Georgia Levy Coffey
I can’t resist calling Larry at work.
“Guess what, darling? I’ve found her! I mean, I’ve actually found her!”
“Found who?”
“The baby-sitter! She just walked out the door. I felt like chaining her to the pillars. She’s starting eight-thirty, Monday morning.”
“Great,” says Lawrence Elgin Coffey, with all the affect of a leftover noodle.
Okay, he’s always hated me calling him at the office, and once upon a time, I could even understand it, sort of—when he was still a salesman, elbow to elbow, the way he described it, in the “Aquarium” on the fortieth floor, with everybody on the horn and the computers crunching numbers. But now?
“Her name’s Harriet,” I go on. “Harriet Major. She’s almost twenty-two, from the Midwest—Minnesota—a dropout from the university. Apparently there was some kind of love affair that went wrong. But now she wants to go back to school, and she has to earn the money.”
“If she’s from Minnesota, what’s she doing in New Jersey?”
“Her stepfather. Her stepfather lives in East Springdale.”
“Oh? Who’s her stepfather?”
“How should I know? I’ve got the name written down, but what difference does that make?”
“Did Justie meet her?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“Well, you know our son. He was his usual timid self, hardly said a word. But he’ll be fine. The minute she left, he started nagging me about when she was coming back to play with him.”
“How much you paying her?”
I’ve been waiting for him to ask this. What else do married couples have to argue about?
“Ten,” I say without hesitation.
“Ten dollars an hour?”
“That’s right.”
At last, affect. He whistles into the phone, and I don’t have to be there to see him twiddling his hair with his fingers.
“Christ Almighty, Georgie!” he bitches. “That’s over four hundred a week, over twenty grand a year! Hey, is the job still open?”
“Get off my case, Coffey,” I retort. “I’ve been dying on the vine out here, you know that. And I’m almost seven months pregnant, what do you want from me?” I force myself to soften my voice. “Oh God,” I say, “you don’t know what a weight’s been taken off. No pun intended, darling. But I feel as though I can breathe for the first time in months.”
Call it manipulation, but it also happens to be true. It’s been the summer of the Great Dearth, when the baby-sitter became an endangered species. I advertised in the St. George Times for sixteen consecutive weeks, and all I got were Creole-speaking grandmas from the Islands, whose idea of child care, I know from watching, is to kaffeeklatsch on park benches while our children strangle each other in the sandbox.
Not for me. I’ve heard too many horror stories. Instead, faute de mieux, and stuck, and in my second trimester of pregnancy, I became, at thirty-two, a full-time suburban mommy.
It’s been a long, an excruciating summer.
“Are you telling me we can’t afford it?” I ask Larry over the phone.
“Of course we can afford it! That’s not the point.”
“Then indulge me. You know what I’ve been going through. Or, if you can’t indulge me, at least indulge your son.”
“Oh shit, Georgie,” he groans, but that’s the sum and total of it, for now.
Noogies.
Besides, he hasn’t met Harriet Major. I have.
In fact, I all but hired her over the phone. I think I knew it the minute I heard her voice. For God’s sake, she can speak the English language! She is also direct, self-assured. We chatted on the phone—that is, I chatted, chattered—nerves, I guess—and then, that same magical morning, she was standing on the threshold to my living room, poised, her mouth half-open.
“I think it’s the most beautiful room I’ve ever seen,” she said. “It’s … perfect.”
And it is, or almost.
And so is Harriet Major.
We talked. She sat on my curlicued Victorian couch, a total stranger, hands in her lap, her straight blond hair dappled by sunlight, the strong features of her face in shadow. We even talked about restoring wood, of all things. (She asked.) The couch on which she sat was my first serious piece. I’d bought it for ninety dollars, a relic at a St. George estate sale, figuring that if I wrecked it, it was only ninety dollars. I learned to strip with a toothbrush, with a Q-tip where the toothbrush won’t fit, with a matchstick for the tiniest crevices. When I was finished, the reupholstery, in striped silk, cost me eight hundred dollars—Larry thought I was nuts—but I’ve since been offered four thousand for the piece. Then I started on the room itself that, when we moved in, had been stained a dark and morbid mahogany like the rest of the house. I wanted the original natural oak. I got it too, removing the decorative molding around the fireplace rosette by rosette, gluing them back when I was done staining and oiling, and I’d just begun on the central staircase when I discovered I was pregnant with Justin.
