Only Children

by Rafael Yglesias

  Luke, abruptly, pulled away and shrieked.

  “Shhh,” she said, and pushed Luke’s head toward her, butting his mouth with her rubbery nipple. His mouth yearned for it instantly, cutting off the scream of pain in mid-note. He jawed at her with unabashed greed, lustful, comically desperate.

  “I’m going to check on the market,” Eric said, nervous and irritated. He stood up. And waited.

  Nina didn’t look at Eric. She was absorbed by Luke. She stroked his black mess of hair, petting him.

  “Okay?” Eric asked.

  Now she looked up slowly, her eyes liquid with pleasure. “Sure,” she said in a bedroom voice.

  “Want me to get you anything?”

  She frowned at him. “Where are you going?”

  “To check on the market.”

  “Why don’t you use the phone here?” Luke yanked away, angry again, his face protesting, screeching. She shushed him, urging his head back, poking him with her nipple, its magnetism overpowering him once again into intent chewing.

  Eric watched, stunned. Absorbed.

  “Why don’t you call from here?” she said.

  “What? Oh. I want to get myself some coffee. You want anything?”

  “I need cigarettes.”

  “And you a nursing mother.”

  “Give me a break.”

  He kept watching. “He seems okay.”

  She stroked his head. “He’s perfect.”

  “That’s what the nurse said.”

  “Did she?” Nina smiled with innocent delight. “Well, she’s right.”

  “Good-bye,” he said, and walked out into the hall briskly. Eric passed two Orthodox Jewish women wearing babushkas, shuffling along. Behind them were, he presumed, their husbands, hot in their black suits, their fat, fleshy faces covered with thin, kinky hairs. The men spoke rapidly, their voices gruff and arrogant. The two women were silent and serene together, their duties fulfilled; the two men battered each other with words about business. Eric wanted them all dead.

  Downstairs in the lobby he found a quiet, old-fashioned booth and dialed Sammy’s private line. “Hi, how we doing?”

  “You fucked up again,” Sammy said, with enthusiasm. “Telecom went into the toilet. Everything got stopped at seven.”

  “Fifteen percent. So what? That’s the rule.”

  “Yeah, fifteen percent loss, fifteen percent loss, fifteen percent loss, and pretty soon Mrs. Shwartz is actually trying to live on Social Security.”

  “What about ITT?”

  “Flat! That’s a dog. You should get them out.”

  “Do you have any good news?”

  “Dad’s play short on the oils netted twenty percent. You were wrong again, bozo.”

  “You didn’t tell him I disagreed?”

  “Disagreed! You went along with your clients. That’s the only reason you didn’t lose them all today.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Eric sighed. He closed his eyes and tried to visualize the accounts. He couldn’t. “Look. I’m gonna take off the rest of this week. I can’t handle things—”

  “No commissions on our ideas if you’re not in the office.”

  “I know, asshole. Tell your papa. I gotta go.”

  “How’s your baby?”

  Eric opened his mouth to answer—but what? The great feeling he had for that insensible creature: how to describe that? “He’s perfect.”

  “Must have gotten it from his mama.”

  “Good-bye,” Eric said, and hung up on Sammy’s laughter. He had no spirit for their competitive banter today. He had been wrong again on the oil stocks. He had been wrong on Telecom. ITT had done nothing. He was a jerk. He had tried hard the last three years, read all the material, taken Joe’s (Sammy’s father and Eric’s boss) principles to heart, but nothing worked. Eric had done better when he went on instinct, buying stocks without any knowledge of their fundamentals.

  That baby up there needed money. Needed to be free of the jokes of Sammy, the advice of Joe, and the whimsy of the market. Luke needed money. I have to do better. Go back to daring hunches if necessary. I have to do better. Money, money, money, money. That was the milk he could give Luke to quiet the screeching pain of life.

  4

  DIANE HAD INTERVIEWED NINE WOMEN SO FAR, ALL NO good. Her once-clear picture of the ideal nanny to take care of Byron was now blurred by reality’s greasy fingers.

