The Nanny Raising A Convict Son

The Feds took the parents in handcuffs, leaving behind a ten-thousand-square-foot McMansion and a trust fund baby who couldnt even butter his own toast.

I was packing my bags, ready to bolt, when a string of glowing, neon text floated across my vision like a ticker tape on a news channel:

[This familys foundations run deep. Even the crumbs falling from their table are enough to feed a normal person for a lifetime.]

[Pity about the kid. Parents are looking at twenty-to-life. Hes essentially an orphan now.]

Im not the most educated woman in the world, but I caught the keywords: Foundations deep. Feed for a lifetime.

Fine. For the money, Id raise the kid.

Id only been working at the Remington estate for two months when the sirens cut through the quiet hum of the Greenwich suburbs.

"Martha! Im leaving Preston in your hands!" Mrs. Remington wailed as she was shoved into the back of a black SUV. Her makeup was running in streaks down her face.

I was about to wave my hand and say hell no, but then those glowing words popped up in the air again.

I didnt fully grasp the legal intricacies of "Federal Indictment," but I understood the word "Money."

As long as the check clears, I can handle anything.

I waved at the receding police cruiser. "Dont you worry, Ma'am! Ill keep the young master fed and watered!"

That evening, Preston came home from his private prep school.

The kid tossed his monogrammed backpack onto the marble floor of the foyer, didnt bother taking off his designer sneakers, and screamed at the ceiling. "I want organic fruit snacks! Now! Immediately!"

This kid was spoiled rotten, eyes always looking down at people like they were furniture.

I didnt even look at him. I pulled a packet of fruit gummies from the sub-zero fridge, tore the lid off, and slurped one down myself.

Strawberry. Sweet.

"Pick up the bag," I said, "or no dinner."

Prestons eyes went wide, like hed seen a ghost. "You ate my snacks? Im telling my mom. Youre fired!"

He stormed off to find her.

[This housekeeper has guts. Kicking him while hes down.]

[ Does the kid not realize the sky has fallen? Truly a hothouse flower.]

[If the housekeeper sticks it out, the salary for the next three years is guaranteed. A starving camel is still bigger than a horse.]

Three years? Salary?

I felt a sudden calm settle in my chest.

Preston did a lap of the house. Finding the echoing emptiness of the mansion, the panic finally set in.

"Wheres my mom?"

I licked the foil lid of the fruit snacks clean. "Your parents went on a sabbatical to Europe. They said theyll be back when you start middle school."

"Liar!" He rushed to the landline.

Dead air.

Preston collapsed onto the Italian leather sofa, his face draining of color.

"Hungry?" I asked.

"No!"

"Gonna pick up the bag?"

"Why should I? You always pick it up!"

I crossed my legs, settling into the armchair. "Before, your parents paid my salary. Now? I run this house. Don't pick it up? Then the Wi-Fi password changes."

If the floating text hadn't promised there was still meat on this bone, Id be back in Ohio growing corn.

By dinner, Preston folded. He picked up the bag, sulking the whole time.

"Hey, are they really going to be gone a long time?"

"I have a name. It's Martha. Or Ms. Martha. You call me 'Hey' again, you lose the chicken drumstick."

Preston held his tongue.

Looking at his small, defeated posture, I felt a twinge of something soft in my chest. "Don't look so down. Three years goes by in a blink. Its fast."

After dinner, Preston pulled out his homework. He chewed on the end of his pen, staring at a blank page.

"Martha, this is too hard."

I leaned over. The words were dancing like ants. Common Core math. It gave me a headache just looking at it.

But I couldn't show weakness. How would I command respect?

"Read it out loud," I lied effortlessly. "I forgot my reading glasses."

"Aren't they in your pocket?"

"Those are sunglasses! Read!"

Preston pointed at the book. "A pool has an intake pipe that fills it in 5 hours, and a drain pipe that empties it in 8 hours. If both are open, how long until it fills?"

I laughed out loud. "Who is this idiot? Filling it while draining it? Is water free? Sounds like another trust fund baby wasting resources."

Preston blinked. "So what do I write for the answer?"

"Write: 'Waste of natural resources. Suggest EPA fine.'"

"...Okay."

Next question. "Johnny climbs from the first floor to the fourth floor in 3 minutes. How long to get to the eighth floor?"

"Johnny's got good knees," I said, cracking a sunflower seed between my teeth. "But is the elevator broken? Living on the eighth floor is a hike. Write: 'Take the elevator, thirty seconds.'"

I directed him with this brand of nonsense until I couldn't fake it anymore. I sent him to watch TV and grabbed the pen myself to fill in the blanks.

For the words I didn't know, I drew circles or sounded them out phonetically.

I figured, it's third-grade homework. How hard could it be?

Two weeks later, the homeroom teacher called.

"Is this Prestons guardian?"

"That's right. I'm the housekeeper."

"Right. Well, we suggest you take the child for... cognitive testing," the teacher said, her voice dripping with diplomatic concern. "His recent homework... well, the logic is fascinating. Its almost primal."

Me: "..."

I hung up and looked at Preston, who was laughing at a cartoon. I felt a little guilty.

"From now on, do your own homework. Ask a classmate if you're stuck."

Preston didn't argue. He turned off the TV and went to his desk.

