My Wife Pays Me and I Pay the Nanny

My Wife Pays Me and I Pay the Nanny

Oliver Munday

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“Feeders” by Oliver Munday

The night before we met with Babette, Sarah and I had almost canceled the interview due to stress. At the time, our daughter, Sophie, was just three months old and refused to take the bottle. Sarah had had no trouble breastfeeding her, but Sophie rebuffed the synthetic nipples, despite the many sizes and flows we’d ordered. Our night nurse had been no help, and Babette sensed our distress. When we told her about the cause, she responded, very plainly, that it was a phase that would soon pass; she asked us if she could give it a try (she was older than every other nanny we’d interviewed and seemed wise for it). Sarah handed Sophie over to Babette, and she cradled Sophie in her lap. She dragged the bottle’s nipple across Sophie’s lip and lifted it away, almost teasingly. After about thirty seconds Sophie latched. Sarah and I sat in the chairs opposite our baby in disbelief. Babette left and we offered her the job the next day.

It took Babette time to get used to the sprawl of our Tribeca loft. I’d also been surprised by the space when I moved in (Sarah owned it). The high ceilings, the industrial-grade kitchen, and the twice-a-week cleaner. Sarah was adopted—one of six siblings—and her family money was old, from cardboard manufacturing. She’d been the only child to be involved with the business, pioneering a sustainability packaging program and founding the family’s philanthropic organization, where I worked as communications director. I’d never dated someone so wealthy before, and I often resented how unconcerned she was with the finances. I’d grown up solidly middle class in Baltimore—my dad waited tables at a high-end steak house, and my mom worked as a public school administrator. Even then, I’d been considered wealthy by some.

There came a point in my relationship with Sarah when I had to accept that I too was rich. After all, the money might become mine at some point, albeit partially. I’d felt like a fraud proposing to her, and then signing the prenup. The pageantry of my kneeling before her family’s standing. Accepting that this rarefied life was mine, and that, really, I didn’t have to work for anyone else ever again, was unsettling at first. I felt an acute guilt bearing my mom’s passive-aggressive comments. And oddly, this was the moment when Moses, Sarah’s gray tabby cat (to whom I was deeply allergic yet had built a painstaking immunity over the course of a year) attacked my feet. Whenever I left the bathroom after a shower, he’d hiss and pounce on my bare toes. As if he’d sniffed out an old fear of mine. As a kid, I’d had dreams about small creatures—opossums, squirrels, and beavers—assailing my toes. I was convinced Moses had penetrated my psychology, pegged me as an intruder. This was a lifestyle he too enjoyed, and he was protecting it. He ate from an automatic feeder that was double the price of my espresso machine.

When Moses took immediately to Babette, it felt like a betrayal in both directions. Since I’m also employed by Sarah’s family, Babette and I shared a strange kind of kinship. Both on the payroll. Both enjoyed benefits. Both had to be wary of occasional reprimand. Babette also had a cousin in Baltimore, so she knew where I was from. And she’d been surprised that I knew anything about where she was from—Guyana—and that I loved West Indian food. It wasn’t long before she insisted on teaching me how to make roti. Sometimes she stayed late and we cooked together. Roti had become a staple of our kitchen and Sophie’s favorite food.

The best part of my day was Sophie running to the door when I came home from work. “Daddyyyyyyyyyyyyy,” she said, clobbering my knees. Babette had put Sophie’s golden hair up in two violet butterfly clips. She looked older.

Babette came over with a small snack bowl in hand; she’d been slow to rise from the couch. She wore an Atlantic City T-shirt. “This girl is getting so smart, I tell you.”

As I hoisted Sophie up, she promptly squeezed my nose.

“How was your day, Jordan?” Babette asked.

Jordan isn’t my name. I stood bouncing Sophie for a moment and looked at Babette, waiting for her to realize. I thought maybe even Sophie would. “Good,” I said. “I was eager to get home to this little stinker.”

The moment to correct her about my name quickly passed.

“You need a ride tonight?” Babette asked.

On Tuesday nights, I played in a pickup basketball game with friends at a high school in Sunnyside, Queens, where I used to live. She lived close to the neighborhood.

