his empty gla.s.s, wipes his glovedhandacrosshis lips,andheadsforthedoor.

I stand up from the table, not really wanting to leave. "I'm sorry I never caught up with you that night; theirpartyranreallylate."

"That's all right, you didn't miss anything.The NextThing was having a private party, so we just ended up gettingpizzaatRuby's."AsintheRuby's thatis exactlytwentyfeetfrommyfrontstoop.Theirony.

"Howlongareyouhomefor?" I askwithoutbattinganeyelash.

"NA-NNY.Theelevator's here!"

"Just aweekandthenwegotoAfrica."

Theelevator doorwaiting,myheartpounding. "Well,I'm aroundifyouwanttohangoutthisweekend,"

I sayasI stepinbesideGrayer.

"Yeah,great," hesaysfromthedoorway.

"Great." I nodmyheadasthedoorslidesclosed.

"GREAT!" Grayer singsas a warm-up toour nextperformance.

Short of writing my number on a piece of paper and shoving it under his door, I leave 721 Park on FridaynightknowingthereisnowayI am goingtosee H. H. beforeheleaves forAfrica. Ugh.

1 O9.

That night I make Sarah, who's home for Christmas vacation, accompany me to a holiday party being given downtown by some guys in my cla.s.s. The whole apartment is festively decorated in glowing jalapeno-pepper lights and someone has glued a cutout of a large p.e.n.i.s onto the picture of Santa in the living room. It takesless thanfive minutes to decide thatwe don't want a Bud Light from the bathtub, a fistful of corn chips from a filmy bowl, or to take any of the frat boys up on their gracious offers of quickorals.e.x.

We headJoshoffonthestairs.

"Nofun?" heasks.

"Well,"Sarahsays, "I lovetoplaystrip quartersasmuchasthenextgirl, but?

"Sarah!" Joshcries,giving her ahug. "Leadon!"

Several hours later find me doing a martini-sodden rendition of the wa.s.sailing story for Sarah in a corner booth at the NextThingwhile Joshhits on some fashionista atthe bar. "Andthen ... he gave him a cookie!Thatmust mean something, right?" We do an interpretive danceof every subtlenuance of the entire five-minute exchange until we have completely wrung the encounter of any meaning it might possiblyhavehad. "So thenhesaid 'Great'andthenI said 'Great.'"

Sat.u.r.daymorning I wake with myshoes still on, a killer hangover, and only one dayto buypresents for myentire family,theXes,andthemanylittle peopleI've takencareof over theyears.TheGleasongirls have already sent over two glitter pens and a rock with my name painted on it.'ve got to get my act together.

I wolf down tomato sauce on toast, drink a liter of water, grab a double shot of espresso on the corner, andba-da-bing, I am alive with theHolidaySpirit.

AnhourlaterI emergefromBarnesandn.o.bleJunior a good$ 150 lighter,prompting metodo a littlemathasI walkdownPark.ForgetParis, I'm goingtoneedthatstupid bonusjusttopayoffChristmas.

I walk down Madison to Bergdorf s to get a Rigaud candle for Mrs. X. It may be tiny, but at least she'll know it wasn't cheap.As I stand on line for the all-important stiver gift wrap I try to figure out what to get the four-year-old who has everything. What would make him really happy, short of his father actually making an appearanceto do the high-ups? Well... a night-light, because he's scared of thedark. Andmaybe abus-pa.s.s holderthatcouldkeepthatcardprotectedbeforeitcompletely disintegrates.

As I'm on Fifty-eighth and Fifth, the logical thing would be to cross the street to FAO Schwarz's enormous SesameStreet sectiontofindhim a Grover night-light, butI can't, can't, can't.

I debate which would be faster, taking the train to a Toys "JI" Us in Queens or navigating a few thousand square feet of bedlam just a block away. Against my better judgment, I drag myself across Fifth to wait in line with the entire population of Nebraska in the cold for over half an hour before beingusheredintotherevolvingdoors by atalltoysoldier.

"Welcome to our world. Welcome to our world. Welcome to our world of toys," blasts relentlessly from mysteriously placed speakers, making it sound as if the eerie, childlike singing is coming from within my own head. Yet it cannot drown out the tortured cries of "But I waaaant it!! 1 neeeeed it!!" that also fill the air. Andthisisonly thestuffed-animalfloor.

Upstairs is total chaos; children are firing ray guns, throwing slime, sports equipment, and siblings. I look around at parents who share my "let's just get through this" expression and employees trying to makeittolunchwithoutsustainingseriousbodilyinjury. I slithertoSesameStreetCornerwhere alittle girl ofaboutthreehasprostratedherselfonthefloorandis...o...b..ngforinjusticeeverywhere.

iii "Maybe Santawill bringyouone,Sally."

"NoooOOOoooOOOOoooOOOooooooooOOOoooooOOOO!"shehowls.

"CanI help you?" asks a salesgirlwearing aredshirtandglazedsmile.

"I'm lookingfor aGrover night-light."

"Oh, I think we sold out of Grover." The last half hour of standing in line says you didn't. "Let's take a look."Yes, let's.

We go to the night-light section where we are faced with an entire wall of Grover. "Yeah, sorry, those wentfast,"shesays, shakingherheada.s.shebeginstowanderoff.

"Yeah,thisisone,"I say, holdingitup.

"Oh,ishetheblueguy?"Yes, he's theblue guy. (Don't evenget mestarted!NooneatBarnesandn.o.ble Junior had even heard of Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile. Come on, you work in a children's bookstore, it's not likeI'm askingforHustler.) I take my place in line for gift wrap and use the opportunity to practice my transcendental meditation amid more childrenwrackedwithsobs.

On Monday morning Mrs. X pops her head into the kitchen while I'm cutting fruit. "Nanny, I need you to run an errand for me. I went to Saks to pick up the gifts for our help and, like a ninny, I forgot the bonus checks. So I've put handbags on hold and I'd like you to make sure that each check is put inside the right bag. Now, I've written it all down and the name of each person is on the outside of each envelope. Justine gets the Gucci shoulder bag, Mrs. b.u.t.ters gets the Coach tote, housekeeper gets the LeSportsac and the Herve Chapeliers are for the piano and the French teachers. Make sure they gift!wrap everything andthenjustcomehome in a cab."

THE NANNY' DIARIES.

"Noproblem," I say, excitedlyestimating where I fitinbetweenGucciandLeSportsac.

Tuesday afternoon Grayer has Allison over, an adorable Chinese girl from his cla.s.s who will proudly tellanyonewhoasks, "I havetwo daddies!"

"h.e.l.lo,Nanny,"shealways says,curtsying. "How's school?Love yourshoes."Shejustkills me.

The phone rings as I'm rinsing out their hot carob mugs. "h.e.l.lo?" I say, hanging the towel neatlyon the ovendoor.

"Nanny?" I hear atentative whisper.

"Yes," I whisperback,becauseonedoes.

"It's Justine,from Mr. X'soffice. I'm sogladI gotyou.Canyoudome a favor?"

"Sure,"I whisper.

"Mr. X asked me to go pick out some things for Mrs. X and I don't know her size or what designer she likes,or thecolors." Shesoundsgenuinelypanicked.

"I don't know," I say, surprised to find I don't have her measurements committed to memory. "Wait, holdon."I gopickup theextensioninthemasterbedroom.