Lauren Takes Leave

by Gerstenblatt, Julie

  Chocolate mousse in a Star of David chocolate-molded cup is set in front of each place setting. Jodi eagerly moves back to her chair to devour her dessert, speaking to her daughters and me between bites.

  “You know, girls, you should be very proud of mommy and learn from my example. I worked really hard! I was so nervous. But now it’s all behind me and I’ll always have the memories.” There’s nothing quite like watching Jodi wax philosophical. She stares off to the middle distance above Great-Aunt Elaine and sighs. “It was a once-in-a-lifetime event, and I’m just glad I got to participate in it.”

  “So, you don’t care anymore who the winner is?” I have to ask.

  “No! Of course I still care,” she scoffs, pouring herself an extra large glass of Mt. Eden pinot noir from a half-empty bottle on the table. “You do think it’ll be me, don’t you?”

  Lee comes over to the table and takes a seat to my right.

  “You look relieved,” Doug says. I nod my head in agreement.

  “Nah, Worthing, just proud of myself.” He digs into the mousse. Mouth full of foamy dessert, he explains, “I decided to buy a few extra ballots, to, you know, secure the outcome.” His voice drops a level and he nods in Jodi’s direction. “The competition this year was fierce. All the men from morning minyan are voting for Morris.”

  Luckily, Jodi’s too busy retying her daughters’ hair bows to notice our whispering.

  I think of all the ballots Kat and I already filled out in Jodi’s favor, and wince inwardly at the unnecessary expense Lee just doled out.

  “How many did you buy?” Doug asks.

  Lee holds out his palm. Five isn’t bad, I think. Unless he means fifty?

  I’m about to do the mental math on that when a screech comes over the microphone.

  “Everyone, if I may have your attention at the front,” Rabbi Cantor says into the mic. “It’s time to announce the winners!”

  The lights flash several times as all the dancers are called to the center of the room. Jodi’s nervousness is suddenly palpable, at least to me. She stands straight and confident, holding her partner’s hand, just like couples do on the real Dancing with the Stars. But she is rolling her ankles around, fidgety. The rabbi takes the cordless mic from its stand and approaches the dancers, who form a horseshoe around him.

  “Let’s give all of these fantastic dancers another round of applause!” he begins. “Their hard work paid off tenfold tonight. I know that I myself have not been quite so entertained since Morris and Sylvia Glickstein’s wedding!” Some cackles come from the far right corner and the rabbi turns his attention to them. “Remember that klezmer band? Incredible.”

  “Get to it, already!” Elaine calls out.

  Doug, as bored as Jodi’s relatives, notices a book of matches on the table bearing the slogan Temple Beth El: Where Judaism Is on Fire. He slumps over his chair and starts lighting matches, dropping them into his sweating water goblet right before burning his fingers.

  The panel of three judges is introduced: Norman, the temple president; Rebecca, the director of the preschool; and Rabbi Cantor. True to reality-TV doctrines, the judges begin to heckle and generally mess with the minds of all the contestants. The bottom half of Jodi’s face is smiling while her eyes glow with hatred, as each judge says something slightly off-color and derogatory to each participant.

  “Of course, Mrs. Moncrieff missed her calling, choosing predictable family life over a scintillating career on the Las Vegas strip,” Rebecca, the preschool director jokes.

  What’s more insulting: being told that your life as a stay-at-home mother is unfulfilling or that your level of talent would have qualified you only for Vegas?

  I imagine Jodi blowing off each judge’s head with nothing more than the fierce red light emanating from her eye sockets. Bam! Bam! Bam! Like a scene from Star Wars: Battle of the Temple of Beth El.

  Doug lights another match and lets it burn down. The smell of sulfur fills our corner. “Find something else to do,” I whisper.

  At long last, the award ceremony officially begins, and Rabbi Cantor once again takes possession of the microphone. “First of all, I have to say that, thanks to your enthusiastic voting, the temple has set a new record for fundraising, collecting over ten thousand dollars in one night! This is unheard of, especially during an economic crisis like the one we are now experiencing.” He pauses, removes his glasses, and wipes away a tear. Putting his glasses back on, he takes a deep breath and continues. “Also, I have to say that it was very difficult to pick a winner. You are all winners tonight, and so these certificates will reflect that.”

