My Hollywood by Mona Simpson

day. We chant for the kids too, but after a few words they run. I learned English in grade 1, but my real voice it is Tagalog. Here, people shout at me in Spanish, louder each time I do not answer. I have memorized sentences, present tense and also simple past. I have learned by heart two poems. But while I work to learn Spanish, my English grows tall without anything. I tell Esperanza, I will make her honorary Filipina. Now we hear the faint music of the ice-cream truck and follow the kids, searching our pockets for dimes. They bend into the cool cavern coming up with cones and Popsicles, bunnies and ducks in colors that stain the face.
    Then while we dab their mouths with flimsy napkins, all of a sudden Mai-ling says, Where is China? Mai-ling chases the truck parked down the street still singing. There in back in a small room we find China, her pants down, a Drumstick in each fist. We push the man away. Lita yanks up the pants. I take away both ice creams, throw them on the dirty floor, the others yell in three languages. When we get out, he drives off, no music, as fast as an ordinary car.
    “What happened?” Williamo asks.
    “Nothing happened.” But we have to be more careful. With my own it was different. I made them, I thought, I can risk their life. But these they are not ours. We cannot break them.
    “If anything happen to her,” Mai-ling says, “I will sit in the electric chair.”
    “What happened?” Williamo says again.
    “Nothing happened,” I repeat. “But do not mention to your mother.”
    I think of the money I gave up. Now I am left with my old life and the afternoon slows. At the Castle, Williamo climbs on boards, his arms out the sides for balance. “Come down,” I yell, but he keeps stepping the high plank I told him not to and he falls, so I am kneeling on the grass, hands against his, half dance, half fight. He wants to go back up and I say no. “You are not listening me.”
    Then he hits. He has hit before but never Lola. When he hit Bing and Bing cried, I said, Really, you are going to be fine . But now warm tears run paths down my face. Never once did a child of mine hit me. They hit each other, maybe, but only around corners, where I could not see. Of course it is different here; with nannies, one per customer, there are no corners. But he should not hit me. He should never hit me.
    Just then they come, Jeff and Helen. My heart drags; I feel its short route, up-down. The curls of my employer fall on his collar, folded like an envelope. Her stare pastes us in a book—just as we are, Williamo in his old clothes, dirt on the top lip. I hope they did not see him hit me.
    Helen looks at me with a question. I put my arms around Williamo.
    “I want to talk to the woman you know,” she says.
    I need something, so we go for a second coffee, and I use pennies.
    “Lo siento,” I tell Williamo, “means you are sorry. Ikinalulungkot ko .”
    “They really hanged him from a tree?”
    “Scuze, you the nanny?” a stranger says. “Estás la doméstica?”
    “In a sack?”
    “That’s one beautiful boy.”
    “Williamo, what do you say? The lady said you are handsome.”
    “Doo-doo head.”
    “Mischievous, huh? I like that.” What does she want with us? “Anyway, his mug could be worth money. I’m a talent representative, and if you think his parents would be interested, I’ll give you my card.”
    “You are a Hollywood agent?”
    “I handle kids. Through teens.”
    “You want to make Williamo movie star?”
    She laughs, silver, between a fish and a robot. Her earrings, silver also, tinkle. “Everyone asks that. I can’t promise the big screen. That’s one out of a thousand, don’t you know? But we place a lot of commercials and print. What do the parents do?”
    Even though I am proud of the profession of my employer, I do not say. This lady, it is hard to tell if she is good. “I will give to them your card.”
    When we walk in, I see Claire at her old stove. While Claire