A moment later, the front door opened. Sarah came in from work. She moved cautiously, and I wondered if this was because we’d just found out she was pregnant again. (We hadn’t told anyone.)

“Mommmmmy.” Sophie shimmied down and ran to the door.

“Hi, Sarah,” Babette said, yawning.

“Hello, everyone,” Sarah said. She slipped off her shoes and took Sophie into her arms. She leaned over, and I kissed her cheek, tasting the sweat from her Orangetheory class.

I watched Babette again to see if she might realize, having now said Sarah’s name, that she’d mistaken mine. But she walked into the living room to pick up stray toys from the floor. She tossed Sophie’s alligator into the large patterned basket in a tall arc.

“Maybe you should let me in your basketball game,” she said to me.

Her own laughter had a way of crowding out mine, especially in response to her own jokes. It was a laughter that seemed too harsh for her. I remembered basketball practices when I’d have to switch to guard taller players in the post, hearing them yell to the gym, I’ve got a mouse in the house.

“My mom used to come and watch me play,” I said. “I could use a fan in the stands.”

I went to the bedroom to grab my gym bag. Before we left the apartment, Babette reached down to line Sarah’s shoes up with the rest of her heels by the door. Moses walked over and brushed his body against Babette’s arm as she did.

In her car, an air freshener dangled from the rearview next to some Diwali beads.

“How’s the family?” I asked.

Babette bumped the steering wheel with the butt of her hand. “My granddaughter got another ticket. And she didn’t show up to the hearing last time. Now I have to take her in. A pain, I tell you.”

She had two teenage granddaughters, one about to graduate high school.

“Girls are sweet when they’re young,” she continued. “Then they grow up and you wish you had boys. But then you remember that boys become men and you’re glad again that you had girls.” She laughed to herself. She wore her glasses when she drove and sat up close to the wheel.

“You never wanted a son?” I asked.

“My daughter was plenty for me.” She smiled to herself. “I know Sarah is pregnant.”

I turned and eyed her. “How?”

“A mother just knows,” she said. “You want a boy? Momma’s gonna need an heir.” She cackled.

We crossed the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge, which was lovely in the evening, offering a dusk-gilded view of the city. As we got deeper into the backstreets of Queens, a calm came over me, the residential blocks reminding me of neighborhoods in­ Baltimore—Pigtown and Butchers Hill—the Formstone fronts and the large swaths of sky rising above the roofs. It was like being dropped off for practice again.

Babette sighed before speaking. “My husband had his hours cut at work. I’m so grateful I have you all. He is too. I don’t think I tell you enough.”

Her husband worked as a janitor at a yeshiva in Queens. Babette had said that the Jews paid him well.

“I’m so sorry, Babette,” I said. “I remember how hard it was on my mom when my dad had his hours cut when I was in high school. Will your husband look for another job? Or part-time work?”

“He’s hoping it’s just temporary, a few weeks. But he’s definitely open to other things.”

I told her I would ask around in the meantime. Before I got out of the car, she patted me twice on the forearm. “Good luck on the court!”

Later in the week, we assembled Sophie’s dinner as a family. Sophie sat on the lip of the counter, schooching her butt on the marble.

“Iwanroti,” she said.

“We can’t eat roti every day, sweetie,” Sarah said.

“Why?” Sophie frowned.

“Because we need variety in our diets.” Sarah chopped broccoli florets with a large knife. Her blond hair draped her face just below her chin. She looked beautiful, if a little severe, after a long day. “It’s more of a snack, not real food.”

“It’s real food, sweetie.” I pinched Sophie’s knee. I could feel Sarah’s blue eyes resting on me. “It’s just the more you eat something, the more likely it is that you’ll turn into it!” I pinched harder, and she leaned over giggling.

As Sophie sat with her dinner, Sarah and I drank Malbec on the couch, her glass filled with a demure new pregnancy splash. Before long, Sophie grew restless again. We told her to sit in her tiny chair until she was done, which she rarely did, even with Cocomelon on the TV. Instead, she spread out on the couch behind the table. With her butt angled high in the air, she planted her cheek on the cushion and watched.

“It’s almost bath time, stinky butt,” I said.