  Uh-oh. A sinking feeling develops in the pit of my stomach.

  “What does that mean?” Doug asks. “All winners?” We watch as the charred remains of a paper napkin float down to the table.

  “Bad sign!” Kat says, crossing the room and crouching by my chair. “Very bad!”

  “So, the first certificate goes to Morris and his partner, Svetlana. For the best moves by anyone under—and over—the age of sixty-five!” The man with the toupee and cane graciously accepts his certificate by kissing it, then Svetlana.

  The crowd goes “Ooh!” and a woman who is presumably his wife calls out, “No tongue, please, Morris!”

  “Next, never to be outdone, is Gary and, again, the lovely Svetlana. Gary, rumor has it that you signed up for eighteen extra dance sessions. Is that true?”

  Gary grins from ear to ear like a schoolboy and nods, giving a thumbs-up to the rabbi.

  “The guy danced in a chair,” Lee says, clearly disgusted.

  “You are the most dedicated to the art of the dance!” the rabbi says. Gary steps toward the rabbi, who shoos him away. “Now, don’t move a muscle! We’ll bring the certificate right to you!” Good-natured laughter follows.

  This whole awards ceremony is starting to remind me of Little League. Last spring, Ben won the certificate for Most Punctual Player. He wanted to know if that meant he had scored the most home runs. Shamefully, we told him that it had.

  It seems unlikely that we can fool Jodi in this way, though neither Kat nor I is beneath trying.

  “And now, for the best dance couple! They showed us how to swing like the pros. Their combined experience and enthusiasm could not be matched.”

  Kat takes my hand in hers and we squeeze hard.

  Rabbi Cantor stalls for maximum drama before announcing the winners’ names, and I think, Did he say swing? That doesn’t sound like the dance style of Jodi’s choreography, exactly.

  “Leslie and Javier, this one’s for you!”

  Fuck.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  Jodi’s jaw drops as we all watch Leslie—sunglass-wearing, evil beyotch Leslie—claim what should be Jodi’s prize.

  “Shalom, people!” Leslie calls to the crowd, pumping her fist in the air. “God bless you!”

  “I thought that the older gentleman was much better than this fatty,” Great-Aunt Elaine says, to no one in particular. Lee gives her an odd look. She quickly adds, “But, of course, Jodi was the best!”

  “Of course!” Jodi’s children, mother, Lee, Doug, and I add.

  Finally, after the tin man gets his heart, the lion his courage, and the scarecrow a brain, Jodi is given the award for best costume. People applaud enthusiastically as she graciously accepts the certificate, waving the white paper over her head like a surrendering general after battle.

  “Yea, mom!” Jodi’s daughters cheer.

  She walks toward us with a sad smile on her face, and hugs her youngest daughter to her chest.

  “Oh well…” I begin, “I guess it wouldn’t have been fair to have just one winner.”

  Her flat palm silences me. “Just stop.”

  “Okey dokey.” I sink into my seat next to Firestarter.

  Kat tries to console her with humor. “It could be worse: the dance duo of Deborah and Devorah could have tried to hit on you.”

  Jodi immediately bursts into tears. “That’s true! The
y didn’t even try to hit on me!”

  “Nice job, honey,” Lee comments absentmindedly, patting Jodi on the back. “You’ll always be my superstar.” She pushes past him and goes to sit with her mother, who immediately begins force-feeding her chocolates.

  Lee turns his attention to Doug and leans toward him, whispering. “All those ballots I bought. What a scam!” He shakes his head in a combination of disbelief and admiration for the slippery fundraising techniques of his beloved temple. “They didn’t even count ’em!

  “Not to mention the fifty-thousand-dollar donation that Jodi brought in from Tim and Ruby,” I add. “That should have guaranteed her the win.”

  Doug picks up a lit candle and starts to let the melting wax drip onto his hand. “Temple fundraising is like voting in Florida.”

  Lee doesn’t respond. “I mean, Jodi wasn’t the only one they fucked over tonight,” he muses.

