12
Manny 911
School Director Stephanie leaned over her desk in her office at Santa Monica Methodist, swallowed up by stuffed animals, Play-Doh sculptures, pillows and quilts, and an aquarium with a hermit crab named Frieda, who had a peace sign painted on her shell. Her small hands were folded. She wore a thumb ring, the kind of thing that looks good only on her and Nicole Richie.
“You need help during this transition,” she said.
“Transition?” I asked. “Being widowed is not a career move.”
“Hannah, I’m sorry,” Stephanie said. “Let me be real with you. I don’t want you cracking up. Ellie needs you to be a whole mother to her.”
“A whole mother and a whole father,” I said. “I’m doing everything I can.” I brushed away a tear. I looked through the windows to the hallway. Normal moms walked by. Normal moms with their long-ago highlighted hair in a ponytail. Normal moms wearing Juicy velour sweats, brought out again after the second baby. Normal moms pushing strollers and murmuring about lack of sleep and what to make for dinner that doesn’t include the word “fingers.” Normal moms keeping their complaints to themselves as their marriages become confusing, their trust wavers, their idealism is bombarded by transgressions as major as another woman, and as minor as a baby’s spit-up. What I wouldn’t give for their happiness and misery, their smiles and secrets.
“Ellie needs you to be healthy. Are you seeing anyone?”
“Dating? Am I dating?” What was worse? The thought of another man touching me or the thought of me wanting to touch another man?
“Oh, no, no, nothing like that—”
“Right, because, you know, I can’t even think—”
“I know. For a long time.”
“Centuries,” I said. I pictured my future. Black shoes with heavy soles, black stockings, wool dress, and, yes, a rocking chair. And the remote. Because even when I’m in my eighties, American Idol better still be on. Good news: If I still looked forward to Idol, maybe I had not lost the will to live.
Bad news: If I didn’t have Ellie, I would have already shot myself. Who am I kidding, I wouldn’t have shot myself; I’m a total wimp. I would have asked one of the Grief Team to shoot me. They owe me that much. Jay wouldn’t need much prompting.
“I meant, are you seeing a therapist?” Stephanie asked.
“I have my friends,” I said. “Frankly, among them, the pharmaceutical industry is having its best year ever. But they saved me and Ellie, and they don’t cost two twenty-five an hour.”
“Sounds like they’re good friends, but you might want to try a professional group setting,” Stephanie said. “My aunt joined a group after my uncle passed away. She found it very helpful. Do you have someone to help you with Ellie?”
Ellie. John was the house-spouse. For all intents and purposes, he was both Mom and Dad. There’s one in every school. You know the type. He looks younger than the other dads because he’s always smiling and never wears a suit. He’s always got one kid hanging over his shoulder, even while he’s hammering together the May Day set. He looks abnormal not toting a skateboard. The teachers sigh when they speak of him. The mommies gape at his calves when he runs past, pushing an empty jogging stroller. He annoys the other dads—“I would be in great shape, too, if I didn’t have to earn a living!”—but he’s so good-natured, he wears them down, and then they, too, become members of the Favorite Dad Fan Club.
And when he leaves, the world stops spinning.
“Like a nanny?”
“If you don’t mind … I was going to make a suggestion—”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t afford it,” I said. I was worried. The property tax bill hadn’t come, but neither had John’s life insurance check. We’d used up a lot of our savings for the planned trip to Greece. Before our little family was run over by the Grief Train.
“It wouldn’t cost you a thing,” Stephanie said. “Brandon, our intern, he’s a UCLA MBA—he went back to school to get his teaching credentials. We’ve been friends since freshman year. He dated my roommate.”
“He wants to teach little kids?”
“He loves kids. And he lost his job last year. Brandon was a trainee at Morgan Stanley. He’s looking for room and board. He just started working with the kids in the older group, and he’s gentle and sweet, but firm. He could help you out, maybe he could use a small stipend.”
“Does he eat?”
“I don’t think he ever stops eating. He was on the varsity volleyball team. But he cooks. And he can help out with laundry.” She looked at me. “I don’t know, it just feels like a good fit. I think Ellie would absolutely love having him around.”
