Part 10 (1/2)
”Daddy, wait!” Grayer attempts to follow him out of the room, but the Dixie cup of grape juice slips from his grasp, staining both his s.h.i.+rt and the beige carpet a deep purple. Mercifully, we all turn our attention to the spill, gathering paper napkins and seltzer. Grayer stands whimpering while multiple manicuredhandsdab athis front.
”Nanny, I'd really appreciate it if you kept a closer eye on him. Just get him cleaned up.'ll be waiting inthecar,”Mrs. X instructs,placingheruntouchedcupofcoffeeonthetable,likeSnowWhite putting down the apple. When she looks back up she has pasted on a beaming smile for the secretaries.
”See you all nextweek!”
The next afternoon, having finished his lunch, Grayer announces our plans as he climbs down from his boosterseat.
”Wa.s.sailing.”
”What?”
”I want to wa.s.sail. I'm going to make my own Christmas. I knock on the door, you open it, and I sing my heart out.” I'm amazed that he's retained this from our visit over a week ago, but my grandmother doeshave awayofnestling herselfintopeople's memories.
”Okay,whatdoorwouldyoulikeme tostandbehind?” I ask.
”My bathroom,” he says over his shoulder as he heads off with purpose toward his wing. I follow him andpositionmyself inthebathroomasdirected.A few momentslaterI hearhislittle knock.
”Yes,” I say, ”who's there?”
”NANNY,youarejustsupposedtoopenthedoor!Don't talk,justopenit!”
”Right. Ready when you are.” I sit back on the toilet seat and start checking my hair for split ends, sensingthatthisgamemaybeslowtogetofftheground.
Again, asmall knock.I leanforward andnudgethedooropen,almost knockinghimover.
”NANNY,that's mean!You're tryingtopushme!I don't likethat. Startover.”
Eleven knocks later, I finally get it right and am rewarded with a screaming rendition of ”Happy Birthday” thatshakesthewindow-pane.
”Grover, why don't you try a little dancing while you wa.s.sail?” I ask when he finishes. ”Really wow 'em?” I hopehemightquietdownifhehastodivert someenergytostayinginmotion. ”Wa.s.sailing is not dancing, it is singing your heart out.” He puts his hands on his hips. ”Close the door and I'll knock,”he says, asif suggestingthis routinefor thefirst time. We playwa.s.sailing forabout half an hour until I remember that Connie, the housekeeper, is here and sic Grayer on her. I hear him from across the apartment, screaming ”Happy Birthday” over her roaring vacuum and after five rounds go backtocollectwhatisrightfullymine.
”Wanttoplaycars?”
”No.I wanttowa.s.sail. Let's gobacktomybathroom.”
”Onlyifyoudance,too.”
”Oh,man,oh,man,thereisNOdancingwhenI wa.s.sail!”
”Come on,mister,we're calling Grandma.”
One short phone call later and Grayer is not only dancing and singing the actual ”Here we come a wa.s.sailing among the leaves so green,” which is infinitely less painful, but I have been inspired with a delicious plan.
As I give Grayer's wa.s.sailing outfit (green and red striped turtle-neck, felt reindeer antlers, candy-cane suspenders) a final once-over for ”ultra wa.s.sailyness,” Mrs. X comes bustling in, Ramon in tow, laden with boxes.
Her cheeks are rosy, her eyes are glistening. ”Oh, it is a zoo out there, a zoo! I nearly got into a fight with awoman atHammacherSchlemmer. utthemdownover there,Ramon. verthelastScrewPull, but I just let her have it, I thought there is no point descending to her level. I think she was from out of town. Oh, I found the most darling wallets at Gucci. Does Cleveland understand Gucci? I wonder.
hankyou,Ramon.Oh,I hopetheylikethem?Grayerwhathaveyoubeenup to?”
”Nothing,”hesays, whilepracticinghis soft-s...o...b..theumbrella stand.
”Before lunchwe made unsweetenedcookies anddecoratedthemand thenwe've beenpracticing carols andI readhimTheNightBeforeChristmas inFrench,”I say, tryingtojoghis memory.