  “Huh?” we ask in unison.

  “I think I just bought enough ballots to finance next year’s trip to Israel.” He waves to the rabbi halfheartedly.

  “Did you really buy fifty?” I ask.

  “More like five hundred,” Lee says, raising his eyebrows, seemingly shocked at his own generosity. “At five bucks a pop.”

  “Ouch!” Doug and I look down at his hand, now red and blistered.

  Lee, still watching Rabbi Cantor from across the room, shakes his head sadly. “No kidding, dude. No kidding.”

  Chapter 35

  Doug and I make our good-byes and head to the parking lot. We are almost to our car when Leslie appears out of nowhere. Alone. Shrouded in dark glasses and night.

  “What do you want?” Doug asks, stepping in front of me as a human shield from whatever animosity Leslie might hurl my way.

  “To apologize,” she says simply.

  I’m speechless.

  “Really?” Doug asks, incredulous but not unkind.

  “Yes.” Leslie removes her glasses and meets my gaze. Yeegads, she looks even more ghastly than before. Her skin is settling into a green-and-purple tie-dye design where it isn’t covered in bandages. I try not to wince in horror and imagined pain. Then she adds, “I—I fell.”

  “I knew it,” I say. “There was just no way I could have—”

  “Well, hold on there, bimbo,” Leslie says, starting to sound more like herself. “You still ruined my party and caused me to get six stitches across my left cheek, basically leaving me for dead on my living room floor.”

  “I apologized and I tried to help! But you were so mean and Kat wanted to leave and I was drunk and—”

  Leslie cuts me off again. “And, Lauren, I have a serious, serious drinking problem, which only exacerbates my bipolar disorder.”

  I don’t know what to say to that.

  “So, sometimes, I’m a major bitch.” She shrugs. “A rage-aholic, as my team of doctors says.”

  I just stare at her.

  “I’m working on it, really I am. I mean, for starters, I found God tonight,” she says, gesturing back toward the temple. She smiles absentmindedly, probably thinking about her sweet, holy victory on the dance floor.

  “But has God found you yet?” Doug asks under his breath. I nudge him on the arm to shut him up.

  She snaps back to attention, eyes flashing. “Now, that’s the kind of stimuli that could send me right over the edge,” she hisses, teeth clenched. She’s really trying to control her emotions, I’ll give her that much. It’s bizarre, like watching the Incredible Hulk as he goes through his transformation.

  “Men are such jerks,” I say, trying to defuse her anger by blatantly dissing Doug.

  “Hey!” he says.

  “Total Neanderthals,” she agrees, seemingly soothed, at least for the moment.

  “You were saying?” I prod.

  “Oh, yes.” She smiles with the half of her face that can still move freely, clears her throat, and pulls her back up straight. “As part of my twenty-four-step program, I’m asking for your forgiveness.”

  Then she bows her head. Like, in a genuflectionish way. And awaits my response.

  Several days ago, my drunken clumsiness sent her to the hospital. And less than one hour ago, I entered her home illegally, stole her goose-necked vanity mirror—among other nonessential items—and locked her cat in a bathroom. And now the woman is asking me for forgiveness.

  “Uh…”

  “Of course she forgives you,” Doug says. “Because everyone makes mistakes, right?”

  I grimace at Doug’s obvious use of irony.

  “Right, Lauren?” Doug continues, as Leslie looks on, somewhat confused. “Whaddaya think? Does everyone get a second chance tonight?”

  “I’m a big fan of forgiveness,” I say, looking at Doug. “You know, across the board. Like, for everybody.”

  “So?” Leslie asks. “Are we good here?” She glances from me to Doug and back again. “I have no idea what the fuck you guys are talking about, but I’ve got to get back in there and apologize to approximately twenty-six other people.” She takes a crumpled list out of her décolletage and scans it for names. “Kat’s next.”

  “Yeah, we’re good,” Doug says, looking at me. “As long as you stay on the straight and narrow.”

  “Oh, I will,” Leslie says, putting her bandaged palm up toward the blackened sky. “It won’t be easy, and I’ve learned some tough lessons these past few days. But believe me, Doug, it won’t happen again.”