“He’s in good health?” I had to ask. You never know.
“He’s only twenty-four.”
“Testicular cancer is a young man’s disease,” I said, before admitting, “I’m spending way too much time on the Internet. Still can’t take someone else dying on me. Death is unfuckingacceptable.”
“I can almost guarantee it.” Stephanie smiled. “At least for the next year or so.”
“I’ll meet him,” I said. “Even though I don’t need any help. I’ve got everything completely under control.”
Stephanie sized me up. “Is your shirt on backward?”
“It’s a look,” I replied. “Just—have him call me.” I walked out. A manny, I thought. How pathetic that someone would think I would need a manny.
“I love a manny!” Jay said. “Hey, why don’t you try Hidalgo? He’s looking for another job, besides male modeling.”
“I need someone who wears something other than Speedos.”
“Whatever, don’t be mean. He’s trying. And I love him.”
“He’s not trying. He’s taking you to the cleaners. He flirts with other men in front of you. And his wife is pregnant.”
“Relationships are complicated,” Jay said. “So, when do I meet our manny?”
The next day, “our” manny was scheduled for an interview. I managed to get out of my pajamas, my second skin, and run a comb through my hair, i.e. dreadlocks.
“You know,” Jay said, fingering my split ends, “losing the will to condition is a sign of mental illness.” Jay had arrived drenched in Tom Ford Black Orchid cologne, wearing skinny jeans.
“You look like Fergie,” I said.
“I’ve prepared a list of questions. I knew you couldn’t handle this yourself. Ellie needs to be protected. She has a dead father and a mother who doesn’t tweeze.”
I was about to read the list when the doorbell rang. I beat Jay to the door, and thanked God that I had put on eyeliner. Or maybe I hadn’t. No, I don’t think I had. But Jay had, at least. So we were good there.
“Hi,” Brandon said. “You must be Hannah.” Brandon was well over six feet tall, and that was the least of his physical attributes.
“It’s that obvious,” I said. “Raccoon eyes, rat’s-nest hair. I just look like a widow, is that it?”
“I thought it was you,” he said, “because you answered the door?”
Jay intervened. “Hi, I’m Jay. Why don’t you come on in and sit on my fa—”
“Couch,” I said. “Please, sit.”
Brandon looked from me to Jay.
“It’s safe,” I lied. “I’ll be with you throughout the entire interview.”
He laughed, exposing perfect teeth. I liked him, despite this.
Jay sat down across from Brandon, whose knees, when he sat, were almost to his chest. “Now … Brandon,” Jay said, “are you comfortable? Would you like some water? Something stronger, perhaps?”
“I’m fine.” Brandon smiled. God had touched every part of him with the Pretty Stick.
Jay perused his list. “Okay. Here we go. Ellie cuts her finger while cutting a lime for her favorite uncle’s margarita. Do you get a bandage? Call nine-one-one? Show her how to properly cut the lime, then continue making the margarita?”
“You guys are screwing with me, right?”
&nb
sp; “I’m dead serious,” Jay said.
“A three-year-old shouldn’t be handling knives at all,” Brandon said.
“Very good,” Jay said. “It was a trick question. Now—Ellie wants to wear checkered tights to school with a vintage rabbit coat, courtesy of her favorite uncle, of course. How do you react?”
“I think children should be able to express themselves with their clothing choices—to a limit.”
“You would mix patterns and textures? At such a young age? You would allow that?”
“Jay, that’s enough,” I said.
“I believe you should encourage children to express themselves as freely as possible, within reasonable limits,” Brandon said.
“Fine, let’s just agree to disagree,” Jay said. “I’m glad we got our first fight out of the way.”
“Brandon,” I said. “I’m sorry. I just can’t hire you.”
“She doesn’t mean it,” Jay said. “You don’t mean that, do you, Hannah?”
“Fair enough,” Brandon said. “May I ask why?”
“You’re the best-looking man we have ever seen—and we’ve seen a lot. You’re Calvin Klein billboard material. It would distract me from my worries—and I’d feel pressure to put on makeup and comb my hair. I’m not ready yet.”