End of project. I called in the professionals for the rest of the house.
“God, what a marvelous talent,” Harriet said. “Bringing things back to life like that.”
“It’s not a talent,” I corrected. “Just hard work and time. Mountains of time.”
“Would you ever be willing to teach me?”
“I’d be glad to one day, but not while I’m pregnant.”
“No, of course not. But I’d have thought—”
“It’s the fumes,” I explained. “Zip Strip, absolutely lethal stuff. Even normally you have to do it with the windows wide open and fans blowing. God knows what it would do to a tummy baby.”
The words came out without my thinking, and I burst out laughing. I explained. Justin, at three and a half, and with my bulge finally visible, has discovered tummy babies, also egg babies, and that he himself was a tummy baby. He can’t get over it, not only that he was my tummy baby, but that I was once his grandma’s, that his grandma had been his great-grandma’s, and …
“It blows his mind,” I said, thinking: What am I babbling about, to this stunning young creature who, to judge, is a long way away from the grandeur and misery of motherhood? “Probably the first thing he’ll ask you,” I said to her, “is if you were one too.”
“Well, I was,” she answered gravely, “except that my mother is dead now.”
“Oh God, I’m sorry. I—”
“No, no, it’s nothing,” smoothing her hair away from her eyes. “I was just wondering what he knows, or doesn’t know, about death. People dying. Some parents have very particular ideas.”
I don’t, but I appreciated her sensitivity. Strangely, though, my passing praise—or what I meant as praise—seemed to disconcert her. She tossed her head briefly, as though in denial, and quickly changed the subject.
It was hard not to gape. She is simply ravishing. She’s about my height, but something—perhaps it was the strong sculptured features, the erect posture—gave the impression of stature. Gray-blue eyes, prominent cheekbones, upturned lips, strong chin, the whole framed in straight and glinting blond, shoulder-length. (Time was—at Dalton, Barnard—I’d have killed for hair like that!) Long fingers, well-tended nails. No makeup that I could detect. Watching her move that morning, I could only think, with a groan, of the trainer I’m going to have to have in again, once the baby comes.
At her age, maybe her face still lacks a certain character. That’s what my mother would say. But then there are the eyes, the look. That steady, long-lashed, gray-blue gaze.
She seemed totally oblivious to it.
Women like that—beautiful women who pretend not to notice it—have often irritated me.
“I think you’d better tell me,” I said finally. “What’s a lovely and well-spoken young woman of twenty-one doing applying for a baby-sitting job?”
It seemed to unnerve her a little. She simply stared at me for a moment, until I realized that she wasn’t focusing on me but on something behind me. Then she averted her eyes, gazed down at her hands.
“I’ve been through a pretty rough time recently,” she said, looking back at me. “I guess I’m not used to talking about it.”
“Well,” I said, “you don’t have to. I didn’t mean—”
“No. I don’t mind. You’ve every right to know.”
It turned out that the first real love of her life—some campus romance, I gathered—had ended last spring when the young man in question took up with someone else. Johnny was his name—Johnny One-Note, she said with a wry smile, explaining that he was a buff of old pop tunes. Apparently she’d taken the loss hard.
“I guess I pretty much went under, Mrs. Coffey,” she said. “I didn’t take my exams. I couldn’t talk to people, much less bring myself to go outside. Most of my time I spent calling him in my mind, but I never once picked up the phone. I don’t remember even eating anything other than candy bars. And all the time, I hated myself—I knew I had to get out of there and regroup—but I could hardly get out of bed. Feeling too sorry for myself, I guess. And ashamed! Can you imagine that, Mrs. Coffey? He was the one who left me, but I was the one who felt ashamed?”
I nodded, smiling in sympathy. It had been a long time—a very long time, it seemed—since I’d felt that kind of oh-so-emotional hopelessness. I burbled something to the effect that her Johnny One-Note would scarcely be the last man in her life. “I think, though,” I added, “that if we’re going to end up working together, you ought to start calling me Georgia.”
She thanked me for that. She seemed vastly relieved, now that she’d gotten the story out.
“Anyway, it’s over,” she said. “It really is. I got myself out here, to my stepfather’s, and now, finally,” with a half, sort of sly, smile, “I’m regrouping. I mean, in addition to needing the money, I want to get back into the world, do something, be useful to somebody.”
