“Jo, it’s…different for me,” Tim tries, looking contrite. “I’m not like you, I mean, not anymore. I can’t just walk up to people on the beach in Miami and become fast friends! I have to be cautious. About everything I do.”
“So, you lied to me! To us,” she declares. “You probably planned this whole thing, to practice being a normal person for some upcoming blockbuster role.” She puts her hands up to show that she’s making quotation marks around her next words. “‘Logan Price thought he had it all,’” Jodi says, mimicking the voiceover guy from the movies. “‘The perfect family, the perfect career. But one crazy night in Miami changed all that.’” She stops, gathering her thoughts. “It’s like…like, we were your research. Your rats!” She walks right up to Tim. I think she’s going to punch him, slap his face, or spit at him. Instead, she reaches up and knocks Tim’s hat right off his head. “That fedora makes you look fucking stupid!” she cries. And then she storms off down the street.
Kat, Lenny, and I chase after her, leaving Tim—and his elusive bodyguards, wherever they might be hiding—alone together in the Denny’s parking lot.
I’ve got to hand it to Jodi, she does have a flair for dramatic exits.
The next few hours pass by in a blur at the funeral home. There is paperwork to watch Jodi complete. There is the body to consider. There is transportation to the airport to arrange. There is Tim Cubix’s betrayal to replay like a scene from a bad movie. Kat and I sit patiently while Lenny works the phone and changes all of our flights to match the one Jodi and her grandma are scheduled for.
“It’s all set,” Lenny sighs, throwing his phone down on a plush, crimson velvet banquette. “We’re sitting together on the three o’clock. I was able to do pre-boarding and everything.”
“Thank you!” I say, relieved that it’s all taken care of.
“Too bad,” Kat adds.
“You know,” I begin, turning to Kat, “I’m kind of tired of your moping about this. Jodi’s grandma died. I mean, I’m bummed, too. I could have used another day on the beach. But, you’ve got to admit, Kat, it’s pretty selfish of you to put this trip before your friend’s needs.” I pause. “What’s the big deal? I mean, it’s not like you have anything to go back to…” And then I stop. Lenny is shaking his head, and Kat has turned away.
Because that is, of course, the issue exactly. Kat has nothing to go back to. No husband, and perhaps even no job. Only divorce proceedings and résumés on the horizon. Plus, perhaps, the leakage of a local, minor sex scandal to clean up.
“Damn,” I whisper. I put my hand out to touch her arm but she shoos me away.
“You’re right, Lauren. I have nothing.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
Lenny chimes in. “She was only saying that—”
Kat stands up and shakes her hair in disagreement. “Just…I can’t…give me a moment alone, okay?”
She moves across the room and enters a chapel door on the right. Based on the organ music and the sign on the door, there seems to be a funeral going on inside. But I’m not about to tell Kat that.
“We’re in deep shit,” Lenny declares.
“You think?”
“Oh yeah. Didn’t you notice? She didn’t even curse at us. Not once.”
He’s right, and I’m left with silence and more than a few goose bumps. Kat’s marriage was wrong from the start, but even so, getting out of it will be painful.
“Peter left her and spent their savings, you know,” I tell Lenny, reminding myself of the horror of it all.
He nods. “She mentioned that. It explains a lot of the hostility.”
“Some of that’s just Kat. She’s always been kind of thick-skinned and quick with the insults.”
“She’s trying to be tough. But she’s so sad, Lauren. Can’t you see that coming through?”
I take a deep breath and consider this. How much have I really paid attention these past few days? I mean, to anything other than myself? I thought this little trip might heal me—heal all of us—and make the hurts just magically disappear. Like a twenty-four-hour cure-all. But now I have to go home and face Doug and Laney and Ben and Becca. I have to go back to work on Monday and face my homeroom, grade papers, read Johnny Tremain aloud for the eleventh time.
I’m not sure I can stomach it.
Jodi has to go home to a grieving family, and face all her lies with Lee.
And Kat will return to…what?
