“What?” I pause, deciding how to answer. “I told him.”
“Everything?” she asks, her green eyes probing. “About Lenny?”
I squirm. “Not quite.”
“Hmm,” she says. “That doesn’t please me. And it doesn’t please me that Lenny’s here tonight. I had to leave the ballroom because your little love triangle, combined with Leslie’s presence, made me feel all goosebumpy. See?” She shows me the hair on her arms, which is indeed sticking up at attention. “Like Tim said, Mercury is in retrograde, and it causes mishaps with travel and communications, and delays of all sorts. Plus, lots of anger.”
I stifle a laugh. “Kat, really? Mercury is in retrograde? This explains our trip to Miami and Leslie’s erratic behavior, I suppose? Oh, I see. Forget Shay for the meanwhile. Is that what Varka told you, as you were busy texting her just now? Does Varka agree with Tim Cubix’s astrology?”
Kat looks up through her curls and I know I’m right.
“Kat! Lemme guess, for twenty-seven dollars a minute, Varka has an explanation for everything, like, that our trip got messed up because Jodi’s grandma died, and that we were delayed in the parade traffic because Mercury was moving backward. Ah, it all makes perfect sense now, of course! I want to know, Kat, did I kiss Lenny because of the alignment of the planets?”
Kat has found a loose thread in her sweater and is very busy unraveling it. I back off for a second and try to pinpoint what’s really upsetting me.
“Kitty-Kat,” I sigh, my tone softening, “I just hate to think that you find comfort in some pretend astrological psychic instead of in me and Jodi, in the real world right here.”
She shrugs. “We all have our ways of dealing, Lauren.”
It’s true, of course. Kat finds solace in the reading of the stars, Jodi by coming up with ways to be rich and famous. And I choose refuge from my real-world problems by creating an alternate-reality relationship, one devoid of responsibility and filled only with pleasure.
“Varka and I are just saying, this won’t resolve itself. We think you need to spill it all to Doug.”
“Oh, we do, huh?” I say. Then Kat and I both turn our heads at the sound of a rustling to our left.
“Don’t worry, Kat,” Doug says, standing behind us in the hallway, partially hidden by a fig tree. “She just has.”
The bottom falls out of my stomach.
“I came to find you guys and tell you that Jodi’s on next.” Doug walks back toward the ballroom and pushes his full weight against the doors. “Oh, and Lauren?” He stares at me for one quick moment, the look on his face registering tremendous hurt, disappointment, and white-hot anger. I’ve never seen anything like it before. “Fuck you.” Then he’s gone, absorbed into the darkness of the temple ballroom.
“Shit!” Kat says.
I follow Doug, and Kat follows me, bursting through the doors and disrupting the show. Applause is dying down and I hear MC Lenny introducing the next couple. “Hailing from Little Odessa, Queens, and Big Odessa, Russia, please give it up for stay-at-home mom Jodi Moncrieff and professional Arthur Murray dance instructor Rudy Cryzinski!”
“Hey, MC Lenny,” Doug calls, his voice coming from some point between tables eleven and twelve in the far right-hand corner of the room. Every head turns at the outburst. “You are officially a scumbag!”
Doug finds his way to a glowing red emergency exit sign. He pushes against the secure door and disappears into the night.
The wailing of the alarm matches my growing sense of absolute panic.
What have I done?
And, more importantly, what am I going to do about it now?
Chapter 32
I follow my husband out into the chilly night, is what I do.
“Lauren!” I hear Jodi call, but I can’t go back in there and cheer for her, not while my marriage is disappearing out the back door. I follow Doug around to the parking lot and realize what he’s trying to do. Escape.
“Lauren!” Kat calls, running after me.
“Lauren!” Lenny calls.
“Lenny, just go back inside, will you?” I hear Kat say. “Stay out of it. Jeez.”
“Moses, don’t give the man the keys to our car!” I huff, catching up to Doug at the valet station. “He’s been…sipping kosher wine!”
“Fine, I’ll walk,” Doug says, starting out of the lot and onto a neighborhood street, hands deep in his pockets, back hunched.