“How far did you get in school?” I asked.
“Oh, I would have—was supposed to have—finished my junior year.”
“With just one year to go?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, it’d be nice to help you get back there, wouldn’t it?”
“I’d like that very much.”
“And are you okay here? With your stepfather, I mean?”
“Oh yes, that’s fine. I can stay as long as I want. Most of the time, I’m free to come and go. Luckily I have my own car.”
“What does your stepfather do?”
“He has his own business, in New York. You can call him if you want to. I put him on the list—Robert A. Smith?—not as a reference really, but just to have someone local. The rest, I’m afraid, are all in Minnesota.”
I glanced down at the list she’d given me, handwritten in a neat and girlish script. Names, phone numbers, dates of employment.
We passed easily to the details of the job. I told her about Group, the little toddlers’ school Justin goes to two mornings a week. Then I said, “You really should tell me, Harriet. How much do you need to earn?”
“I think you should pay me whatever you think is fair,” she replied.
Two things, in fact, crossed my mind. One was that I’d found the answer to my troubles and that there was no way I was going to let anyone else steal her, least of all because of a few dollars. The going rate, in St. George, is six dollars an hour, seven tops. And the second thing—this is what I said, aloud—was that the person to whom I entrusted my most valued possession, it seemed to me, ought to make at least as much as the person who cleans my house.
“That means ten dollars an hour,” I said. “That’s what I suggest. Does that sound fair?”
“I think it’s generous,” she answered, smiling. “Too generous, actually.”
“Well, then that’s that. Unless you’ve something else, I think all that’s left is for you to meet the ‘valued possession’ in question.”
“Yes,” she said, laughing with me. “I’d like that very much.”
Justin knew what I was doing, whom I was talking to and why, but when I called him down and introduced him to Harriet, he ducked away, clutching some toy he wouldn’t reveal. And stayed there, wordless, listening without seeming to.
We talked around him for a few moments. I told him Harriet was going to come play with him, starting Monday morning, would he like that?
No answer.
“A little R-E-G-R-E-S-S-I-O-N this morning,” I apologized. “He isn’t usually like this.”
And a small Pinocchio nose for Georgia, I thought—you should hear his father on the subject—but Harriet smiled back at me, at Justin next to me.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Sometimes boys are a little like puppies. They need to sniff you out first.”
Normally an idea like that would have tickled Justin, but he didn’t react. Wouldn’t. I took this as a signal to end the conversation. Not that it mattered because I’d already made up my mind and he could scream his head off, but I stood, smiling, saying, “Well, it seems as though we’ve made a deal, Harriet. I’m awfully glad, and I hope you’ll be very happy here.”
“I know I will be,” she said.
I extended my hand, but then she did the most extraordinary thing.
Instead of responding to me, she slipped forward onto her knees, on the carpet, and, her arms outstretched gently toward Justin, she said very calmly, “I think you heard my name before. I’m Harriet. Harriet Major. I think I’d like to be friends with you. What did you say your name was?”
Surprised, I almost answered for him, but in the same breath I felt him straighten next to me and move hesitantly toward her. His right hand came forward too, taking hers, and then I heard his small voice:
“’ustin. ’ustin Cawpey.”
It’s Saturday night. We’re at the Penzils’, their end-of-summer party. I almost didn’t come. When Larry came home from his sacred tennis this afternoon—he and Joe Penzil against Mark Spain and somebody else—he started working me over about how much I’m paying Harriet. At first I thought it was because they’d lost, but he wouldn’t let it go, even while we were dressing. How could I piss money away like that? If I really wanted to piss money away, there are homeless people lying all over the streets of New York; I’d do better handing out dollar bills on the corner.
I took a little of it, defending myself. Then I said, “What are you really worried about? Are you afraid I’m going to tell people tonight? And that they’ll make you the laughingstock?”
“Well,” he said, “what you’re doing certainly is inflationary.”
“Inflationary? What’s not inflationary? Isn’t your salary inflationary?”
“What do you mean by that?”
I didn’t know exactly what I meant.
“Never mind,” I said. “If you want to be perfectly safe, then I won’t go. I don’t feel like it anyway. I’ve got a splitting headache.”
