Now, that’s irony put to good use right there.
“You serious?” Tim says, addressing Doug as if he’s the one speaking the lines.
“Uh-huh,” Doug says. He clears his throat, which is a good sign that he might actually speak intelligible words next. I breathe a sigh of relief as he does. “We just got Nickelodeon as a client. We hope they’ll let us do all the work for the Kid’s Choice Awards, but we’re still up against some other agencies for that particular gig.”
“I’m thinking he’s the right guy for postproduction on the Haiti stuff, since I’ll be doing it all in New York,” Lenny says.
“What are you doing right now?” Tim asks Doug.
I’m thinking that Doug’s possible answers to that question include, but are certainly not limited to: Melting down, Freaking out, Putting my cozy Tudor on the market, and/or Trying to unravel a tangle of lies and get my wife to forgive me just as I have forgiven her.
“Not much,” Doug says, which is also a legitimate response. “Mourning maybe? Sitting some shivah?”
“Did somebody say shivah?” Jodi says, walking down the hill with Kat and Leslie in tow, the two of them holding the train of Jodi’s dress out behind them like bridesmaids coming down the aisle. “’Cause it’s at my house and I think I’m running a little late. Plus, I’m freezing! Thanks, ladies,” she says, as Leslie and Kat drop Jodi’s tail. “Glad we could work that out. Everyone in love again?” she jokes, scanning our faces for signs of unrest.
“Yes,” Doug says, speaking for the group. “I believe we are.”
“Oh, Tim, would you mind if Leslie had a small photo-op with you, after she cleans herself up a bit at my house?” Jodi asks. Tim raises an eyebrow, but nods gamely. “Wonderful,” Jodi continues. “In exchange for the experience, Leslie wishes to drop any and all charges against Lauren for the ‘incident’ on Wednesday night.”
“Really?” I say. “You…don’t mind, Tim?” He shakes his head, and I turn to Leslie. “And…this is all good with you? No hard feelings?”
“I won’t sue you, Lauren. But I probably won’t ever be your friend again, either. No more of my parties for you.”
I pretend to find this news disheartening, and shake my head forlornly. Inside, I’m thinking, Now, that’s what I’d call a win-win!
“So, who’s up for enjoying white fish and herring with Rabbi Cantor?”
“Bring it on,” Lenny says. He motions for Doug to join him and Tim in the limo. Doug tosses me the keys to our car and flashes me a huge, childlike grin.
“I know all about it, Doug,” I say, heading back to our Acura. “Stick with me, my friend. It turns out, life is fun!”
Chapter 39
“I’m going to resign tomorrow,” Kat tells me as we spread cream cheese on our respective bagels and move from Jodi’s expansive, formal dining room into her supersized living room. Her custom-built duo of traditionally overstuffed damask sofas have been pushed aside and replaced with uncomfortable, backless wooden cubes, to reflect the Jewish tradition of depriving oneself of luxury while in mourning. We select two of these stools near a huge bay window and sit overlooking the English garden.
“That’s a big day you’ve got planned, Kat. Divorced and unemployed all in one shot. Maybe you want to hold off for a few weeks? Clear your head first?”
Kat gives me a tired smile. “How long have I been complaining about my job?”
The answer is: for as long as I’ve known her. “Fair enough.”
“I’m going to resign effective June, so I’ll finish out the year, and give the demented-stration some time to fill my position.”
“That’s mature of you. It will also give you some time to think about next steps,” I add.
“I’ve thought,” Kat says. “Next steps are planned.” In her usual fashion, however, she is not immediately forthcoming with the rest of the paragraph. She takes a bite of a bagel and chews it slowly.
“Oh, c’mon!” I say. “Out with it.”
“Simple,” she says. “I’m doing what generations of failed O’Connells do when the mainland gets to be too much. I’m going home.”
I think of Kat’s father and four brothers, weather-beaten New Englanders who spend entire summers on top of houses, fixing shingles and painting trim. When the seasons change, they move indoors, drinking beer in pubs until the first sign of daffodils brings them back into the light. “Home home?” I ask. “Nantucket?”