Jodi emerges from a back office looking ten years older than she did yesterday. A white-haired man in a suit and tie emerges behind her, rolling a pine box on a gurney. Jodi closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them, her gaze on me. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
I put Lenny in charge of retrieving Kat from the depths of Melvin Kantor’s funeral, and hustle out behind the coffin. A large woman, clad in tight leggings and an ill-fitting Florida Marlin’s T-shirt, waits next to a van idling in the parking lot.
“You the granddaughter?” She squints at Jodi in the hot sun.
“You the driver?” Jodi squints back.
The woman holds up a walkie-talkie and speaks into it. “I got her,” she confirms to whoever is crackling on the other end of the line.
Jodi gets into the passenger seat while Lenny, Kat, and I pile in to the back row. I try not to get freaked by the presence of Sonia Goldberg in the back, but it’s hard to ignore her.
Our silence is broken by the driver. “It’s one o’clock right now, and your flight is at three. You need to stop at the Loews Hotel, I hear, before going to the airport, right?”
We confirm that, yes, we’ll just need to stop for about fifteen minutes to pack our things and check out.
“Schedule is tight. I’ll take Collins, then,” she concludes, sitting back and turning up the Latin salsa on the radio. I can tell that she’s satisfied in the way that drivers are once they have mentally mapped out their route.
We stare out our respective windows. It’s another glorious day here, and I feel some regret over not being able to enjoy it. Kat is sort of right about that, much as it makes me feel like a douche—Lenny’s got me using his favorite word—to admit.
We go over a bump and the casket rattles slightly behind us.
A strange euphoria overcomes me. I don’t know why, but ever since I attended my first funeral when I was thirteen, I’ve always felt very much alive in the presence of a dead body.
I know it’s morbid to think like that, but I can’t help it. Sonia Goldberg is making the sun shine brighter for me today, putting the world—with all of its contradictory desires—in sharper focus. It sounds odd, but I whisper a small prayer of thanks to her, for reminding me of the joys of living.
I want to tickle my children and hear their giggles of delight. I want to hug Doug. I want to try again.
As much as I was looking forward to the flight down here, I’m now equally anticipating the flight home.
And then the van slows down.
And then the van comes to a crawl.
And then, the van stops.
The swell of traffic seems to have come out of nowhere. One minute we were cruising, and the next, we are enmeshed in a jam of epic proportions.
“What the fuck?” Kat asks.
“And…she’s back!” Lenny says, clearly pleased to hear Kat spew an expletive.
“Not sure,” the driver says with a shrug. “I’ll radio in and see whassup.”
“This is bad,” Jodi mutters to herself. “Very.”
The four of us hold a collective breath as the driver asks for details. “Yeah, I’m on Collins!” she calls into her device.
“You where?” a guy shouts back through the radio.
“Collins, man, Collins!” she yells, pounding on the dashboard for emphasis.
My euphoria has been replaced with dread. Lenny looks calm, but raises his eyebrows at me in question. Kat is sucking a curl.
“You going to duh parade?” the disembodied dispatcher’s voice crackles back.
“Whah parade?”
“Oh, this is too much!” Jodi exhales in exasperation. “Are you two for real?”
“Forreal,” Lenny smiles. “Dat’s how you say it. Forreal.” He motions across his body with his hand splayed wide, like a homie in one of his videos.
“Jesus Fucking Christ.” Kat shakes her head.
I try to calm her down, although my own heart is beating wildly. “I know, it’s making me anxious, too.”
“No, Lauren! I mean, walking right beside our van is Jesus Fucking Christ!”
All heads turn to follow Kat’s pointer finger. Indeed, strolling a few paces in front of us is a man in a long, white, flowing robe, with stringy brown hair extending down his back.
Jodi rolls down her window and sticks her torso out. “Hey!” she calls. “Hey…Son of God!”
The man turns toward the sound of her voice. Spotting her waving at him, he waves back and smiles. “Yes, my disciple. What may I do for you?”
“Can you, like…tell us why there’s so much goddamned traffic?”