“Aw, Georgie, for Christ’s sake. You pull this every year. We’ve got to go. Jesus Christ, they’re our friends! And you look beautiful! Look, honey, I’m sorry. You’re right. It doesn’t matter. Pay her whatever you damn want to.”
Maybe I do pull it every year, or threaten to. It’s at times like this that I most miss our friends in the city—my friends really, as the people at the Penzils’ are Larry’s. The net-worth set, Wall Street mostly, the women mostly housewives and mothers. And whatever he says, I look like shit—a tub no matter what I do, in the billowing black chiffon and my tear-drop, baroque-pearl earrings—and then there are the insufferable compliments of the women:
“Why, Georgia, you look positively blooming!”
But it isn’t that either—the people, or what I look like. And I do have a headache.
It’s Harriet. Harriet and my paranoia.
Earlier, I tried the first number on her references list: 612 area code. A snooty, upper-register voice answered: “You have reached the Colwell residence. Neither Dr. Colwell nor I is available to talk to you. If you wish, you may leave a message after the tone.”
Instead, I hung up.
Because what if she doesn’t show? Suppose she’s had other interviews? Suppose someone else has offered her twelve? Fifteen? It sounds crazy, but don’t people do crazy things when they’re desperate? And aren’t there a lot of desperate mommies in St. George?
Suppose she’s decided: Georgia Levy Coffey is too spoiled, too whiny, too neurotic overall? (All true.)
Suppose she’s been hit by a truck?
What would I do?
I’d slit my wrists, is what I’d do.
I’ve thought of calling her at her stepfather’s, but to say what? (Are you still there? Is everything all right?)
And no Nuprin during pregnancy. No aspirin. Not even a Tylenol.
No Dr. Craig till next Thursday.
Only Helen Penzil’s catered dinner, set up on round tables that overflow out of the dining room. Helen’s idea of sophisticated is to separate the couples, and I find myself, with her, at Mark Spain’s table, where the conversation has turned to Anxiety, The Age of, and, inevitably, Michael Milken. Dear old Michael Milken, for the umpteenth time. To this crowd, the king of junk bonds is still magic, like the Mahareeshi, or whatever his name was, and no matter that he pleaded guilty, “I mean, he made in the ten figures! Say what you will, that’s pretty fucking awesome!” A lot of speculation about his sentencing, what kind of secret deals he must have cut, what he’s done with all the money.
I drift, worrying about Harriet.
I almost miss the question. That is, I do miss it—something about sex. Then I realize abruptly that Mark Spain is eyeing me across the table, lidded hawk’s eyes over a hawkish nose, wide nostrils, sardonic smile, and that people are laughing …
At me?
I flash, feel myself flush.
“I’m sorry,” I say, not understanding, “did I miss something?”
“I think you did,” the lawyer answers. “I suppose you were lost in prenatal communion. The question put to you was: Would you like to have sex with Michael?”
“What? With whom?”
Generalized laughter.
“Forget that your husband is in the room, Georgia,” Spain says, “or that in your current state sex with a man may be about the furthest thing from your mind. Imagine yourself in other circumstances, a free woman. You’ve just been introduced to Michael Milken. Does it cross your mind: A man who made that much money, I wonder what he’s like in bed?”
“What Mark’s getting at, Georgia,” Helen Penzil cuts in, “is if money, enough money, gives a man irresistible sex appeal.”
“That’s not my point at all,” Spain says, his eyes on me. (Poor Helen. In her defense, she is Joe’s wife, and Joe is Mark Spain’s protégé at their law firm.) “Go on, Georgia. Does it cross your mind?”
I want to say the game’s dumb. Or that you, Mark Spain, make my skin crawl. Or that the Milkens, from what little I’ve read, are a pair of nobodies who got in way over their heads. But all of them are watching me expectantly.
“No,” I manage to say, “not at all.”
This arouses groans, comments—of disapproval? disbelief?—but Spain waves them off.
“Why not?” he persists.
“I’ve never so much as met the man.”
“Yes, but you’d have to have been in Timbuktu not to be aware of him. What is it about him that turns you off?”
“Nothing,” I answer. “I guess I just don’t see what’s so sexy about money.”
Spain’s eyes crinkle, his nostrils flare. I feel as though he’s about to make me the butt of some joke. Instead he says, “At last, the voice of common sense. And from an expectant mother, no less. But money can still buy things, can’t it, Georgia? Even people?”