“Yeah. Ever since my mom died last year, I’ve been missing the island. You know what they say, pour sea salt on the wound to help it heal, or whatever.”
“I think that’s probably the opposite of what they say.”
“Then it should definitely work for me.”
I take a deep breath and let it go. “So, you’re sure.”
She nods, chews, and swallows. Her green eyes speak volumes of the things she can’t say, retelling the stories of the decade we’ve spent together as teachers and friends.
“You’re not just going home to drink, are you?”
“No. Yes. My sisters-in-law are opening a yoga studio in an old barn out in Cisco. The guys have been refurbishing it.”
“So…you’re gonna do lots of yoga?”
“Teach, dumbass. I’m going to teach yoga.”
“Oh! That’s perfect! Aligning the chakras and all!”
“I’m putting Varka’s bull to good use.” She smiles wistfully.
I hug her tightly, which is awkward with our plates of deli and our seated positions on these benches. But even with our knees rubbing into each other’s, and with the promise of a calmer, more centered life ahead for Kat, I still manage to feel overwhelmingly sad.
There are so many types of loss, I realize, closing my eyes as we rock back and forth in our embrace, and so many ways to mourn.
I pull away from Kat and steady my plate on my lap, studying her face, trying to memorize it.
“I’ve always wanted to try this,” I say, reaching out and taking one of her curls in my fingers. She looks at me oddly, but lets me continue. I pull the curl out straight, watching the hair extend far past her shoulders, testing to see how long it can really reach. Finally, I let go and watch the wave instantly tighten back up.
“I love you, Kitty-Kat.”
Her eyes are brimming with tears, but she blinks them back. “Weirdo. Would you like a lock of my hair for your memory chest?”
Which is her way of telling me that she loves me, too.
I dab my eyes with a crumpled tissue from my pocket and pass it to Kat. Then I deftly change the subject.
“Oh—I almost forgot—whatever you do tomorrow when you speak to Martha, do not admit to being with me last week. I spoke to her about my absence and she totally doesn’t know that you were in Miami.”
“A benefit of her lack of Internet savvy, I guess.”
“And…Shay?” I ask.
“That’s it. End of story.”
“Really?”
Kat shrugs. “I mean, I’m grateful that I had this week, fucked up as it was. With you and Jodi. With Shay. And now I’m grateful to be moving on, whatever that means for me.”
We both sniffle ourselves back to normal.
“I, for one, am grateful for the faraway land of Nova Scotia and the wonderful smoked salmon it has given the world,” Lenny says, joining us and trying unsuccessfully to fold his long body down onto one of the boxes. He gives up and remains standing, towering above us.
“Where’s Tim?” I ask.
“Still talking to Doug in the limo,” Lenny says. “They’re just finishing up some specifics about the job.”
“Thanks, Len,” I say. “When you said you were going to help Doug’s company, I thought you meant…” I trail off. “Like…you know…” I’m getting a little choked up just thinking about how much help he really just gave to Doug and, by proxy, to me and my family. Having a working relationship like that with Tim Cubix’s production company is bigger than anything a bank could do to help Doug
’s finances. It will give him actual work—exciting projects—and connections to others who might require his services too.
I think our Tudor is safe.
“I know.” He smiles. “It was the least I could do, Lauren. I mean, I really fucked up, coming to see you in Miami and all.” He shakes his head ruefully. “I’m glad I could do something right for your family.”
“Amen to that,” Kat says.
“Jodi!” Lee calls, much too loud for the particularly somber circumstances under which we are here. His voice carries through the wide rooms and echoes, bouncing off the twelve-foot ceilings. We all kind of jump at the surprisingly accusatory tone embedded in those two syllables.
“Coming!” Jodi sings back, apparently not at all ruffled by her husband’s bark. She sails down the stairs in yet another black ensemble, her now-dry hair fanning out behind her dramatically, recently applied lip gloss sparkling.
My curiosity piqued, I turn to the sound of their voices in the front hall and notice Claudine, Jodi’s housekeeper-slash-babysitter, quickly grab her jacket out of the closet and skedaddle toward the front door just as Jodi reaches the bottom step. “I’m so sorry,” Claudine says, turning back to Jodi with one hand on the doorknob, “I didn’t know.” Then she bolts through the front door like a drunken teen leaving the darkened playground moments before the cops arrive.
