The Manny. Holly Peterson

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      She leaned in close to me. ‘And are you doing it?’

      I put my hands in the air, like maybe I wasn’t.

      She tapped the table. ‘I’ve told you this a hundred times. Always blow your husband. Always blow your husband.’

      Even though I loved Susannah, it was sometimes hard to bond with her because there was so much about her that made me feel inferior. Starting with the fact that she always blew her husband first thing in the morning.

      She tapped my hand this time. ‘Don’t ever forget what I said.’

      ‘You know what? I don’t always want to blow my husband.’

      ‘Neither do I! But it takes, like, ten minutes and you’re done and he’s so happy he’s bouncing around the room. It’ll save any marriage. I promise you. I wish I could go on Oprah and say this; it would prevent a lot of divorce. It’d be a good episode: “Always Blow Your Husband.”’

      ‘So how often, really, are you doing this now? Don’t exaggerate.’

      She looked up and hesitated for a moment. ‘Four times a week.’

      ‘That’s a lot.’

      ‘And I initiate, that’s the key. You have to act really into it. That’s the other key.’

      ‘Really into it? Like what?’

      ‘Like you have to act all horny, that’s what they love.’

      ‘Well, even if I wanted to, even if I felt all horny first thing on a weekday morning, which I certainly don’t, Phillip is never around.’

      ‘Is Phillip travelling more now than he used to?’

      ‘He’s gone three nights a week now. And has a lot of client dinners when he’s in town.’

      Susannah stepped off her blow-job soapbox and sighed. ‘That’s a lot for a nine-year-old. They didn’t sign up for the absent father thing.’

      So true. ‘When I first moved to our apartment, I met all the East Side mothers who hired huge full-time staffs. Nothing against you, Susannah, I’d just never seen that. Separate nannies for each child, housekeepers to clean, chefs to cook, drivers to drive, house managers to run the whole household.’ Susannah nodded. She had all of those, and then some. ‘I even heard that they hired “guys” to roughhouse with the boys while the absentee investment banker fathers were kneading the dough. That one stuck out for me, hiring a “guy” to parent your child. I swore I’d never be one of those women who hired a substitute father in the afternoons.’

      Susannah smiled. ‘And?’

      ‘And then I started thinking, here I am living this obscenely fortunate life, and I, well, maybe I should hire a “guy” for Dylan. You know, some male college kid who could pick Dylan up, kick the soccer ball around the park, talk about cars, whatever. But have I turned into one of these horrible women who can’t even deal with their own son? This is crazy.’ This conversation was making me anxious. I speared a huge shrimp and stuffed it in my mouth.

      ‘It’s not a “guy,” you fool,’ said Susannah.

      ‘Well, it is. That’s exactly what it is. I’ve surrendered. I’m like you. God help me.’

      ‘It’s not a guy,’ she interrupted. ‘It’s a manny. M for male nanny. Everyone knows that.’

      Everyone but me. ‘Mannies? That’s what you call them? Are you kidding me?’

      ‘Forget the shrink. I’m telling you, get a manny! They give the sons male attention while the daddies are out sucking up to clients in Pittsburgh.’

      ‘So my city kid could go to the park and catch bugs and do all kinds of suburban boy stuff with his manny?’

      ‘Hell, yes! Jessica Baker’s manny takes her three sons to the ESPN Zone in Times Square every Tuesday. Do you want to go to the ESPN Zone in Times Square? No. Your housekeeper and nanny wouldn’t ever go there, or if they did, they’d sit in the corner and sulk. You know who else had mannies every summer?’

      ‘Who?’

      ‘The Kennedys. All those Kennedy cousins had mannies taking care of them up in Hyannis. Sailing mannies. Football mannies. Only they didn’t call them that. They called them governors.’ I laughed. Susannah continued, ‘Yes, dear, a manny is the answer to your prayers. Don’t fire the nanny or the housekeeper because I can assure you he won’t do windows or cook dinner. But, start hunting for one this afternoon. And your little pouty Dylan will be over the moon. Consider him the older cousin we all dreamed of, but with the patience only money can procure.’

       CHAPTER FIVE Is There a Manny in the House?

      The receptionist at work buzzed my phone. ‘Nathaniel Clarkson is here for you.’

      I was hopeful. ‘Send him back, I’ll meet him halfway. Thanks, Deborah.’

      I charged out my office door and almost knocked Charles over in the hallway. ‘Hey! It’s eleven in the morning. Nothing’s going on the air for hours, slow down, baby.’

      ‘Sorry. I have to meet someone. Don’t want him to get lost coming back here. I’ll call you.’

      ‘Who you meeting?’ he called after me.

      ‘Not meeting. Interviewing.’ Then I whispered with my hands cupping my mouth, ‘Mannies.’

      ‘Real professional thing to be doing in the office,’ he yelled over his shoulder as he walked back down the hall.

      I didn’t care if it was professional or not. Who would notice exactly what I was doing anyway? They were all so crazed around the show. I had decided to do the manny interviews in the safety of the office because the first two guys I’d met at home had good résumés but looked a little off kilter; one had greasy hair with his warm-up suit hiked up too high on his crotch and the other never smiled once. Through a domestic help agency with a thorough vetting process over the past weeks, I’d already met about half a dozen young men who were interested in the afternoon job with Dylan: out-of-work actors or waiters, concert musicians looking for extra money, trainers hoping to get in a few extra hours. All wrong. They were either too talkative or too quiet, and all of them lacked the experience to handle a kid like Dylan. I was looking for someone who wouldn’t let Dylan manipulate them and wouldn’t let him fade into outer space.

      Nathaniel seemed like a fine candidate on paper, his résumé impressive: he graduated from a reputable public school uptown with a 3.0 average. He hadn’t taken any college courses yet, but at twenty had spent most of his time coaching at a small charter school in Harlem. I’d called the principal, and he seemed to be well liked and a hard worker.

      A black kid in an oversized hooded sweatshirt with a Tupac logo that covered his hands and hid part of his face waited for me in the reception area. Under the hood, he was wearing a do-rag, one of those СКАЧАТЬ