“And why you are dressed like that, and what the hell is going on here, and, oh, about a million other things,” Kat adds conversationally.
“I do not believe that God almighty has damned the traffic.” He pauses and smiles at his own little joke. “But I will guess that the swell of cars is caused by the closing this afternoon of Collins Avenue.”
“Closing?” Jodi calls back, echoing what we are all thinking.
“Yes, for the Gay Pride Alliance costume parade. It is…heavenly. You may be stuck here for a few hours until the road is reopened. They are preparing the parade of floats now.” He bows and continues on his way.
“Fuck those gay motherfuckers and their gay motherfucking parade!” Jodi swears.
“She’s really someone’s mother?” Lenny asks no one in particular.
Kat slides the van door open on her side and jumps out. “I’m going to get a better look, just see how bad it really is up there,” she says. “Back in five.”
Lenny gives us a half wave and follows her out into the heat.
“Great,” I sigh. I scoot over to the middle and tap Jodi on the arm. “You okay?”
“Just don’t,” she whispers, pulling her arm away from me. “I know you mean well, Lauren, but please. Don’t even try right now.” She sinks lower in her seat and takes out her BlackBerry. “I better e-mail my mom.”
Given the choice between sitting in the thick silence of the van or going out into the thick Miami heat, I pick the latter.
Which is a choice that changes everything.
Chapter 25
I’m walking north, weaving my way delicately between hordes of parade-goers, sunbathers, and tourists lining the avenue. Some groups of performers have assembled themselves in clumps here and there, dressed in elaborate flamenco costumes and other outlandish, garish (and, in one case, ass-less leather) splendor. It looks more like Carnival in Rio than any gay pride parade I’ve ever seen in New York.
Again, I find myself regretting that we’ll have to leave Miami so soon. I would have loved to watch the full entertainment and all the floats go by.
I stop in front of an art deco hotel to let a crowd of tie-dyed and jean-short-wearing hippies pass. In that moment, a white Hummer-style stretch limousine pulls up next to me and honks “La Cucaracha.”
I turn toward it and smile, anticipating a bunch of Elvises or Marilyns will emerge.
Instead, a window toward the back of the vehicle rolls down halfway, and a man’s hand emerges. He’s pointing to me. I do the obvious and point to myself, too. The hand makes a thumbs-up signal.
I am not approaching an unmarked vehicle like that, no matter how intrigued I might be. And intrigued I am. I shake my head back and forth. The last thing I need on this trip is to be abducted.
The tinted window rolls down a few inches more. The man’s hand comes back out, this time waving a fedora.
I’d know that stupid hat anywhere.
Then, just as quickly, the hand and hat withdraw and the window slides back up.
I approach the vehicle and knock. “Okay, Tim. Let me in.”
The automatic locks release. Without thinking much beyond Well, this should be interesting, I pull on the handle, jump in the Hummer, and slam the door shut behind me.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness inside the cavernous limo. I can make out three figures. I assume that the smaller one is Tim and the other two—big guys sitting around the side of a U-shaped seat—are his bodyguards.
I sink into the black leather and enjoy the air-conditioning. “Well?” I say, deciding to play it really cool as my heart beats out of my chest. “You wanted something?”
Tim turns on a small light overhead. His dimples crease in a sort of sad smile. He looks tired and worried at the same time, as if he’s been left without a tour bus in Lithuania and can’t see a way out of it, like he did in 1999, in a riveting performance of my-wife-played-by-Katie-Holmes-is-dying sort of a way.
I almost feel bad for him.
“Look, Lauren,” Tim begins. “You are perhaps the sanest one of the bunch—lying to your husband and dabbling with infidelity notwithstanding—and so I thought it would be best to choose you as the one to hear me out.”
I consider this, mentally scrolling through my coconspirators, and nod in agreement. I don’t trust myself to actually say anything, so I bite my tongue and wait.