“What is she talking about?” Jodi asks, as the front door slams shut.
Lee’s face as he enters the hall from the kitchen is not amused.
“Looks like there’s been some hanky-panky of the domestic-help variety,” Lenny whispers to Kat and me. “A little ‘bend over and let me watch you clean that oven,’ huh? Whaddaya think?”
“I think you really are the world’s largest douche bag, Len,” Kat says.
“This has nothing to do with sex,” I say, putting the pieces together.
“How much do you pay Claudine?” Lee asks, trying to keep his voice neutral. Before Jodi can answer, he’s speaking again, moving toward her slowly. Jodi mimics his steps, except that she’s moving backward, and they dance a bizarre tango like that in a circle around the foyer. “I’m asking because I went to pay her for the week, which you usually do on Fridays, only you were in Florida. Since she came to help out today, I paid her for that, and then I counted out four hundred dollars in cash and handed it over for her weekly salary.”
Jodi’s big brown eyes grow bigger and more afraid, as if she’s Scrooge being shown a vision of her wicked past and the consequences her actions will carry into her future.
The shivah has stopped midchew, as all thirty or so of the guests hang on to this dramatic display, some with Styrofoam coffee cups held aloft and frozen in time.
“And you know what she said?” Lee asks.
“Thank you?” Jodi guesses, her back now up against the silver-and-taupe wallpaper, her hands tucked behind her, clutching the decorative chair rail for support. Her body may show fear, but her voice remains solid ice.
Lee shakes his head and smiles sadly, like he’s the only one in on the joke. “More like ‘Oh, Mr. Moncrieff, one of those hundred-dollar bills goes to Miss Jodi’s salary.’”
“She can’t really be that fucking stupid,” Jodi mutters to herself, anger now creeping in to claim its rightful spot behind surprise.
Lee laughs bitterly. “That’s the part that gets you upset? That Claudine was dumb enough to tell on you?”
Jodi pauses for a moment and looks like she’s going to cave. I think it’s time to usher everyone out of this shivah so that the Moncrieffs can have their marital dispute in private. But then Jodi steps up onto the first stair so as to be seen more clearly by the crowd and strikes a defiant pose.
Who am I kidding? Jodi loves an audience, no matter the occasion.
In that momentary silence, Great-Aunt Elaine gets up from her seat in the living room and pushes her way through our little group. “Wait a second, wait a second,” she says, shuffling her feet slowly. Then, once she’s reached the foyer, she says, “I’m going to tell you a story.”
She steps into the center of the room and stares sort of wistfully into the middle distance. “When I was a young girl, my mother gave me and my sister Sonia pushkes.”
“What the hell is a push key?” Kat whispers to me.
“Maybe it’s something related to Jodi.”
“And why does every funeral have a nostalgic-old-lady-on-a-tangent?”
I shrug.
“A pushke is a small can or box kept in the home for the collection of tzedakah, or charity, and yes, it relates to Jodi,” Elaine says, looking over at Kat and me and winking. “I may be slow to walk, but I am quick to hear. Anyway,” she continues, “our family kept one in the kitchen, on the window ledge by the sink. We’d contribute change to it and give it to the synagogue a few times a year.
“But not this pushke; this pushke was different. This tin can was a set aside for Sonia and me to save up some money—a dime here, a penny there—you’d be surprised how, over time, it really adds up! And before you knew it, we would each have enough money to buy a new pair of satin gloves or a Billie Holiday record. Or both! All I’m saying is that Jewish women have been keeping little stashes of money on the side, hidden from their fathers and husbands, for ages. The pushke is tradition.”
Jodi is hanging onto every word her great-aunt is saying, as if it’s Talmudic law. When Elaine stops to catch her breath, Jodi looks triumphantly at Lee and says, “See? I was doing it for charity. And because I’m, like, supposed to.”