When she didn’t respond I crept over to her and stared at eye level. “What are you doing lying down like this?”

“Resting my ear,” she said. “Like Babette.”

Sarah set her glass down; we stared at each other for a moment.

“What, honey?” Sarah asked.

I tilted my head at her. “What do you mean?”

“Resting my ear like Babette does,” she repeated. After a minute, she grew bored by our questions and flipped over onto her back. I nuzzled my head into her stomach, and she laughed uncontrollably. We continued playing as Sarah cleared Sophie’s plate and went to start the bath.

When Sophie was down for bed, Sarah and I spoke quietly in the kitchen.

“What do you think Sophie meant earlier?” Sarah asked.

I lacked a sound explanation. But then I remembered. “Babette called me Jordan the other day.”

She looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“Like it was my name. I thought she was making a basketball joke since it was Tuesday, but I think she just forgot.”

“Stockton I can see, but Jordan, babe?” She grinned. “Did you say something?”

I shook my head. Moses sat upright in the corner and stared, which he did constantly, to unnerving effect. “I waited too long and then it felt awkward.”

“And how does it feel now?”

Sarah was quick, and her playful rebukes always made me laugh. She poured me more wine.

“I bet it was the name of the guy she used to work for,” I said. “She’s old. She’s bound to slip up.”

“Resting her ear,” Sarah spoke to herself. “It must be something Babette said. Bizarre.”

At work several days later, I received a video clip from Sarah out of the blue. I assumed, at first, that it was her trying to be sexy in the way she’d started lately; a brief striptease or view of her bare thighs below the table. Her confidence was intoxicating. These clips had a way of landing at the most inopportune times of the day, which only added to their power. But this one wasn’t sexual. Only when I started playing it did I see Moses in the frame. His triad nose darted at the camera, and I realized it was the view from his feeder. It had a camera and came with an app, too, but we’d never reviewed any footage or cued up the live feed; I’d forgotten about the capability. Then I saw Babette and Sophie in the background. Babette was seated on the couch, and Sophie was on the floor playing with her stuffed alligator. The view was partially grainy, and it glitched every few seconds. I felt like a depraved voyeur as I watched, yet I couldn’t stop. Gradually, Babette began to lean. She caught herself once and sat upright before slouching over again. My heart sank to watch Sophie on the floor, playing alone. Soon enough, behind her, Babette was completely horizontal. I rewound and watched it again. I realized then that the clip’s sound was off, but I couldn’t bear to add any more information to what I saw. Sophie dropped her alligator and rose from the floor. When she leaned over the couch, Babette startled and sat up. They appeared to talk for a minute, and then Babette hugged Sophie. And then it was done.

That night, Sarah and I divided the evening routine. I read Sophie her favorite book about a penguin’s first day of school, imagining what it would be like once Sophie started preschool next year, when Babette would have to watch two kids.

When I came out, Sarah nodded at me, holding up a bottle of white. Her face shone with snail mucin.

I nodded, and she came over to join me on the couch. “I’m shocked,” she said.

“I can tell.”

“You’re not?”

“I am.”

“Well your energy is off,” she said.

“It’s just that . . . I felt uncomfortable watching the video.”

“No shit—We agree on that.”

I pressed my lips against the glass. “Isn’t it illegal to spy on someone?”

“Please. We’re all spied on, all the time. It’s practically nationally sanctioned,” she said. “You do understand what it is you saw? Sophie was playing alone while Babette was passed out beside her.”

“I know.”

“I thought you’d be a tad more worried by it. There’s no way we’re continuing to pay someone who literally sleeps on the job. How’s she going to watch two?”

“It’s dangerous to extrapolate,” I said. I thought about Babette’s husband looking for work. “Maybe this only happened a few times.” I worried this was tacit encouragement for further espionage.

“Once is enough.” Sarah sat back. “Once is unacceptable.”

Moses leapt onto the couch and curled up in her lap.

“We can’t be rash.” I bounced my foot. “Babette is a huge part of Sophie’s life—our life.”

“She’s an employee, babe. We pay her to do a job, an extremely important one at that. It’s clear that Sophie has seen her do this before, enough to repeat Babette’s excuse.”

