Lauren Takes Leave (44 page)

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 hold 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.

“Eleven thirty,” I say.

“Can I bring some art projects over? My little sister
loves them,” Carrie says. I will myself not to love Carrie too much, because I
now believe that, like every babysitter I’ve ever had, she will eventually
disappoint me and my children.

“Sounds like a great plan.” I pull the blanket up over the
sheets to make the bed, cradling the phone under one ear.

I am about to make the kids’ beds, too, but then I stop
myself. Today may be the end of my school leave, but it’s also the start of a
New Order in the Worthing household. Today, my children will do some housework.

“Kids!” I call from the hallway landing. “Come up here,
please, and make your beds!”

For someone on leave from the darker side of life, I’m
sure spending an awful lot of time around dead bodies.

Well, really, just one dead body in particular.

And today, we’re putting her to rest.

I shake some of this morning’s rain off my jacket and hand
it to a woman behind the coat check at Stillman’s Funeral Home. Doug gives her
our umbrella and takes the claim ticket. We follow the signs for Sonia Goldberg
and make our way down the hushed, softly carpeted yellow hallway.

“Hi-yyy,” Jodi says, embracing me as I enter the family
visitation room to the side of the chapel. She’s wearing a tight black
floor-length sheath à la Morticia Adams.

I had a theory and now it’s been proven: Jodi owns a sexy
ensemble for every occasion.

“Hi, Doug,” Jodi purrs, hugging him next.

Before letting us go, she leans into us. “I am so hungover,”
she whispers. “I got totally trashed after they announced last night’s winners!
And guess who I drank with?”

“Can’t imagine,” I say.

“Rabbi Cantor,” is Doug’s guess.

“Well, Kat, of course,” she says. “Kat…and Leslie.”

“Leslie Koch?” I blurt.

“One and the same!” Jodi says. “She apologized to Kat, and
then we did shots of Manischewitz. Well, Kat and I did. Leslie won’t drink
anything purple anymore. It’s part of her—”

“Twenty-four-step program?” Doug guesses.

“Anyway, she’s coming today to pay her respects.” Jodi
reaches into the deep V of her dress’s neckline and pulls out a small packet of
Tums. She pops two in her mouth and offers the roll to us.

I wave her offer away. “That should be interesting,” I
say, hoping Leslie isn’t on to us yet.

We make our way down the line of mourners in the Moncrieff-Goldberg
clan, saying hello to all the people we just saw last night, and head into the
chapel.

Kat’s seated alone, about ten rows back. She waves us over
with a halfhearted hand in the air. She appears to be sucking on a lollipop.

“Blow Pop, actually,” she says, when I ask her what she’s
got in her mouth. “Trick from the Clevelander. Keeps me from puking.”

I slide into the wooden pew and put my arm around her. Her
face has a greenish tinge. “Kat, you’ve got to stop drinking so much.”

“Brilliant plan. You’ve solved all my problems.”

Too much sarcasm so early in the day can mean only one
thing. “Peter?” I guess.

“I’m serving him with official divorce papers tomorrow.
And I have to go back to school to deal with the
di
ministration. So,
yeah, I’m just trying to keep my food down.”

“The Sundays.” I nod.

“Yeah. Worst part of the job,” she says. “Besides the, you
know, teaching aspect.”

Doug, who has been silent until now, clears his throat.
“Why don’t you quit?”

I swivel my head around to face him. “Her or me?” I ask,
knowing the answer.

“Lauren, not everything is about you,” Doug says, sounding
just like my mother. I hate when he does that.

“I need money, Doug. That’s the problem.” Kat starts chomping
on the lollipop with her incisors to break through to the gum.

“Like teaching is the only way to make a living?” he asks.
“You can’t waitress or something for a while?”

“Would you want me to serve you the pasta special?
Really?” She smiles and chews a big wad of gum. I imagine her spilling Alfredo
sauce on customers she doesn’t like. Often.

“Fold T-shirts at the Gap. Work in a bakery.” Doug is
chock full of creative solutions for Kat. I’m sitting in the middle of them,
wondering, why isn’t he letting
me
off the hook? How come Kat gets to
bake and I have to go back to teaching, tomorrow and probably forever?

An orchestral version of “Wind Beneath My Wings”
interrupts my thoughts. Before I can get into another fight with my husband,
the Moncrieff-Goldbergs come through the door and take their seats in the first
row.

Slipping in right behind them is Leslie Koch.

Given our new peace pact, I smile and wave in her
direction. She turns to me and time slows down.

You know that thing people do in movies, where they hold
up two fingers, point them in their own eyes, and then aim them right at you?
It’s a menacing, foreboding gesture that means
I’m watching you.
Well,
that’s exactly what Leslie does when she sees me. And then, just as Rabbi
Cantor is about the begin the funeral service, she sits down at the end of a
row across from me and mouths the word “Meow.”

I do believe that we are fucked. Again.

“I want to quit,” I say as Doug and I get into his car,
metaphorically ripping the Band-Aid off quickly. We are getting into line for
the police-escorted procession down State Street and to the quaint Jewish
cemetery about ten minutes away in North Elmwood. “Also, I do believe that
Leslie is back to hating me. Well, this time it’s
us
, really, you
included.”

