The Babysitter Murders - By Janet Ruth Young Page 0,23
top are the words world’s best babysitter, with her name underneath. Under that it says, “The only person who can deal with the chaos of our household and always come through smiling.” A piece of clip art shows a teenage girl with eight arms feeding a baby, playing Ping-Pong with another child, doing her homework, putting a pizza in the oven, talking on the phone, bathing a dog, and vacuuming pet hair from the floor. The certificate is signed by Alex and Mrs. Alex. Alex prefers to sign his name Ax.
Dani reads the certificate until Alex gets between her arms and blocks the view with his head.
“That’s you,” he says.
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“That’s really nice, Alex,” Dani says. She feels the gulf opening again and although she’s nervous about having to tell Mrs.
Alex she’s also relieved: This is the last time! The last time I have to be in this house.
“I picked the picture and Mrs. Alex changed the hair so it looks like you.”
“I guess she likes it,” says Mrs. Alex. “So what’s up? We’re about to head to my mom’s. She’s indulging her shopaholic ten-dencies. She wants to get him some beach stuff and I don’t know what all else.”
“Can you stay five minutes?” Dani asks. “I really need to talk to you, and it won’t take longer than that. It’s about our little guy here.” She flaps her arm chicken-style to make her elbow dig into Alex’s back, and he laughs. “Can we talk privately?”
“I’m sorry, Dani. I should have returned your calls. But I kept getting this feeling you were calling to quit, and that’s the last thing I need to hear right now.”
“I told Mom you weren’t quitting,” Alex says. “Because you like coming here, so you would never stop, right?”
“Can we talk privately?” Dani says again.
Mrs. Alex still refuses to sit down. She looks indignant. “I think Alex should have a say in who his babysitter is,” she tells Dani.
I didn’t prepare for Alex being here, Dani thinks.
“You! You!” Alex chants, pounding his fist on Dani’s leg.
“This is for grown-ups, buddy,” Dani tells Alex. She eases him to the floor, making his sneakers light up.
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Alex turns around to look at her. “You’re a grown-up?”
“Okay.” Mrs. Alex sighs. “Let’s set you up in your room with some cartoons. Grammy can wait.”
“Will you still be here after my cartoons?” Alex asks.
“I don’t think so,” Dani tells him. She wants to ruffle his hair, not to check but just because she likes him. But this is the day to stop touching him.
“Are you coming tomorrow?” he asks.
Mrs. Alex should rush up the stairs with him, but she doesn’t.
She stands there. “Well, answer him. Are you?”
“This is for grown-ups. Really. Shoosh upstairs and see your cartoons, little guy,” Dani says. Does she have to make it so hard?
“Oh no,” Mrs. Alex says, scoping the messy room. She must be thinking about all the things that won’t go right, that have teetered on going wrong, without Dani.
Alex starts upstairs, still looking at Dani. The lights on his sneakers flash between the vertical bars of the railing. Mrs. Alex starts up behind him, moving quietly in her slippers, not rushing in the stiff-legged way she does in her high heels.
“Is she quitting?” Alex whispers on the stairs.
Dani waits while Mrs. Alex settles Alex upstairs. She hears him crying, then becoming quiet when the cartoon starts. Mrs.
Alex makes a phone call upstairs, probably to Alex’s grammy.
“I do need to quit,” Dani says when Mrs. Alex comes back and sits opposite her. She drops the certificate onto the coffee table.
“I was afraid so,” Mrs. Alex replies, getting a set look to her face. It’s the kind of look that says, Why me? Why doesn’t anything 82
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go right in my life? She’s probably numbering the two or three other nurses who quit the hospital and haven’t been replaced, the boyfriend who came along after Tarzan Daddy and looked serious but went back to his ex-wife. Dani hates to put more on Mrs. Alex’s plate. But leaving is the best for Alex and, ultimately, for everybody.
“I’m sorry, Cynthia,” Dani says. “I’m just so sorry.”
“What’s wrong?” Mrs. Alex asks. “Somebody else is offering you more? Will you at least tell me how much they’re offering so I can