”Oh, wonderful. I wish someone would read to me.” She takes off her mink and nearly hands it to Ramon. ”Oh,that's all, Ramon, thankyou.”Sheclaps herhandstogether.”So,whatareyouup tonow?”
”I wasgoingtoletGrayerpracticehis caroling?
”Wa.s.sAILING!”.
”. nsomeoftheelderly inthebuilding, whomightappreciatea littleholidaycheer!”
Mrs. X is beaming. ”Oh,excellent!What a goodboy you areand that'll keep him o-c-c-u-p-i-e-d. I have somuchtodo!Havefun!”
I letGrayerpress fortheelevator. ”Which floor,Nanny?”
”Let's startwith yourfriendoneleven.”
We have to buzz three times before we hear ”Coming!” from inside the apartment.As soon as the door opens it's apparent the hour and a half of ”practicing” was well worth it. H. H. leans against the door frameinfadedChristmas-tree boxersand a well-wornAndoverT-s.h.i.+rt, rubbingsleepout ofhis eyes. ”HERE WE COME A-Wa.s.sAILING.'AMONG THE LEAVES SO GREEN.'.'/” Grayer is red faced, swaying backandforth,with his jazz handssplayedand antlers waving.For a splitseconditcrosses my mindthathemightliterally singhis heartout.
”LOVEAND JOY COME TO YOU.'.'.'” His voice ricochets around the vestibule, bouncing off every surfacesothat.i.tsoundsasifhe's a chorusofemphatic wa.s.sailers.A wa.s.sailing riot. Whenit appearshe hasreachedhis conclusion, H. H. bendsdownandopens.h.i.+s mouth.
”AND G.o.d BLESS YOU.'.'.'” This move mistakenly places him at ground zero to be blasted with the spitandsweatofGrayer's effort,whichisthenfollowedbyaneven louderfinale.
”Well, goodmorningtoyou,too,Grayer!” Grayer collapses onto the vestibule floor, panting to catch his breath. I smile beguilingly. Make no bonesabout.i.t;I am agirl with a mission.I am heretoget aDate.A RealDatewith aplanand alocationandeverything.
”We're caroling?I begin.
”Wa.s.sailing,” a small exasperatedvoice pipesinfromthefloor.
”Wa.s.sailing aroundthebuilding.”
”CanI have acookienow?” Grayersits up,readytoberewardedforhis efforts.
H. H. turns into his apartment. ”Sure. Come on in. Don't mind my pajamas.” Oh, if you insist. We follow his boxer-clad body into what is essentially the Xes' apartment, only two floors higher, and one wouldnever guessthatwe wereeven inthesamebuilding.Thewallsinthefronthallarepainted adeep brick red and are decorated with National Geographic'tjpe black-and-white photographs between kilim tapestries. There are sneakers lining the floor and dog hair on the carpet. We make our way into the kitchenwherewe practicallytrip over ahuge,grayingyellow Lablying onthefloor.
”Grayer, you know Max, right?” Grayer hunkers down and with uncharacteristic gentleness rubs Max's ears. Max's tail animatedly pounds the tiles in response. I look around; instead of the large island that Mrs. X hasinthemiddleoftheroom,there's anold refectorytablepiledhighatoneendwith theTimes.
”Cookies? Anyone want cookies?” H. H. asks, brandis.h.i.+ng a Christmas tin of David's cookies that he has pulled from a teetering pile of holiday baked goods on the sideboard. Grayer runs over to help himself andI forcemyself tofocus.
”Just one,Grover.”
”Oh,man.”
”Doyouwantmilkwith that?” Heheadstothefridgeandreturnswith a fullgla.s.s.
”Thankyousomuch,”I say. ”Hey,Grayer,anything youwanttosaytoourhost?”
”Thanks!” hemumbles,his mouthfullof cookie.
”No,man,thankyou!It's theleastI candoafter such apowerful performance.”Hesmiles over atme. ”I can't remember thelasttime someonesangtomewhenit wasn't mybirthday.”