“Are you asking me if I’d sell myself to Michael Milken?”
“At some price you would, wouldn’t you? Or to me? Or anyone?” A sardonic smile. “Doesn’t every one of us around this table, man or woman, have a price? At some figure?”
“You’re not serious, are you?” I ask.
“Very serious.”
“I’m sorry,” I retort angrily, “but I find the question offensive.”
“And well you should,” he replies. “But shocking as it may seem, my dear, we live in an age when men and women do buy and sell each other, all the time. Michael’s genius was that he understood that literally everyone is for sale. What he never understood, though, is that the only true leverage is power, not money. Power interested him only in passing, and he was always quick to pass it on. He lacked the true predator’s instinct. At the end, when he too was sold out, by his friends and business partners, all that was left was a poor little rich boy sitting at his computer with his pants down.
“And that, dear Georgia,” the hawk’s eyes lidded again, “is why you wouldn’t think about going to bed with him.”
So much, I think, for Michael Milken.
And Georgia Coffey? I’m still flushed by the exchange, his supercilious tone. I feel somehow like a piece of goods picked up in a store, fingered, put down again. How dare he? Somebody asks Spain if he’s jealous or just bragging—guffaws all around—and the conversation now revolves around him.
I excuse myself, slip away unnoticed. Upstairs, in the master bedroom, I call home. Clotie says they’re fine, just fine. She’s my cleaning woman. As a special dispensation, she agreed to sit with Justin. (Ten dollars an hour.) They’ve been watching TV. I want Justin to go to bed, ask her to put him on. When am I coming home, he wants to know. Soon, I say, very soon. And when is Harriet—“’arrit”—coming to play with him? I take a deep breath. Monday, I say. Monday morning. But not unless he gets plenty of sleep first. He’s going to need high energy for Harriet, I tell him.
I dread going back downstairs. Is it Spain? I only know the man through the Penzils, and before tonight he’s never paid me the slightest attention. Thank God for small favors. According to Larry, he put together some of the biggest deals of the eighties. A competitor, Larry says, “one hell of a.” He’s also, by reputation, something of a philanderer, in his fifties, mind you, late forties anyway, and—I know this from Helen—he and Gloria fight like cats and dogs.
Finally I descend, holding on to the banister. Dinner is over; the guests have moved into the living room. My headache is gone, replaced not by nausea exactly but intimations of nausea. Heavy, achy feeling in my legs, and I have to stop every few steps to catch my breath. Up until now, I’ve had a trouble-free pregnancy, but it’s as though some warm and sickly wind, the last wind of summer, has gusted through me, leaving a residual coating. I hardly ate, yet I’m sticky from sweat, and now there’s the renewed throbbing at my temples.
I want to go home.
The party has divided into male and female, except that, instead of “retiring,” the men have simply gathered around their self-appointed guru, Mr. Spain. Joe Penzil’s in their midst. I rather like Joe. More than Helen, really. He’s Larry’s closest friend, an ex-Marine turned Wall Street lawyer in his thirties, and it invariably amuses me to see Larry and Joe together: Penzil with his sawed-off crew cut, small but dark and intense, and the laid-back Coffey—Big Bear, as he’s known to his friends—still handsome, still boyish despite the bald spot.
And smart too, my husband.
You don’t get to be magna cum at Dartmouth, or do the Shaw Cross training program, which people say is tougher than any MBA, or become a managing director, or earn in the high six figures (over a million, the year he turned thirty) on a moron’s IQ.
And there’s the rub.
Because Larry is standing closest to Spain, and Spain apparently has been working him over. I can see Spain’s eyes flash, long index finger skewering, and Larry has his head ducked forward, down, and he’s listening. Then, abruptly, a great burst and roar of laughter from the entourage. Spain apparently has struck home. For a second, Larry simply stares, mouth agape in his moon face. But then, head back, he too starts to guffaw, and even though I can’t hear the words, I can see his great paw on Spain’s lapel and shoulder, and now he’s nodding, talking earnestly—schmoozing, he’d say, even though he’s not Jewish—“Hell, honey,” he’d say, “what do you think I do for a living?”—and I think, he can’t like Spain, he …
Or have I got it all wrong? Is this really male bonding I’m witnessing?