  She had begun the search confidently, had set down (in her organized fashion) the qualities she wanted: speak English well (so as not to retard Byron’s language development); forty years old or under (for vigor), either childless or with grown children (Byron should not have to compete for the woman’s heart); reside within fifteen or twenty minutes by subway (in case of emergencies); have references (appearances are deceiving); and look attractive (since appearances are important).

  Diane would sit with Byron beside her in an infant seat, a legal notepad listing her requirements in her lap, and question the prospects, checking off how well they met them. Not long into the process she added more things to her list. One woman, eager, like all of them, for the job, chatted nervously and let slip that she supervised her invalid mother’s care. When Diane warned her that the hours might be irregular, considering both her and Peter’s jobs, this woman, unconvincingly, maintained that her sister could always stay with their mother in the evenings. Another said she would be happy to stay late but would need cab fare home, or have to sleep over, because her neighborhood was dangerous. Therefore, flexible hours became another item, along with no responsibilities to anyone else, not even a husband.

  Although Diane decided against the woman with the sick mother and the other living in the scary neighborhood, they were the only two whom she had seriously considered. The others were looking for green-card sponsors, Caribbean women in search of American citizenship. Diane was convinced they would quit the moment that glory was achieved. She also distrusted the low wages they were willing to accept. Two hundred and fifty a week was the going rate; some of the illegal aliens would take one fifty. Although that was an incentive to go through the hassle of sponsoring them, nevertheless, “You get what you pay for” was more than a cynical aphorism to Diane; it was observed truth.

  Diane realized, baffled by the similarity of the nannies (sweet and obsequious, but with proud remarks on how good they were with children, and lots of smiles and coos at Byron’s great bald head and unsmiling countenance), that the one essential fact, how well they could take care of an infant, was unknowable. Diane was haunted by the fear that once out of her sight, the nanny would watch soap operas all day, leaving Byron’s brain to rust from tears at sentimental melodrama.

  Diane feared intellectual and physical neglect despite the consistent theme each woman voiced: that she would take Byron to the park every day the weather was nice, to the museum during the winter, to infant swimming classes, and so on. The woman with the invalid mother even claimed she had done Suzuki violin (a method of teaching two-year-olds how to play) with her last charge.

  How to know? The references? That meant relying on the judgment of other women, who might be wrong or have lower standards.

  The New York Times, as it had so often, rescued her with a snooty piece on nanny stealing. A reporter had sat with the nannies in Riverside Park and discovered that new mothers often spied on them, picked out the best, and stole them away from their current employers by offering more money. The story was disapproving, but Diane understood too well why those mothers did it and promptly took Byron to Washington Square Park with her notepad.

  There were two children’s areas in the park, quarantined by chain-link fences from the drug dealers, the bums, the necking students, and the quarrelsome teenagers of Washington Square. The smaller of the two was for infants and early toddlers. Its sandbox was modest; mostly the place was for sitting with carriages and strollers. On the other side of the square the children’s area was four times larger. Besides having a much bigger sandbox, there were swings, slides,
a climbing dome, a pole, and two wooden structures ideal for hiding, climbing, or sleeping—the last done not by the children, but by the homeless who, at night, scaled the four-foot fences and left in their wake a pungent odor.

  Diane reasoned that to observe nannies with immobile babies was uninstructive, so she made for the more grown-up playground. There, at ten o’clock in the morning, she found few possibilities. Half of the caretakers present were the actual mothers. Two mothers came over to look at Byron, their faces glowing with affectionate memory, their questions amazingly precise. “Does he sleep through the night? Really? You’re so lucky. Janie’s four and she still doesn’t.” This mother, who seemed to laugh at every problem, to admit to being overwhelmed, was young, dressed in sloppy jeans and a wrinkled New York University T-shirt (the park was surrounded by that school; presumably she was a faculty wife); the other woman, although she seemed to be a friend of the cheerful incompetent (as were their daughters), was dressed casually, but in fashion: red Reebok sneakers, black tights, a loose white-and-red pin-striped oxford shirt, her haircut short on the sides, long in back, hinting at punkishness, but still arranged enough to allow entry to Lutèce. The fashionable mother made casual fun of her friend’s confessions that she couldn’t get her daughter to obey her at anything, and had definite opinions on every aspect of child rearing.