“Why?” Doug asks, turning to meet my eyes. He adjusts the
wipers and the rain slides out of view.

“Well, for starters, because we broke into her house last
night while she was dancing her ass off.”

“No, Lauren.” He places the sign from the funeral home on
the dashboard, letting other drivers know we are part of this convoy of cars.
“I mean, why do you want to quit your job so badly? You are a great teacher.”

I smile sadly. “Just because I’m good at it doesn’t mean I
like it.”

“Since when?” He pulls out of the parking lot slowly,
making a right hand turn behind Kat’s black VW Beetle.

“Since…I don’t know.” I think for a moment, watching
businesses and strip malls pass by under gray skies, their neon signs blurred
by the rain. “It’s just so…predictable.”

“You really wanted that promotion.”

“Actually, no,” I say. “I wanted to be the department
chair because it seemed like the logical next step. I liked the idea of
teaching a lighter course load, and of spending more time in other teachers’
classrooms, helping them. You know how I love to teach teachers. Maybe even
more than I love teaching children.”

“So, why not apply for positions as the English chair at
another school?” Doug asks. “It’s the right time of year for job hunting in
education; I bet you could land something great.”

I am already shaking my head no before he even finishes
the complete thought. “Because, here’s the thing: I don’t want to be an
administrator. That’s one of the things I realized this week. I would
absolutely
hate
to be Martha. I am terrible with scheduling and
overseeing a budget. I don’t want to have to discipline people. I just want
to…”

“To what?”

“Fold T-shirts at the Gap?” I joke.

“Lauren!” The way he says my name makes me feel like I’ve
just been scolded by my father.

“Why is okay for Kat and not for me?”

“Um…let’s see.” He’s angry now, and the car jerks sideways
as he takes one hand off the steering wheel to count reasons on his fingers. I
clutch the underside of my bucket seat and keep my wide eyes staring at the
road. “Number one: you have a Harvard education.”

“Smart people can work in retail.”

“Not you. Number two: Kat is in crisis. Her husband is a
dick and her marriage is falling apart.”

“Maybe I’m in crisis, too!”

He puts both hands back on the wheel and turns to me, his
eyes dark and unreadable. “Are you?”

I take a deep breath. “No,” I say, feeling stupid. “I just
needed a break. A mini vacation from my monotonous, tenured life. A small leave
of absence. But I’m back now.” I feel a wave of regret pass over me as I admit
this.

It’s really Sunday, after all.

“Kat also told off the principal. Right?”

“Yes,” I concede.

“And it wasn’t the first time?” Doug would make a good
prosecuting attorney.

“Like maybe just four other times?” I say in a small
voice.

“So she’s in deep shit.”

“Deep Shit, Arkansas,” I agree, laughing to myself. Doug
looks at me funny. “It’s a line from
Thelma and Louise
.” I wave my hand
dismissively. “Forget it. Inside joke.”

We arrive at the cemetery and park behind the other cars.
Kat joins us, and we walk together toward the burial site. The grass is soft
and wet and the heels of my boots keep getting stuck. Doug holds a massive
umbrella over the three of us and we huddle underneath.

“I’m thinking bakery,” I whisper to her. “You need to work
in a place that smells comforting. Kneading dough and puff pastry is a way to
heal.”

“I’m thinking that Leslie’s going to stuff me into an oven
and fry me like in
Hansel and Gretel
.”

“She gave you the death stare, too?”

“No, on the way to our cars, she said, ‘I’m going to stuff
you in an oven and fry you, like in
Hansel and Gretel
.’”

“That’s pretty clear, then.”

“Yeah. I’m safe for the moment, though. I don’t think she
followed us to the cemetery.”

Sonia’s plain pine box is already suspended over the deep
hole of earth. We say a few prayers—well, Doug and I say them and Kat gives a
hearty “Amen” at the end of each—and then the coffin gets lowered slowly down
on a mechanical platform. Which is weird to watch and somber all at the same
time.

Jodi is crying now, as is her mother and father, and her
daughters and even Lee. I didn’t know Sonia, but I know what it’s like to lose
your grandparents. I mourn for Jodi’s family and I mourn for Sonia. Her life
seems like it was filled with love and rich with interesting opportunities, and
I guess that’s all we can ever hope for. To live long, and to live well.

The sound of a cell phone ringing in close proximity to me
jars me from my silent contemplation. Kat jumps and fumbles for the offending
phone in her coat pocket.

“Turn that off,” Doug whispers.

“I’m fucking trying,” Kat says through clenched teeth.

When she looks at the caller ID, however, her eyebrows
raise and she pushes a button on her screen. “Hello?” she whispers, stepping
away from the crowd and our protective umbrella. She moves quickly under a tree
a few feet away and continues talking on her cell as Doug and I and the entire
Moncrieff-Goldberg family watch incredulously.

Rabbi Cantor clears his throat and regains the group’s
attention. “Now we have reached the point in the service that represents the
family’s final act of honoring their deceased loved one. “Al mekomah tavo
beshalom,” he says, then hands a trowel to Jodi’s father, to spill some dirt
onto the coffin.