While Spain’s eyes, now circling the room, have just lit on mine?
The Penzils understand my apology. It’s the fatigue, the headache, I don’t even have to explain. I have to take care of myself, my baby.
But Larry doesn’t get it.
“Great party,” he says in the car.
Okay, so he’s pissed.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m just not feeling too well.”
“Not to worry.”
“What did Spain say to you?” I ask a moment later.
“When?”
“Just now. What was it, some kind of joke?”
“Look, you may not like him,” tightly, “but he’s one of the savviest guys on the Street. Maybe the.”
And one hell of a competitor, I add for him in my mind. But the conversation is over. We’re home, in silence, inside of five minutes. Clotie leaves, Larry heads toward the den—something about a nightcap—and upstairs I check Justin. He’s breathing lightly in his bed with an arm flung over his head and Meowie, his cat, curled between his legs.
I feign sleep later, but when Larry gets into bed behind me, his bulk behind mine, and I feel his insistent pressure beneath my buttocks, I relent. Gingerly, I bring him inside me. (An act of atonement?) The position hurts, though. I can’t even think of coming.
But later still, drowsy yet tense, listening to his rhythmic snore in the darkness and shifting clumsily back and forth in search of a position I can relax in, I feel the queasiness all over again. The twist in my stomach. It’s Harriet, I think again, not the party or even Mark Spain. I’ve been thinking about Harriet. Clearly Harriet’s too good to be true. She’s not going to show. She’s …
And then what? Then, assuming I don’t slit my wrists after all, I guess I’ll run my ad again. And again …
Bad vibrations. Something malevolent.
Malvolio. Who was Malvolio?
Shakespeare.
Wanted: one bright, young, sane woman, English-speaking, to save Barnard alum from terminal atrophy of the brain.
God.
My father intervenes. Why do you always anticipate the worst, Georgie? Why bring everything down on your head? Or try to?
Or Craig, my shrink of the moment: Does the fate of humanity truly hang on whether she comes to work for you or doesn’t?
Actually, I realize, that’s not Craig. That’s me asking the question.
I’m wide awake now. I get up, prowl. Check Justin again. Downstairs, turn on all the lights. Drink water. Malvolio. Can’t find the Shakespeare. Eat.
There’s always eating.
The magic holds all week.
The luxury of it! Sheer, unadulterated, positively sinful!
Monday morning, eight-thirty, the bell rings and there she is, smiling at Justin and me, in Minnesota sweats with the letters running down one pants leg, so fresh and young and scrubbed I can’t help thinking: a good thing Larry catches the 7:12. Justin takes her away immediately, to show her the ropes, and that afternoon we tour St. George. Seeing it through Harriet’s eyes, I realize, yes, how impressive it really is, from the stately mansions with their views of the New York skyline to the quirkier Victorians (including mine) dating from the end of the century, and the great spreading trees, oak and beech and hemlock, and even the ersatz “Elizabethan village” from which the town center grew. Tuesday, I take them both to Group, which is held in the basement of the Unitarian Church. Since it’s a co-op, I’m relinquishing my Class Mommy duties to Harriet.
Wednesday, I turn off the intercom that’s plugged into Justin’s room. I know they’ve been building castles out of MegaBlocks and the Lincoln Logs I thought he was too young to manipulate. I’ve heard them working on his consonant sounds—his S’s and F’s, V’s too, have been so slow in coming that I’ve thought about taking him to a therapist. I’ve also overheard laughter—peals of it. Then Thursday—yesterday—while Justin napped (unprecedented event), Harriet gave me my first back rub.
Talk about sinful pleasures!
When I ask him how he likes her, he says, “Grreat!”
Today is Friday. Right after lunch, I send them off to the park in the Volvo. Harriet drives well, I’ve discovered (what doesn’t she do well?), and the Volvo has the car seat. I take the keys to her old Civic just in case, but then, finding myself with (deliciously) nothing to do, I lie down on my bed. I’m lulled by the canopy lace stirring gently overhead in an afternoon breeze and the distant whirr of Clotie’s vacuum cleaner.
I awake—afternoon—with a jolt of anxiety. Did the baby just kick me?
The digital clock says 4:18 in red numerals.
It’s too quiet. Where’s Justin?
I sit upright, holding my breath. And then let it go. Why, with Harriet. Of course!
