“Definitely. Just think of that phrase, ‘He’s got a yellow streak,’” Fancy said. Joan thought that had to do with cowardice, rather than suicide, but who knew, perhaps cowardice could lead to suicide.
“Do you mind?” Fancy said, opening the closet door. Then she was murmuring to herself, “Nice sheets all lined up, nice clothes all hung up. Nice spare comforter for the crib. I’ll show you how fast I am,” and instantly Fancy was lifting the sleeping Daniel from the crib, cradling him in one long floral arm, stripping the mattress, remaking it, yanking the sheet tight as the navy vice admiral used to make Martin do, fluffing the small comforter, and in two minutes flat, Daniel, still asleep, was laid back down.
She was, Joan thought, a wacky kind of Mary Poppins. She hated that movie as a child, all that officiousness, as if children could not know their own minds, when Joan herself certainly did, but watching Fancy, Joan’s perspective altered.
Fancy ran her fingers over the colorful mobiles hanging above the crib, checking for dust, Joan thought.
“I hope you won’t be offended, but you could use my help. I can nanny and clean, and neither will take away from the other. And I was thinking, if you hired me, I could cook sometimes, if you’d let me. You have a very nice kitchen, and Trudy and I, our kitchen is just a pass-through sort of thing, not enough counter space to make anything real, and I miss cooking, which is a conundrum, I will say, since I swore I would never cook anything ever again once I hightailed it from home. All those mouths to feed morning, noon, and night.”
She was a Mary Poppins, an original kind of fairy godmother in action, now at the bookcase, checking out the novels on the shelves that Joan read to Daniel while she nursed, as he nodded off for a nap. She was reading him the second of Trollope’s Palliser novels, Phineas Finn. Since he had manifested as a real baby, sometimes Joan bent to convention and read him silly children’s books, about dogs and spots and hills and pails, which were stacked in the case as well.
“That’s quite a variety of books you’ve got there,” Fancy said, then continued on without taking a breath. “This is what I would suggest. I’ll be here by seven every morning. And if you trust me, you can give me a key. And if you want, or need me, I’m happy to sleep in here, with the little darling, stay over, take the night feedings to give you some solid sleep. I’ll just need a camp bed I can fold up and put away, or a mattress I can blow up, and a light blanket, nothing more. Otherwise, I’ll be out of your hair when the little one is down for the night.”
Fancy was offering to nanny and cook and clean and was willing to take the hateful night feedings, and Joan hired her on the spot.
“How wonderful. I can start tomorrow, if that’s good for you. And apologies, I forgot to ask you, what do you call the cherub?”
“Daniel,” Joan said. “Yes, please start tomorrow. Is there a list of things you’ll need?”
“I’ll get the lay of the land in the morning, and if it’s easier for you, we’ll make the list together, and I’ll shop for whatever we need. I don’t have a car, but I’m licensed to drive, so if you’ve got a car, I can use that.”
“I do. It’s in the garage. Should we talk about what you’ll be paid?” Joan asked.
“Whatever you think is right,” Fancy replied, and just like that Joan had an extra set of fast-moving hands helping her again.
*
Fancy was a miracle of competencies, a helpmate in motion, the way she danced around the kitchen, bathing slippery Daniel in the sink, bundling him up in a snowsuit, covering him with blankets, pushing him in the carriage over the Mannings’ land, up and down the snowy hillocks all the way to the property lines.
“Come spring, I’ll help you plant grass, if you want, and flowers, too, you’ve got so much space out there, you can’t even see your neighbors. Once the snow melts, it would be a shame to leave it unloved.” Fancy made the offer each time she came in with the baby hocked over her shoulder, Daniel blowing spit bubbles, his eyes dancing around.
Fancy sang to Daniel when she put him down for his naps, baked cakes and chickens while Joan napped too, or closed herself up in her study and sat at her desk, her hands folded in her lap, the Olivetti’s plug pulled from the socket, coiled on the white painted floor.
Martin liked Fancy too, calling out, “Hello, all my good people,” on the rare evenings he was home early. “It’s so great walking into the house,” he told Joan, and it was true, Fancy kept everything under control. The kitchen was always fragrant, something delicious cooking in the oven, a cake frosted on the kitchen counter, and the baby on the table, cooing in his portable bassinet.
On those early evenings of Martin’s, he stayed in the kitchen, making himself a drink, talking to Fancy, playing with Daniel. When Joan grew tired of trying to remember how writing was once as natural to her as breathing, the typewriter still unplugged, no paper rolled in, she listened to the laughter, to the baby’s happy gurgles, to Fancy’s funny voice going on, and Martin jumping in, talking about this and that and nothing at all, until she gave into the delight, rose from her chair, and joined them all in the kitchen.
6
It was Fancy’s fourth month with them when Joan plugged in her typewriter, rolled a piece of paper onto the platen, put her hands on the keys, and wrote a first sentence, then a second, then the typewriter keys were quietly rat-a-tat-tatting, sounding to her like a symphony, her heart beating to the rhythm, her breath falling in line with the tune.
Each word she put down shined, imbued with love for her son and for her husband, and with appreciation for this nanny they hired who already felt like a member of the family Joan never wanted. But the words belonged to her alone, and for the first time since becoming a mother, Joan found herself on the firm ground she inherently recognized. She was, she realized, out of the abyss.
During every one of Daniel’s naps, she secreted herself in her study, calming Fancy when she worried that Joan was wearing herself out, was planning on weaning the baby too quickly.