Annie was the oldest nanny the agency had sent for us to interview, but there was something about her that the baby liked. She toddled over and held onto her leg. “Coe-coe-coe,” she said, tugging at the hem of her coat. “Coe-coe-coe.” Steffy didn’t want to let her go. Annie was the first nanny out of 40 that she’d didn’t shy away from or avoid. The baby liked her. For the life us of, we couldn’t figure out why. Annie was 63 years old, a washed-out former schoolteacher, with a dead husband and four grown kids, all living out of state. She had a deep voice, mousy brown hair, sad eyes, and sagging boobs. “Are you able to live in our guesthouse?” I asked. “Yes.” “Do you like dogs?” Our two English sheepdogs ran into the room and sniffed her flat ass. She moved it out of their way, and patted them on their heads. “Yes.” “Will you also do cooking and cleaning?” “Yes.” “Why’d you leave your last job?” I asked. “I retired with a decent pension,” she replied. “Not only that, the kids were bringing knives and guns into school. One student had a machete.” “Those are good reasons,” I said. My wife, Jane, sat back and took it all in. She was the antithesis of Annie: tall, all legs, with a mane of thick blond - 75 -
Published on Sep 30, 2011
The Fine Line presents its third compilation of art, fiction and poetry by contributors Francis Raven, Michael Young, Dorothee Lang, Raj Sha...