Page 7 of Pucking My Biggest Fan

“You aren’t asking the right people.”

“That’s the one that takes care of its babies,” he says, reverent, like I’ve passed the real test. “It’s the babysitter dinosaur.”

“She and I do the same job,” I say, and he writes it down, spelling it his own way, then informs me his favorite is Triceratops but it changes on Fridays.

He has also tried twice to explain icing to me, the hockey kind. I now know less about icing than I did before he started. This delights him so much that I’ve stopped trying to learn. Being teachable would end the bit, and the bit is currently the third-best thing in his day, after breakfast and dinosaurs.

Margot is polite to me the way you’re polite to a substitute teacher: correctly, and from a distance. She answers questions. She says please and thank you. Not once has she used my name.

“You take the blue cup,” I say, setting the table. “Teddy gets the dinosaur one. Did I get that right?”

“Correct,” she says.

Not yes. Correct. Like I’ve passed a quiz she fully expects me to fail later, on the parts that matter.

She comes down for camp one morning with her hair loose and one elastic around her wrist. I offer once, neutrally, the way I’d offer a fourth pancake. “Want help with your hair?”

“No, thank you.” She does it herself in the hall mirror, crooked in the back where she can’t see. She gets in the car with it crooked, and I drive her to camp and say nothing about hair. You don’t make a nine-year-old like you. You show up on time with the right cup until liking you becomes her idea, and if it never does, you were still on time with the right cup.

Bedtime is the same shape every night. Teddy gets a story, negotiates for a second story, receives half a second story. His door stays cracked, hall light on. Margot puts herself to bed at eight-thirty sharp with a chapter of the girl detective, thank you and goodnight, door closed. Except by the fourth night I notice her door isn’t closed all the way while I’m reading to Teddy. It’s open exactly the width of a book. I don’t slow down, I don’t raise my voice, and I don’t mention it to anyone. I just pick the funny voices like there’s a bigger audience than the one on the bed.

Their father cooks most nights, and every night there is too much food. Not a little too much. One whole person too much, portioned into containers and stacked in the fridge. On Sunday night the stack goes out with the trash, and the empties come back to the cabinet. On my fourth night I work it out: he cooks five portions. Four people live in this house. His wife has been gone three years, and he is still making her dinner every night. I never say a word.

Thursdays, their grandmother collects them. Carol — wool cardigan, kisses for the kids, and for me a handshake with both of her hands, which somehow makes it less warm rather than more. She looked at me one second too long on my first Thursday. I know that look. It’s the same look I give a new cleaner who touches things in a house where I work. It means: I’m watching you.

There’s a recipe card taped inside the baking cabinet in handwriting that doesn’t belong to anyone living here. There’s a woman’s coat on the hook by the back door, third peg, good wool, waiting. I notice the way I notice everything. I say nothing, and I hang my own coat on the far peg.

The hallway between the kitchen and the laundry has a framed jersey in it. Navy and green, VAUGHN across the shoulders, a big 14 under it. Sports décor. It might as well be wallpaper. I pass it nine, ten times a day with laundry baskets and have never looked at it longer than you’d look at a light switch.

The refrigerator’s ice maker grinds, drops nothing, and grinds again, twice an hour, every hour. Alone in the kitchen one afternoon, I decide that if we’re going to live together, she needs a name, and I pick Brenda. “Noted, Brenda,” I say the next time she starts up — quietly, because nobody is home to hear me christening an appliance. Every house I’ve ever worked in has one broken thing like her. Naming it keeps us friendly.

And Gus — Gus is a problem I didn’t plan for.

Not in any way I could report to an agency. He’s easy to work for. He says thank you like he’s noticed the specific thing, not the general category. He learns my coffee order by the second morning, which is to say there are suddenly two mugs out instead of one, and he never mentions it. When Teddy got a splinter and screamed like he’d lost the whole leg, Gus came off a work call mid-sentence. He took the foot, did the needle, kissed the foot, went back to the call. The whole thing took four minutes, and afterward he apologized to me. For the noise.

He’s kind, and I don’t let myself get used to it. I’ve worked for kind families before. An employer’s kindness is real right up until the day it isn’t — the job changes, the family changes, somebody decides the nanny got too comfortable. Getting attached to it is how you get hurt. So when he asks at dinner whether I’m settling in — the room, the schedule, anything missing — I say the room is great. The window sticks. I’ll fix it with a candle stub, if that’s all right.

He looks at me for a second like I’d said something else entirely. “You can candle any window in this house, June,” he says, and goes back to serving Teddy, and I sit there holding my fork, rethinking him.

“Where’d you learn that?” he asks later, at the sink. “The candle thing.”

“Houses.” I stack Teddy’s plate on Margot’s. “Wax where wood sticks. Felt pads where chairs scrape. Tennis ball on a string in the garage so you know where to stop the car. None of these tricks are mine. I collect them from every house I work in, and they go with me when I leave.”

“That last part sounded like a warning,” he says. Easy. No edge on it.

It was one. “Not a warning,” I say. “Just inventory. A list of what leaves when I leave.” He laughs like I’ve handed him something, and I carry the plates to the sink so I have somewhere else to look.

Also, he rolls his sleeves back when he cooks, and I have started finding reasons to be in other rooms when he does it. That’s all I intend to say about that.

Sunday, my day off, Bex texts before I’m out of bed: report. you promised a report. is the widower hot

he’s my employer, bex.

that’s not a no

the five-year-old asked my favorite dinosaur and wrote my answer in a notebook. that’s the report.

you’re already in love with the five-year-old, she writes. She isn’t wrong. I put the phone down and stare at the ceiling of the nicest room I’ve ever slept in. Sunday is the only day of the week it’s allowed to feel like mine.