Sarah brought her fingers to her lips. I rubbed her shoulder, feeling more of my own tension. “I know, it’s not right. But just think for a second—they’re safe inside the apartment. The place is still babyproofed.”

Sarah shrugged out from under my hand; Moses seemed to balk too. “What if Sophie was choking? I can’t believe I’m having to convince you.”

“Imagine it was an afternoon when Sophie was with your mom, and she happened to nod off briefly on the couch? Babette woke right up when Sophie came over.”

“My mom’s not a narcoleptic.”

“Babette is family,” I said.

Sarah looked surprised. “I know this sounds cold, but let’s be honest: the whole nanny as part of the family thing is the bullshit we tell ourselves to feel better. Sophie is family. We should’ve known this with Babette’s age.”

Sarah had picked up enough speed to bypass my hesitation.

“So, what do you think we should do?” I asked. “We can’t just cut her loose. That’s ruthless.”

“Why do you keep thinking of this from her perspective?”

“I’m thinking about this from Sophie’s perspective. It’s a lot to ask of her to get used to another nanny.”

“You need to consider us—which will be the four of us soon. We’re your family.”

After lunch the next day, I sat in a meeting that ran for over two hours, glad to focus on something that wasn’t Babette’s narcolepsy. But when I returned to my office, I found another email from Sarah. No subject line. I opened it and saw two clips, both of which were dated earlier in the day. Too big to text, it read above the first. Volume up, below the second. I felt trapped by Sarah’s insistence.

The first clip opened with Babette, again, stretched out on the couch. My stomach tightened and I closed the clip. The other clip showed Babette and Grace, a nanny in our building who watched a boy Sophie’s age. They had playdates frequently. The four of them sat in the living room; I turned up the volume. Sophie was singing “Following the Leader,” ignoring Mikey, the little boy. When this stopped, they played with magnet tiles on the floor, and I could hear the stray clacking plastic. Then I heard the adult voices. Grace was younger than Babette, strident as she spoke. You need to ask them for a raise, she said. These people are rich, it’s nothing to them. Don’t let them take advantage of you. Grace went on to tell Babette how she had demanded more money at her last year-end review. She told Babette that, honestly, she needed to talk to me. Babette’s laughter was startling. Please, she said. You know that man is scared for his life in here. He’s a punk. I’d have better luck asking the cat for more money.

I tensed. My legs locked up. I looked over my shoulder like I was the one being watched. I played the clip once more to hear her self-satisfied laughter, to see her frail old body jiggle. Then I slammed the laptop shut.

When I got home that night, Moses’s feeder had been moved to the other side of the room, positioned with a clearer view of the couch.

“Hey, Jordan,” Babette said.

I dropped my bag to the floor; I mustered a hey.

Sarah glared at me before she spoke. “Did you just call him Jordan, Babette?”

Babette turned back and forth between us, as if she thought we were playing a joke on her. Sophie colored furiously at the table as the three of us stood in silence. Then Babette’s face opened up; she palmed her mouth and her eyes dilated. “I’m so sorry.”

I feigned a smile without speaking, then nodded.

“Gosh—I’m embarrassed.”

“What you guys talkinabout?” Sophie perked up. This was something she’d started asking lately, whenever adults spoke in nontoddler-inflected voices.

Sarah stroked Sophie’s hair and said it was nothing. Moses’s head reared up from the couch.

Babette came over to me. “Jordan was my old boss. I worked for them for so many years.”

Then she reached out for a hug, her body soft against mine.

“I hope you’re not offended. I must be getting old!”

Sarah leaned her head, pretending to doze off behind her.

“It happens,” I said.

After Babette packed up to leave, I walked her to the door. She spoke before I could. “Did you hear back?”

I was confused. “About what?”

“The job for my husband?”

I couldn’t believe her gall. “I’ve only started asking about it. I need more time.”

“I really appreciate what you’re doing for us, so thank you.”

“Listen,” I started. “Sarah and I are hoping to talk to you on Friday. Just for a few minutes after work?”

“Of course,” she said. Her face stiffened for a moment as she pulled out her glasses from her bag. “I’m really sorry I called you Jordan,” she said. I could see under the light that her lenses were slicked with grime.

