Cutting Scenes - The Fine Line

The Nanny
Rita Buckley
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
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