Still, shouldn’t they be back by now? 4:18?
But why? It’s another gorgeous day, seasonably warm, and if something’s gone wrong, wouldn’t they have called?
But are there phones in the St. George parks? Suddenly I can’t remember. I don’t think I ever noticed. Suppose they couldn’t find a phone? Or the phones are broken?
But this isn’t New York. This is definitely not New York City.
Besides, what could have happened to them in broad daylight? In St. George, New Jersey?
And how do I even know they’re not back? My house has twelve rooms, on three floors.
I get up, search. Upstairs, down. Nobody. Even Clotie has already left for the day.
Once planted, the idea won’t go away. Haven’t I myself noticed strangers in the parks, men without children? And what about the milk cartons, the ones with the photos of missing children on the front and back panels?
I can’t help myself. Maybe it’s hormonal, but goddamn, why hasn’t she brought him home?
They’ve been gone over three hours!
Hyperventilating—not hard to do in your seventh month—I grab my purse, grab her keys from the butcher-block counter in the kitchen.
I can barely wedge myself into her Civic, even with the seat all the way back. It’s been years since I last tried a stick shift, and I never really learned. I start up, lurch, stall. Damn! I start again, stall again. What if I’ve flooded it? Tears of frustration welling. With a terrific grinding sound I get it going one more time, manage the driveway, find another gear, and lurch onto our road. And then—new thought—how do I even know which park they went to? We covered them all, Monday, including the closest one on our side of the town center and the big one he likes best because it has the best swings. God Almighty, why, in such a well-heeled town, where every house has a backyard and most a swimming pool, do there have to be so many parks?
I do the parks. They’re repaving Main Street again, which means detours and traffic lights that make no sense, and by the time I find them—in the big park with swans on the lake and broad fields for soccer and kite-flying—I’m flushed and dripping sweat. I’ve just spotted the Volvo. I manage to tuck in near it, stalling one last time, and stumble across the uneven ground, under the trees, toward the playground.
The sandbox is full of kids. Not mine.
The swings?
No.
Past the last row of stone benches, beyond the sandbox … I see them!
My impulse is to shout, run forward, but an inner warning holds me back: For God’s sake, Georgie, don’t lay all your fears on him.
He and Harriet are halfway up the high slide.
All summer, I’ve refused to let him go up it. “You’re too small,” I told him, “and it’s too dangerous. Look, only the big kids are doing it.”
This wasn’t entirely true. We’d both seen kids smaller than he shoot down it like missiles. About halfway down, the shining metal buckles out, then back in, and I’ve always expected to see one of them go soaring off the buckle and break his neck.
Maybe it’s never happened, but does that mean it can’t?
There must be fifteen steps or more, from bottom to top. Enormously high and Justin—they’re close to the top—looks so tiny. But Harriet is right behind him and, I guess, means to ride down with him in her lap—something I’d never do, pregnant or not.
They’ve reached the top. I watch him swing his legs forward into position. He hunkers down. I can see his little hands gripping the side rails while, from behind, Harriet talks intently to him.
But then—suddenly—she’s climbing down, alone, backtracking the way they came.
No, I think, goddammit, no!! I may have shouted it aloud. I can see his hesitation, the doubt on his little face—he is too small!—and suddenly I imagine what it looks like to him: the ground swaying, so far below him, the giant gleaming sweep of metal.
Harriet’s just spotted me. She’s already at the bottom of the slide, beckoning to him. She waves. I can see her lips moving: “Hi, Georgia!”
And Justin sees me too.
And lets go.
I watch him plummet. I hold my breath. His body hits the buckle, swoops over it and … back in. Then, with a whoosh, he slides through Harriet’s outstretched hands and hard into the dirt.
The landing has to have hurt him, but he’s running toward me like a dirty Indian.
“Me did it, Mommy! Me did it all by my ’elp!”
He still says “my ’elp,” two separate words, for myself.
I have to sit down. I slump onto the nearest bench, stone with wood slats painted green. Too much, too fast. I close my eyes to purple dots and bursts on a black field, nausea in my stomach and the baby kicking up a storm.
Justin’s tugging at me. Then I feel hands on my shoulders.
Harriet’s.
“Are you all right, Georgia?” I hear her ask.
I nod, fighting off tears.