The next evening, Sarah skipped Sophie’s bath and got her down early. I waited for her in the living room with a glass of seltzer, avoiding alcohol’s dulling effect. Sarah poured herself a sip of the Orvieto we’d brought back from Umbria the previous summer.

“You still in a mood?” she asked.

“Just thinking about Babette.”

“I feel like maybe I was a little rash before,” she said. “I was getting sentimental thinking about how sweet she was with Sophie as a newborn. The way she was with her bottle. We were lucky to find her when we did.”

I was surprised by her soft turn. “I know,” I said. “But I was thinking about what you said about the family before.”

“Oh?” Moses sat still beside her feet. “So you think she’s got to go?”

I stopped short of an about-face. “The prospect of hiring someone new is daunting. I’ve been torn,” I said. “But clearly now Babette’s naps are a pattern.”

“I knew the nannies talked behind our backs, but that clip was excessive.”

I nodded in agreement. “And look,” I said, pointing to a small stain on the carpet. “Babette used to clean stuff like this. She’s letting a lot slip.”

Sarah pursed her lips at me. “My mom offered to help us out if we needed it. She thinks we should let her go too.”

Tired of water, I got up to pour myself wine. “So, how do we do this? We’re supposed to tell Babette we’ve been surveilling her?”

“In the state of New York, it’s entirely legal to have a camera installed on your property for protection.”

I pictured Sarah, hunched over her laptop, devouring the stipulations of law.

“Sophie brought it to our attention, anyway,” she said. “We don’t have a nanny cam, technically. We’ve never monitored Babette before. It’s only by chance that we found this out.”

“I suppose we’re simply confirming something that Sophie told us,” I said. The wine caused a band of heat to form in the middle of my face. “I already told Babette we needed to speak to her on Friday.”

Sarah set her glass down and inched closer to me. “Wow, babe,” she said. Her energy shifted suddenly. She looked at her phone and clicked something closed before tossing it onto the couch. Then she shooed Moses away with her foot.

She mounted me. I stared at her mouth. She kissed me hard and bit my lip. Gripping my throat, she rose over me. We had fucked in the living room after finding out she was pregnant again, which before then we hadn’t done in months. As she started sucking my neck, I noticed the glossy white cat feeder in the corner of the room, with its tiny light on.

When Friday arrived, I felt nervous. I’d never fired anyone; we had scripted talking points.

Sophie buried her face in her alligator stuffie in the living room. “My love, what are you doing?” I asked her.

“She’s been silly all day, this one. I tell you.” Babette wore her burgundy Juicy hoodie with rhinestones, the one her husband had gotten her last Christmas. She sat in the chair beside me.

Sarah hovered in the kitchen, making herself tea.

“So, what did you guys get up to today?” she asked. She eyed me as she dipped her tea bag.

“Aw, we had a lot of fun, huh, Soph?” Babette pitched her head as she spoke. “We drew. We played restaurant. We went to the playground with Grace and Mikey.”

Sarah sat in one of the chairs facing us.

“Sophie climbed the big ladder all by herself. Even Mikey’s still too scared!” Babette chuckled.

Sophie looked up. “He’s scared.” She bared her tiny teeth at me.

“Thanks for making some time to talk with us,” I said. “Firstly, we want to thank you for how wonderful you’ve been with Sophie. I don’t think we tell you that enough. From the first time we met you, you never stopped teaching us how to be parents.”

Sarah widened her eyes at me. Babette mumbled some appreciation; her hands lay cupped in her lap.

“And we know just how exhausting the work can be,” Sarah interjected.

I stared back at her. “We’ve been thinking a lot about Sophie and how the next few years will play out, preparing to start pre-school, deciding what her schedule will be like.”

Babette nodded along.

“A lot is changing,” I said. “And we feel like we too need to make a change.”

I could only look at Babette for another second. Instead, I focused on a new, small stain on the Moroccan rug. A dry discoloration camouflaged by the spiral pattern near her feet.

“What you guys talkinabout?” Sophie had clued in to the room’s changing tenor. Her face was blank, innocent.

Sarah got up and grabbed Sophie to sit on her lap.

“Our childcare needs have evolved, Babette,” I continued. “And we’re really sorry, but we’re going to have to let you go.”