  Diane told them she needed a housekeeper-nanny and asked if they knew of a good one. The fashionable mother seemed to distance herself immediately. Her back straightened, and a close-mouthed smile of uncomfortable formality appeared, as if she had donned a mask. The incompetent laughed, inexplicably, and said, nodding at her chic friend: “Karen’s got the best in the world. She even irons her husband’s underpants.” The comment wasn’t sarcastic, and Karen seemed to withdraw even more, as if she were mentally hastening home to lock up valuables. Diane asked Karen whether she worked (she already knew that the slob did not. “I’ve done nothing for four years but watch cartoons,” the woman had said at one point) and learned that Karen was an art director at Newstime, which meant she got Mondays off—hence her presence at the park.

  Since there were few actual examples of hired child care to watch, Diane concentrated on interrogating Karen about her prize nanny, Pearl. To Diane’s surprise Pearl was described as a southern black who spoke with a heavy accent, was in her fifties, had an invalid mother and a grown daughter who lived with her, was hired without references, and never took Karen’s daughter to museums, Suzuki violin, infant swimming, or, indeed, any other activity than to the playground at Washington Square. “What makes her so great?” Diane asked finally.

  “She loves Laura, my daughter.”

  “Pearl carried Laura everywhere for a year,” the incompetent said, laughing again. “If it were up to Pearl, Laura might still be in her arms.”

  Karen nodded. “She did the ironing, the vacuuming, everything, while holding on to Laura.”

  “Weren’t you worried it would spoil your daughter?”

  “It did, in some ways. But what would you rather worry about? Spoiling or neglect?”

  “That’s true,” Diane conceded, but later, at home, she couldn’t fit the various sociological pieces of those two women and their notion of the perfect nanny into a coherent picture. She returned to the park the next day, in the afternoon this time, having learned that most children in the mornings were in day camps, or tumbling classes, or Suzuki violin, or any of a dozen other activities during the break between the end of the nursery school year and the start of Hampton vacations.

  She spotted Pearl, the so-called best housekeeper-nanny, and her charge, Laura, right away. Laura was a self-possessed dark-haired girl who stood in front of Pearl delivering a self-centered speech about her friendships. Pearl smiled and nodded patiently through the talk. “Paula doesn’t want to play She-Ra in yard,” Laura said. “She doesn’t want to share the pretend. She only wants to play with me. That’s because I have better toys than Zoey. And Zoey always messes things up in yard.”

  “All right,” Pearl said, nodding while she brushed off the little girl’s dress so unobtrusively the cleaning was almost subversive.

  “It’s clean!” the little horror complained anyway, but she didn’t step away.

  “I know it is. I’m sorry,” Pearl said penitently. “I’m always fussing, you know that.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you fuss too much. It’s not good for you. You need to relax,” Laura added, and then skipped off without a good-bye.

  Instead of being angry, Pearl laughed with delight and threw her head back, the white of her dentures bright against her golden brown skin. Diane’s concentration on Pearl caused their eyes to meet and Pearl cut off her laughter, even covered her mouth, self-consciously. “She’s right,” Pearl confessed. Then she noticed Byron. “Oh, a new baby!” she exclaimed. “How old’s he?”

  “Three weeks.”

  “He’s big! My, my. So big!” Her own big hands reached into the carriage. Pearl offered her fat index finger and Byron immediately closed his tiny white hand on it. She allowed him to pull the tip to his mouth, the soft lips closing, sucking. “Strong. Yes, yes, yes,” she said, and leaned over his carriage. “You’re a strong one.” Byron froze, his bold stare focused on her. It was the first person Diane had seen him truly notice besides herself. “Yes, little man, you’re strong. You hungry? You always hungry, right?”