“I’m more Old Navy,” Brandon said. “Trust me. Look, Hannah, I want to get my life back on track. I thought I would have it all together by now. I don’t. The world changed on me …” He faltered.
“I understand,” I said. “What was promised, was taken.”
Brandon nodded, his eyes big and sad. I felt like punching myself in the head.
“I need a place to stay where I can get my work done,” Brandon said. “My roommate’s blood count is Four Loko. I can’t do it anymore. He’s a trust fund baby. He may not have to grow up—but I do.”
“May I make a suggestion, Hannah?” Jay asked.
“Not if I’m reading your mind, you can’t,” I said.
“Kitchen. Now,” Jay said. He dragged me into the kitchen, closing the swinging door behind us.
“You need this boy,” Jay said. “Can’t you see? I don’t want you to turn out to be a character in a bad Bruce Willis movie, which is redundant in itself, and I can’t believe I’ve sunk so low. Hannah, Brandon has been sent by God. Ask him if he’s into the Daddy thing.”
“Okay, I’ll hire him. But nobody here can touch him. Except maybe furtively, like on the elbow. On odd-numbered days.”
Jay hugged me. We went back into the living room to tell Brandon the good news.
I picked Ellie up from school, and brought her home to meet Brandon. Within moments, Brandon was on his hands and knees, Ellie riding his back as though he were a large, frisky dog.
“She never laughs that way with me,” I said.
“She doesn’t laugh that way with me, either,” Jay said. “And I’m funny. Or maybe I’m more wry than funny. Do you think he’s ever tried a man?”
Ellie jumped off Brandon’s back and landed on the floor, then gave him a big hug around his neck. My chest ached. What had I done?
“She never laughs that way with me,” I repeated.
* * *
Word of Manny spread more quickly than Dee Dee Pickler’s legs at a yoga retreat. Aimee dropped by, in full hair and makeup.
“Look at what Hannah brought us. It’s not even Christnukkah,” Jay said, indicating Brandon outside pushing Ellie on the swing hanging from the avocado tree.
“Just like John used to push, only taller,” I said, as I watched Brandon.
“He’s okay,” Aimee said, viewing him from the kitchen window. “Beachy, common. I prefer older, more distinguished—”
“Grateful, pay for dinner, don’t care if you haven’t waxed in six months, and the Alzheimer’s guarantees they’ll forget your phone number. Am I close?” Jay asked.
“How’d the audition go?” I asked.
“Terrible,” Aimee said. “I’m too old. Why doesn’t someone just take me out in a pasture and shoot me?”
“Because they don’t waste bullets on old cows?” Jay suggested.
“I have a theater degree from Yale,” Aimee said. “I could have been Meryl Streep, and instead I’m begging for Papa John commercials.”
“You’ll get more work when you’re menopausal,” Jay said. “All those osteoperosis commercials.”
“Don’t talk to me about Sally Field,” Aimee grumbled. “Between her and Jamie Lee Curtis, they’ve got the old-broad market cornered.”
Brandon strode in, carrying Ellie under his arm like a giggling loaf of bread.
“Hi,” Brandon said, noticing Aimee.
“Hi,” Aimee said, her face turning red.
“Are you blushing, Aimee?” Jay asked.
“No,” Aimee said. “Of course not. It’s called ‘flushing’—from my new cream.”
“You know, Branny, men don’t age like women do,” Jay said. “Look at the back of my hand—it’s like an infant’s.”
“Once you get past the granny knuckles,” Aimee said.
“I’m sorry, but are you the woman in the shampoo commercial?” Brandon asked.
“Pantene?” Aimee said. “I’ve done a few hair commercials … Well, more than a few.”
“She’s the Greer Garson of shampoo ads,” Jay said.
“Oh my God,” Brandon said. “I remember you! You washed your hair in the horse stall. I had such a crush on you. I told my buddies at school, they all made fun of me.”
“Really?” Aimee asked.
“You know how cruel third-graders can be,” Brandon said. The silence was deafening. I lived eight lifetimes in that silence.