“I’m coming with you,” I say. It’s hard to keep pace with him in my new Louboutin heels. I end up taking very quick, little steps, but still fall a few feet behind.
“Don’t,” Doug says, stopping midstride and turning abruptly toward me. “Just. Don’t.”
“But—” I begin. “I want to talk!”
“You know what? Maybe I don’t want to talk to you right now, okay? You had plenty of time to talk to me in the last, oh, twenty-four hours or so, and you didn’t. We’ve had, like, our whole lives to talk, and you chose running away instead of telling me what’s really going on!”
He’s yelling at me and holding back tears at the same time.
“You lied to me, Lauren! You very quietly, very deliberately lied by hiding the truth.”
I’m crying as his words register. This trip to Miami was meant as a hall pass, a get-out-of-jail-free card. But adult life is not a middle school hallway where you can languish while cutting gym class.
“I wish I had just told you the truth.” I have snot and tears everywhere.
Doug studies my face. “But you don’t wish that you hadn’t kissed him.” It’s not a question.
What would have happened if I had not kissed Lenny the other night at the Clevelander? I might have always wondered, always fantasized about him. I probably would have kept up the flirtation when we came back to New York, letting Lenny’s attention continue to undermine my marriage. But now, with that behind me, I’m officially released from the silly spell of pretend infidelity.
“No,” I say. “I don’t regret it.”
“Nice,” Doug spits. He starts to walk down a hill and into town, away from me, away from the lights of the temple.
“I needed to know, Doug!” I say. “I acted completely immature, I understand that. And I’m not proud of what I did, but, at the same time, I know it was sort of the right thing to do.”
“How can you say that?” he asks, still walking away.
“Because, in the end, it brought me back to you.”
He turns and faces me one more time. “That’s such twisted logic! You had to kiss somebody else to come back to me? What are you, a senator?” We are screaming so loudly that a light comes on inside a split-level home; a curtain on the second floor pulls back to watch us.
“I love you, Doug. But I’m not perfect.”
“I knew that already,” he says ruefully. “You didn’t have to go so far out of your way to prove it.”
He wipes his face with the back of his shirt and then runs his hands through his hair. He inhales a ragged breath while I wait. Then he seems to make some sort of decision.
“Go back, Lauren. Watch Jodi. I’ll be at Starbucks down the hill. I need some time alone.”
I stand in the middle of the sleepy suburban street until I can no longer see his silhouette under the streetlamps.
I am shaking all over by the time I get back to the Beth El parking lot. I’m not sure that I made my point clearly, but at least for now, it seems like Doug won’t bolt.
I guess that’s the most I can hope for after being so stupid. So incredibly juvenile and stupid.
“I’ve got the keys to your car,” Kat says. “Give the word and I’ll track Doug down for you, hit him with the vehicle, drug him with painkillers, and keep him as your love prisoner until he forgives you.” She’s been waiting on the temple steps for me, but now she stands to gives me a hug.
“You’d Kathy Bates him for me? Full-on Misery?”
I pull back and squeeze her hands, tears welling up in my eyes. Kat’s ri
diculously corrupt mind, coupled with her wicked sense of humor, always yanks me back from the brink.
“You know I would,” she says. “And not just because it would be fun.”
We walk together back toward the temple, my body feeling tired and physically bruised. “We talked a little,” I say. “I think it will be okay. I mean, I hope,” I add, as an afterthought.
“I’m sure it will be fine,” Kat says, not sounding at all sure.
The guests are just getting settled back into the ballroom after the impromptu fire drill caused by Doug’s hasty exit. Kat and I take seats at Jodi’s family table.
“Sorry,” I mouth to Jodi, who is coming toward me with concern on her face.
“You okay?” she mouths back.
I shake my head in an awkward maybe-yes-maybe-no way. She nods knowingly, then closes her eyes, rolling her neck side to side and trying to prepare for the dance.
The voice announcing the couple this time is Rabbi Cantor’s. “What an exciting evening we’re having, Congregation Beth El! Luckily, the fire department’s services were not needed, and so, without further ado, we shall return to Dancing with the Stars of David!”
