The Manny. Holly Peterson

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      ‘His name is Peter Bailey. You’re going to have your own friend in the house all the time. I mean, from after school on till bedtime. He’ll be here after school tomorrow.’

      ‘Like my own boy babysitter?’

      ‘Better than that. He’s about twenty-nine. He’s from Colorado. He’s an awesome skier, or snowboarder, I guess. He loves chess, works on chess computer games or other games making homework fun for middle school kids. And he’s super cool. I mean, really cool. He has long hair.’

      My son had shifted into neutral. I thought he’d be ecstatic about the kinds of things he and Peter could do together – and relieved this wasn’t another Dr Bernstein. Of course, in retrospect, that was just my own hyped-up fairy-tale version of how Peter would glide into our lives.

      I added, admittedly with forced enthusiasm, ‘What matters is he’s fun! He’s going to pick you up, take you to sports, anywhere you want! Even the batting cages at Chelsea Piers.’ Still nothing.

      ‘Honey. You’re not excited about batting cages? How come?’

      He kept his eyes closed and shrugged his shoulders. This was heartbreaking. I thought this would bring joy to my little Eeyore; instead, it just made him sad. I had waited for this moment to tell him because I wanted him to go to sleep happy. His lip quivered.

      I tried one more time. ‘You only get to go to the cages for birthday parties. I’m telling you this guy is going to take you there just on a regular weekday!’

      He sat up. Then he turned on the light and looked at me with those squinty eyes. ‘Is this all because Dad’s never home?’

      Kids are always smarter than you think.

      ‘Whoa.’ Peter Bailey handed me his coat the next afternoon and I searched for a hanger. ‘This closet is bigger than my bedroom.’ He peeked around the corner to the living room.

      ‘It still seems big to me, too. We just moved in a few months ago. But you’ll see, we run a very relaxed household.’

      I had told him to dress casually, so he showed up for duty wearing two-toned Patagonia snowboard pants with pockets and zippers up the flaps on the sides. A worn-out flannel shirt covered up a T-shirt with a Burton logo on his chest. He had brown suede Pumas on his feet.

      He took off his baseball cap and I gasped.

      ‘Oh, this.’ He pointed to a scab the size of a tangerine on his forehead. ‘That’s why I wore the cap. I slipped off the skateboard last week. Stupid. And I know it’s ugly. Sorry.’

      I shook my head. ‘No worry. Dylan will think it’s cool.’

      Peter was a bigger guy than I remembered. Two minutes in, it was already strange having a full-grown man with a deep voice in my house in the middle of the day. And I hired him to be my nanny help? And with a graduate degree? He was so much taller than me. How could I boss him around? Stand on my tippy toes and order him to clean up those toys right now!? I felt panicky.

      ‘Peter, I’m just really excited about you being here.’

      ‘You don’t look it.’

      ‘Really. It’s going to be great. Just great!’

      The early-afternoon light streamed through the yellow silk curtains in the living room and reflected off the piles of books on the coffee table and the two large Tupperware boxes on top of them. I motioned for Peter to sit in the small antique armchair while I sat next to him on the sofa.

      ‘So! Can I get you a drink?’

      Would he ask for a guy drink, like a Corona?

      ‘Sure.’

      I jumped up like a jack rabbit.

      ‘Ginger ale. If you don’t have that, Coke is fine.’

      I got some ice out of the ice machine and started to put it in a crystal highball glass. Wait a minute, was I sending off the wrong signals? He wasn’t a guest; he was an employee.

      Meanwhile, Peter was considering the Tupperware boxes. One had a sticker labelled CHILDREN’S MEDICINE, and the other HOUSEHOLD EMERGENCY MEDICINE. Next to the table was a cardboard box labelled: HOUSEHOLD EMERGENCY SUPPLIES – boxes I had put together that ghastly fall of 9/11. There was also a folder with two stapled copies of important phone numbers and addresses plus the daily schedules, all colour-coded by child and by academic, sports or cultural activity. My mother was a librarian at the local Cretin High School, so I grew up in a household where the Dewey Decimal system was used to organize the garage. It was all her fault I was a little compulsive at times.

      I could hear the clock ticking on the mantelpiece while Peter sat, an attentive, polite look on his face. ‘Why don’t I explain to you how things work here …’

      ‘What things?’

      ‘Well, you know, the house, for instance. How it, it runs.’

      ‘You mean, like a little company?’

      ‘No. These are just schedules.’

      ‘Is there an employee handbook?’

      ‘Very funny. No, but we do have employees. Yvette the nanny and Carolina the housekeeper. They’re both wonderful women but it’s going to take a few days for them to get used to you.’

      ‘No, it’s not. Where are they?’ He stood up.

      ‘Wait! Let’s just, go over a few items … I mean, if that’s OK. I mean, are you OK? Are you OK being here?’

      ‘Yes. It’s been, like, seven minutes. Doing just fine so far.’ He smiled. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

      Was I that transparent? I shuffled my papers nervously, still feeling like I didn’t know how to talk to this grown man without talking down to him. I didn’t want to sound patronizing. And then I thought how sexist it was that I could more easily boss around the women in my house (or try to), but not a man.

      ‘Dylan goes to St Henry’s School on 88th and Park. On Mondays, he has sports on Randall’s Island. It’s called the Adventurers. They pick the kids up on a bus, and then bring them home, but sometimes the moms drive so they can watch the games. You could drive him. Do you know how?’

      ‘Hmmm, driving …’

      ‘You don’t?’

      ‘Maybe you could teach me?’

      ‘Me?’

      ‘I’m just joking. I can drive.’

      ‘You can? OK, good.’ I had to start acting normal. This was ridiculous. ‘OK, I deserved that … I think I just meant, have you, like, driven a Suburban? One of those huge ones with three rows, in the city?’

      ‘How many guys who are thirty years old and who come from the Rockies do you think can’t drive an SUV?’

      ‘Not many. I’m sorry.’

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