“I’d better go,” Aimee said.
“Nice meeting you,” Brandon called after Aimee’s hastily retreating, aged figure. “Wow. She’s even hotter now.”
“Third grade?” I asked. “You had to say third grade?”
“Did I say ‘third grade’?” Brandon said. “Man, I’m such an idiot!”
There was a knock at the front door, followed by the sound of small feet skittering across the wood floor and the inevitable barking.
“Angel, don’t touch that; Bakasana, come to Mommy. Be good, no peeing, Mulabanda! Mulabanda! Bad dog!”
Chloe, wearing a low-cut cocktail dress from a charity event she’d hosted in better times, hurried into the kitchen, dragged by dogs and children. Bakasana, the Rescue Pom and Mulabanda the (terrifying) Rescue Pit had anointed the area rug in my living room before. The third was a skinny, gray shepherd mix.
“Angel’s my new rescue,” Chloe said, looking at the mangy beast while straightening out her dress. Two of her kids, Penelope and Joshua, on all fours, barked and lifted their legs at the center island, but Chloe only had eyes for Angel. “She just showed up at my house one evening. She was so hungry. Isn’t she beautiful?”
“She looks strung-out,” Jay said. “Is she a Promises Rescue?”
“How’s my best girl?” Chloe asked me.
Spice was having none of the new dog. He paced behind my legs, growling, head down.
“I’m Chloe,” Chloe introduced herself to Brandon. “Hannah, you didn’t tell me you had company. I would have tried to look nice.”
“Chloe, you look like you’re a ten-thirty invite to the Vanity Fair party,” I said.
“He’s mine,” Jay said. “I mean, Chloe, meet Brandon, our new manny. He’s mine.”
“Ellie’s new manny,” I corrected. “Don’t listen to Jay the Manny Poacher.”
“Do you like dogs?” Chloe asked Brandon.
“I love all animals,” Brandon said. “I’m kind of indiscriminate that way.”
“Me, too, I love all animals, too,” Chloe said, flustered. “They’re so much nicer than human beings, don’t you think?” This was probably the closest Chloe had come to flirting since college, when she had first met Wasband Billy passed out on the bathroom floor of his fraternity house.
Jay, the kids, and the dogs followe
d Brandon, a Pied Piper in board shorts and leather flip-flops, into the backyard. “It’s fifty-eight degrees,” Chloe said. “Does he ever wear clothes?”
“Never,” I said. “I’m not sure Jay would let him, anyway.”
“Hannah, I need to talk to you,” she said. “Billy’s taken up competitive bike racing.”
“Competitive hand standing wasn’t enough?” I asked. “He spends an inordinate amount of time in Lycra.”
“You know what this means?” Chloe said. “My Billy is having an affair.”
“First of all, you two are separated, even though I don’t buy it. Second, your Billy has never even looked at another woman.”
“Yes, he has. His yoga instructor,” she said.
Billy had many annoying traits: Republican, BMW driver, Giants fan—but he wasn’t a player. Or was he? The truth about men in L.A. is that any of them can get a hot, young girlfriend. All any L.A. man needs is a decent leased car, that’s it. You don’t even have to own. Billy doesn’t have a job, but he does have a BMW that hasn’t run out its lease.
“I feel like my whole world’s coming apart at the seams,” Chloe said.
“You two are having problems—that’s normal, given the circumstances—but he loves you. He would never, ever even look at another woman. He would only look at her really solid IRA.”
“Tatiana can put her legs behind her head.”
“Okay, so he’s probably thought about it,” I said.
“Billy’s job was his life. He loved shorting mortgages. Now, everything’s changed. He’s so confused. The other day, he said something positive about universal health care. I’m afraid I’ve lost him forever.”
Jay walked in from the backyard. “Well, if Billy goes for same-sex marriage, I’m not speaking to him again.”
“You never did,” I said. “Jay, by the way, not to change the subject, but that wasn’t a very funny joke you pulled on me the other night. When Santino was here.”
“Santino is no joke, sister.”
The After Wife Page 12