“Where’s Lenny?” I ask Kat.
“Gone,” she says. “Took his computer slideshow and hightailed it.”
I feel bad about that; Lenny keeps getting caught in my life’s dramas. I’ll have to send him an e-mail to apologize.
“Do not send him an e-mail to apologize,” Kat says, reading my mind. “He’s cool; I talked to him a bit outside before he left. But I doubt he’ll be hanging with us anytime soon. Which is probably a good thing, no offense.”
Jodi takes her position on our side of the dance floor, one foot behind the other, left hip facing her partner, Rudy. Her head is turned away from him in a dramatic frieze. Rudy is waiting on the other side of parquet tile, looking like a gymnast ready to mount a pommel horse.
Jodi stands still like that for a good ten seconds, as the music takes its time to start. In the still air, her mom whispers to our table, “She was always such a graceful dancer.”
I suddenly have a flash of Jodi in another place and time. I imagine her at five, in her first tap recital, hair curled and piled on her head. At ten, learning all of Paula Abdul’s and Janet Jackson’s choreography to perfection. At fifteen, starring in her high school’s version of Chicago.
Picturing Jodi through the ages is a good distraction for me at the moment.
Their music finally begins. It’s a pumped-up dance song with a heavy bass at the onset. Jodi saunters across the floor in long, sexy strides, and meets Rudy in the middle. Quickly, she throws her right leg onto his shoulder.
“Yowza,” Great-Aunt Elaine says. I couldn’t agree more.
He catches her by the ankle and spins her around so she is facing our table. Underwear be damned, the woman is wearing lace spandex bike shorts under her dress! It is sheer genius, having the double effect of hiding her privates while also providing extra tummy support.
One can only hope that Leslie has been as wise.
Jodi continues to silence the crowd with the technical difficulty of her steps combined with some sort of freakish flexibility. At the start of the routine, people cheer and clap whenever the couple shows off a great new move. But with each passing minute, the room grows quieter and quieter, lost in the beauty of their dance.
She catches my eye for a second, looking really upset. Is she hurt? Has she twisted her ankle? I scan her legs for signs of fatigue or injury, but her step still seem confident and finessed. Jodi’s years of experience on the stage must be telling her something.
Her uncertainty brings me out of the moment and makes me worry about Doug. I picture him sipping a grande skim latte, staring off into space as teenagers and old couples file in and out of the coffee shop, the minutes passing unnoticed.
I hope he will wait for me.
Suddenly, Jodi looks my way again. She is definitely trying to tell me something. Does she want to give up? Has she torn a ligament? But she’s come so far. I can’t let her stop now, not when the memory of Sonia Goldberg, Ziegfeld Girl, hovers over the room.
“What’s up?” I ask Kat.
“Dunno. Looks like she’s upset about something.”
“Cheer louder!” I insist.
We stand up. As the music comes to its final moments, I feel like Béla Károlyi at the ’96 Olympics, telling Kerri Strug to stick the landing, despite her injury. Stick the landing! Stick the landing! I feel so moved that I say it aloud, Russian accent and all: “Stick the landing, Jodi!”
The music bangs out a final note. Jodi slides into a full split, arms raised above her in a V for victory.
Needless to say, the girl sticks her landing.
When it is all over and she’s finished smiling and bowing, Jodi comes over to our table. She has her death-stare radar set on me and Kat, completely pushing Lee and his bouquet of calla lilies out of the way so she can reach my chair ASAP. I see the daggers in her eyes, and my first thought is not that she had been injured, but that for some reason, I am going to be. I steady myself for a coming assault, although for what I can’t imagine.
“I totally fucked up!” she whisper-screams to me and Kat. “Did you see how I missed those first few steps? I can’t believe it! How many people do you think noticed?” She takes a deep, rattled breath and looks at us intently.
I am relieved that nothing is, apparently, my fault. Beyond that, I have no idea what she’s talking about. Her dance was flawless. Also, last time I checked, this is not the real Dancing with the Stars. It’s not the Olympics, or even the Olympic trials. Not even close. But Jodi is too far gone for this type of logic; the truth doesn’t matter to her.