She looked down, hanging her head. Then she looked over at Sophie. “What?” she said finally. “I’m shocked. I didn’t think it was this—I thought I was getting a raise!”

“We’re giving you a month’s severance, and we’ll write a good review for you on the Tribeca Nannies site. You’ll find another family to work with,” I assured her.

“It’s not even been three years.” Babette’s eyes filled with tears. “You said how much finding someone for the long term was important to you all when I first interviewed. Someone to grow with Sophie. I was so sure I would be with you all for ten years at least. I love Sophie so much. I can’t bear to think about leaving her.”

Babette looked for Sophie again, but she was resting against Sarah’s shoulder. Sarah kissed the top of Sophie’s head.

“I know this is hard,” I said. “It’s been such a tough decision for us too.”

“Tell me—why are you firing me? What have I done? I’ve only ever been good to you.”

Babette’s voice grew loud. Moses darted across the carpet, startling me.

“Sophie needs more active engagement, someone who’s able to scrabble around on the floor with her.”

“But you knew that wasn’t me when you hired me. And I do play with her, entertain her, all the time. I never mislead you.”

I lowered my voice a bit. “Sophie said you were sleeping during the day.”

“What?” Babette looked indignant. “I only ever rest my head when she naps. I never sleep!” She paused momentarily and raised her fist to her mouth. “I thought you were decent people. But I’m a fool.”

I stood up and glanced at the cat feeder. Moses feasted from it now. “Babette, you don’t even clean anymore,” I said. “We come home to dirty dishes.”

“Now you’re really lying,” Babette yelled.

“Look.” I pointed at the stains on the rug. “Why are there stains?” I was angry now. “That’s unacceptable.”

Sophie started to cry, sniffling. She covered her face. Sarah rose and took Sophie down the hall to her room.

“This isn’t you,” Babette said quietly. “She’s putting you up to it.”

“It is me, Babette,” I said. “I’m firing you.”

She started to weep. I sat with her for a minute as she gathered herself, then led her to the door. Her sobs echoed in the empty hall as I shut the door behind her.

On Monday morning, when I left the bathroom after showering, Moses loped down the hallway and clawed my toes. I splayed myself against the wall, failing to deter him by flicking water from my feet. I ran away and finally closed him off from my room to get dressed for work.

“Are you starting to feel relieved?” Sarah asked when I came into the kitchen. “I’m proud when I think about how you handled it. We did the right thing, babe.” She pinched some sea salt onto my overnight oats and fed me the first bite. “I’ve already found a woman I love,” she said. “Early education degree. Young. Vibrant. Well slept.”

Sarah’s mom was heading into town soon to help for a bit. I wished my mom could do the same, and I realized then that Babette would never drive me to basketball again. In truth, I was wary of another nanny—the way a new person in the house inevitably reveals and refracts new aspects of yourself.

“She’s coming on Wednesday to meet us,” Sarah said. She came close to me. “Today’s going to be a good day,” she said. “I can feel it.”

After a strategy meeting later that day, I returned to my office to find an email from Sarah. The subject line: XoX. I turned away from the screen, incredulous. The sole relief of the last days was not having to confront another one of these videos; it was gratuitous at this point. I almost didn’t open it. But when I looked again, I saw that the clip was dark—nighttime—and the view of our living room was dim. After I pressed play, it took a minute to distinguish the large form on the couch as two people. I watched the bright points of my eyes peering back at me. Sarah and I were having sex.

I got up to close my office door. When I came back to resume the clip, Sarah moved slowly on top of me as I reached into her hair. My face flushed before my computer screen to witness it; I’d never seen myself in this way, in the motion of fucking. The clip was just over twelve minutes. I scrolled ahead, impatient, our positions staggering and changing. Toward the end, Sarah had come to sit behind me. She held a hand roughly over my mouth as she reached around. My lips now were dry while I watched her stroking me, watched her muffling my moans as she finished me off. The clip stopped abruptly. I sat back in my chair and stared at the final frame. I remembered this moment, just before I’d gone to the kitchen to get a towel. Right before I’d crouched down on my bare knees and tried to scrub clean the stain I’d left on the rug.