  Diane heard herself laugh. Her breasts were sore, one nipple had cracked—even when she wore a shield, his jawing hurt. “He sure is.”

  “Well, you’re a big one, that’s why,” Pearl continued, her focus on Byron so complete the conversation seemed to be between them. Pearl gently pulled her finger back from his lips. “My hand’s not clean,” she whispered to Byron. “I been in the park messing with things. I’m dirty. My hands are dirty. Yes, yes, they are!” Pearl turned from him, her hand straying on his belly, a comforting paw. “He’s a beauty.”

  “Thank you.” Diane was melted. After all, this wasn’t a job interview. Pearl had no motive to praise Byron. This woman loved babies. Diane had to have her. “When does Lau—” she stopped herself. She didn’t want Pearl to know that she had met Karen the day before. “What’s your girl’s name?”

  “Laura. She makes me laugh. She’s so proud and smart. Wish my daughter was like that. She has no opinion of herself. Not like Laura. She knows she’s something.”

  “Laura’s in school?”

  “All morning! I miss her. Have nothing to do. I get my work done in a hour. Do the washing Monday, my ironing’s done Tuesday. ” Pearl looked off, couldn’t spot Laura in the sandbox (she had crouched beneath the low concrete enclosure), and stood on her tiptoes until she did. “Wish they’d have another baby.” She peered in at Byron. “Right? Like you, strong boy! A baby brother for Laura. That would be good.”

  Oh, Diane sagged, disappointed. She is fishing for a job. Laura’s mother, Karen, knows that, hence her reserved praise. For a moment Diane was quiet and considered abandoning her plan. But after all, even if it was an act with Byron, the performance was excellent. Isn’t that what we pay for? she asked herself. I’m a terrific lawyer, I don’t really care about my clients, but I work my butt off because I’m a performer. What’s the difference? “Next year,” Diane said, “I guess she’ll be in school all day.”

  Pearl shook her head. “Don’t want to think about it. I’ll be so lonely.”

  “I have to go back to work soon. I really should be back now.”

  “Really? So soon? That’s terrible.”

  “I need someone to take care of Byron.”

  “What?”

  “My son.”

  “I’m getting so hard-of-hearing. I’m almost deaf. I really am. What’s his name again?”

  “Byron,” Diane confessed, embarrassed.

  Pearl looked puzzled. “Family name?”

  “Sort of. I’d really like to hire you.”

  “Thank you very much,” she said easily, unsurprised by the offer. “But
I couldn’t leave my girl so soon. Her parents are counting on me, at least for the summer.”

  “That’s not fair to you. Keep you hanging on through the summer without guaranteeing you a job for the fall and winter.”

  “Oh, when they done with me, I be moving to Florida. Got good friends living there. I can get easy work. I stayed on for Laura.” She looked off again to check on her. “If they had another, I’d keep working up here. I don’t think they will. Her mother … ” She trailed off. “She has an important job. Don’t have time, I guess.”

  Diane listened. She was convinced all of it was merely negotiating. She nodded seriously and thought about how Brian Stoppard handled such matters; dealing with this poor black woman was probably no different from handling a corporate vice-president. “I’d appreciate it if you could recommend someone. We live right there on Fifth and Tenth, in a three bedroom co-op. We can pay three hundred a week, maybe more if she can work at night sometimes.”

  Pearl said, “Three hundred?” immediately.

  “Is that too little?”

  “I never was good at arithmetic. How much is that an hour?”

  “Seven-fifty an hour.”

  Pearl smiled. “No, ma’am. That’s not too little.” She looked into Byron’s carriage again. His eyes blinked rapidly at the spectacle of her face; his legs rippled the blankets; his arms waved at the air. “Hello,” she sang to him. “Oh, you’re cute. Can I pick him up?”