It’s time to muster up some serious attitude.
I give Kat a look, saying, me first.
Then I take Jodi firmly by the arms and make sure to give my most penetrating gaze. “You were fucking awesome, are you kidding me? You danced circles around Rudy!”
“You’re a star!” Kat adds. “Friggin’ gorgeous, too.”
“You’re definitely going to beat Leslie!” I say, on a roll now.
“Beat her, or win?” Jodi snaps back.
“Hey. Isn’t this a fundraiser?” Kat asks.
“And isn’t my marriage sort of falling apart while I’m trying to cheer you on?” In this somewhat ridiculous event? I think.
Jodi turns away from us, a tear in her eye. “I’m sorry, guys. I don’t know why I’m being like this.”
“Because,” Kat says. “It’s something that matters to you. Something special, that sets you apart from all the other moms.”
Leslie’s name is announced, along with her dance partner’s.
“Yeah, but,” Jodi says. “Who cares?” She tries to smile. “I mean, besides from me, who cares about this stupid competition?”
“We do,” I say, surprising myself. “If it’s important to you, it’s important to us.”
Jodi leans into me and Kat and hugs us, one bony arm around each of us. “How fucked up am I?”
That question is too big to answer directly right now, so I don’t. “You’re going to win,” I say. “I promise.”
I stare down at the two pink ballots I received at the start of the night, and begin to hatch a plan.
It’s only once I’m standing in the lobby with cash in my hand that I remember my promise to Doug. No bidding and no buying.
I stop, considering.
Perhaps there’s a way to fill out ballots in Jodi’s favor without actually, you know, purchasing them, thereby keeping my promise to Doug as well as the one to Jodi.
Stuffing my money back into my clutch, I quickly head into the ballroom one more time, looking for my favorite partner in crime.
“Ballots!” I whisper to Kat, pulling her away from a tall, dark and handsome waiter. She doesn’t look amused. “Grab all the ballots you can find!”
“What are you doing?” Then, taking in my crazed look and my han
ds full of pink slips of paper, she asks again, slowly, as if she knows the answer perfectly well. “What. Are. You. Doing?”
I dig through my clutch for a pen, and, finding two, hand one to her. “We’re filling ’em out.” I scribble Jodi Moncrieff on my two and look around for more. “All of ’em.”
As Leslie starts her number—a surprisingly non-sexy, non-bitchas dance to the Talking Heads’ “And She Was”—Kat and I move stealthily out of the darkened room and into the hallway, collecting and filling out the pile of extra, pink ballots that sit unguarded at the now-unmanned check-in table. When both my fist and mouth are full of paper, I slink back into the ballroom and stuff them into a waiting ballot collection box.
And then I go out and gather some more.
Of course, the voting is not supposed to be done until all seven of the contestants have danced. But, do people always wait until the end of a trial before deciding who is to be awarded compensation? Of course not. So, let’s just think of Dancing with the Stars of David as a huge car accident, and rightly find in favor of Jodi Moncrieff.
When I approach Leslie’s table, another idea forms, this one perhaps even more brilliant that the last.
“Hey, Kat,” I whisper, standing in the corner behind table seven. “Come here.”
She moves through the darkness and joins me, pushing her mop of curls from her flushed face. “Yo. This is fun!”
“Leslie’s family is here.”
“Yup.”
“I mean, no one is at the Koches’ household right now. It’s sleepy. It’s empty.”
“You sound moronic.”
“I’m trying to make a point!”
“So make it!”
“Shh!” someone chastises.
I point to the ballroom doors and Kat follows behind me. Right before exiting, we get a glance at a not-too-flattering shimmy of Leslie’s rear as she jitterbugs across the floor.
The light seems bright in the hallway after slinking around the dim outer rim of the ballroom. I squint at Kat. “Thanks to us, Jodi’s going to win this ‘dance competition,’ right? So she doesn’t need us anymore this evening. I figure we have about forty-five minutes to get Doug, drive down to Hadley, get the nanny cams, and come back to Beth El by dessert.”
Lauren Takes Leave Page 31