  I nod my head in agreement and take my husband’s hands in mine. “Believe me and Leslie, Doug. It won’t happen again.”

  Chapter 36

  Sunday

  I wake up with a serious case of the Sundays. It’s an illness that has plagued me since my first days as a student teacher more than fifteen years ago. I thought it would remedy itself in time, or at least lessen in intensity, but it has never abated. What’s worse is that, in recent months, it has actually intensified.

  If you are a teacher, you know what the Sundays are. Heck, maybe this illness even translates into different fields of employment, but having never been anything but a teacher, I wouldn’t know. The Sundays are, in short, a series of small panic attacks that leave me feeling nauseated, anxious, and depressed, all at the same time, knowing that Monday is just around the corner.

  Have I graded the quizzes? Have I read the short story that I’ve assigned to the class? Did I ever get back to the three parents who were upset with the grades I “gave” their children (since they only “earn” As)? Sundays are like a wakeful SAT dream: I’m naked, late, and sweating, standing in front of twenty-five sets of eyeballs that won’t look away.

  The only thing worse than Sunday is the entire month of August, which is like one long Sunday, as I count down the lovely days leading up to September’s arrival.

  I think today may rival any other Sunday on record. An intense feeling of fear, combined with a despondency I can almost taste, makes me groan. I pull the duvet up high over my head to block out the faint morning light seeping through the sides of the bedroom curtains. It seems to be raining, which only adds to my gloom. Doug stirs next to me.

  “Doug,” I whisper. “I think I’ve lost feeling in my toes.”

  “You’re fine,” he says, rolling over.

  “I’m not fine. I have some kind of stomach bug.”

  “Get up and make the kids pancakes,” he mumbles.

  “But that’s your job!”

  “You owe me. I’m sleeping in.”

  Hard to argue with that.

  I place my pillow against the headboard and sit up against it. “It’s just…I don’t want to go back to work.”

  “Are we really doing this again? Now?”

  “I know you think that all I did was lounge around in Miami, but there was more to it.”

  “I know you did more than lounge, Lauren, believe me.”

  I let that comment slide. It’s going to be a while before we truly get past The Kiss. Doug needs to have a chance to vent. I get that. So I ho
ld my tongue and try to seamlessly move on from our awkward silence.

  “I’m talking about Wednesday. When I went to see Georgie.”

  “So we’re really not sleeping anymore, huh?” Doug sighs, propping up his pillow next to mine.

  “And what she said completely threw me.”

  “Which was?” He rubs his eyes awake.

  “That she’s all about the freedom to choose.”

  “Choose what?” Doug asks.

  “Exactly,” I say.

  “I’m choosing to go to the bathroom,” Doug says, pushing aside the covers.

  “And I’m choosing to let you make the pancakes, since you are so good at it.”

  “Just because I’m good at it doesn’t mean I like it,” he says over a forceful stream of pee. Now, that’s part of the problem with marriage right there, I think. What’s wrong with closing the door? I think it would greatly help to keep romance alive if we all just silenced the sounds our bodies made in front of the ones we love most in this world.

  But wait.

  What did Doug just say?

  Just because I’m good at it doesn’t mean I like it.

  Could that be it? The tagline summarizing my entire educational career thus far?

  I scan my brain to try and remember what else Georgie said. I come up with a nugget: That it’s no wonder I needed a break from teaching, because I take it so seriously.

  What else did she tell me?

  Something like, the answer would come to me if I opened myself up to the possibility of “it,” whatever that might be, and that maybe I am not the master of my so-called master plan.

  As I put my feet into my slippers, a hint of an idea flashes across my cerebral cortex.

  I suddenly need to get Georgie on the phone.

  But of course I can’t, because it’s Sunday.

  Damn you again, Sunday.

  I text her and hope for the best.

  When the phone rings a few minutes later, my heart leaps in anticipation of the Great and Powerful Oz, but it’s not. “What time do you need me before the funeral?” our new babysitter, Carrie, wants to know. She worked out so well last night that I asked her back to help out today. That way, Doug can attend Sonia Goldberg’s funeral with me.