Great-Aunt Elaine walks over to Jodi and places her gnarled, arthritic hands on top of Jodi’s beautifully manicured ones. The pair stares deep into each other’s eyes. “Not only is it tradition, my darling grand-niece, it’s your birthright. It is truly your destiny to steal from you husband. It’s the Goldberg way. Given your insight, I’m not surprised that you discovered this secret all on your own.”
“So you were the charity that you were giving charity to?” Lee asks, incredulous.
“Charity starts at home, Lee,” Jodi says defiantly, perfectly content to stand behind her own bullshit, especially now that’s it been proven to be true. Then she steps down off the stair and approaches him, her voice softer. “Lee, you treat yourself to plenty of extravagances because you have the money.” She points out the window to the Porsche parked in the driveway. “But…I don’t have an income. So, the fundamental question is, how am I ever supposed to treat myself to nice things if I don’t have the cash with which to indulge?”
Lee looks down at the face of his beautiful, slightly corrupt wife and rolls his eyes. “Pushke or not, maybe it really is time you got a job, Jo.”
“Just a little one, like part-time? Something fun and fab?” Jodi asks, her eyelids batting playfully.
I’ve got to hand it to Jodi. She has just managed to deftly sidestep a potentially explosive argument by claiming some sanctioned, family legacy of deceit. Plus, she secured the okay to work part-time, all while making it look like it was Lee’s idea.
“Knock yourself out,” Lee says. Then he kisses her on the forehead and scans the crowd, sighing deeply. “Where’s my buddy Jim?” Spotting his friend in the dining room, Lee waves him over and pulls him close. “Come outside with me? I need to smoke a doobie.”
Jimmy fishes for something in his pocket and nods as they head out the door.
“I’ve got to take some notes on this,” Kat says, shaking her head disbelievingly. “So that in my next life I can come back as Jodi.”
“I don’t know,” I say, looking out the window to where Doug is emerging from the limo parked next to Lee’s Porsche. “I think I’d kind of like to be Doug.”
“So, what you’re saying is…?” I ask Doug as we drive back from Jodi’s house. The late-afternoon sun is dipping low in the sky and I can’t help but feel anxious about Monday’s approach.
To think how far I’ve traveled since last Monday, only to end up right back where I started.
&
nbsp; Only I’m not quite the same anymore, am I?
“I’m saying that Tim basically handed me the job. We Skyped with some head of his production company who was still in her pajamas out in LA, and Tim made the introductions and was like, ‘Here’s the guy for the Build a Better Future project,’ and that was basically it. It was insane,” he says, shaking his head like he’s not sure what just happened to his life.
“Cool,” I say, thinking how much this past week has changed us both. “So, when do you start?”
“Next month. Lenny said he could actually use his real accounting skills to help me get a loan until then, to pay back Dorothy. And then,” he says, glancing over to me while driving, then focusing back on the road ahead, “once that project wraps, you and I should plan a trip. A long weekend somewhere, just the two of us, to reconnect.”
“Miami?” I joke.
“Any place but.” He’s not smiling.
“How about Boston?” I say, checking my e-mails and reading quickly through one I just received from Georgie.
“Boston? Don’t you want to go someplace warm? Tropical?”
“Well, the reason is…I kind of wrote to Georgie this morning with an idea I had, and it seems…” I trail off as I continue to read the e-mail, verifying its contents, my excitement growing. “Georgie just offered me a job for the summer.” Although I am beyond surprised to hear from her so soon, I knew it was a great idea, a Georgie idea, a really big idea, the moment it came to me. “As a researcher and adjunct professor. At Harvard!” I say, unable to keep the enthusiasm out of my voice. “Bye, bye middle school!”
Doug brakes too hard at a stop sign and glances my way. “Researching what?”
“Women in midlife who want to switch careers!”
“But that’s…brilliant. It’s you in a nutshell.”
“I know! I’m brilliant! All it took was a week of cutting school to figure it out! And now I’m going to get to write a book about women like me.” And Jodi. And Kat.
“Who knew that your lack of interest in your job would be so inspiring, Mrs. Worthing.” Doug holds out his right palm and I slap it. “We’ve both failed at our jobs, and yet we’re awesome,” he concludes.
Lauren Takes Leave Page 36