[The kid is actually pitiful. Hes getting bullied at school and wont say a word.]

[Parents are gone. Whats the use of telling a nanny?]

[Its the status drop. Yesterday he was royalty, today hes the son of felons.]

Bullied?

I caught the keyword. I grabbed Preston by the arm. "Who hit you?"

Preston kept his head down, eyes red. "No one."

"If you don't tell me, I'm going to the school with a megaphone."

Preston looked terrified. He burst into tears. "They said my parents are bad people! That they're in prison and never coming back!"

I sighed, pulling a tissue to wipe his face.

"Since you know, I won't lie to you."

Preston sniffled, looking up at me.

"Your parents didn't commit a crime. They felt like... they messed up on their first tryI mean, they wanted to give you a sibling. But the regulations here are strict, so they went abroad to have a second baby in secret."

I lied with a straight face. "They only said they were arrested to avoid the paparazzi."

"Really?"

"Why would I lie? If I had that kind of energy, I'd eat another pork chop."

Preston believed it. The light came back into his eyes.

"So who hit you? You can tell me now."

"Carter."

The next day, I was at the school gates.

Near the corner store, a husky kid was shoving beef jerky into his mouth. I sized him up. Solid build. A linebacker in the making.

"Hey kid, is that jerky good?"

The husky kid nodded. "Yeah."

I waved my hand and bought twenty packs, piling them in front of him. "Do me a favor. These are all yours."

The kids eyes went round. "Lady, I don't do anything illegal."

"Nothing like that. Just look out for Preston. If anyone messes with him, you handle it. Especially a kid named Carter."

The kid thumped his chest, red spices smeared on his mouth. "Deal! As long as the jerky keeps coming, Preston is my brother from another mother!"

[This nanny plays dirty. Violence for violence?]

[Honestly, sometimes simple and crude works best.]

[Satisfying to watch! That Carter kid is a menace.]

A few days later, Carters mom cornered me in the principals office.

"How are you raising that child? You let that fat relative of yours beat up my son?"

The woman was dripping in gold and diamonds, spit flying everywhere.

I channeled my best calm, detached persona. "Kids will be kids. Roughhousing is normal. They fight today, they're friends tomorrow. Adults shouldn't interfere."

Carter's mom choked on her rage. "You..."

The teacher tried to mediate, but I cut in. "Isn't that right, Mrs. Crabtree? Boys build character through conflict."

Walking out of the office, I saw Carter hiding behind his mom, looking with terror at the husky kidlet's call him Tankeating jerky nearby.

I walked over and patted Tank on the shoulder. "Good work. Don't leave right after school. I'm buying you a soda."

Tank saluted. "Mission accomplished!"

That night, Preston awkwardly used his chopsticks to put a piece of broccoli in my bowl.

"Martha, you're awesome."

"Ms. Martha."

"Martha makes you sound like family," Preston mumbled, shoveling rice. "Carter walked the long way around the hall when he saw me today. Tank even gave me Carter's eraser."

Seeing his face beaming, I felt satisfied.

"Don't bottle things up. Your parents pay me, so I have to do right by that money."

Mentioning money, Preston ran upstairs and came down hugging a heavy, golden piggy bank.

"Martha, this is my savings. If your salary doesn't come through, take it from here."

I weighed it in my hands. Heavy.

The floating text was right. The family had reserves.

But the gold pig was beautifully made. Smashing it seemed like a waste.

"Keep it for now. We'll settle the bill at the end of the year."

Good times don't last. A week later, men in suits showed up.

US Marshals.

"This property is being seized. Vacate immediately. Personal clothing only. No valuables."

[Its over. Hitting the streets.]

[The housekeeper is going to run. Who wants to drag around an anchor like this kid?]

[Poor kid. Truly has nothing now.]

I watched the scrolling text, calculating.

"Officer, clothes are allowed, right?"

"Clothing is fine."

I dragged Preston into the walk-in closet.

"Martha, where are we going?" Preston's voice wobbled.

"Wherever. We won't starve."

I opened the wardrobe and started layering.

Thermal underwear first. Then cashmere sweaters. Then a fleece. Then the Masters trench coat over everything.

"Don't stare, put them on! Wear as much as you can! We can sell this stuff later!"

Preston sniffled and started pulling things on.

His mothers mink coat, his fathers silk robes. We didn't care about fashion; we just piled it on.

"This... this looks expensive." Preston pulled out a handful of colorful, tiny pieces of fabric from a drawer. "It has beads. And chains."

I glanced at it. Skimpy fabric. God knows where you wear that.

"Take it! Every penny counts. Someone might buy it!"

When we waddled downstairs, the Marshals stared, dumbfounded.

Preston and I looked like two walking spheres. We couldn't put our arms down. We took one step and gasped for breath three times.

"Ma'am, are you moving out or preparing for the apocalypse?"

"I have poor circulation. Is it a crime to be cold?" I asked indignantly.

We stepped out the front door into the blazing July heat. The humidity hit us like a wall.

Two steps in, Preston started walking funny. Like a duck.

"What is it? You hurt?" I stopped to wipe sweat from my forehead.

Preston's face was beet red. He pointed to his rear end. "Martha, its wedged."

"What's wedged?"

"That tiny cloth with the beads... you said it was worth money, so I put it on first layer... its cutting me in half..."