The Manny. Holly Peterson
The poor son-of-a-bitch literally says on tape that he likes it up the behind. Preferably up Theresa’s sweet Southern little behind. He talks about the next time she’ll take it up the behind. He talks about how much he loved it the last time she took it up the behind.’
‘Leon, you can’t be serious.’
‘Yep.’
‘You’re screwing with me, right? Literally he says, “up her behind”?’
Abby moaned orgasmically from the floor.
‘Yep.’
I scratched my head. ‘Hartley is the leader of the movement to get the anti-sodomy laws on the ballot for the 2008 presidential …’
‘You got that right.’
‘And he’s a sodomizer?’
Leon chuckled. ‘Yep. I’m with you.’
‘And he’s such a family man, always with his blonde wife in the fifties bouffant and his four kids …’
‘Yep.’
‘What a sanctimonious blow-hard. Remember when he was on that show on his network, with all the proselytizing about family this and that?’
‘Yep.’
‘Some family man.’
‘Yep.’
‘And Boudreaux is ready to discuss all this? I mean the nasty sex?’
‘Yep.’
I shook my head. ‘OK, Leon.’ I had to laugh. ‘I take your point about my serious news network. I tried, but I can’t keep a straight face and tell you you’re mistaken.’
Leon laughed. ‘And it goes on and on and on. It’s the real thing. She’s ready to sing on the record. About this. In detail. And it’s all Goodman’s.’
I put the receiver down, fell to my knees and closed my eyes in silent prayer because I, Jamie Whitfield, had just landed a story that was going to bring in serious super-bowl ratings. And maybe it was going to be the most salacious crap ever broadcast on a mainstream network, but, boy, was it beautiful.
About five minutes after Charles and Abby left, there was a knock on my door.
Peter.
He put his head in. ‘Are you, uh, done with whatever you needed to do?’
‘I am so sorry!’ I ran around my desk and shepherded him back into my office. ‘I am so appalled by my bad manners. I just got totally preoccupied with the most unbelievable story.’
He seemed to get I was kind of out of my mind at that moment. ‘Sounds like a good one, whatever it is.’
‘I don’t know if good is exactly the right word. More like I said: literally unbelievable. If you heard it, you’d maybe excuse my rudeness.’
‘OK. So I’m very interested in this job.’
Omigod. ‘You are?’
CHAPTER SEVEN The Manny Makes his Debut
I sat on the edge of Dylan’s bed, brushing the hair off his forehead. ‘I have some good news for you.’ He looked up at me.
‘What is it?’
‘Guess.’
‘You won the lotto?’
‘No.’
‘You’re going to quit your job?’
‘Dylan!’
‘Well?’
‘Dylan. I’m with you a lot.’
‘Are not.’
‘Sweetheart, you know I need to work, but it’s just a few days a week. We have dinner together all the …’
‘No, we don’t. You’re always working.’
‘Well, I am working a lot right now.’
‘So fine. Just admit it.’
‘OK. I admit I am working a lot on my piece. And I told you it was the biggest piece I’d ever done. And I want to do it well. And I want to be proud of my work.’
He rolled his eyes and turned away from me towards the wall.
‘Dylan. I love you and being your mom is the most important thing in my life.’
He pulled the covers over his head.
‘You know what? I’m not going to get into a debate about this. I know how difficult it is to have a mommy that works hard. I know you would prefer that I were here more. But I promise it will get better in just a few weeks’ time. But I have news. Something that’s going to make you happy.’ Intrigued, he now lay on his back, edging closer to me.
I turned out the light and lay down next to him with my elbow propping up my head. I caressed his forehead with my fingers, our bedtime ritual, and pulled his hair back.
‘A cell phone? My own cell phone? You said I had to wait till I was …’
‘It’s nothing like that. It’s not a thing. It’s a person.’ I massaged his eyebrows, outlining them down with my thumb and index finger. He closed his eyes, all dreamy, letting his anger go.
‘Tell me,’ he whispered.
‘You’re going to make a new friend, someone who is going to be so much fun for you.’
He sat up, appalled. ‘Oh maaaan! You said I didn’t have to see Dr Bernstein any more! I don’t want to see another feelings doctor. It’s so stupid.’
‘It’s nothing like that, Dylan.’
‘Someone at school?’
‘Nope, not …’
‘At sports? At the …’
‘Dylan, lie down.’ I pushed his shoulders down to get him to lie on his back once again. ‘You’re never going to guess, so just let me explain.’
‘OK.’
‘His name is Peter Bailey. You’re going to have your own friend in the house all the time. I mean, from after school on till bedtime. He’ll be here after school tomorrow.’
‘Like my own boy babysitter?’
‘Better than that. He’s about twenty-nine. He’s from Colorado. He’s an awesome skier, or snowboarder, I guess. He loves chess, works on chess computer games or other games making homework fun for middle school kids. And he’s super cool. I mean, really cool. He has long hair.’
My son had shifted into neutral. I thought he’d be ecstatic about the kinds of things he and Peter could do together – and relieved this wasn’t another Dr Bernstein. Of course, in retrospect, that was just my own hyped-up fairy-tale version of how Peter would glide into our lives.
I added, admittedly with forced enthusiasm, ‘What matters is he’s fun! He’s going to pick you up, take you to sports, anywhere you want! Even the batting cages at Chelsea Piers.’ Still nothing.
‘Honey. You’re not excited about batting cages? How come?’
He kept his eyes closed and shrugged his shoulders. This was heartbreaking. I thought this would bring joy to my little Eeyore; instead, it just made him sad. I had waited for this moment to tell him because I wanted him to go to sleep happy. His lip quivered.
I tried one more time. ‘You only get to go to the cages for birthday parties. I’m telling you this guy is going to take you there just on a regular weekday!’
He sat up. Then he turned on the light and looked at me with