“It’s really okay,” she says softly. “Don’t worry, I’d never let him do anything he can’t do.”
I shake my head.
“Shouldn’t have done it,” I manage. “He could have hurt himself terribly.”
“I didn’t think there was a chance of that. He wanted to do it.”
I open my eyes. Through a blur of tears I see her head. It blots out the sky. I want to let the tears go—sheer relief—but then I see Justin’s flushed little face, and I take slow deep breaths instead until the baby quiets inside.
I pay her for the week, cash in a white envelope. We stand on the front porch between two of the graceful Victorian columns, while Justin, already bathed by Harriet, runs around us in the Giants sweats outfit his father insisted I buy him, and slippers with Mickey Mouse faces.
It’s late, twilight. Past six, and up till now she’s always left at six on the dot.
“I’m very sorry about today,” she says, holding the envelope in her hand. “This afternoon. Really I am. I’m sorry I upset you.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I reply. “You were right anyway. Probably I’m much too overprotective.”
“I shouldn’t have let him do it.”
Saying, I think fleetingly, just what Mommy wants to hear?
“Anyway,” I say, “it’s over.”
Except it isn’t. It was in me, in the park, to fire her on the spot. Selfish, to be sure, but isn’t she here to make things easier for me? And if, right or wrong, every time I can’t see them, hear them, I’m going to have to worry about where they are, what they’re doing, then what’s the point?
What holds me back, of course, is Justin. Already, after just one week with her, I don’t know that I could do that to him.
What would I say to him?
I expect her to leave. Instead she lingers, in the Friday twilight. It’s as though she’s gearing up to say something. Suddenly it occurs to me: Suppose I have it reversed? Suppose she wants to quit? How do I know, maybe she can’t stand criticism, maybe she can’t stand …
“Please don’t,” she says quietly. Her eyes hold mine.
“Don’t what?”
“You were thinking of firing me,” she says.
Startled, I reach out, touch the white balustrade.
“Well …”
“I want the job. I can’t explain, but I really need it.” Her voice is so earnest. “It’s very important to me. I know I’ll do better next week. I promise I will. I’ll check everything with you first. I’ll—”
“But Harriet,” I interrupt. “It’s fine, really. Let’s forget about this afternoon. It’s done, over. And I don’t want you checking with me all the time, I really don’t.”
I can’t get over it, though. It must have been her outward poise that had me fooled, her air of confidence, but underneath, apparently, is just another scared and sensitive little girl—well, young woman—who is in addition, I think, a thousand miles from home, and living with a stepfather she doesn’t like talking about. (Is he remarried? I can’t remember exactly what she said.) And knowing no one else, it seems, no friends, and taking care of someone else’s kid, in a strange house, with a strange employer who’s over six months pregnant and given to jumping at shadows?
Could I have done it, at twenty-one?
All she wants, I realize suddenly, is a little reassurance. (Is that such a crime?) While all I’ve done, for God’s sake, is think about firing her!
I feel a rush of sympathy for her, remorse too. I tell her the truth—that I think she’s done wonderfully well with Justin, that, from the minute she arrived, he’s never looked back and already I can see the changes in him. Good changes. I tell her that I won’t stand on ceremony with her, and she shouldn’t with me either, if anything is wrong. We need to trust each other. Or even if she’s just lonely, wants to talk, whatever …
“The truth is, Harriet,” I say, “it feels as though you’ve been here much longer than a week. Already,” smiling, “I can’t imagine how we’d cope without you.”
She smiles back at me.
“Thank you,” she says. “You’re a very kind person, Georgia. I also think—probably I shouldn’t say this, but I think you’re the most beautiful woman, pregnant, I’ve ever met. I really do. I mean, you, your home … it’s all so perfect …”
It’s in me to touch her, embrace her despite my bulge. I reach, but she seems to duck, calling out, “And then there’s this young camper!” She swoops Justin off his feet and into her arms, grinning at him, and watching them, hearing his laughter, I think again: Those gray-blue eyes. Devastating, even to a very young man.
“Take a chill, Phil!” she exclaims to him. “I’ll see you Monday morning!”
“Relax, Max!” he answers back, delighted.
She hands me my son. I hold him, and together we watch her drive off in the white Civic, both of us waving, and I think to myself, on that particularly mellow, end-of-September evening: You silly goose, she’s going to save your life.