Tim nods back. “Good. So, here it is.” He takes a deep breath and asks the bodyguards to give us some privacy. Once they have left the vehicle, I feel more at ease. Tim senses this and begins. “I’m down here to shoot a movie in the Everglades.”
I shrug. “Okay, I believe that. Kat was right, then.”
“That’s not the interesting part.” He shakes his head ruefully. “This movie I’m doing. It’s about this ordinary guy who finds himself in extraordinary circumstances. Without boring you with too much plot, suffice it to say that he ends up being falsely accused of killing his own son, and now he’s on the run from authorities while trying to prove his own innocence.”
“Like Presumed Innocent meets The Green Mile meets A Few Good Men.”
He nods. “Only totally different. Because it’s set in the Everglades.”
“Cool,” I say, thinking the opposite.
Tim grants me signature smile number three, the one with a hint of irony.
“Fine, you got me, I think it’s kind of a dumb premise. But I’m sure you’ll be great in it. Continue.”
“Anyway, the dude is forced to literally live in the wild, hiding out in the jungle-like terrain of Southern Florida’s preserved wetlands. He spears fish and eats mangrove crabs and oysters to survive.”
“Now, that is cool,” I add. “Very Cast Away-ish.”
“Yeah. Except not, because it’s set in the Everglades.” He sighs, seemingly annoyed. I know the clock is ticking here on getting to the plane, so I hold my thoughts and let him continue uninterrupted. “Anyway, there’s this one scene where the guy comes up against a crocodile, and he has to fight it for survival. In the script, the man and beast both walk away from the confrontation scarred, but alive. I liked that. I thought it was perfect symbolism for what happens later in the movie, during the courtroom drama scene. It’s actually one of the reasons I signed on to the project in the first place. That scene moved me.”
Here he pauses and I say nothing, certainly not what I’m thinking, which is to burst out into a Jack Nicholson–style You can’t handle the truth, crocodile!
“So on Wednesday morning—just two days ago—I’m in my trailer, and I’m getting psyched up for that scene, because we’re scheduled to shoot it at nine. Only my assistant comes in and hands me a revised script. I get this bad vibe, you know, as she passes it to me. Sure enough, I flip through it looking for the changes. Now there are snakes hanging around with this croc, and my character has to kill them before even battling the croc. Like it’s a video game and
you have to get past snake level before kicking it up to croc level. I mean, ultimately it’s not that big of a deal, since I get to have final say on how the scene plays out, but now I’m torn.”
He looks at me like this is a significant moment. Like, at this point in the story, I’m supposed to laugh or cry or gasp, only I don’t know which response to give. I settle on the truth. “So?”
“Snakes!” He scratches the back of his left hand with his right, just like he did yesterday, and I realize this is the reason why. He can’t stop the itch coming from inside, and it has something to do with this very issue. “I fucking hate snakes! They creep me out big-time! It’s, like, one of the only specifications in my contracts, all caps: NO SNAKES, and this douche-bag director knows it.”
I can’t help smiling at his use of the term douche bag. Lenny would be so proud. Quickly, I realize what that smile must look like to Tim, though, so I try for moral support. “Guy’s clearly a douche.”
“Right?” Tim shakes his head sadly. “So, I was about to remind him of that line item and ask that we return to the original, scripted, snakeless version. Until.” Here he pauses, lost in thought. “Until I thought, what if this character is afraid of snakes, like I am? Then suddenly, the director’s rewrite is actually much better than the original. The added depth provided by this snake-killing scene heightens both the physical and the emotional stakes for my character, bringing him to a place he never knew he could go.”
“It’s brilliant,” I say, the English teacher in me kicking into high gear. “Because then the scene possesses both internal and external conflict.”
“Exactly.” Only, he doesn’t seem happy about the revelation.
“Great, so you solved the problem!” I say.
“No, because suddenly, I was conflicted. I knew what was best for the film. But it wasn’t what was best for me. Lauren,” he says, his eyes filled with pain. He’s pleading with me not to think less of him as he makes this admission. “I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t green-light those serpents. I needed time.”
Lauren Takes Leave Page 25