was tearoom Victorian, and behind a desk sat Mrs. Colby, a crisp woman in her sixties with a British accent.
“So, Mr. Kramer, was it a sleep-in or by-day you were wanting?”
“By-day, I would think.”
Ted had determined a sleep-in housekeeper would cost a minimum of $125 a week, which was beyond his budget. A college student might keep an eye on Billy and do light housekeeping for her room and meals, but this might not be a stable enough influence. Ted wanted a substitute mommy. What was within his means and more sensible would be a nine-to-six woman in the $90-$100-a-week category—and who spoke good English. Thelma, his neighbor, had advised Ted on this. “The person is going to be around Billy a lot,” she said. “You don’t want him growing up with a foreign accent.” Ted was amused by this at first and then he was not. The idea was for Billy not to feel too different.
“Someone who speaks good English, Mrs. Colby.”
“Oh, good English. Well, now you’re talking closer to a hundred-five a week than ninety to a hundred.”
“Just for a good accent?”
“For a good person, Mr. Kramer. We don’t cotton to flotsam and jetsam around here.”
“All right, closer to a hundred-five.” Ted realized something had just been negotiated and he had lost.
“Now I’ve got to know something about your personal situation. It’s yourself and your little four-year-old boy, you said, and you’re in advertising?”
“Yes.”
“And Mrs. Kramer?”
“Flew the coop, Mrs. Colby.” A brand new way of putting it.
“Ah, yes. We’ve been getting more of that lately.”
“You have?”
“That’s right.”
You would know, wouldn’t you, lady, he thought. You’ve got the goddamn pulse of the city in this little office.
“We’re still mostly your mothers-without-husbands, of course. On your fathers-without-wives, you’ve got your normal deceased, your strokes, your highway fatalities, your freak accidents—slipping and falling on your flights of stairs and in your bathrooms, your drownings kind of thing—”
He seemed to detect her eyes twinkling as she did her run-through.
“—your heart attacks, your—”
“I get the idea.”
“But we’ve had a few … ‘flying the coop,’ as you put it. One in particular came across my desk recently, a woman of thirty-eight, two children—girls, ten and seven,—didn’t leave a note or anything. Just took out her husband’s dress shirts and eliminated her wastes all over them.”
“Mrs. Colby—”
“Ended up institutionalized, so I wouldn’t put that as a flying the coop exactly. More of a mental defective.”
“Could we discuss housekeepers, please?”
“I have three marvelous people in mind. In the hundred-fifteen-a-week range.”
“You said closer to a hundred-five.”
“Let me check my cards. Ah, yes, a hundred-ten.”
“Have you ever thought of selling advertising space, Mrs. Colby?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Let me see the people and then we’ll discuss the price. After nine at night in my house. And I’d like this settled soon.”
“Very good, Mr. Kramer. I’ll call you later in the day.”
T HELMA AND CHARLIE CAME by, Thelma bearing a cooked roast beef. A slim, attractive woman in her early thirties, she was shored up by a combination of American cosmetics, tinted hair, contact lenses she squinted through, the latest fabrics, the newest fad diet—if it all slipped an economic notch or two she might have been just a plain woman, as she was when she was tired and the seams showed. She was unraveling now. Joanna’s leaving had unnerved her, confronting Thelma with the problems in her own marriage and sending her back into therapy.
“I wish I really knew why she did it,” she said.
“Maybe she just flipped out,” Charlie offered, tiptoeing around so as not to step on any of his own eggs.
“I married a dentist, obviously, and not a psychiatrist,” she said sharply, Ted avoiding both their eyes with his
“So, Mr. Kramer, was it a sleep-in or by-day you were wanting?”
“By-day, I would think.”
Ted had determined a sleep-in housekeeper would cost a minimum of $125 a week, which was beyond his budget. A college student might keep an eye on Billy and do light housekeeping for her room and meals, but this might not be a stable enough influence. Ted wanted a substitute mommy. What was within his means and more sensible would be a nine-to-six woman in the $90-$100-a-week category—and who spoke good English. Thelma, his neighbor, had advised Ted on this. “The person is going to be around Billy a lot,” she said. “You don’t want him growing up with a foreign accent.” Ted was amused by this at first and then he was not. The idea was for Billy not to feel too different.
“Someone who speaks good English, Mrs. Colby.”
“Oh, good English. Well, now you’re talking closer to a hundred-five a week than ninety to a hundred.”
“Just for a good accent?”
“For a good person, Mr. Kramer. We don’t cotton to flotsam and jetsam around here.”
“All right, closer to a hundred-five.” Ted realized something had just been negotiated and he had lost.
“Now I’ve got to know something about your personal situation. It’s yourself and your little four-year-old boy, you said, and you’re in advertising?”
“Yes.”
“And Mrs. Kramer?”
“Flew the coop, Mrs. Colby.” A brand new way of putting it.
“Ah, yes. We’ve been getting more of that lately.”
“You have?”
“That’s right.”
You would know, wouldn’t you, lady, he thought. You’ve got the goddamn pulse of the city in this little office.
“We’re still mostly your mothers-without-husbands, of course. On your fathers-without-wives, you’ve got your normal deceased, your strokes, your highway fatalities, your freak accidents—slipping and falling on your flights of stairs and in your bathrooms, your drownings kind of thing—”
He seemed to detect her eyes twinkling as she did her run-through.
“—your heart attacks, your—”
“I get the idea.”
“But we’ve had a few … ‘flying the coop,’ as you put it. One in particular came across my desk recently, a woman of thirty-eight, two children—girls, ten and seven,—didn’t leave a note or anything. Just took out her husband’s dress shirts and eliminated her wastes all over them.”
“Mrs. Colby—”
“Ended up institutionalized, so I wouldn’t put that as a flying the coop exactly. More of a mental defective.”
“Could we discuss housekeepers, please?”
“I have three marvelous people in mind. In the hundred-fifteen-a-week range.”
“You said closer to a hundred-five.”
“Let me check my cards. Ah, yes, a hundred-ten.”
“Have you ever thought of selling advertising space, Mrs. Colby?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Let me see the people and then we’ll discuss the price. After nine at night in my house. And I’d like this settled soon.”
“Very good, Mr. Kramer. I’ll call you later in the day.”
T HELMA AND CHARLIE CAME by, Thelma bearing a cooked roast beef. A slim, attractive woman in her early thirties, she was shored up by a combination of American cosmetics, tinted hair, contact lenses she squinted through, the latest fabrics, the newest fad diet—if it all slipped an economic notch or two she might have been just a plain woman, as she was when she was tired and the seams showed. She was unraveling now. Joanna’s leaving had unnerved her, confronting Thelma with the problems in her own marriage and sending her back into therapy.
“I wish I really knew why she did it,” she said.
“Maybe she just flipped out,” Charlie offered, tiptoeing around so as not to step on any of his own eggs.
“I married a dentist, obviously, and not a psychiatrist,” she said sharply, Ted avoiding both their eyes with his
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